The bare trees in our front yard, give me a clear view of the village below; still a ghost town, almost eighty years after the mine shut down. There are never any children playing, no one running or bicycling, and only a couple of dog walkers; it feels . . . lifeless.
But dawn raises her head in the east, transforming my view out of our bedroom window, and I remember why we’re here. Suddenly mesmerized by the magical light before me, I sit back against the pillows and tuck the blankets under my chin. Within seconds, a frosted webbing appears on the single pain glass as a small gray bird lands on the sill.
With a sigh, I get up and walk to the back door, Soter in tow. I notice the bathroom light on, and throw my ski jacket on over my robe. Stepping into Remy’s boots I head outside, the metal can we keep the bird seed in, is in the motorcycle shed next to his barn in the backyard. Using a Wonder Woman popcorn bucket, I fill all five feeders we have around the property, Soter leading me every step of the way, as if he’s done this before.
The frozen ground crunches under my feet like potato chips as we scurry back into the house and return to bed frozen, where a warm cup of decaf-mocha awaits.
“How are your birds?” Remy asks.
“Hungry. Poor dears.”
“Aren’t you cold?”
Planting my feet up against his bare leg confirms this. “What time did you come to bed?”
“Late. I took a drive to clear my head,” he responds, scrolling.
“What’s going on out there?” I nod to his phone. “Anything I should know about?”
“No, sweetie, nothing you should worry about.”
“That’s not really the same question, is it?”
He smiles, then states distractedly, “Danielle will send you a travel itinerary for our trip.” With that, he gets up and leaves the room. I hear him talking on the phone as he walks through the living room, and at seven in the morning I easily comprehend, I should be very worried.
Dramatically removing myself from bed, contempt gets the best of me as I wonder whether Danielle knows what the phone call is about. I mean what doesn’t she know?
Purposely leaving my stranger danger device and the mace on the kitchen table, I change into walking clothes and leash up Soter.
We hit the trail hard. Once we reach the state park, the only sound I hear are my footsteps; and I start shedding. The snow-dappled junipers become a rhythm as I walk by at an aggravated pace. I stop at the crest to admire the view. The Santa Fe Mountains to the north, are in shadow of the morning sun, there silhouette is soft like a woman’s shoulders while the Ortiz Mountains, our closest neighbors to the south glow with the persuasion of the oncoming day. It’s breathtaking. But there is a foreboding, surrounding the snow-capped Sandia Peak looming in the background like an angry cousin. It sends a familiar burning shiver down my spine. Shaking my legs out against the cold, we move on and three miles later, I’m drenched.
Walking back up our driveway, three of our six chimneys are casting a welcoming pinon smell into the air. But as we reach the house, I see Danielle ahead of me walking in the back door, earlier than usual. Not a good sign.
Closing the back door behind me, Soter walks straight upstairs to Danielle and stands in front of her.
Afraid to move, Danielle looks to Remy on the landing, as I look on from below.
“It’s okay,” Remy states from his office doorway, and Soter immediately sits down. “He knows you. I sent the trainer all of our clothes so he would recognize our family.”
“Hi Soter. Look at you? What a good boy you are.” She hands him a treat from her pocket.
Family? She knew about Soter? I head into the kitchen. Soter scurries down the stairs, and follows me to the frig. “What are you a traitor?” He cocks his head. With a laugh, I fill his bowl and grab a slice of bread with peanut butter.
After a quick shower I head upstairs to my office. Danielle pats Soter on the head before he’s at my heels again “Good Morning, Danielle,” I offer before closing the door with a click, ignoring the coffee tray with a twinge of guilt she’s deposited on my table. Driven by what’s becoming admittedly, irrational frustration, I sit down. My foot tapping like a mad woman until Soter sits between my legs. He looks up at me with those big brown eyes.
“It’s okay boy.” I rub his ears.
My door opens, and Remy walks in on the phone mid-sentence, “a serious problem,” he glowers, ignoring my chill, before stomping back into his office.
I follow him back across the landing, and take a seat on the couch, as he hangs up.
“The Governor of Colorado” he begins with a rapid pace, “has introduced a new cannabis bill that’s gaining traction, not only in Colorado but also in other states.”
I stare. This is nothing new.
“They want to add trace isotopes to hemp and cannabis to make sure it’s tracked seed to sale.”
“That’s just dystopian.”
“Yes, it is,” he says with ultimate control.
“So . . . what does that mean?”
“Well, they’ve been making radioactive isotopes in the hopes of stabilizing crops for several years now.”
“Wait. They’re radioactive?”
“Yes. That’s how you make an isotope. Basically, you take an atom and either add or remove electrons. Its mass changes but it’s still the same atomic number.”
My blank expression says it all.
