Stepdog (19 page)

I emerged from the tunnel into the actual city—no,
above
it, really, the huge curving highway arcing, looming over water. I was part of the skyline, driving above America, detached from reality, with limited access to all below. This felt somehow symbolic but
I was too tired and frazzled to make out how. After Baltimore, I was returned to ground, where cement walls sprang up on either side of the freeway, to protect me from America, or more likely, the other way around. The sky was grey, inviting drowsiness even going eighty-five.
Drowsy
. What a lovely word. How seductive to just get lost in
drowsy
.

Thank God my phone startled me to alertness. It was Alto. We'd swapped numbers back in Boston while he was helping us hunt down Jay.

“Squire Alto!”

“Just checking in for news.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it. We've actually got a lead, he's in North Carolina. I'm driving there now.”

“Shit, that's a long way,” said Alto, expressing my own sentiments. I explained the situation, asked him to tell Marie and the museum crowd, and gave him Danny's number to keep him in the loop, too. It lifted the despair the littlest bit to know that there were folk back home looking out for us and thinking of me as something other than a wanker.

Of course after the call, my mind wandered back to Jay. Had he bought his place just to be close to Sara? Had it been an if-then sort of thing: maybe he heard she'd moved to Jamaica Plain (how, though?), and figured,
if
she lives in JP,
then
she probably takes the dog to Peters Hill, the place all the dogs go off leash.
If
I buy a house overlooking Peters Hill,
then
I might see her with the dog.

And then—the one thing he could never have anticipated—the dog
but not Sara
starts making regular-as-clockwork appearances. Which is a coup for him, only it happened in a manner that must have insulted every fiber of his being.

First, Sara was willing to hand off the treasured creature to someone who didn't treasure the creature. This made Sara bad and further surely confirmed for Jay that he'd be the better owner, and therefore justified in nabbing Cody. Also, Sara had found romantic happiness so quickly after dumping him—with somebody who was inferior to Jay in every way that mattered to Jay. I was poor, undereducated, unreliable, and foolish. I was dependent on Sara to even have the right to be in America. And Sara wanted me more than him.

So your Mr. Jonathan was a deeply insulted man. I thought I'd be petty enough to find satisfaction in that, but instead it only made me anxious: the more deeply he felt insulted, the further he would go in seeking satisfaction. It only takes a couple of Shakespeare villains to know that about human nature.

Howard County. Montgomery County. Spring came at me in a rush as I hurtled southward. Everything along the road was now a lush, glorious, full-bodied green. After a stretch of raised and crossing highways, the road spilled toward and over water, ushering me into Virginia. I wished I knew my American geography better. How far exactly from Virginia to North Carolina?

Suddenly I missed Ireland something terrible. If this had happened back home, it would have been easy enough to deal with it. I knew people in every county, could set up a network to keep an eye out, and it's a small country, he couldn't hide forever. But nobody in Ireland would be fool enough to get so obsessed about a dog in the first place! That was part of my exasperation: this was such a ridiculously American problem we found ourselves with. In Ireland, we saved our fury for family feuds, or sports compe
titions, or complaining about the government without actually doing anything about it.

I had definitely reached the fatigue point, where everything looked exactly like everything else. Virginia is proof that you can have beautiful country roads and also plastic shite side by side. Given the choice, the American ethos will still go for plastic shite. But then I remembered all the ghost estates all over Ireland and realized that nobody has cornered the market on plastic shite, or abuse of the environment or resources. Shortsighted ugly greed is common to all cultures. Well, maybe not so much in the Scandinavian countries that despite being, like Ireland, too far north, underpopulated, and alcoholic, had still managed to create the highest standard of living in the world, at least according to Facebook polls that Marie liked to inform us about on Peters Hill.

God, I missed Marie. And little Nick. And Alto. And even the person I'd thought Jay was. In fact, I think I missed him most of all. No, most of all I missed Danny, but at this point even Lena would have been welcome company.

The road was slick but the sky ahead was clearing as I turned onto a smaller highway, just two lanes each direction. There was less urban sprawl now, and incredible lushness everywhere. It had rained here recently and the hardwood trees looked particularly lovely, with the trunks so dark from the wet. The sun was slanting heavily westward. Would I make it to Alex's by nightfall? I had been on the road since four
A.M
. Except for failing to get a hug from Sara at Logan, and making an utter eejit of myself in midtown Manhattan, I had done nothing today but drive. I hated
that steering wheel and that big retro-style dashboard almost as much as I hated Jay.

