Girl, Stolen(8)

“Hey, I didn’t know I was going to find a car. I didn’t bring any with me.”

“Where’s the Honda?”

Griffin didn’t want to answer, but he had to. “I had to leave it there.”

“Where’s it at? Don’t tell me it’s anywhere near where you got this.”

“The Honda is in the far end, by the bookshop,” Griffin said. “And the Escalade was on the complete opposite end of the parking lot.”

“We can’t leave it there overnight or someone might connect the dots between one car left in the parking lot and another car that got stolen.” Roy thought for a moment. “Give them the keys. You two can take the pickup and go out to Woodlands and get the Honda back.”

TJ and Jimbo mumbled agreement. Griffin tossed Jimbo the keys and the two men ambled off toward the pickup. When they were out of earshot, Roy turned to him.

“You’ve got us in a world of hurt, you know that? For right now, get her in the house. Keep her hands tied up, put her some place she can’t cause any problems, and then come back here. I’ll put the Escalade in the barn. Don’t use names and don’t tell her where we are. You and me need to talk about what we’re going to do. But not in front of her.”

When Griffin opened the car door and leaned in, Cheyenne’s body was rigid. As he pulled the blanket back, she rubbed her cheek on the striped scarf she wore around her neck, over her coat. She was, he realized, wiping away tears. The dampness still shone on her red face. It seemed strange that she could cry even when her eyes didn’t otherwise work.

He helped her sit up and then said, “I’m going to cut the shoelaces around your ankles now. Don’t move.” He took out his knife, unfolded the blade. So that he wouldn’t slip and cut her, he put one hand between her ankles, just below the taut shoelace, and felt how she trembled.

After cutting the shoelace loose, Griffin helped her up into a sitting position. As he did, Cheyenne whispered to him.

“Just give me my cane and let me go right now. I won’t tell anyone anything. I promise.”

He kept his answer short. “No.” He concentrated on slipping on her laceless shoes.

“Then tonight, when everyone’s asleep.”

He shook his head and then realized she couldn’t see him. But she must have felt the movement because she pressed her lips together until they were a thin white line.

Leaving her purse and her cane on the floor, Griffin began to help Cheyenne out of the car. Duke, not used to seeing strangers, exploded in a frenzy of barking. He strained against the length of his chain.

Instead of shrinking back against Griffin, the way any normal person would, or provoking Duke by trying to run away, Cheyenne stopped and was absolutely still, her head cocked.

The dog didn’t seem to know what to think. Griffin doubted he had ever met a human who didn’t regard him with fear or kick him with a steel-toed boot. He stopped barking and eyed Cheyenne, a low growl still rumbling in his throat. Roy was staring at Duke, looking back and forth between the dog and Cheyenne. It was the first time Griffin could remember Duke shutting up in the presence of a stranger.

Basically, Duke didn’t like new things. If a car came down the road, they knew it long before it showed up. And nobody could just walk around their property, not without Duke throwing himself to the end of his chain, barking and growling. The dog allowed only Roy or Griffin to feed him, and he barely tolerated that. Anyone else who came too near risked losing a body part.

Roy hadn’t bought Duke or gotten him at the pound. Duke had been given to him by a customer who sold a little of this and a little of that. The guy had had a big bloody bandage around his upper arm and he had kept his distance from Duke, not really relaxing until he was back behind the wheel of his truck, with a metal door between him and the dog.

Duke was just the kind of dog Griffin’s dad had been looking for.

“Easy, boy,” Griffin said now into the silence, pretending like Duke was acting normally. “She’s with us.” Then he nudged the girl forward. “We need to get you in the house.”

They started walking. Griffin kept his hand on her arm. “What kind of dog is he?” Cheyenne said as calmly as if they were talking about somebody’s pet.

“Him? Half pit bull and half mystery meat.”

All muscle and no heart. In truth, Griffin didn’t know what kind of dog Duke was. He looked like he had been put together from a half dozen different dogs, taking only the ugliest parts. He had the short, sleek fur of a pit bull, brindled brown and gold, but scars from fighting marred the tiger’s‑eye pattern. One ear stood up, and the other flopped down. His legs were a little too short, and his tail was all wrong for a junkyard dog – fluffy and curved. And with his one droopy eyelid, Duke looked sly. Like he was plotting something.