Lija’s boyfriend joined us and posed a question about the merits of man-to-man versus zone defense. Cousins’s attention veered to that conversation.
So much for bear poaching.
On the way home I solicited Ryan’s reaction to Cousins’s comments.
“Odd that a wildlife agent in the Carolinas would know nothing about bears.”
“Yes,” I agreed.
“You don’t like the guy, do you?” Ryan asked.
“I never said I didn’t like him.”
No reply.
“Is it that obvious?” I asked after a few moments.
“I’m learning to read you.”
“It isn’t that I don’t like him,” I said defensively. What then? “It’s that I don’t like not knowing if I don’t like him.” Ryan opted not to touch that.
“He makes me uneasy,” I added.
As we arrived at the annex, Ryan made another unsettling observation.
“Maybe your uneasiness isn’t total y off base, Mom.”
I shot Ryan a look that was wasted in the dark.
“You told me Boyd made his big score during that cigar store picnic.”
“Katy was thril ed.”
“That’s where you first met Cousins.”
“Yes.”
“He saw Boyd’s find.”
“Yes.”
“That means at least one more person was at least partial y privy to the situation at the Foote farm. No pun intended.” Again my heart went into free fal .
“Palmer Cousins.”
21
THE EASTERN HORIZON STARTS OOZING GRAY AROUND FIVE-THIRTYin August in Piedmont North Carolina. By six the sun is heading uphil .
I awoke at first ooze, watched dawn define the objects on my dresser, nightstand, chair, and wal s.
Ryan was sprawled on his stomach beside me. Birdie lay curled in the crook of my knees.
I lasted in bed until half past six.
Birdie blinked when I slipped from under the covers. He stood and arched as I col ected my panties from the lampshade. I heard paws thump carpet as I tiptoed from the room.
The refrigerator hummed to me while I made coffee. Outside, birds exchanged the morning’s avian gossip.
Moving as quietly as possible, I poured and drank a glass of orange juice, then col ected Boyd’s leash and went to the study.
The chow was stretched ful length on the sofa, left foreleg upright against the seat back, right extended across his head.
Boyd the Protector.
“Boyd,” I whispered.
The dog went from flat on his side to four on the floor without seeming to move through any intermediary stage.
“Here, boy.”
No eye contact.
“Boyd.”
The chow rol ed his eyes up at me but didn’t budge.
“Walk?”
Boyd held steady, a picture of skepticism.
I dangled the leash.
No go.
“I’m not upset about the couch.”
Boyd dropped his head, looked up, and did a demi-twirl with each eyebrow.
“Real y.”
Boyd’s ears pricked forward and his head canted.
“Come on.” I uncoiled the leash.