I was getting very bleary-eyed again. So I can't vouch for this, but I believe the “Welcome to North Carolina” sign went on to say it was “the most military-friendly state.” Hang on: North Carolina! What? Here I was in North Carolina! A mere ninety miles or so and finally I'd have arrived at Alex Cragg's. And then I'd get the dog back.

The main thing I noticed about North Carolina compared to all the states above it was the emergence of incredible pine trees—full and robust and enormous, and when I looked down the highway, everything was a mottle of different greens.

“Welcome to Durham, City of Medicine,” said a sign as the GPS lady sent me onto a smaller highway. I skirted the city then found myself in suburbia. Except for those amazing looming pine trees, it could have been any suburb in any state or county in New England. How could I have driven so fucking far—farther than it would take to drive across Western Europe—and find myself in the same place I'd left?

Finally,
in a suburban cul-de-sac right in front of a nondescript ranch-style house, the GPS lady uttered those six magic words that made me love her: “You have arrived at your destination.”

Time to get out of the car at last. Time to meet Alex Craggs. Time to get the dog back.

T
o review: I had just driven sixteen hours, stopping in Manhattan long enough to make a bad impression. I hadn't washed in days, or hardly slept, and had eaten very little on the road, none of it healthy. I had three and a half days' growth of beard on my face, I could not remember when I'd last combed my hair, and (a new detail) I had spilled my last cup of coffee, leaving New Zealand–shaped stains on my shirt. I was about to meet a man I didn't know—an accountant–slash–army vet, so probably very disciplined and tidy—and, in my state of dreck, I had to show him I was a respectable bloke. Ha.

I got out of the car and walked up the brick path past a red Ford pickup to the door. I saw no sign of a motorcycle. Maybe he'd moved on to a new hobby. When I rang the doorbell, a volley of high-pitched fierce barking erupted from the other side. Must be terriers? Jack Russells?

I heard a booming male voice calling off the dogs; then various doors opening and closing; the barking continued, muffled, and unhurried footsteps finally approached the door. Alex Craggs
paused on the other side and took a moment before opening the door—maybe, like me, preparing his “greeting face.”

The door finally opened.

Beaming down at me through the screen door was a muscly and fair-haired bloke, grinning with a jocular smile worthy of a toothpaste advert. He was big—not as tall as Jay, but brawnier. Extremely clean-cut, smooth face and neat short hair, jeans and a button-down shirt opened at the collar. More Accountant than Army Vet. I realized I had been clenching all sorts of muscles because now I felt them all start to relax. This would be grand. We'd have a quick chat and then be off to get the dog. I'd even let her sleep in the same room with me tonight.

“Hello, there, sir,” said Alex Craggs, with a hint of some generic southern accent. He stared at me for a moment with glittering-bright green eyes. “You must be my new cousin-in-law. Want to come in?” He pushed opened the screen door. Those eyes—the one physical attribute he shared with Sara—did not leave off staring at me. I suppose he was noticing my strong resemblance to a homeless bum.

“Thanks,” I said, and held out my hand as I entered. “I'm Rory. Sorry we're meeting under these strange circumstances.”

He shook my hand with a firm grip. Then he grinned, then laughed, then cuffed me on the shoulder. I couldn't tell if it was a gesture of affection or aggression. “Yes, sir, they are strange circumstances, but I'll tell ya, they're not
that
strange,” he said in a friendly, comforting voice, and then without a beat immediately went on to say, “Certainly not as strange as Sara going off and marrying an undocumented foreign gentleman without even
telling
anyone about it.”

“That happened pretty fast,” I said, flustered.

“I'll
say.” He laughed like a friendly but all-powerful sheriff in a comedy western. “My jaw just about dropped to the floor when she told me about you a few hours ago.”

I decided not to say the feeling was mutual. His energy was so
big,
I felt almost pinned to the tiled wall of the foyer.

“I understand your marriage had something to do with . . . placating certain governmental agencies.” His gaze was piercing and his voice loud, as if he wanted to be overheard by his neighbors. I was clueless how to interpret his tone—it could as easily have been approval for beating the bureaucracy as condemnation for trying to scam Uncle Sam. I should have acknowledged the statement and followed up immediately with a tribute to how madly in love with Sara I was. If I'd done that, the whole evening might have gone so differently. But I could not convince any of my speaking-aloud neurons to fire, which is quite the rarity with me, as you might have heard. I just stared at him, taking in his bigness.

