Page 46 of So Alone

He returned her smile then left, forcing himself to walk calmly back to his car. Once inside, he took two more deep breaths, then forced himself to again be calm as he pulled away.

The FBI? TheFBI?

This was bad. He hadn't even considered the possibility that the FBI would get involved. Dammit, he was just trying to make a statement. He just wanted people to stop mistreating their dogs. He thought if he showed people what happened to those who abused their dogs, it would prompt people to change. He didn't even think about the fact that he had now committed three very public murders in a short span of time. Of course, they would be looking for him.

But theFBI?

If they found him, then it would be over. He would be taken to prison and held there alone until he was executed. He had no illusions anymore that his work would be seen for what it was. They would see only the death he had caused and spare no thought for the reason for that death. They would put him in prison, and…

Oh God, the dogs. They would take the dogs away. They would take the dogs away and they would give them back to their owners, their horrible, abusive, neglectful owners. The ones whose owners were dead they would take to a shelter.

What a misnomer that was! He had been to those shelters, and they didn’t exist to shelter dogs at all. They were slaughterhouses more than shelters.

He was going to be arrested, and his dogs were going to be abused and killed. He couldn’t allow that. He had to move.

He had planned for this day. He never imagined it would come, but he was prepared for it. He had a bag with clothing, disguises, IDs and cash in several different currencies. He had a trailer parked in his grandfather’s old homestead an hour out of town. He could take the dogs a few at a time to the homestead and leave from there on the trailer. He would travel somewhere safe and live quietly. He had done what he could. He would enjoy his retirement with his family.

His heart ached as he thought of Trotter. There was nothing he could do for him now. If he tried to claim Trotter, the sheriffs would arrest him, and they would take the rest of his dogs away.

He looked wistfully out the window, a last foolish hope taking hold that maybe the old woman was mistaken and the dog the FBI had found was some other puppy. Maybe he would see Trotter walking along the street and rescue him from the shelter to which he was inevitably bound.

He didn’t see Trotter, but he did see a lovely old Golden Retriever. Its coat was burnished yellow, but there was a liberal spray of white at the muzzle. It plodded along with the sad eyes of its breed, and it was beautiful.

He pulled closer to the dog. It was female. “Hi, sweetheart,” he whispered with a smile. The dog didn’t hear him, of course, but he was glad to see her. It brought him a moment’s respite from his pain.

A shadow fell over the dog, and she cringed. His smile disappeared, replaced with alarm when an overweight man with a sour frown and cruel eyes leaned down and swatted the Goldie on the muzzle.

“Hey!” he shouted, forgetting himself a moment.

Fortunately, a motorcycle with an aftermarket exhaust sped by at that moment, so his shout was muffled by the closed door of his truck and the loud rattle of the engine. His view wasn’t muffled, however, and he could see the man slap his dog again.

He shouldn’t do it. He should just let this go. He had his own dogs to think about, and time was running out.

But then the Goldie lifted its sad eyes to meet his own, and he couldn’t let it go anymore. He watched as the sour-faced man dragged the Goldie into his home, shouting at it the whole way.

He memorized the address and checked the clock on the dash. He would come back in a few hours. He might not be able to do anything for Trotter, but he could rescue one last dog and give her a good home to spend the rest of her days.

It was the least he could do.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Dr. Karl Vanheusen lived on eight acres just outside of town. As the agents turned the corner into his driveway, they saw nearly two dozen dogs running loose on the property, surrounded by a high chainlink fence. The dogs were of all shapes, sizes and breeds.

“Starting to think he might be the guy,” Michael said.

Faith didn’t say anything, but she suspected the same thing. Michael parked the SUV behind an old but flawlessly maintained Datsun sports car. Faith wondered what it was about old Datsuns that attracted academics. Maybe they just liked having something unique.

Faith knocked on the door. She didn’t expect an answer, so she was surprised when a short-ish man of medium build wearing gold wire-rimmed glasses answered a few seconds later.

“Hello?” he said in a slight Dutch accent. “Can I help you?”

“Dr. Karl Vanheusen?” Faith asked.

“Yes, speaking. Who are you?”

“I’m Special Agent Faith Bold, and this is my partner Special Agent Michael Prince. This is our K9 unit, Turk.”

“I see,” Karl replied, “Why are you here?”

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