Planet Lara: Sanctuary

3. A Very Good Boy

CHAPTER THREE

a very good boy

“You told me earlier that the lady had black hair and sunglasses and a baseball cap.”

“Yeah. But I started thinking about it harder, and I think she really looked like the lady I saw in the field.”

“OK.”

“Why would that lady want to hurt Finan if she’s your mom’s girlfriend?”

“I … I don’t know, Harmony. That’s a good question.” I force a smile to hide my fear. “You go find out where Len Emmerich needs you. Sound good?”

“Me and Dad are going to find Big Dog.” She offers yet another pinkie promise. I wrap my finger around hers, hoping she doesn’t feel my shaky nerves.

She skips away toward her waiting father. He offers a gentle wave, and they disappear out the main doors.

I look at Rupert. “No way. It could not have been Jacinta. You said she was somewhere safe.”

“The child has seen a single photograph. A lot of women have long, black ponytails.”

“Yes, but not every woman only has one hand.”

“Harmony didn’t mention whether the woman was missing an appendage,” Rupert counters.

True. She didn’t. She likely wouldn’t have noticed if the transaction was that quick, plus Harmony was being towed on her skateboard by a bullmastiff. If some random woman stopped her on the street, I couldn’t expect her to catalog every detail of the woman’s appearance—not even Harmony, the world’s cleverest ten-going-on-thirty-year-old.

“So, coincidence, then?” I bite at one of my long-neglected cuticles. “But maybe not. If it is one of Iona’s minions—or even Iona herself—and she knows that Jacinta and Cordelia took Daddy’s magic rocks, this could be a setup.”

Rupert watches my face while I talk, but he doesn’t offer his two cents.

He’s not telling me something.

“Rupert … where is Jacinta?”

A terse shake of his head warns me to stop. “Let’s get to town hall before the call begins and we miss anything.” Number Two stands, adjusts his cane, and strides off, leaving me to watch him join the scrum at the volunteers’ table.

He’s lying. He’s still protecting her.

Wherever Jacinta is, I hope she’s safe.

The town hall meeting with the coordinating agencies is long and scary, and by 2:00 a.m., we have no new leads, and no Finan. I’m sick with exhaustion and grief and worry.

What were the last words we said to each other? Salmon. He was going to cook salmon. We were going to eat dinner together, and I teased that we needed to do masks before bed because our late nights tangled up in each other are ruining our youthful, well-rested visages.

He kissed me in the break room while the coffee maker brewed our life-giving juice. He didn’t care who walked in, who saw us.

That will not be our last kiss, Finan Rowleigh. I promise.

Dakota finally leads me to my office to collect my purse. No one questions when we leave—it’s pretty clear I won’t be useful again until I’ve had some sleep. I protest that I need to be here in case a ransom demand comes in, or even a sighting of Finan, or in case the searchers find Humboldt, but Dakota won’t hear it.

My head bounces against the frame of Rupert’s Tesla as we maneuver up my gravel driveway.

“Lara …”

“Hmmm?” I open my eyes. On my porch, Humboldt awaits. “Oh my god! Hurry!”

Dakota races up the last fifty meters and I’m out of the car before she’s parked. “Big Dog! Oh my god, buddy!” I race and drop on the steps in front of him. “Oh, oh, my sweet boy, you’re hurt.” Humboldt’s tail pounds the wooden porch but he’s covered in blood, and when he tries to stand, he collapses again. “Don’t you move, my poor baby.” I turn just as Dakota is hurrying toward me, her overnight bag and my purse over her shoulder. “He’s hurt! Call Dr. Stillson!”

She drops everything and gets Stillson on the phone. Thankfully, he’s still at the community centre with Catrina and says they will grab the vet med kit and head out to the cabin. Until then, we’re to make Humboldt as comfortable as we can. “And do not move him.”

Not a problem. Neither of us has the inclination to lift a beefy dog with obvious wounds whose panting tongue has created a small lake on the porch. “I’ll get him fresh water,” Dakota offers.

“And in the hall closet, at the bottom, there’s a stack of beach towels. Can you grab those?”

Despite the late hour, the air is muggy, and the mosquitoes are taking advantage of the buffet offered by my bare arms. A few flies buzz around the matted and still-wet blood on Humboldt’s fur. I bat them away, my hand coming back stained with evidence of the trauma this poor dog has suffered. I rest his wide head on my legs, trying to calm his panting and occasional whimpers with soft strokes over his forehead and snout, whispering that I love him and everything will be OK.

“I am so sorry they took our Finan.” I’m near choking on my tears. “We’re going to get him back. I promise. Safe and sound. Then we will never let him go again. I promise, you big, silly dog.”

Dakota returns with a bowl of fresh water and the towels under the opposite arm. She helps me cover Humboldt’s back and flank to keep the flies away as he slurps heartily from his silver dish.

“I’ll make us tea,” she says, disappearing back into the cabin. I’d ask her to spike mine, but the dull headache from crying (and the few shots of whisky earlier in the evening) hasn’t abated. And I need to be present. No hiding in a bottle this time. That won’t help anyone, especially Finan.

By the time Stillson and Catrina finish treating Humboldt, the sun is peeking over the horizon. Stillson thinks the dog’s front leg is probably broken, for which he’ll need to X-ray to confirm where and how bad. “He’s obviously taken a beating. The s***h wounds are defensive, suggesting someone went at him with a knife, probably when he was trying to protect Finan, but as far as I can tell, they didn’t do any internal damage. Again, hard to know for sure without getting an MRI, but right now, all we can do is monitor for serious bruising or purple rigidity on his underside, if he starts vomiting or peeing blood, if he can’t seem to get a deep breath …”

“What if any of that happens?” I ask, exhausted but refusing to leave his side.

Liam Stillson looks at me with the saddest eyes. “If the leg is broken, we can set and cast it. I have enough sedative left from Dr. Lori to put him out for that. But in terms of internal damage, there’s nothing much else I can do for him right now. If he shows signs of a hemorrhage, then the option is to get him across to his vet, or …”

Catrina, sitting on the couch above me where I’m sprawled with Big Dog on the floor, squeezes my shoulder. “Let’s not add weight to our worries. For now, he’s stable and sleeping. Like you should be.”

“I can’t. What if he dies while I’m napping? He’ll die alone! He got hurt trying to help Finan—I can’t abandon him.”

“You’re not going anywhere but down the hall. I will sit with him, and as soon as it’s a decent hour, I will call Harmony. She would love to be of use today,” Catrina reassures me.

“Yes. OK, that’ll work,” I say through another bout of tears. Dakota helps me off the floor—I’m still achy and not quite a hundred percent after the impalement—and then into the bathroom so I can wash the sadness from my face and brush the day-old coffee off my teeth. She settles me into my bed, but I ask her to stay, patting the side where Humboldt and Finan take turns keeping me safe.

“I’m dirty, though. Need to shower and change,” she says.

“I don’t care. Shower after I fall asleep. Otherwise, I’ll worry that they’ll steal you too.”

Dakota kicks off her boots and drapes herself over the duvet next to me, grasping my hand. “I’m not going anywhere, sister.”