Pulse

38

Leighton, Wisconsin, 1986

R ory was slouched behind the steering wheel of his mom’s Impala, about to turn onto the county road near Cheever’s Hardware, when he saw one of the posters. It was tacked to a telephone pole and headed MISSING in large black letters, and beneath that was a photo of a shaggy dog as black as the letters.

At first Rory felt no connection with the poster, so deep into a corner of his mind had he pushed the night he’d struck the dog and buried it. After putting the poor animal out of its misery, he reminded himself. The humane thing to do.

He couldn’t help it. The sequence of events that night flashed through his brain. How and why they had occurred. What they meant.

No, there was nothing he’d do differently after the car had struck the dog. His actions had been harsh but right.

A horn blasted as he almost ran a stop sign.

He felt a stab of panic. He wasn’t supposed to be in the car. If his mother for some reason left her book club and found out he’d borrowed it and was driving without a license again, she’d be plenty mad.

The man in the pickup truck that crossed the intersection ahead of him glared at Rory and gunned his engine. Rory felt no surge of anger, only worry about his mom turning up and ruining his day. But he’d already figured the odds of that happening and accepted them before getting into the car. So he stopped worrying about his mom. It wasn’t logical. He again concentrated on the dog incident.

He pulled the car to the road shoulder and put the transmission in park. He’d assumed he’d never have to think about the dog again, but obviously he did. The owner was going to be proactive.

So where does that leave me? How should I feel?

No, the question isn’t about how I feel. What should I do?

The answer came immediately: nothing.

The dog, with its head crushed by a rock, hadn’t been found (which was how he’d planned it). There would be nothing that might publicly connect the dog with him, even if it was found (which was how he’d planned it). The owner missed the dog (no surprise) and was tacking up M ISSING D OG posters all over town (should be no surprise).

Logical course of action? Forget about the dog incident again-except when you have to look at one of the damned posters.

He smiled. This new development, the possibility of which he should have foreseen, posed no danger whatsoever. His initial reasoning, and his actions, had been correct. Nothing fundamental had changed.

Rory put the Chevy in drive, glanced in the rearview mirror and then over his shoulder, and pulled the vehicle back onto the road.

He glanced at the dashboard clock. His mother’s book club would be ending in half an hour, which meant he could safely drive another twenty minutes.

He drove down High Street, in the general direction of his house. A few people were walking along the sidewalks, going in and out of the shops, despite the temperature pushing ninety.

Rory settled back into the soft upholstery and steered with one wrist draped over the wheel. The air conditioner worked well; the motor was smooth, and there were no rattles. He pressed the radio buttons until he found some rap, then turned up the volume.

And saw the girl tacking up a MISSING DOG poster.

He recognized her immediately and slowed the car, staring at the way the breeze pressed the material of her blouse and slacks against one side of her body, the way her back arched as she held the poster high with one hand and hammered with the other, how her dark ponytail swayed slightly as the breeze blew and she worked her arm to drive the nail into the wooden telephone pole. It was a pole pecked with dozens of nail holes from notices of garage sales or other missing-pet appeals. There was a canvas bag at her feet that probably held more posters. Rory was in love with her, and she… well, she liked him. No, she more than just liked him, he was sure. He hoped. Sherri Klinger was her name. The more he repeated it to himself, the more he found it oddly melodious.

She was in advanced studies, smart like him. He could talk to her and she understood. And he understood and agreed with almost everything she said.

He hadn’t known she owned a dog.

When the car slowed to a complete stop just behind her, she turned and recognized Rory. She dropped the hammer into the canvas bag, picked up the bag by its strap, and walked smiling toward the car.

He switched off the radio, then held down the button to drop the window.

“Rory,” she said, leaning down to look at him. She seemed glad to see him. “Don’t you know you’re too young to drive?”

Rory gave her what he thought of as his dynamite grin. “Too young for a lotta things I do.”

“I’ll just bet.” Her face, which he thought about so often before he slept, became serious. “You haven’t seen Duffy, have you?”

“Don’t know him.”

“My dog, dumb-ass.”

“That him on the poster?”

“Good guess.”

“Haven’t seen him.” How easy it is to lie, when you know it’s saving someone you love from pain. “He run away?”

“Yeah. It’s not the first time. But it’s the first time he didn’t come back.”

How much more terrible she’d feel if I told her the truth. “And now you’re going around town tacking up posters.”

“That was the last one.” She motioned with her head toward the poster on the phone pole.

“Wanna drive around for a while and look for Duffy?”

“I dunno.”

“I’ve got a little bit of time before I have to get the car back.”

“Your mom even know you’ve got it?”

“Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.”

She grinned.

“Hop in,” Rory said. “For Duffy.”

“For Duffy,” she repeated. She hitched the canvas bag’s strap over her shoulder and walked around the front of the car to get in.

He watched her walk, the way her hair flounced, the subtle rhythmic sway of her breasts, feeling a mixture of desire and satisfaction.

This dog-poster thing, he’d turned it his way.