Rascal

A crime fiction story about our best friends.

When it came to Rascal, Clint Hardeman always just said that he’d found him. Few dared to ask more questions. Something about the steely glint in Hardeman’s eyes told them that such questions would not be welcome. Even Marybelle, his wife of nineteen years, didn’t question it. She had just rubbed the ears of the malnourished dog after the poor boy loped out of the back of Clint’s patrol car. His ribs had poked painfully against the gray and tan short hair coat, which was matted in several places. His brown eyes were glazed over almost completely. Almost. Marybelle took care not to rub her hands over the several gashes on his head but still saw blood on her fingertips after she stopped petting his head.

“Where’d this guy come from?” She had asked gently, not taking her eyes off the wheezing and shivering dog.

“Found him.”

Clint knelt down to wrap Rascal in one of the emergency blankets he kept in the trunk of his patrol car.

“Where?” Marybelle’s eyes searched her husband’s. He met them and then looked away.

“Over near Paint Rock Ridge.” His voice was soft. With surprising gentleness for such a hard man, Clint Hardeman swept up the dog, still wrapped in the blanket. “Come on, boy. Let’s get you inside by the fire.”

“What are we going to do with him, Clint?” Marybelle called after him. He didn’t turn around.

“You already know.”

It had taken a few months – and more than a few hundred dollars at Roane Veterinary Hospital – for Rascal to adjust to his new situation. He barked at strangers and was initially wary of everyone but Clint. He was housebroken but unsure of his new surroundings and there were a few accidents. Clint worked with Rascal to find a good spot by a copse of red cedars just a few yards off the Hardeman’s back porch where he could make his daily deposits. The Hardeman’s two other dogs, a collie mix named Jojo and a setter mix named Biscuit, comforted Rascal too. On the third morning that Clint woke up with Rascal in the house he saw that all three dogs were curled up in the large bed next to the fireplace, the embers of last night’s fire still twinkling as they slumbered in their newly expanded pack.

While the kids were anxious to feed Rascal the eggs, bacon, and biscuits from their breakfast plates, Clint shooed them away.

“Cain’t hurt his stomach now,” Clint told his other children, “he ain’t ready for all that yet.”

Macey, the youngest, had ignored her Daddy – as she regularly did when it suited her – and given Rascal a bite of her biscuit when she thought Daddy wasn’t looking. It wasn’t long before Macey became Rascal’s favorite, nor was it a mystery as to why. While the nine year old Hardeman girl was Rascal’s favorite, there was no question as to who in the family he had bonded to the most. Every day when Clint finished his shift as a deputy with the Roane County Sheriff’s Office, Rascal was waiting for him at the door. Marybelle noticed that long before she could hear Clint’s car turn onto the long gravel driveway that stretched from the county road to their farmhouse, Rascal’s ears perked up and he hefted himself off the floor and padded over to the door to wait. No way that he could Clint’s car from that far way, she remarked to herself. How Rascal could know that Clint was nearby was one of those great dog mysteries, unknown to the human world. It seemed like Rascal had a lot of mystery around him.

As the hard January frost evaporated into the sublime warmth of spring, Rascal began to be more comfortable running on the Hardeman’s property. Clint laughed as the dog, who – bless him – was not a natural athlete, stumbled and fumbled over himself to retrieve a tennis ball, no matter how far Clint threw it. Clint would watch as Rascal would run yards past the ball and then have to sniff and snort in the ankle high grass to find it. But Rascal never gave up on something he was looking for. No matter how deep it was buried in the grass, he kept pushing around until he found it. It was that ball – and Rascal’s determination to find it – that had given Clint the idea. Something related to the call that had brought Rascal to them. Something left undone.

* * *

That call had come just two days into the new year, some four months ago now. Deputy Hardeman had been on patrol on an overnight shift. He didn’t work too many overnights but when Don Carlson and his wife Lorelei had their second, Clint had volunteered to cover some of Don’s shifts to give his fellow deputy (and his favorite dispatcher) some extra time with their new baby. Clint had started his career working overnights and was glad to be back out on the road in the dark. Too many day shifts made a man soft. It was the night, full of bad decisions made in inky darkness, that was the true home of a lawman. Sometimes the only light that shone was the reflection off his badge.

