Part 4
For several seconds, the only movement came from the phones being raised higher in the crowd.
Pelham stared down from the platform. Then he gave a short laugh that didn’t sound amused.
“You haven’t thought that through.”
“Nobody stays behind.”
“You want twelve dogs? You understand what the treatment alone could cost? The liability? This isn’t something you announce because you’re angry.”
“Put my name on the responsibility.”
Pelham slapped the clipboard against the lectern.
“No. That is not an acceptable bid, and this is not a negotiation.”
Evan turned slightly toward the dogs. Flint had stopped whining. Boone stood with his chest against the door, watching Evan’s face.
“There’s room at my place,” Evan told them quietly.
Pelham pointed toward two deputies.
“Get him away from those kennels.”
The men approached reluctantly. One held his palms forward, as though he were entering an argument at a family gathering. The other kept his eyes on Evan’s hands.
“Let’s step outside,” the first said. “We can talk without making a scene.”
Evan moved closer to the row rather than toward the gate.
“We can talk here.”
“You’re blocking county property.”
“Look past me.”
The deputy did, briefly. Keel was lying with his head raised now, but his body still shook with small after-tremors.
“Evan, please.”
The second deputy’s voice hardened. “Move away. That’s an order.”
Evan planted his feet. He could feel how near he was to making a mistake that would give Pelham exactly what he wanted. He uncurled his hands again and held them clear of his belt.
“I’m staying beside them.”
The deputies exchanged a look and came another step.
Flint barked.
It was a deep warning note, different from the pleading sounds he had made earlier. Boone rose behind Evan. Otis came to the front of his kennel, shoulders high. Along both rows, the dogs reacted to the approaching men and the tension in Evan’s body.
The first deputy stopped.
Flint struck his door with one shoulder. Boone pushed hard enough to rattle the adjoining panel. Otis pawed beneath his latch, and other dogs surged toward the wire, barking over one another.
Evan turned at once.
“Hold. Easy.”
He lowered his body and let them see his face. His voice reached some of them; others kept pressing forward, fixed on the deputies behind him.
They had spent years learning to watch the people beside them. Evan knew that rigid attention, the way Flint checked his position and then returned his stare to the approaching uniforms.
“Back up,” Evan told the deputies. “Give them distance.”
One man retreated immediately. The other looked toward Pelham, then took two steps back.
The racket eased enough for individual sounds to emerge: Otis’s claws skidding, Boone’s heavy breath, a thin whine from Keel as he struggled to stand.
Keel got his feet beneath him and leaned against his door. Evan held a hand low toward him.
“Don’t hurt yourself, fellow.”
Pelham shouted from the platform.
“Control them!”
“Then quit sending people at me.”
A woman near the front pulled her child farther from the kennels. The girl kept looking past her mother’s arm.
“They want him,” she said.
The first deputy rubbed his forehead.
“We may need animal control.”
His partner shook his head, watching Flint soften when Evan spoke.
“Wait.”
Pelham pointed again. “Rourke, move now, or they’ll remove you.”
Evan knelt beside Flint’s door. He put his palm flat against the mesh, fingers spread, and waited. The shepherd pressed his nose to the place where his hand warmed the metal.
“I’m not leaving you here.”
A vehicle rolled up outside the fence.
Evan heard gravel scatter beneath the tires, then an engine stop. The deputy nearest the gate turned first. A woman in a charcoal jacket stepped out of a plain utility vehicle, badge already in her hand. Two more vehicles pulled in behind hers.
She looked through the gate at the crowd, then at Pelham on the platform.
“Audrey Fenwick,” she said. “State investigations, internal affairs detail. Keep the entrance clear.”
Nobody needed to be asked twice.
Evan stood. His knees were stiff, and he had to steady himself against the kennel frame before he could move toward her.
Fenwick recognized him.
“Officer Rourke. Your message reached me.”
Pelham leaned into the microphone, then seemed to think better of using it.
“You called investigators?”
Evan brushed grit from his palm.
“I called someone outside this county.”
Fenwick’s gaze moved over the twelve enclosures. She stopped beside Keel long enough to watch his breathing, then looked toward the deputy holding the radio.
“Veterinary help?”
“Requested.”
“Make sure they come directly here.”
She waited until he acknowledged her, then instructed the crowd to leave a clear lane beside the kennels. Her voice was measured and ordinary, and people obeyed it more readily than they had obeyed all Pelham’s shouting.
At the platform, she opened her case.
“Mr. Pelham, you’ll stop accepting bids. Don’t remove, alter, or discard any records.”
He held up his clipboard.
“This is an authorized county auction.”
“I have an emergency preservation order covering the animals and the documents connected to their removal from service.” She showed him the first page. “You’ll receive a copy.”
Pelham read far enough for his face to change.
Evan looked from him to Fenwick.
“You already had something.”
“Your call wasn’t the beginning,” she said. “Several complaints were submitted internally. They weren’t acted on. Copies eventually reached the state.”
She took a second set of papers from the file and laid them on the lectern where Pelham could not hide them behind his clipboard.
Evan saw dates before he saw anything else. Dates from the period when he had been told the dogs were doing well.
Fenwick placed an original veterinary evaluation beside a later version. The identifying number was the same on both. The conclusion was not.
“The earlier record cleared this dog for service. The later file lists him as unsuitable. We have the digital edit history.”
Pelham’s mouth opened, but she continued.
“Other reports were altered the same way. Medical histories were withheld from potential adopters and from former handlers. Meanwhile, purchase allocations for replacement dogs rose immediately after the retirement approvals.”
The rancher who had challenged Pelham moved closer to the cleared lane.
“And the company gets paid?” he asked.
“The contractor’s arrangement included commissions tied to each acquisition. Those payments are part of the investigation.”
Fenwick turned back to Pelham.
“These animals passed their last on-duty evaluations less than five months ago. Today we have visible injuries, signs of overwork, and severe distress. We’ll document all of it.”
Evan looked at Keel, then at the paired reports on the lectern.
“They worked them until they could write the report they wanted.”
Fenwick’s expression tightened. “The evidence supports deliberate overwork during the demonstration tests and falsification afterward.”
Pelham gripped the microphone stand.
“They were aging out. Everybody knows you can’t work these dogs forever.”
“The youngest is five,” Fenwick said. “The oldest is seven. Age did not disqualify them.”
A sound passed through the crowd, several people speaking at once. Voss had moved away from the fence and was standing where an investigator could see him.
Fenwick removed one final sheet.
“This is the transport authorization for any dogs left at closing.”
Pelham looked at the page and then toward the gate.
“The receiving center makes its own decisions.”
“The disposition is already entered.” She held the sheet still. “Euthanasia. The stated reason is that the dogs are unadoptable because of behavioral problems.”
The older woman sat down abruptly on the edge of a feed trough.
A man near the rear said, “You were going to kill the ones nobody bought?”
Pelham backed into the lectern.
“I didn’t write those orders.”
“You’ll have the opportunity to explain your part,” Fenwick said.
She gave instructions to the investigators who had entered behind her. One began collecting the sale papers. Another photographed the lot numbers and the condition of each kennel before anybody opened a door.
Evan watched a camera pause on Flint’s face. The dog blinked, then searched past the investigator until he found Evan again.
Fenwick returned to him.
“No dog is going to that receiving center. Any movement from here will be an approved humane transfer.”
“My offer stands.”
She studied him, including the scraped palm and the dust ground into both knees of his uniform.
“Twelve working shepherds,” she said. “You’re prepared to be responsible for every one?”
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