The Padlock on the Mastiff

“Fine,” Greg snarled, wheeling toward his truck. “Take the monster. Just don’t let it anywhere near my home.”

I moved before he could reconsider. I clasped Clara’s unsteady hand, then rested my palm against the mastiff’s broad shoulder. “This way, boy,” I murmured.

Barnaby came at once. His huge frame stayed pressed protectively against Clara as we rushed toward my SUV. I threw open the rear hatch, and he vaulted into the cargo area with startling ease, folding himself onto the mat. My fingers fumbled over Clara’s belt as I secured her in the backseat.

I slid behind the wheel, hit the locks, and checked the mirror. Greg had not headed for his truck. He stood beside the trees with the rifle dangling from one hand, staring into the black woods as though something there terrified him.

I jammed the SUV into gear and tore out of the park. Thoughts crashed through my mind too fast to catch.

David. My brother David.

He had disappeared three years earlier after leaving for a fishing weekend at Lake Oconee. His abandoned truck turned up at a gas station twenty miles from the lake, with his phone, keys, and wallet sealed inside it. Detectives considered murder, then suicide, and finally admitted they had nothing. The investigation died.

Half a year later, Laura began seeing Greg. David had fired Greg more than once from his contracting company for stealing supplies. A year after Laura and Greg started dating, they became husband and wife.

The drive to my house covered four miles in silence. Air conditioning blasted over the sweat on my neck while Clara reached forward to pet Barnaby’s massive head. He rested his chin near the backseat and watched me through the mirror with quiet brown eyes.

Once we were inside, the adrenaline drained away and left me shaking. I secured the front door, turned the deadbolt, fastened the chain, and drew every curtain. Then I guided Barnaby into the kitchen and filled my largest stainless-steel bowl at the sink.

He drained the water almost instantly. Clara settled on the tile beside him, carefully brushing grime from the scars along his muzzle.

“Aunt Sarah?” she breathed.

“I’m here, honey. Are you hurt? Did those hornets sting you?” I pulled the first-aid kit from the pantry and dropped to my knees, checking her arms and legs.

“I’m not stung,” she said. Her small voice tightened. “But he isn’t a stray dog.”

I froze with antiseptic cream in my hand. “What are you saying, Clara?”

She raised her eyes to mine, and the knowledge in them felt far too old for an eight-year-old child. Her fingertips found the tarnished brass lock suspended from Barnaby’s collar.

“His name is Barnaby,” she whispered.

The air caught in my lungs. “Barnaby? How could you possibly know that?”

“Daddy got him for me.” Her voice quivered. “He gave him to me for my fifth birthday, right before he disappeared.”

Ice swept through my veins. “Clara, you never had a dog. Laura can’t be around dogs. You certainly never had a mastiff.”

Tears gathered in her eyes as she shook her head. “Daddy didn’t keep Barnaby at our house. He hid him at the old lumber yard. He said it had to stay secret. He said Barnaby would keep us safe.”

I leaned back on my heels as the kitchen seemed to tip around me. The old lumber yard had belonged to David’s business, an empty parcel outside town that he had planned to sell before he vanished. After marrying Laura, Greg took control of the company assets. Two years ago, he sold that property.

“Clara,” I said, forcing each word to stay level, “did Greg know about Barnaby?”

Her gaze dropped to the floor. Slowly, she nodded. “Greg found out. He got really angry. That was when Daddy went away to go fishing.”

I looked at the enormous dog. If David had bought him as a puppy three years ago, Barnaby would be this size now. But somebody had kept him alive. Somebody had hidden him all that time. And why had he emerged in that park today, so far from the lumber yard?

My shaking hand reached for the padlock. The D.A.R. engraving was sharply cut into its face. I turned the lock over and found numbers gouged into the back, rough marks made by something like a nail or blade.

44 - 12 - 89.

A lock combination, perhaps. Or coordinates. Either answer made my stomach knot.

My phone suddenly rattled across the kitchen counter. I flinched and let the lock fall against Barnaby’s collar. Greg’s name blazed across the caller ID.

I refused the call and watched it ring unanswered. Ten seconds later, a text message from Greg appeared on Sarah’s phone.