I’d seen some odd critters at her side, but none so odd as the apparition currently pacing her shoes. Its body was thick and heavy chested, the hair tightly grained, suggesting Lab or shepherd, but the long fluffy tail hair said collie. The legs were slender but the feet were like oven mitts. The head was square and wore basset-length ears. Its eyes were huge and bright and inquisitive. The powerful body was spotted brown and white and black, though the back legs were brindled. The creature looked like a Dr Seuss character.

The animal regarded me politely, not seeming to find my stare ill-mannered. I expect the odd beast was used to being stared at.

“Howdy, Miss Best. That’s the weirdest-looking pooch I’ve ever seen. What’s the breed?”

“I call him Mr Mix-up because he’s pure Heinz…fifty-seven varieties. I expect this doggie’s got about everything in him a doggie could have, Abyssinian to Zuchon.”

I smiled. “So he’s a mutt’s mutt.”

She tut-tutted me with disapproving eyes. “Don’t say mutt like it’s a pejorative, Carson. It’s a badge of honor.”

“Aren’t pedigrees the way to go?” My knowledge of dogs was limited to the occasional amused viewing of the Westminster Dog Show. My father was an unhappy man and dogs might have brought happiness into our home, thus they were forbidden. I once had a pet hamster for about three days, a gift from a classmate for my upcoming ninth birthday. My father found it beneath my bed and fastballed it into the dining-room wall during my birthday party.

Miss Best said, “I once heard you and Harry talking about a trip to a horse track in Kentucky, didn’t I?”

“We went to Keeneland in Lexington a couple years back.”

“What’s a thoroughbred horse do, Carson?”

“Run fast.”

“What else?”

“Uh…”

“Running fast is all they do, Carson. Besides being fragile and subject to temperamental fits and all manner of illnesses. Show dogs are beautiful, but also prone to all sorts of maladies. Mutts may look odd, but statistically are healthier, more intelligent and, if you ask me, happier.”

I looked down and couldn’t argue the point. I swear Mr Mix-up was grinning at me. Miz Best and I both turned to the sound of a door slamming and saw Mrs Warnock stepping from her house down the street, a ball of yellow fluff on a glittery leash. The ball of fluff saw Mr Mix-up and exploded in a frenzy of leash-pulling and yapping. It resembled a rabid yo-yo.

“Mrs Warnock’s dog, Trixie?” Miz Best whispered. “A two-thousand-dollar blue-ribbon purebred. And it has allergies, hip problems, ear infections. You can probably detect its demeanor.”

“All too easily,” I said, waving at Mrs Warnock and stepping quickly away before the yapping ball of insecurity ran over to urinate on my shoes, something it had done twice in the past.

“Need a faithful companion, Carson?” Miz Best called to my retreating back. “I know a doggie that needs a good home.”

I smiled and waved, pretending not to hear. There was ample daylight left for a run along the strand, but my remaining energy fizzled away as I tied on my running shoes. I kicked them into the corner and made a sandwich; ate half, finding it tasteless. Clair’s voice echoed in my ears.

Are you eating, Carson?

Was I fine? Was some kind of sickness making me pale? She’d said that too: pale. Lately, though I’d awaken with a modicum of energy, it waned as the day passed. Had it always done that?

I pulled my laptop from my briefcase, leaned back on the couch, and Googled pale, lethargy, and hunger, lack.

The engine returned thousands of responses. I saw the word “cancer” in one of them and shoved the computer back into my case, trading it for the remote. I’d never been a big TV watcher, save for the occasional news update and weather info. In fact, I’d never had anything besides standard channels until last month when something in me decided to invest forty bucks a month in a dish that delivered the world to my living room.

Puffing pillows beneath my head I channel-hopped until I found a show where married couples traded spouses and families and everyone got on everyone else’s nerves until they were ready to kill each other. I’d watched it before, oddly enchanted. It was related to my work, but I didn’t have to do anything about it but laugh and drink beer until I fell asleep.

On the way to work the following morning, I stopped at a convenience store for a coffee and some aspirin to get the couch-kinks from my neck. In the checkout line I noted an example of the speed of the tabloid press, the front page of World-Week News, showing a photo of Scaler in one of his patented preaching stances, half Elvis, half auctioneer. The headline was direct:

Famous Preacher Found Dead in Church Camp; Heart Attack Suspected.

The subhead was, A Fighter for Moral Values.

It was a tabloid aimed at the political right, and in the past had championed Scaler and his denunciations of homosexuality and liberalism, as well as quoting his veiled slights to people of color. The hagiographic article lifted Scaler to angelic height, ballyhooing his enterprises and advancing a contributing cause of Scaler’s cardiac arrest as the “continued assault on the ideals of Kingdom College by the Left”.

There was a brief mention of Mrs Scaler, painting her as “a quiet and supportive housewife who often accompanies her husband on his acclaimed television show”. No mention of the good Rev’s fondness for using the missus as a punching bag, of course. I wondered how many years the abuse had been going on.

When I got to the department, Harry had checked with the hospital: Mrs Scaler was awake and stable. We’d allowed her a little time to convalesce but now needed to interview her in depth. I hoped lawyer-boy Carleton was off filing a tort or whatever.

Harry and I climbed into the Crown Vic. I took the wheel and pulled out into the streets, the sun already searing at eight thirty, haze thick in the air. When we got to the hospital, I saw a familiar face at the door of Mrs Scaler’s private room: Captain Brock Surewell, our departmental chaplain. Surewell nodded us aside and spoke in the modulated whisper that formed his duty voice.

“Mrs Scaler has her nutritionist with her, an Archibald Fossie.”

“Nutritionist?”

“I guess he’s also a personal friend.”

“How’s she taking things, Brock?” Harry asked.

“She’s devastated. But holding on. It’s the grace of God; her faith is as strong as iron. Still, go easy with her, guys.”

We entered the room slowly. Mrs Scaler was abed, looking like she was sleeping. Her face remained a mask of bandages. The room smelled of salves and disinfectants. A man sat beside her, making notes on her chart. He looked up at my approach.

“Police,” I whispered.

He nodded and pointed to the door, meaning, I’ll come to you. We stayed in the hall. Archibald Fossie looked less like a nutritionist than a retired sixties activist: slender as a rope, salt-and-pepper hair going bald up front, long behind the ears, frameless bifocals. He wore a cockeyed red bow tie against a rumpled denim shirt, suspenders holding up khaki pants. His eyes were faded blue against a tan so smooth and even it looked like a table job. He owned a deep and consoling voice, conveying a bedside manner even after leaving the bedside.

“How is she doing?” I asked after he introduced himself.

“As good as can be expected, I suppose. I’m not sure if the horror has connected yet. I’m hoping she…doesn’t feel like hurting herself.”

“She’s suicidal?”

He pushed back his hair, frowned. “Not any longer. At least, I don’t think so. There was an attempt four years back. She chased a bottle of Xanax with a pint of Southern Comfort. She was alone in the house, no one expected for hours. It was certain death.”