Chapter 4 #2
And she wasn’t going to go at this alone.
Her parents at least could be comforted by that.
Rob had called late last night to tell her everything was in order.
He had secured a trainer to work with her, some ex-military dog handler named Tommy Sintras.
She’d Googled him and found a half-dozen pictures as well as a few online newspaper articles in which he’d been interviewed.
He was around her age and okay-enough looking, but there was something about his eyes that seemed beady and set up her guard.
She should be thankful. It could be worse.
She could be working alone in that big house with the other ex-military dog trainer, Kurt.
Curt Kurt. The weighty feeling in her chest last night on learning she wouldn’t be working with him wasn’t disappointment.
She didn’t know what it was, but it definitely wasn’t disappointment.
He’d been chivalrous, yes. And he was good-looking enough that her pulse quickened when she looked at him.
And maybe her mouth salivated a bit. Which was humiliating because judging by the sharp way he’d looked at her, there might as well have been a fluorescent light above his head declaring she wasn’t his type.
And then there’d been the whole getting-sick-on-his-boots thing.
All in all, she should definitely be thankful to be working with someone else.
She was about to go look for Patrick when he stepped in from the back kennels wearing a clompy pair of rubber boots that reached his knees.
Coupled with the thick rubber gloves half crammed into his jeans pocket, the boots make him look ready to disinfect a triage center rather than help tidy up the Raven mansion.
“Ready?” she asked.
“Yes, but I double-checked the van. We’ve only packed four baby gates, six leashes, and twelve collars. You said thirty-seven dogs are being delivered tomorrow. The only thing we seem to have enough of are the boxes of towels, blankets, water bowls, and stuffed toys.”
Kelsey pursed her lips. Thirty-seven suddenly sounded like an enormous number.
Yesterday at the warehouse, she’d felt like she wasn’t committing to enough.
“I know, but even with volunteers helping, it’ll be awhile before the dogs will be together in any number.
They’ll eat in secluded rooms at different times.
We can disinfect dishes between meals. And not all thirty-seven are coming tomorrow.
Several of them still need to be spayed or neutered and may still be in recovery.
Especially the ones having surgery today. ”
Patrick nodded and asked if two bottles of bleach would be enough to disinfect the estate.
“With two bottles of bleach, we could disinfect the whole street,” Kelsey said, forgetting he would probably start calculating the possibility. “But keep them. That empty, old house has to be crawling with mice and who knows what else.”
She was grabbing her purse when she noticed a Channel 3 news van pulling into the lot.
Since they hadn’t made any sort of announcement, it seemed unlikely the visit was related to the rescue operation.
She glanced at the calendar on her desk.
Channel 3 featured one of their dogs or cats every month, but the shelter was another week out from needing to send this month’s photo and video.
The thought reminded her that she’d need to pick someone to take over that project while she was at the Raven estate.
“What do you think this is about?” Kelsey asked, collecting herself before heading to the door. “We’re keeping quiet about the dogs so we can stay out of that media storm.”
Patrick followed her gaze. “The protesters,” he said after a moment of thought. “You said you saw them in front of the building yesterday. It would be easy to trace your plates. Easy to connect you to the shelter.”
Kelsey’s butterflies changed to bats. “Megan has a doctor appointment this morning, doesn’t she? Of all mornings.”
“You can always decline comment.”
“If I decline comment, it’ll come across looking like we’re guilty of something. Besides, it’s Channel 3. They love us.”
Patrick pursed his lips. “Maybe. But the news is a business. They’ll air what generates the most viewership.”
Kelsey pulled out her phone and shot off a text to Megan. The cameraman had the back of the van open and was pulling out a camera. Kelsey stared at her phone screen, willing Megan to reply. But she was probably on a table looking at an image of her baby right now.
And even though Kelsey didn’t want to go it alone, Patrick’s blunt honesty had the potential to make things messy. She finger combed through her mess of thick, wavy hair, then smoothed the front of her shirt. “Hey, why don’t you stay inside, and I’ll see what they want.”