“Bravo Five, got a call about a domestic disturbance on Pleasant Hill Road off Paint Rock Valley,” intoned the light drawl of the dispatcher.

“This is Bravo Five,” Clint had growled into his police radio, “lemme guess, 477C Pleasant Hill?”

“You should get yerself a Daily Cash ticket, Clint.” The dispatcher’s smile radiated over the radio. “Caller says she’s a neighbor. Says they’re at it again.”

“Miss Mabel,” Clint had acknowledged, “she lives in that same trailer park. Cross the way I think.”

“That’s the one, Clint.”

“10-4. I’m direct. There in…six minutes. Lights and sirens.”

“Roger that.”

It had taken five minutes before Clint Hardeman’s patrol vehicle skidded to stop outside 477C Pleasant Hill Road in the Shady Acres Trailer Park. Trailers in good condition were few and far between in Roane County but 477C was looking to set a new county record for disrepair. The whole thing sagged at one end like a dollop of toothpaste that was hanging off the edge of the brush. The remaining structural integrity put Clint in mind of those old cop shows where a person’s car hangs off a bridge and the heroes work to pull the driver out before the whole thing topples over into San Francisco Bay or wherever.

“Daisy May?” Clint called out to the woman standing off to the left corner of the trailer, smoking a cigarette with violent force. She was wearing a Tennessee Volunteers sweatshirt and, despite the temperature hanging in the single digits, a pair of shorts and no shoes.

“It’s Lizbeth, Clint,” the woman responded between drags.

“Damn Lizbeth, it’s colder than a gravediggers shovel out here,” Clint exclaimed, “what the hell are you doing?”

“He done somethin’ to her, Clint.” The woman dropped her cigarette butt, retrieved a second smoke from somewhere on her person and lit it.

“Done something to who, Lizbeth.”

“Daisy May. She hadn’t called me in six weeks, Clint. He keeps sayin’ she left but nobody’s heard from her. It ain’t right.”

Lizbeth Barkley and her sister Daisy Mae had gone to high school with Clint’s younger sister, Angie. In Clint’s considered opinion, their daddy hadn’t been worth a shit when he was around, so maybe it was better that he hadn’t been around much when the Barkley girls were growing up. Bad either way, he reckoned. Lizabeth was older and wilder. She had ended up taking her clothes off to earn the sweaty five and ten dollar bills that the truckers passing through Harriman tossed at her but, Clint knew, she was nobody’s fool. Tougher and smarter than her little sister Daisy May, if Lizabeth thought something was off then it probably was.

“You bein’ out in this cold with no shoes on ain’t right.” Clint had said and tossed her an emergency blanket that he had taken out of the trunk of his patrol car. She had wrapped it around her but kept smoking her Newport.

“I came from work. My shoes came off in the house when we got into it.”

“You and Dalton?”

“Low life piece of shit.” Lizbeth had snarled. Dalton Taggart had was the father of Daisy May’s two children and was the owner of the trailer at 477C.

“Miss Mable called it in,” Clint had explained to Lizabeth, “she thought that Dalton and Daisy May were into it again. Guess it was you and him this time.”

“Damn right it was,” her eyes shone with fury, “he says Daisy May runned off and that’s bullshit, Clint. You know it and I know it. She wouldn’t leave those kids. Or the dog.”

“The dog?”

“Rascal. She picked him up on the side of the road somewheres. Dalton hates that dog. Of course he would. He’s a low life piece of shit.” Clint had sighed and pointed at Lizabeth:

“Stay here.” In response, she had shrugged with just an edge of defiance. Clint banged on the metal door of the trailer. “Dalton? It’s Clint Hardeman with Roane County! Come out and talk to me for a second.” He banged on the trailer door a few more times before he heard the lock unlatch and the door swung slowly open. Clint had positioned himself out of the aperture of the door and had casually placed his hand on his sidearm. Dalton Taggart was a hothead and Clint didn’t want things to get stupid.

“What in the hell you out here for, Clint?”

“Got a call. Domestic.”

