Chapter Eighteen

Puppy Dog Tails

T he barn had to be at least eight hundred square feet, with no windows or even a back door that she could see. Rows of wire cages lined the far wall, stacked two high, the metal bars rusted and bent. Joan stepped forward, forcing herself to ignore the sharp, sickening stench of urine, feces, and the unmistakable tang of decay similar to what she’s smelled inside the home. Bile rose in her throat.

On the wall to her right, ten empty cages sat on a wood frame. They had to be for the dogs Jeb left at her place. The real horror was straight ahead. Her flashlight trembled slightly as she shined it from one cage to another, her horror growing with each glance. The dogs on the lower row stood in three to four inches of filth, a sludge-like, greenish, oily mess. It coated their paws and fur. There was no bedding, nothing soft to shield them from the cold floor. These poor animals were left in tiny prisons, existing only to suffer.

She moved the light across their bodies, revealing emaciated frames and jutting ribs. Many had open sores, raw and festering, with patches of fur missing, their exposed skin cracked and irritated. Some eyes were swollen shut from infection, milky with pus. This was where spirits came to die, she thought, looking into their dull, vacant eyes. They growled, some snapped at the air, and others howled.

In one cage, a female dog lay nursing a small litter of pups, her body curled protectively around them. At the beam of Joan’s flashlight, she bared her teeth, too tired to even growl. Joan understood. Even in a place like this, the mother was willing to fight for what little she had.

Then her flashlight fell on something worse: a dog, shriveled and dried almost beyond recognition. The small, lifeless form was curled in the corner of its cage, fur matted against shrunken skin. It had been there for weeks, maybe months, rotting in the same filth that surrounded the others. Joan realized the smell of death lingered beneath the other odors.

She drew in a shaky breath, feeling her heart twist painfully in her chest. She pulled the light away, too sickened to see more.

The heat in the barn was stifling, even with the night outside at a much lower temperature. There was no ventilation, just a thick, stagnant warmth that made breathing feel like swallowing sludge. As she walked toward a rusted metal bucket in the corner, a rat scurried out, leaping past her flashlight beam. She jolted back, stumbling as her heart pounded against her ribs.

Turning back toward the rows of cages, her vision blurred with angry tears. There was nothing she could do right now to help them. It gnawed at her, leaving her feeling raw and hollow. She clenched her fists, knowing these animals deserved better.

Joan had to escape the barn. The scale of suffering was like a weight pressing down on her chest, suffocating her. She forced herself to take a deep breath, bracing against the nausea stirred by the putrid air. She made one last sweep of the flashlight over the barn’s interior. As she moved the light, something unusual caught her eye, stopping her in her tracks.

She stepped closer, squinting, trying to make sense of what she was seeing. Several stovetops, microwave ovens, and hot plates were crowded onto a counter at the far end of the barn, each one plugged into a tangled mess of cords snaking toward a power strip. Her eyes traced the thick, worn cord running from the strip to a grimy generator in the corner. Her fingers shook as the beam of her flashlight revealed glass bottles, plastic containers, and rows of flasks and tubes crammed along the counter, covering every inch of the stained, cluttered surface.

An old bookcase leaned against the wall beside the counter, lined with cans of acetone, paint thinner, and other substances with faded labels she didn’t immediately recognize. Her gaze lingered on one small bottle labeled “red phosphorus,” and beside it, a cardboard box stuffed with bubble packets of small, red pills. She moved the flashlight over the rest of the shelf, seeing more chemicals—Drano, bleach, and a large bucket scrawled with the words “anhydrous ammonia” in black marker.

The realization hit her like a punch to the gut. She was standing in a meth lab. The dogs were being raised here, breathing in the poisonous fumes, enduring it as part of their horrid lives. She swallowed hard, resisting the urge to bolt. Every instinct screamed that she and Max needed to get out of there before they inhaled any more of the toxic air.

With clenched fists, she muttered a string of curses directed at the sheriff’s department, frustration and anger rising. If they had listened to her, if they’d bothered to investigate this place, if they’d just taken the time to interview Carrie or her mother, maybe they would have discovered the horrors hidden in this barn. So much suffering could have been prevented if anyone had cared to look a little closer.

