Running Wild (Wild 3)

The barn’s heavy door slides open and a head donning a fur-lined trapper hat pokes out.

“You Tyler Brady?” Howie hollers.

A dog barks in answer, followed by a second, and then a cacophony erupts from within the red barn and somewhere beyond as the dogs realize they have visitors.

From this distance and against the bright sun, it’s hard to make out a face, but the guy looks young. Too young to own a place like this, all gangly limbs in his muck-covered navy ski pants and no coat to hide his skinny arms. The barn must be heated.

His head jerks from left to right as he frantically searches for something—or someone—but he doesn’t answer.

Howie steals a curious look my way.

I can only shrug before calling out, “I think we found a dog that belongs to you.”

That seems to trigger something in him. Reaching inside the barn, he produces a heavy winter coat and tugs it on before yanking the door shut behind him. He approaches us warily, his shoulders hunched, his Sorels dragging with each step.

The closer he gets, the younger I see he is. Late teens, maybe twenty. At almost thirty-eight, I’m finding it harder to pinpoint ages—teenage boys all look so young—but he has the sort of soft features that might still harden with age.

The boy comes within ten feet of us before stopping abruptly. His hat is pulled down low, hovering above large brown eyes.

“Hey, how are ya doin’ today?” Howie asks cordially. That’s how he approaches every situation, no matter how volatile it might be. Of all the animal control officers at the station, Howie is the easiest to work with. He’s also the most enthusiastic about his job and the most liberal with delivering fines.

The guy nods before stammering, “Good.”

“Are you Tyler?”

He shakes his head. “No … Tyler’s, he’s out.”

Howie points at the tracks. “On his snowmachine?”

“Yes, sir.”

Howie pauses as if considering how he wants to proceed. The guy keeps shifting on his feet and stealing glances toward the woods. He seems nervous. “You by any chance missing a female husky with one blue eye and one golden-brown? Blonde coloring?”

“Yeah. That’s where Tyler is. I mean, he’s out looking for her right now, over there.” He throws a gloved hand in the direction of the trail. “Left awhile ago, right after we realized she wandered off.”

Bonnie and Harry were right to come to me. If Tyler Brady is treating his sled dogs like this, he shouldn’t be allowed near them.

The guy’s furtive gaze darts to me. “So, you said you have her?”

I take a calming breath. “We do. She’s in the truck, where it’s warm.”

“Oh. Okay.” He rubs the back of his neck and then, after a moment, says, “So … I can take her back now, then?”

Over my dead body.

“You have a way of getting hold of Tyler?” Howie smiles easily. “I just have a few questions about the dog—”

“Nymeria. That’s her name.”

“Game of Thrones fans?”

The guy offers a toothy grin that transforms his face. “Yes, sir. I am. Tyler said it’s unoriginal, but he let me name her, anyway.”

Howie chuckles. “I think it’s a great name. And sorry, I didn’t catch yours?”

“Reed, sir,” he falters. “My name’s Reed.”

“Well, Reed, I think it’d be a good idea for us to have that conversation with Tyler before we bring Nymeria over. The truck’s warm. She should be nice and comfortable in there while we wait.”

Reed scratches his chin with a gloved hand. “What kinds of questions?”

“Just want to know a bit more about her. Like how old she is, where you keep her, what she’s been eating, things like that.”

“Oh.” The guy shifts on his feet. “Is Tyler gonna be in trouble?”

“For what?” I blurt out, earning a warning glance from Howie.

Reed swallows hard. “He just figured he might be, if anyone ever found her here.”

This kid is giving us all the information we need, I think with grim satisfaction. The asshole knows what he’s been doing to that dog is wrong, and he’s trying to hide it.

“We just want to talk to him for now. Learn a little more about this dog.” Howie nods toward the barn, where a cacophony of high-pitched barks carry. “Say, how many puppies you got in there?”

“None.”

Howie frowns with doubt. “None?”

“I mean, yeah, we got two, but we’re not sellin’ them, if that’s what you’re askin’. People keep comin’ here, looking for puppies to buy, but we’re not breedin’ them for sale.”

“Are you breeding them to race?”

“Yes, sir. We will. Those that wanna race, anyway.”

My stomach tightens. “And what about the ones that don’t want to race?”

My ears catch a familiar whir.

Reed’s head jerks to the right, toward the growing sound. A figure on a snowmachine appears from the thicket of trees, moving at a slower pace, presumably to keep stride with the eight dogs running alongside him, tether-free. They move in unison, two by two, as if harnessed, their powerful legs charging through the snow.