“This crazy bitch over here,” Taggart had gestured in Lizabeth’s direction. He was a big man, but it was more bulk than strength. His close cropped hair couldn’t hide the emerging bald crown of his head, and his face was filled by a bushy goatee. “She came over talking crazy Clint. Started a bunch of shit. It’s two in the morning, man.”

Suddenly a dog had begun barking. Only it wasn’t barking, more like a pained yowl. Clint had locked eyes with Lizabeth whose expression had said told you so.

“You got a dog out here, Dalton?” Clint had growled and started heading towards the dreadful yelping. The January cold was biting in East Tennessee and when Clint had fumed at Dalton, the steam of his breath fit the heat of his voice.

“I cain’t have him in the house, Clint,” Taggart lamely called after the deputy.

When Clint had first seen Rascal, the dog had been chained to a stake twenty feet from the trailer. There was a mud track circumference around the stake where he had clearly run around and around in a futile attempt to escape his circumstances. Clint had approached cautiously, his hand on his sidearm, hoping to hell that the dog wouldn’t try to bite him.

“Hey boy,” Clint had said, soothingly, “hey, hey now. Hey Rascal.” Rascal had looked at him warily at first, his brown eyes searching, preparing for the worst. But then the yelping had stopped, and the dog had slowly and painfully made his way over to where Clint was kneeling. Their eyes had met. After a long moment, and with a cracked tongue, Rascal had licked Clint’s outstretched hand. Clint had gently petted the dog’s face before Rascal went to the ground, more in a collapse than a sit.

“Leave him alone.” Taggart’s voice had been behind him. “You don’t need to get him all riled up. Dog barks all goddam day as it is.” Clint had not responded but had begun working the collar off the dog’s neck. He had whined in pain as Clint had removed the collar from where it had dug into his skin. “What in the hell are you doin?” Taggart had screeched. “You ain’t takin’ my dog!”

Dalton Taggart’s first mistake had been to tell Deputy Clint Hardeman of the Roane County Sheriff’s Office what he ain’t doing. Closely on the heels of the first mistake, Taggart’s second mistake had been put his meaty hand on Deputy Hardeman’s shoulder with what Deputy Hardeman considered to be violence. The left uppercut had landed with such speed and force that Dalton Taggart had believed he’d been struck by some airborne debris from a nearby, but silent, explosion. Taggart never even saw the right cross that had knocked him unconscious.

When Taggart had come to, he was laying on the cold, hard ground with his hands cuffed behind his back. Something so cold to be sharp was on his neck and, since his hands were locked behind him, he had shrugged his shoulders to try to get it off of him. It was only after a couple minutes of vain struggle that he had realized what it was. The goddam dog chain. It had been wrapped around his neck while still tethered to the stake, a couple of old tires were laid across the chain to keep it – and him – pinned to the ground.

“Clint! CLINT! Come get me out of this goddam you!” Taggart had bellowed. After a few more minutes of cries, Taggart had heard the crunch of a man’s footsteps walking towards him. Clint had knelt down before Taggart’s prone form.  

“Damn, Dalton, what kind of mess have you gotten yourself into?” Clint had said, wryly.

“You can’t do this, Clint. I’ll sue the shit out of you I swear to god--”

“Oh I just needed to subdue you after you had tried to attack me…”

“I didn’t do—”

“And since I’m by myself out here, I had to be creative to make sure you didn’t get away now, didn’t I?”

“Goddam it, Clint, get me out of this thing.”

“I’m taking Rascal with me.”

“Like hell you are.”

“What happened to Daisy May, Dalton?” The question had stilled the man who had stopped struggling against the chain.

“Runned off.” His voice was an empty croak.  

“That’s not what Lizabeth says.”

“Crazy bitch don’t know what she’s talkin’ about.”

“You’re telling me, that Daisy May is just going to up and leave those two kids in that trailer alone with you. To go to god knows where.”

“She runned off, Hardeman. I don’t give a shit if don’t like it. Don’t give a shit about her bitch sister, neither.”

“Don’t sound like Daisy May, Dalton. You know it. I know it.”

“Fuck you.”

Clint had sighed deeply and stood.