Patrick shrugged and said he’d look through the supply closet for anything else they might need at the mansion.
“Thanks,” Kelsey said, rolling her shoulders. This was one of the rare occasions when she wished she carried some makeup in her purse. “How do I look?”
Patrick narrowed his eyes in inspection. “Pale,” he said, “and your cheeks are a bit blotchy. And you have a few beads of sweat on your forehead.”
Of course. Of freaking course. If you aren’t looking for the truth, her dad would say. She dragged her forearm across her forehead and swallowed hard. “Thanks, Patrick. Wish me luck. I shouldn’t be long.”
* * *
The quiet of the internet café outside Fort Leonard Wood was a welcome reprieve from the bustling USO cyber café Kurt tried earlier.
Only a handful of diligently working soldiers dotted this café, a stark contrast from the noise and commotion of earlier.
Here, perusing laborers-wanted postings online was almost relaxing.
He emailed responses to about seven listings—three in Idaho, two in Wyoming, and two in Montana—before taking a break to order a large black coffee and a chocolate long john from the flirtatious girl working the counter.
He spent a few minutes answering her questions and watching her flip her hair as he inhaled the doughnut.
He was rusty, but he suspected if he asked for her number, she’d give it to him.
And he’d lost count of how many times he’d been distracted by her plunging neckline since walking in.
He hadn’t been on a date in nearly three years, and starting with something potentially easy and noncommittal was appealing.
He was tossing around how best to ask when she twirled her hair around one finger in a way that reminded him of something his mother might do.
His mom had nearly twenty years on this girl, but he suspected she still spent enough of her time doing the same thing—hanging out on the outskirts of the post, hooking up with soldiers who had no thoughts of commitment.
The connection sucked the question from his tongue, so he headed back to his computer at the first break in the conversation.
When Kurt sat down, rather than starting a new search in Washington State as planned, he entered illegal dogfighting ring, St. Louis almost unconsciously.
He blinked in surprise at the image linking to a new Channel 3 story that had aired earlier in the morning.
It was a still shot of the blond. Kelsey something or other.
His index finger hovered over the mouse, twitching.
She was standing outside what must be the shelter where she worked, a nondescript redbrick building brightened by pots of colorful flowers and a bright-purple-and-green sign above a set of wide glass doors.
Her delicate brows were drawn into a knot, and she was biting her lip.
The caption next to the story image read Family-Centered Shelter Takes on Animals Trained to Kill.
The voice in his head—the one he credited with keeping him alive after more close calls than cats had lives—sternly announced he needed to get back to the job search.
His fingers didn’t listen. He clicked on the story, maximizing it to full screen.
His heart sank as he realized it had run first as a live story.
What was she thinking, agreeing to a live story?
That was something Rob would only do with great caution, and only after confirming the questions before filming began.
The piece started with a perfectly composed reporter updating viewers on the horrific dogfighting rescue story while images of the confiscation flashed across the screen.
Then the voice-over images ended and the reporter reappeared.
She was speaking in a this-story-is-more-important-than-anything-you’ve-heard voice that grated on Kurt’s nerves.
Kelsey stood beside her, looking fairly composed.
The first questions were benign, with the reporter asking how long the shelter had been in operation—eighteen years—and stating that it had long been a favorite organization in the Webster Groves community.
Then, after relaying that the shelter had made the controversial decision to take on a large number of the confiscated dogs, the reporter asked Kelsey point-blank her thoughts about embarking on what could be a life-threatening mission.
Kelsey seemed to freeze as the question sank in. The reporter had to nod her on. Finally, Kelsey gave a light shake of her head. “I don’t think anything about this rehab is life-threatening.”
That was it. She offered nothing else.
The reporter seemed to realize that she’d need to be the conversation starter. “But are you aware there are twenty to thirty deaths from dog attacks every year, most of which are committed by notorious fighting breeds like the ones you’re taking on?”