“Well, make yourself at home,” he said. He gestured vaguely to the open-plan innards of the house. “You look like you could use a drink.”

“I'd love a glass of water, thanks.”

“Yes, sir, glass of water coming right up. Have a seat.” We crossed the carpeted living room to the kitchen area, and the barking began again behind a door down the hall. Alex ignored it. He gestured toward the kitchen table. Everything about this house was perfectly normal, like what you'd see on a television show depicting normal American suburban life. If a pretty wife and 2.54 healthy kids came around the corner at that moment, I would not
have been surprised. His was a Neil Diamond sound track. Played very loud.

The barking dogs finally stopped barking, and after a final irritable scratch at the door, down the darkened hall, they were quiet. Cody never barked.

Alex set down a glass of water on the table. “Want some ice with that?” he asked, reaching for the freezer door of the humming white Frigidaire.

“No thanks,” I said. I considered making the frequent European jab about how Americans are obsessed with ice, but thought it would be sounder of me to wait till we knew each other's humor first.

“You Europeans generally find the American obsession with ice a bit peculiar, don't you?” he said, giving me a knowing look.
What?
Okay, that was
weird
. “Have you been in the States long enough to still hold that opinion?”

This was the kind of thing Sara had warned me about. If I acknowledged how long I'd been in America, he'd want to know why I had only now gotten a green card, and then he'd grill me about having been undocumented all those years. I actually forgot about my performance visas for a moment, and felt a flush of anxiety, the way I used to feel in the early days, coming through Immigration at Logan Airport.

“I've been ice-obsessed since childhood,” I said. “Had to swear off the stuff for health reasons.”

Alex burst into a loud and hearty laugh, far louder and heartier than my quip deserved. “All right, then, sir,” he said, still aggressively friendly. He pushed the glass of water in my direction. “You look like you've been through the wringer.”

“It's been a rough couple of days,” I said.

“Want to acquaint me with the circumstances under which our mutual friend Jonathan ended up in possession of the dog of contention?”

“Oh,” I said, “I thought Sara already told you everything.”

“Oh, yes, sir, she did,” he said. “I'm just seeking verification, want to make sure I've got the whole story straight.”

The smile was both entirely genuine and yet also a challenge. I could almost see how he and Jay would have hit it off, according to the principle of opposites attracting. It would have been a mash-up of alpha maleness, though. I wasn't a contender in that ring. I relied on peppery impish charm. Peppery impish charm flies right under the alpha male radar.

“Well . . . I first met him in a park in Boston,” I said. “I walked Cody every day and there was a group of regulars we got to know. One of them was Jay.”

“You're saying that my cousin's ex, who had bought her that very dog and was heartbroken when she took the dog away with her, just
happened
to be one of these regulars?”

That detail had been niggling at me. “Yes,” I said. “I don't think it's a coincidence. He had moved to the area recently, and now I wonder if he moved there because he somehow knew it was where Sara and the dog would be.”

“Yes, sir, I think you're right about that,” said Alex Craggs. He was still talking as if he wanted his neighbors to overhear, but maybe that was just his normal speaking voice. “I happen to know he was aware she had moved to Jamaica Plain because
I'm
the one who told him that, back before I understood how desperate she was to break all ties with him. I didn't realize what
a schemer he was, because like a lot of schemers, he's
really
charismatic. I mean, despite myself, I still
like
the guy, even after what he did. But I'm feeling a little bit responsible for what's happened here.”

I laughed, pained. “I promise you, you're not to blame. It's all on me.”

“No, sir, I am a part of the bigger picture. Not saying that makes me guilty but it sure doesn't mean I'm innocent. Anyhow let's get back to the park.”

“I don't really have much else to say,” I said, not wanting to get into the chocolate cake incident.

“He somehow won your trust,” Alex said meaningfully.

“Yes,” I said, realizing I was going to have to get into the chocolate cake incident.

“How?”

I told him about the chocolate cake incident. Including my theory that Jay had orchestrated it.

Alex grimaced, agreeing. “That guy always knows how to get what he wants.”

“Sure. So I really appreciate your helping me to get her back.”

He grimaced again. “Well, hold on now,” he said. “I didn't say I was going to do
that
.”

What?

“What?” I said, more calmly than I was thinking it.

“I love Sara, but just because she's my cousin doesn't mean her interests here come first.”

