No Man's Dog by Jon A. Jackson Read Free Book Online

that.”
    Helen had purchased a ton of food, including an enormous bag of dog food. They were now in the habit of feeding Anders Ericsson’s dog as well as their own. Their dog was a small, white bundle of energy that had been foisted on them by their neighbor Franko. It had belonged to Franko’s late uncle and aunt, a couple who had been murdered by a madman named Bazok, who had also terrorized Franko and Joe and Helen. This little dog got alongfamously with Anders’s Skippy, which the carpenter was delighted to see.
    â€œSkip,” he told them, “likes nobody, including other dogs. You really ought to keep him. My wife hates him. To tell you the truth, I don’t think he likes me. But he seems to like you, Joe. And Homes.” That was the name they had given the orphaned dog, shortened from “Home, boy!,” which is what they had found themselves yelling at the little dog every time they tried to leave. He would follow them halfway to the gate, which was more than a mile from the house. They didn’t know the dog’s original name, so they decided on Homeboy, which soon became just Homes.
    The idea of owning a dog was repellent to Joe. Just another attachment, another bother when you had to go somewhere. Owning a dog was so . . . so “straight.” It was yet another indication of the couple’s growing ordinariness. Franko owned dogs. They were handsome rottweilers and invaluable to him, as he never tired of pointing out. They had ultimately defended Franko and the Humanns against the madman Bazok. The obvious point of their usefulness could not be denied. People who lived as they did needed all the warning devices they could muster, it seemed, and dogs were invaluable. Joe was surprised that the dogs took to him so readily, especially Anders’s cranky Skippy. But he found himself oddly attached to Homes.
    When they entered the gate, where was Homes? Usually, he’d be leaping with ecstasy, in company with Skippy. But no Homes or Skippy today. The couple soon found out why. He had besieged a strange car, parked in the driveway of Franko’s house. Skippy lounged nearby, in the shade, watching with interest. Franko’s wife, a slender Kosovar woman named Fedima, came out to explain.
    â€œHe will not let this man leave his car,” she said. “I am sorry, Joe, but I didn’t know what to do. Franko is fishing. The man wishes to speak with you.”
    â€œThat’s all right, Fedima,” Joe said. “I’ll take care of it.”
    Joe called the dog to him and put him in the truck, where he continued to yap. The stranger got out of the car, warily. This, Joe instantly realized, was the man who had been asking about him in Butte. He also recognized him. Caspar Darnay.
    The two men greeted each other effusively. Joe had known Darnay since childhood, in Philadelphia. He hadn’t seen him in years. But he was the same old Caspar. He was a short man, not much taller than Joe, with the same old quiet, watchful look, doubtless reinforced by several years in the penitentiary. Joe was glad to see him, sort of. He represented the past, which was past.
    Joe and Helen were living in their new house, even though it wasn’t finished yet—and it was uncertain when it would be. They called it camping out, but in fact it was merely an inconvenience, what with having to periodically empty a room to put down a floor, which they would soon have to do in the kitchen, with the hardwood Joe had just picked up. They had lots of room. Joe insisted on putting up Caspar.
    While Helen started dinner, Joe went for a walk with Caspar . . . and Homes, of course, who was now docilely accepting of the newcomer, with Skippy trailing along as usual. They walked down from the house toward the river. They stood on a bluff and watched as, in the distance, they could see Franko casting to a pool where the stream ran along a cliff.
    â€œMan, it’s beautiful,”