“Okay, look at it in relative terms. They want to add an altered radioactive isotope to the irrigation water of industrial hemp and cannabis crops to trace the radioactivity.” His visible agitation swells as he spells this out to me, “It’s like adding red food coloring to water. You know it’s there because you can see it but on a molecular level.”
“So, they’re adding radioactive materials into our bodies just so they can see if it was tracked seed to sale? That’s got to be an amendment issue.”
“It’s worse than that,” he proclaims, his arms jumping around. “Once a radioactive isotope enters your body, if it’s not excreted, the radiation damages tissue on contact and acts as a huge trigger for lung cancer and leukemia. They use it now for diagnosis, but it’s not something you want in your body. The studies are there. It will kill you.”
“And they want to put it in cannabis that’s being ingested on a regular basis?”
“Yes!” he says, throwing himself into his chair. “To track where it goes!”
“Can they do that?”
“They can do any fucking thing they want!” His volume at thirteen upsets Soter enough to sit between us. “Are you not paying attention?”
“Honey, calm down. There’s no way our industry will agree to this.”
“You don’t get it! They don’t need our permission. They just keep us distracted with all this fucked up regulation and anti-banking legislation so they can take over! And look who pays the price for all their crazy? We need to make a serious plan. We need to get out! I’m not putting that shit in our products,” he proclaims as his phone dings. Taking a second to recognize the caller, he walks out leaving an imprint on the walls.
“Wow!” I blink, blindsided. Returning to my office, I don’t know what to think. I’m no stranger to Mad Hatter falling apart, but even radioactive isotope poisoning seems trivial to the real problem here. I’m losing Remy, and I can either let this happen or do something about it. I move to follow him down the stairs as Soter cuts me off at the top of the landing barking, he’s at the back door before I hit the bottom step.
Standing outside in the cold is a man I’ve never seen before. “It’s okay boy.” Soter sits.
“I’m Roland Garcia. “And it’s not okay.” The handsome man announces in a rhythmic Spanish accent through the square window pane.
“I’m sorry. Who are you?” I ask, with the door closed in no mood for games.
“The dog trainer.” He smiles.
Remembering Remy telling me the trainer would be here today, I reset. “Oh. Come in. I’m Stephanie.”
Roland walks in, carefully aware of Soter’s position at my leg. “Stephanie, the first thing you will learn today is never to tell Soter it’s okay, unless you know the person.”
Nodding my head, I switch gears quickly, “Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?” I ask, leading him into the living room.
“Sure, coffee would be great.”
Soter strategically sitting in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen, is a marvel. “How do you take it?” I call out.
“Light and sweet,” Roland’s buoyant voice, gentle and vibrant, matches his attire that seems completely out of character for New Mexico: a bright purple, cuffed shirt and elven green slacks appear under his silver, floor-length puffer coat.
Arming myself with a cup of CBD decaf, I take a deep breath and follow Soter into the living room.
“It looks like you two have bonded very quickly,” he asserts, taking a sip of the coffee. Slight of build with jet-black, Gordon Ramsay-styled hair, Roland’s clothes are articulately pressed, and Cesar, the dog trainer, is definitely an influence.
“Yes. We’ve bonded.” I stroke Soter’s head.
“I understand you’ve never owned a trained dog before.” he states with a curious smile.
I nod my head taking a long sip.
“I’m going to go over the basics with you today. The most important thing for you to know is there are trained dogs and there are trained dogs; Soter is the latter. I’ve talked extensively with his trainer, and she gave me a list of trigger words that you should know right off the bat.”
“Great.” What the hell is a trigger word?
Reaching into his pocket he pulls out a small, leather-bound notebook. “This is for you. Please don’t say these out loud; just take a look.” He steps back, and adds, “The first page contains a list of words written in pencil lined up in columns. The first word is the trigger command word; the second is Soter’s reaction.”
I run down the list.
Watch – will look into your eyes and follow your eyes to target, to get his attention, or set hand commands – (I)
Sit – sit – (II)
Stay – stay – (III)
Heel – for walking, or to release attack or any other command – ( _I)
Come – (_II)
Down – lie down, or get down – (_III)
Leave it – to disengage – (I_)
Okay – to Disarm – (I_I)
Find – to find a person, or thing – (III_I)
Relax – to give him downtime – (I_ _I)
Warning - growl – (II_)
Secure – search an area for intruders, tampering, explosives, or weapons – (II_I)
Attack – attack and pin down – (_I_I)
Kill – fight to kill – (II_II_I)
“Does he do all of these things?”
“Yes. Not only verbally, but also with hand gestures, and the numeric numbers in parentheses are whistle commands; the dashes stand for a long tone, and the numbers are short blasts. We’ll use all but the last two commands today.”
“That seems reasonable.” Oh, my god.
We set to it, and an hour flies by. I notice an entire box of treats is almost gone, but it’s obvious Soter loves to work. “I have to say, initially, I was a little frightened about all of this, but he seems so happy. I’ve really gained a sense of confidence with him today. Thank you.”