“Oh,” I said, alarmed. In fairness, she had warned me about that.

“This is not about Sara. This is about Cody. Cody's well-being comes first. Obviously.”

Right, so he really was Sara's kinsman, if he put the dog ahead of his own cousin. I nodded agreement but kept my mouth shut.

“And more than that,” he continued, enjoying himself, “I need to get up to speed on
you,
my friend. I'm sure you can appreciate that this is all a
lot
to take on, and I need to be informed so I can act with integrity. So. Here's what is going to happen. Earlier today, right after I got off the phone from Sara, I called Jonathan—”

“You
what
?”

“—and told him what he stood accused of, to hear his side of the story.”

“You what?” I repeated. “Why? Did you think Sara was
lying
to you?”

He held his hands out in a pacifying way. “No, sir, but a man's got a right to clear his name. Just wanted to hear what he had to say for himself. He told me why he felt entitled to the dog, and explained how he went about getting her. I told him that his modus operandi was clever, but it was also rotten and underhanded. Now that I've heard his side of things, and Sara's, too, I want to make sure I can endorse your being the dog's rescuer.”

I was incredulous. “What does that mean?”

He was clearly entertaining himself. He was playing petty tyrant, and found the whole thing hilarious. “You might be a fine man, but at the moment I don't know that, I only have Sara's word and, nothing against Jonathan, or you, but Sara does not always make smart choices when it comes to her men. And let's be honest, now: she married you so you could get a green card, she came clean
to me about that. After, what, a
week
? Ten days? So obviously, no offense, but I need to see for myself that you pass muster.” A big, knowing, neighborly grin. “If not, I will send you packing, and I've already told Sara as much.”

“I'm Sara's husband, that should be enough!” I said. “What needs to happen here is that we go get the dog—and right
now,
before Jay disappears with her again. Why did you tell him I'm here?” I tried to stay cool, but it was fucking aggravating to learn I'd pushed myself hard to get here in stealth only to have my arrival
heralded
. “He's probably left town already, we need to act
now
.”

“No, sir, we're not going anywhere tonight,” said Alex pleasantly. “My turf, my rules. I need to suss you out first.”

“I just drove fourteen hours to get here for Sara's sake. To fix a problem I freely admit is my fault. How much more do you really need to know about me?”

“As I said, this is about the dog,” said Alex, firm but avuncular. “First I need to know if she'd be in good hands with you.”

I was almost too tired to suppress the stream of invectives that wanted to come hurling out of my mouth. This was just pure and utter bollocks. “I'm taking her straight to Sara,” I said with deliberate calmness.

“Well, we'll see about that,” said Alex, cheerily. “No offense, but you haven't really demonstrated to me that you're worth a gnat's gonads yet.”

“We've got to get her, now that he knows I'm here!” I said angrily, and stood up. “We've got to get her
now
. He'll disappear again!”

Alex stayed seated and comfortably, almost smugly, said, “Already got that covered. Jonathan gave me his word as a gentleman
not to leave town, and to meet us tomorrow at noon at the Clubhouse to settle matters.”

Oh, for fuck's sake. “And you
believed
him?”

“He assured me he understands the consequences of fucking me over and not honoring his word, and he knows what a good shot I am.”

That last bit shocked me; I'd forgot he'd been a soldier. “This is
ridiculous,
” I said to the ceiling. “Just tell me where he is. I'll go on my own.”

“My prospect Plugger is over at Jonathan's cabin right now keeping watch on him, and Jonathan is fine with that.”

“Your what?”

“My junior associate. Also I've got my brothers for dozens of miles in every direction on alert. He makes a run for it overnight, he is asking to get his ribs crushed. For starters.”

“Your brothers?”

“My biker brothers,” said Alex seriously, looking every inch the accountant. (Caveat: the very large accountant.) “So he's not going anywhere. Neither are we. Got it?” His toothpaste-advert smile was almost manic. He was cracking up over this scenario. It was all a joke to him, I was just his amusement for the evening, saving him from a boring night of watching the telly. “Might as well settle in.”

I stubbornly stayed standing, but gave up arguing, since it was pointless. Suddenly the cacophony of frenzied yapping began again from behind a closed door down the hall. Alex stood, wandered over to the door, and opened it, his gaze cast downward. I looked as well, expecting scrappy, fiendish-looking little terriers. Instead, two bratwurst-shaped dogs came waddling with feverish speed out the door.