“The kids are going to spend the night with Miss Mable. Her place is a damn sight cleaner than yours anyhow. Now then, I could just forget about the assault on an officer, Dalton—”

“I didn’t assault you man—”

“—if you just let me take the dog home tonight and get him some food and a warm place to sleep.”

“He likes it outside,” Taggart spat. “Some dogs need to be chained.”

“Shorely looked like it,” Clint had scoffed. “You can tell that by the dog track around the stake. Your choice, Taggart. Want me to take the dog and unhook you?”

“Fuck you, Clint. Take these cuffs off, drop that badge, and I’ll show you a few things.”

“G’night Dalton.”

Taggart had heard the crunch of Clint’s boots as he started to walk away. He had called after him, desperation in his voice. Protests about how cold it was.

“Ah it’s almost morning, so you’ll be fine,” Clint had responded. “Rascal’s coming with me. I come back on at 11:00 p.m.” He helped the wounded dog into his patrol car and called out to Taggart: “I’ll come back then and ask if you’ve changed your mind about letting me have him.”

* * *

Five months after that bitter January night, Clint and Rascal were riding around the valley near Paint Rock Ridge as they had done early every Sunday morning for the past month. The May sun was just breaking over the ridge and Rascal was panting and hopping around the backseat of Clint’s pickup truck. As they turned off Sweetwater Road onto Gage Road, Clint noticed that Rascal was looking out the window with a terrific intensity.

“What is it, pal?” Clint asked, slowing the truck down and easing it to the side of the road. He put the truck in park and got out. He opened the door for Rascal who eased down to the ground and began trotting into the field before them. The ruins of an old barn were two hundred yards ahead. The pair had been riding around for months as Clint pondered the disappearance of Daisy May Barker. She had not been seen since before Thanksgiving. A month earlier, Clint had gotten one of Daisy May’s old t-shirts from her sister Lisabeth and Rascal had slept with it every night. The deputy sheriff had trained dogs his whole life but even he didn’t know if it would work. Until now.

Clint had followed Rascal as the dog trundled through the grass towards the ruined barn. To the right of the old barn was what was left of an old farmhouse, mostly a foundation slab, a heap of broken timbers, and a snowfall of ancient shingles.

Behind it was a well.

“She loved that dog, Clint,” Lizabeth had told him when he picked up the shirt. “She wadn’t the best mother but she’d have never left that dog with Dalton, neither.”

Rascal trotted over to the well, circled it three times and then laid down beside it. Clint carefully approached the old well. It had a couple of old cracked and sodden boards laid over its mouth. He fished a pair of plastic gloves from his back pocket and gently moved the boards away. He clicked on the powerful maglite he routinely carried and shined it into the inky depths below. He almost missed it at first. Almost. At the bottom, peeking out of mucky blackness some thirty feet down was a bright pink scrap of cloth. A sleeve. The shoulder sleeve of a t-shirt, protruding from the well bottom like a macabre ice cap.

“Good boy, Rascal.”

In the forensic excavation that followed, the body of Daisy May Barkley was exhumed from the bottom of the old well. The medical examiner later determined that her hyoid bone was snapped, consistent with her having been strangled. Underneath her fingernails, and consistent with her effort to defend herself, were skin cells that contained the DNA of Dalton Taggart. Just a few feet away from where Rascal had circled the well, investigators found a set of tire tracks still perfectly preserved from the winter and undiminished by the spring rains. The cast of the tracks had matched the tread on Dalton Taggart’s Dodge Ram 1500 perfectly.  

When Deputy Hardeman had put cuffs on Dalton Taggart and announced to him that he had been indicted by the Roane County Grand Jury for the first degree murder of Daisy May Barkley, he enjoyed a moment of perverse pleasure. Because he simply couldn’t resist the temptation to say what occurred to him as he heard the snick of his metal handcuffs wrapping around Taggart’s wrists:

“It’s okay, Dalton. Some things need to be chained, right?”

Authors Note: So many good boys like Rascal, and good girls too, are sadly left to die at animal shelters across the United States. If you decide you need a Rascal in your life, please adopt one of these forgotten dogs instead of shopping for one. You never know what magic they’ll bring into your life. But I promise you won’t regret it.