Roland hands me an additional small notebook, also leather-bound but white, “That’s great, and very important. But there’s still a lot of work to do. This is a list of hand gesture pictographs alongside the whistle commands; one per page so you don’t get confused.”
“I’ll have to take some time with these.” Scrolling through the book, I ask, “So, if I just happen to say the word a-t-t-a-c-k in a sentence, what will happen?”
“He’s smarter than that. Dogs sense your emotions. Commands are based on trigger words but also trigger scenarios that he has been conditioned to react to. He is keyed into your responses to the world around you. He senses your anxiety, but it’s not something to fool around with. When you travel with him, he must be kept in a muzzle. It’s good to use the relax command while traveling, so he avoids over-processing in overstimulated areas like crowds. And this is very important, when you invite someone into your house, he will interpret your recognition of that person as a sign of acceptance, so don’t do it lightly. It is his job to protect you against everyone and everything in the world. Never unarm him by telling him it’s okay, unless you know the person.”
Remy pokes his head in with natural curiosity, “How’s it going?”
“He’s amazing.” I respond, glad to find common ground.
“Let’s see.” He plops himself down on the couch.
I run through the all the verbal commands like Simon Says.
“Awesome. What about the hand commands and whistles?”
“I need to work on those, I only have Sit, Stay, Down, Heel, Leave It, and Find.”
“You need to know them all. You need to take this seriously.”
“I am.” I glare back. “You should learn them too.”
“I have. I just haven’t worked with him.”
I can’t help myself. “What about Danielle?”
“Yeah. She knows them too,” he says over his shoulder, heading back into the kitchen like that’s not a bomb.
Roland listens to our exchange silently and with a sly smile, notes, “Other people may know his commands, but he takes his ultimate cue from you. You are his Alpha.”
“I love that.”
He winks, then whispers in my ear, “Use the hand signal for Sit.”
I raise my fist to my shoulder, and Soter sits immediately.
“Now, give him the signal for Wait.”
Pointing my finger at my foot, Soter becomes immobile, staring at me without blinking.
Roland hands me a treat. “Now, place this in Soter’s mouth.”
I hold the small treat out and Soter takes it gently in his mouth. He doesn’t move or blink.
“Now, give him the signal for Hold.”
Holding my hand flat out in front of me, he sits obediently with the treat in his mouth, untouched.
“Now, give him the signal for Relax.”
Cutting the air with my hand, the treat is gone in a second, no chewing necessary. “Wow.”
“He is not a pet. Remember, he is a guard dog that has been trained for combat.” Roland’s smile seizes for a moment, his dark absorbing eyes turning pointed, “He is a lethal weapon, Stephanie. Don’t ever forget that.”
A creepy chill ambles over me before Roland whips out his calendar to schedule regular trainings after we return from our trip. Soter and I walk him to the back hall and as the door closes behind him, Soter trots to the front door on a mission and sits at attention.
“Do you need to go outside?” I ask confused. Opening the door, I’m startled that I’m face to face with the same two, state patrolmen from last night.
“Mrs. Beroe, is your husband at home?”
I give Soter the sign for heel, he sits immediately without losing interest in our militia, attired company. “Please come in,” I offer as congenially as possible. Standing in our living room, their armed presence makes everything around me inconsequential. “Please wait here. I’ll get him.” Soter and I jog up the back stairs.
Remy at the top of the landing, asks, “What do they want?” his voice hushed.
“They didn’t say.”
Cracking his neck, he heads down the stairs past me. The two rigid men, now sitting at our table in front of the large, southwest-facing windows, are silent; only the sound of the crackling fire from the fireplace can be heard as we enter. Remy and I join them at the table.
These men could be twins– same crew cut, dark complexions, heavy brows; the only distinguishing mark is Officer Dean has a large dimple in the center of his chin that reminds me of Cary Grant. He leads off, “Mr. Beroe, we’ve had some movement on the disappearance of Daryl Hartley and would like to ask you a couple of questions.” Dean pauses, his shoulders tight as he asks, “Where were you last night between the hours of eleven and two a.m.?”
“I was sleeping.”
“Here at this house?”
“Yes.”
“Can you confirm that Mrs. Beroe?
Mesmerized by a handful of doves at the bird feeder outside the window, flitting about nervously, I silently recall last night’s events.
“Mrs. Beroe?” his bilious voice intercepts the distance between us like I’m at the far end of a tunnel, and instantly transports me back to the table.
“Yes. Yes, I can confirm that.”
Both men stare at me questioningly before turning back to Remy, who hasn’t blinked.
“Did you have any further contact with Mr. Hartley since the incident you described?”
“No.”
“Are you aware that Daryl Hartley is dead?”
“No,” Remy answers blankly.
“Yes. He was found dead not far from here, in a ditch early this morning.” Officer Dean confirms.