Over His Head. Carolyn McSparren

      Tim started to say that the dog wasn’t actually Eddy’s, but stopped. Of course the puppy was Eddy’s. It would remain Eddy’s even if he had to fight half of Williamston for possession. “Eddy will come up with something.”

      Nancy took the chair across from Tim. “Okay, what gives with Eddy?”

      Tim sat up. “That’s hardly your business.”

      “The minute he dragged that burned puppy into my house, it became my business. At first I thought he must have burned the puppy himself—”

      “Eddy loves animals! He’d never—”

      “Calm down. I said at first. Nothing like this has happened in Williamston in the six years I’ve lived here.”

      Tim felt his temperature rising. “Then the first night we’re here, somebody burns a puppy in my yard?”

      “You do have two other children.”

      Tim wanted to snatch Eddy, stalk out and slam the door after him.

      “I’m not accusing you,” Nancy said.

      “The hell you’re not.”

      “You think Mike’s not going to ask these questions? You’re supposed to be this hotshot educator with degrees up the wazoo. You must know about kids who like to torture animals.”

      “Not my children.” Suddenly he felt his anger evaporate. She was right, although he didn’t like to admit it. He walked over and looked into Nancy’s bedroom. Eddy slept on the rag rug beside her bed with the puppy’s bed in the crook of his arm. Lancelot had moved to snuggle into the crook behind his knees and was fast asleep as well. The two cats, he noted, were curled up together on the foot of the bed where they could oversee everything. Tim closed the door softly and went back to his place at Nancy’s table.

      “A year ago my wife was killed in a drive-by shooting.”

      Nancy caught her breath. “Oh, I am so sorry!”

      “It’s been hard on all of us, but especially Eddy. He was the youngest and the closest to Solange, I think.”

      “Solange? Is that Angie’s real name?”

      He nodded. “Her father brought his family to Chicago from St. Nazaire in the fifties. He was a chemical engineer. Solange was born in Chicago.”

      “Of course I hear about drive-by shootings, but I guess nobody ever thinks it will happen to them.”

      Tim took a deep breath. “After she was killed, we did grief counseling, went a couple of times to groups for people who’ve lost loved ones to violence. The kids hated it. You can see how Angie reacted.” He laughed ruefully. “The day she dyed her hair jet-black, I thought her grandmother would have a stroke.” He glanced at Nancy. “Solange’s mother has been babysitter and substitute parent since Solange was killed.”

      “I’m surprised you didn’t bring her down with you.”

      “She wouldn’t have come. She thinks Chicago is barbaric. God only knows what she’d make of Williamston.” He wondered whether Nancy would notice his tense. He hadn’t actually asked Madame to join them. One of his reasons for leaving Chicago was to get away from her.

      “Anyway, Jason seemed to be doing okay bar the oversize clothes. Then his grades started falling, I caught him smoking—only tobacco, thank God—and he started hanging around with some local gang wannabes. Then he took up skateboarding. You’ve already seen the hair and the earring holes. The next step would have been tattoos. He’s basically sound, but I was afraid he wouldn’t stay sound if I didn’t get him away.”

      “And Eddy?”

      “Eddy shut down. He’s been a little ghost. Never speaks unless he’s spoken to, does what he’s told, makes A’s in school. A Stepford kid.” He ran his hand over his short hair. “Even the psychologists couldn’t get through to him. I certainly couldn’t.” He nodded at her. “But you did.”

      “Not me.” She nodded toward the bedroom door. “What’s the fancy academic phrase for therapy dog?”

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      SHERIFF MIKE O’HARA loved being sheriff nearly as much as he loved his fine herd of Red Brahman cattle. He liked to tell everyone who would listen, he either had to run cows or take bribes to keep his kid in private school. “So far I prefer cows,” he’d say. “Nobody’s offered me a good enough bribe yet.”

      He looked like one of the bulls he raised. He was only about five foot ten, but red hair covered his head, arms, knuckles and probably his back. Nancy had never seen his back and didn’t want to. He was built like his bulls as well. Big neck, big shoulders, thick chest, which was only beginning its inevitable slide south of his beltline, the thighs of a football lineman and huge feet in highly polished ostrich boots. Since today was Saturday, he wore a tan polo shirt stretched tight across his chest and cowboy cut jeans worn extra long and crumpled over the ankles of his boots.

      Nancy caught Tim’s dismay when Mike walked into her cottage. The heels of his boots cracked against her hardwood floors. Even though he was shorter than Tim, he looked formidable. Tim was no doubt afraid that the sight of this wide man with a gun on his belt would terrify his fragile son.

      “Hey, Dr. Wainwright,” Mike said as he extended his hand. “Glad to have you in Williamston.”

      Nancy grinned at Tim’s surprise. Mike O’Hara’s voice was a sweet, gentle light baritone that made listening to the choir at the Williamston Baptist Church on Sunday a real pleasure. Still, to be on the safe side, she warned him again about Eddy. She did not, however, mention the death of Tim’s wife. That was up to Tim.

      Tim started to follow him as he went toward Nancy’s bedroom, but Mike shook his head. “Don’t worry, Doc. I won’t scare him.”

      They watched him hunker down beside the child, who was already stirring from his nap. When Mike spoke to him, he rubbed his eyes, then sat up quickly the moment he glimpsed the sheriff looming over him. Nancy saw Eddy’s startled expression, watched him shrink closer to the bundled puppy, then relax as Mike’s voice flowed over him. Mike scratched behind Lancelot’s ears as he talked.

      Five minutes later, Mike came back with his arm draped across Eddy’s shoulders. “Boy here’s a real hero, Doc. Got yourself a good young’un. He’s gonna show me right where he found the pup.”

      “I’ll come with you, if you don’t mind,” Tim said. Nancy could tell he didn’t give a damn whether Mike minded or not.

      “Me, too,” she said. “Soon as I get some shoes on. Eddy, how’s your pup doing?”

      “He was whimpering a little, but I calmed him down.” He nodded. “He’s breathing real good.”

      “I’ll check on him first,” Nancy said. “By the time we’re finished he’ll probably need another bottle. You game?”

      “He’s my puppy.”

      Eddy was right. He was breathing well. She sprayed some more pain killer on the gauze that covered his burns, stroked his small, brown velvet head, pulled on a pair of deck shoes and ran across the street to find the men.

      Mike was saying, “Probably some teenage idiot and his drunken buddies.” He turned to her. “Nancy, looks like the pup may have been tossed out of a car.” He shook his head. “Somebody’s idea of a Roman candle. Rolling in the grass probably saved his life, and the high grass and those soft baby bones probably kept him from breaking up when he hit.”

      “You can’t find any others?”

      Mike shrugged. “Let’s hope he’s all there were.” He glanced at Eddy, then at Nancy and raised an eyebrow. She got the message.

      “Eddy, you know where the puppy formula is,” Nancy said. “Wash out the bottle really