And yet, a small, unexpected thought pierced through the chaos in her mind: none of the dogs here showed signs of rabies. The possibility of a silver lining crossed her mind. If these poor animals weren’t infected, then maybe there was some hope after all, a chance that she could help them, however small that chance felt.

It took everything she had to turn away and step back toward the door. She felt as if the animals’ eyes were on her, watching her leave, their silent pleas haunting her as she tried to reassure them with the same promise she’d made to the mother dog. “I promise I’ll do everything I can to save you,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. She took a last look, hoping they understood, even though she wasn’t sure she could keep her word.

Regardless of what happened to her, law enforcement would eventually be forced to inspect this property. Deputy Berger, at least, would discover the truth.

She stepped outside and froze.

Fire.

Flames danced wildly from the house, orange and red tongues licking up toward the sky, casting flickering shadows across the property. Smoke billowed out, thick and dark, swallowing the stars overhead. Sick dread clenched inside her. Jeb was back, and he’d set his own place on fire. She reached out for Max, but he’d already bolted, his dark shape disappearing into the chaos.

Joan instinctively slipped her flashlight into her pocket, leaving her hands free to grip the shotgun. Her pulse hammered as she crouched low, melting into the shadows, her eyes darting for cover. The nearest decrepit vehicle, a rusting sedan resting in the dirt, offered a small refuge. She ducked behind it, peering around just in time to hear Max’s bark, sharp and challenging. A low growl from another dog followed, echoing across the yard just before a violent clash erupted. Max had run into Jeb’s beast.

She stepped out from behind the car, muscles coiled to sprint to the next cover, when a deafening roar filled her ears. She turned just as Jeb’s truck surged forward, barreling toward her. His eyes gleamed wild and unhinged through the windshield, an expression twisted with pure insanity as he floored the gas, speeding straight at her. There was barely a moment to react. She dove beneath the car just as his truck crashed into it, the impact sending her against the far tire. Pain lanced up her side.

Gears screeched as Jeb yanked the truck into reverse, grinding it into gear to try to hit the vehicle again. Adrenaline flooded her veins as she rolled away from the tire. There was nowhere else to go. She tried to wriggle out from the opposite side, but Jeb rammed the truck forward again, metal shrieking as the vehicle shuddered under the force. She grabbed onto the undercarriage, feeling the raw edge of steel dig into her fingers as she let it drag her a few feet. The truck finally ground to a halt, and she took her chance, rolling quickly out from the opposite side.

Gasping, she looked up to see the house engulfed, flames leaping from every window and moving dangerously toward the barn. Her stomach twisted as she imagined the animals inside. If the fire reached the barn, the chemicals would explode. The thought offered only a hollow irony—death by explosion would be a mercy compared to the life they’d led. Unfortunately, mercy had never found a way onto this property.

Tires squealed as Jeb maneuvered the truck looking for a target. Joan darted toward the house, circling around the side to avoid his line of sight. As she rounded the corner to the backyard, she froze again.

Max was down, the brindle pinning him to the ground. Her rottweiler’s chest heaved as he tried to shake the larger dog off, but the brindle’s jaws were clamped around his throat, its powerful body keeping Max pinned. Joan’s mind raced as she realized her shotgun was gone and somewhere in the wreckage from Jeb’s assault. She sprinted toward the dogs, hand going for her handgun in its holster. The truck’s engine roared behind her, the headlights sweeping across the yard as Jeb hunted her.

“Max!” she screamed, the word torn from her throat.

With a desperate surge, Max managed to get his feet under him, the brindle’s jaws still fastened around his throat. He shook furiously, his collar offering little protection, and he was running out of strength. She sprinted forward, gun in hand. Max broke free and bolted toward her, his eyes wild. The brindle ran off.

She glimpsed a shed about twenty yards away, the only possible cover. If she went inside, Jeb would likely crash the truck into it.

“Come on, Max!” she hissed, taking off toward the shed’s back corner. They reached it just as Jeb’s truck skidded to a stop, the headlights blazing, casting stark shadows across the yard. She pressed herself and Max tight against the outer shed wall. The truck’s rumble faded while she looked around wildly for a place to go.

The engine cut off. The only sound was the loud crackling of the house fire.

For a heartbeat, she and Max stood in the suffocating silence, her hand clenched tightly around the gun as she strained to hear. She held her breath, every nerve on edge. Jeb was out there with the brindle, somewhere in the dark.