Chapters (78)
- Cover
- Title Page
- Copyright
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- Prologue
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Fifty-Two
- Fifty-Three
- Fifty-Four
- Fifty-Five
- Fifty-Six
- Fifty-Seven
- Fifty-Eight
- Fifty-Nine
- Sixty
- Sixty-One
- Sixty-Two
- Sixty-Three
- Sixty-Four
- Sixty-Five
- Sixty-Six
- Sixty-Seven
- Sixty-Eight
- Acknowledgments
- Discover More
- About the Author
- Also by Owen Laukkanen
Mason could feel the eyes of the other men watching him as he followed the deputy back through the detachment. Wondered why Harwood even bothered with the pretense of privacy; Mason was pretty certain there weren’t many secrets in this town. But he let the deputy guide him into the office anyway.
The deputy walked with a slight limp, Mason noticed, though he didn’t appear to be in much pain. If he hadn’t recovered fully from Lucy’s bite, he was close.
The office was small and cluttered, with a cheap plywood desk and a couple of chairs, and a view out over the alley in back, more rain and rust, not exactly a vista. On the desk sat a new-looking iMac computer and a handful of pictures mounted in black frames: a sleek white powerboat, Harwood with some fish. No wife or children, no dog.
Harwood caught him looking. “Grady-White Express Three Seventy,” he said, proud. “Thousand horses back there, hell of a boat. You do any fishing?”
“No, sir,” Mason said.
“You ought to. Best halibut fishing in the world just offshore here. Catch you a hundred-pounder, easy, if you know what you’re doing.”
“I don’t,” Mason said. “But maybe I’ll give it a try sometime.”
“I suggest you do.” Harwood sat back, tented his fingers. “Now, you wanted to talk about that dog, you said?”
“Yes, sir,” Mason said. “I thought I could take her off your hands, if you all haven’t gone and destroyed her yet.”
Harwood studied him. “Now, why would you want to do that?” he asked. “Take a vicious dog off my hands. You know dogfighting’s a felony around here?”
“Yes, sir. I don’t want to fight her.”
“Did Jess put you up to this, then? This some kind of play you all are trying to make?”
“No, sir,” Mason said. “I just hate to see a good dog put down.”
He produced Glen’s envelope from his pocket, counted out five hundred-dollar bills. Laid them on Harwood’s desk. “I have five hundred dollars if you’ll sell me that dog,” he said. “And I give you my word I’ll take her out of your hair, out of your jurisdiction, as soon as she’s in my possession.”
Harwood didn’t answer right away. He leaned back in his chair, tapped his finger on the desk, and looked Mason over some more.
“What’s your angle here, Mr. Burke?” he said at last. “There’s plenty of dogs that need homes in the world. Plenty cheaper than five bills, to boot. What exactly is so special about this particular dog?”