Page 11 of After the End
Although George knew the answer—that the hide-a-key was so hired landscapers could access it—he didn’t bother to explain. It wouldn’t change anything now. Instead, he silently unlocked the shed before handing the key to Larry.
“Thanks,” Larry said.
George started back toward his truck.
“Want to stay and help me sort through this stuff?” Larry asked, chasing after him.
George really, really didn’t.
“I’ll pay you.” When George didn’t even slow, Larry let out an exasperated sound. “I’ll be so glad to leave this backward place and get back to Denver. Thanks so much for your help! Nice meeting you!” There was a definite tinge of sarcasm in his final words, but George didn’t care, not when he was so close to escape.
Then he heard a whimper.
Stopping abruptly, he tried to pinpoint where the sound had come from.
“Reconsidering my offer?” Larry asked, sounding smug. “I’m not—”
George cut him off with a wave of his hand, taking advantage of the other man’s startled—although unfortunately short—silence to listen intently. The whine came again, and George headed toward the deck.
Larry hurried after him. “What are you doing? If you’re not going to help me go through the shed, then I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
Ignoring him, George pulled a small flashlight from his pocket and crouched by the deck. He peered underneath but saw only dead leaves, pine needles, and rocky soil. The whimper came again, a little louder this time, enough so that he heard it over Larry’s constant babble. George skirted around to the other side of the deck.
“You can’t go over there! If you don’t get off my property right now, I’m calling the cops.”
There was a worn dog crate tucked in the corner between the deck and the wall. Frowning, George bent to look through the metal grate that made up the door. A furry black and tan face peered back at him. His stomach churned as he recognized the little dog huddled at the rear of the crate. It was Lemon, Mrs. Johnson’s beloved Yorkshire terrier. The last time he’d seen her, she’d been sprawled on Mrs. Johnson’s couch, glossy with health and freshly groomed. Now, she was a thin, matted mess, nursing three tiny puppies that didn’t look to be more than a month old. The crate was filthy and stunk horribly. By the state of it, Lemon and her pups had been trapped in there for several days, if not weeks.
George fixed a glare on Larry, who was hovering a few feet away, guilt, anger, and fear chasing each other in rapid succession across his face. He looked like he was torn between yelling at George and running away from him.
“Before you say anything,” Larry blustered, “this setup is only temporary. Martin Leek, the auctioneer, bought the whole bunch, including the mom. He’s picking them up tomorrow.”
The fury that had been buzzing through him cranked into higher gear. George knew of Leek. He owned a puppy mill. One of George’s friends, Deputy Chris Jennings, was out at Leek’s place all the time for one complaint or another. So far, Leek had managed to avoid arrest by providing the absolute minimum required care, but George knew that Chris was determined to shut him down. Lemon and her puppies were not going to live in that hellhole. Not if George could help it.
“I’ll take them,” he said, and Larry’s eyes widened. “How much?”
Avarice lit Larry’s expression for a moment before it was wiped away. “I can’t do that. I made a deal with Martin Leek. He’s already paid. If I screw him over, he won’t do the estate auction, and there’s no one else in the area.”
“How much?” George repeated. Everyone had their price. If he pushed, Larry would cave. George had a good chunk of money socked away, and he was willing to pay a lot to save Mrs. Johnson’s beloved Lemon.
“Nope. Can’t do it. Do you know what kind of hassle getting a Denver auctioneer all the way out here would be? My entire profit would be shot.” Larry pulled a phone out of his pocket, his mouth set in a stubborn line. “You need to leave now, or I’ll call the police.”
George briefly considered grabbing the dog crate and running, but that was just a short-term solution. Leek wouldn’t be picking up Lemon and her pups until the next day. He had a little time to come up with a plan.
Straightening, he took a step toward Larry, taking petty pleasure in the way the man flinched and stumbled back a few steps. That small satisfaction was short-lived as Larry tapped furiously at his phone and then held it out.
“9-1-1 Emergency.” The voice was slightly distorted by the phone’s speaker, but George still recognized it as belonging to one of the local dispatchers. With a final glare at Larry and a concerned glance at Lemon and her puppies, George turned and walked back to his truck.
As he pulled away from what used to be Mrs. Johnson’s place, he saw Larry had followed and was watching from the driveway, the phone now at his ear. George’s cell buzzed, and he dug it out of his pocket. Despite his agitation, George still smiled when he saw Ellie’s name on the screen.
“El,” he answered. “I’m almost home. A deputy might come by, but it’s nothing to worry about.”
There was a startled pause before Ellie answered. “A deputy? Oh, I can’twaitto hear this story.”
Despite his warning, there wasn’t a sheriff’s department squad car outside when he got home. George drove the truck behind the pole barn, backing it up to the wood pile. By the time he’d turned off the engine, Ellie was next to his door. Leaning out the open window, he kissed her. As always with her, a peck wasn’t enough, and he deepened the kiss, cupping the back of her head to bring her in closer. By the time he pulled back, he was breathing hard. By her flushed cheeks and dilated eyes, he wasn’t the only one affected. The thought made him smugly happy.
“Are you feeling better?”
She smiled at him. “So much. I have news for you, but first you need to tell me about your run-in with the law.”
