Angels Burning Read Online Free PDF Page B

on cold stainless steel in the county morgue waiting to be given a name. Neely’s compound is deep in the woods off a gravel road that runs through state park land past Laurel Dam, a lake fed by freezing mountain springs with a sandy beach area populated this time of year with picnicking families, blasé teens stretched out on blankets, and shrieking, blue-lipped children.
    No one would ever be able to find Neely’s place if it weren’t for the totem pole of warning signs at the bottom of her mile-long driveway that leads back through more dense forest to her home and office. She doesn’t advertise her business at all. Starting from the bottom, they read: NO TRESPASSING , NO SOLICITING , NO HUNTING . At the top is a gift from a grateful bichon frise owner who came to her all the way from Pittsburgh with a nippy, piddling, chronic yapper and left with a calm, quiet accessory she can now tuck confidently away in her designer tote; it’s a handcrafted sign that reads: BEWARE OF DOGS BUT BE TERRIFIED OF ME .
    Both of Neely’s pickup trucks are parked in their usual spots along with a car I don’t know. She must be with a client.
    I get out of my car and close the door and wait for the woods to come alive.
    I’m sure the dogs hear any vehicle the moment it turns up the drive, but they wait until it arrives at Neely’s log cabin office, parks, and the occupants get out before they appear. Neely never trained them to do this. It’s something they’ve developed on their own.
    No matter how many times I’ve experienced their greeting ritual, my heart always races and my mouth goes dry partly from an instinctual fear that dates back to our Neanderthal ancestors and partly from the thrill of watching these animals patrol their land.
    One moment, I’m alone. The next, I’m surrounded by five Germanshepherds. They materialize out of thin air without making a sound and stand evenly spaced around the edges of the tree line.
    When a newcomer notices one, he or she might smile or even call out to it. After all, they wouldn’t be at Neely’s place if they weren’t dog lovers. Then they spy another and another. Their eyes begin to dart nervously. They turn around and check behind them and what do they find? Oh, yes. Another one.
    The dogs don’t bark. They don’t rush forward. They stand perfectly still and watch. There’s Kris and Kross, identical red-and-black littermates with impeccable bloodlines brought over from Germany; the dignified Owen, a retired police dog from the Bronx; Maybe, a coal black shepherd mutt Neely rescued; and her beloved Smoke, an enormous ten-year-old pure white that I’m convinced not only understands the human language but can read our thoughts as well.
    Besides Neely and the boy, Tug, who works for her, I’m the human they know the best. They recognize me instantly but take their time acknowledging my right to be there. Maybe always breaks rank first and trots over with his tail waving happily behind him. Kris and Kross see this as their release cue and come galloping toward me. They’re only three years old, the youngest of the group, and want to play. I keep a couple tennis balls in my glove compartment for this very reason. As they approach, I hold one up in each hand. They both stop at the same instant, their eyes fixated on their quarry. I throw both balls at the same time in opposite directions and they tear off after them.
    Owen arrives next and walks the perimeter of my car before he lets me pet him. Smoke disappears back into the trees.
    Kris and Kross are back already.
    I throw the balls again.
    Neely’s office door opens and she walks out along with a man and a pit bull.
    It’s a hot day but she’s in her usual jeans, work boots, and a plaid flannel shirt over a T-shirt. Her long blond hair, sugared with strands of silver, is pulled back in a ponytail and hidden beneath a state police K-9 unit ball