Doug Allyn: Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 137, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 835 & 836, March/April 2011

They walked through the workshop and oohed and aahed over the Penny , but didn’t ask to take her out, so Luke wasn’t surprised when they drove off without placing an order.

“Who were those two?” Gus asked, wandering into the shop from the deck with Razzy at his heels. In the distance, the Mercedes was vanishing around the final curve into the forest.

“Potential customers,” Luke grunted, sighting down a spar, checking the curve.

“You sure?” Gus said. “While the husband was looking over the Penny , the woman ducked back into the shop. I thought she was looking for the john but she was only gone a moment. She gave her husband a look when she came out. Right after that, he checked his watch and said they had to leave—” He broke off as Razzy began growling low in her throat, her hackles rising as she stared down the cove road.

“Apparently Razz didn’t like them either,” Luke said.

“She never growls when people leave,” Gus said, frowning. “Only at strangers coming in.” Then they both heard it, the sound of engines roaring in the distance, drawing closer by the second as Razzy snarled louder in defiance.

Gus and Luke exchanged a split-second glance of understanding. “The woman,” Luke snapped as he ducked into the shop. “Where did she go in here?”

“I didn’t see,” Gus said, “but she was only in here a few seconds. It’ll be near the door.”

“Got it,” Luke said, snatching up a small paper bag stuffed behind a bench grinder and upending it. A small automatic pistol fell out, along with two glassine bags of white powder.

“What the hell is that?” Gus asked.

“About ten years in prison,” Luke said, removing the magazine from the gun butt, tossing it aside. Grabbing an acetylene torch, he opened the valves and lit it up.

“What are you doing?” Gus asked.

“Cooking.” Dropping the pistol and the packets onto a ceramic retort, he seared them with the torch, spraying the room with sparks as the pistol and powder disintegrated. “Who is it?”

“Them two feds from last week,” Gus said, “and they got a posse with ‘em.” The blue Blazer skidded to a halt, with a Valhalla county prowl car and a black police van close behind, flak-jacketed cops piling out while the vehicles were still rocking. A burly deputy carrying a riot gun came charging up the steps.

“Search warrant! Put your hands on the wall!”

“Screw yourself, fat boy,” Gus flared, folding his arms, blocking the doorway.

“I said move it!” Shouldering Gus aside, the deputy bulled into the shop, covering Luke, who carefully switched off his torch and set it aside. “Up against the wall, mister! Move! Get the dope dog in here!”

“Wait a minute!” Luke said. “You can’t bring a dog—”

But he was too late. A female officer leading a dope-sniffing Alsatian Shepherd had trailed the deputy up the steps—

Razzy exploded past Gus like an ebony rocket, barreling into the Alsatian, both dogs snarling and snapping at each other, whirling like demons. Taken by surprise, the lady cop tried to pull her dog off, but the Alsatian was too strong and his blood was up.

Leaping into the fray, Gus grabbed Razzy’s collar, and got his wrist torn open for his trouble. The raid was in total confusion now, cops yelling, dogs slashing at each other. Gus was still in the scrum, still trying to pull Razzy free when Larkin charged up the steps, weapon at the ready.

“Restrain your animal!” he yelled at Gus. Then he shot Razzy, the gun exploding like a thunderclap. The slug caught the old Lab high in the shoulder, tumbling her onto her back, yelping in pain, with the Alsatian in snarling pursuit.

With a roar, Luke came flying through the shop doorway, tackling Larkin chest-high, both men crashing through the deck rail, slamming to the ground, hard, with Luke on top. Slapping Larkin’s gun hand aside, Luke drove a fist into the agent’s face, flattening his nose. Before he could swing again, two deputies pinned Luke’s arms, dragging him off.

Scrambling to his feet, blood streaming from his mouth, Larkin drove a knee into Luke’s groin, doubling him over, then jammed the gun muzzle against his forehead, his eyes wild with killing fury—

“Hold it right there!” the sheriff yelled. “What the hell are you doing?” Sheriff Jerry Garrison was a big-bellied man, in a tan summer uniform. Pushing fifty, he was a bit slower than the others. He’d been last out of the car, but he was in charge now.

“Officer Kincaid, get your damn Alsatian into that building and get on with the search! Agent Larkin, if you strike that prisoner again you’ll be in the cell next to his!”

“Falk attacked me!” Larkin protested. “You all saw it!”

“Put a cork in it!” Garrison barked. “This is my crime scene and so far we’ve got no crime. Gus, are you okay?”

“Hell no!” Gus was sitting on the deck, cradling Razzy in his arms. “Your police dog tore my arm open, or maybe Razzy did, I ain’t sure. What the hell is this about, Jerry?”

“We’re executing a search warrant, Gus. This agent had a tip about drugs and illegal weapons on the premises,” Garrison growled, jerking a thumb at Larkin. “How about it, Kincaid? Find anything?”

“The dog got a little antsy by the rear door,” the lady cop said, emerging with the Alsatian firmly in tow. “There’s definitely no dope on the premises, and as for firearms, all we found was a rack of hunting rifles—”

“Those are mine!” Gus said.

“And we found this.” The lady cop held up the slim black magazine from the automatic. “Looks like it’s from a thirty-two auto.”

“What about it, Falk?” Garrison asked. “Where’s the gun it belongs to?”

“Ask Larkin,” Luke growled. “His stooge planted it.”

“Search again!” Larkin ordered. “The gun must be there!”

“I doubt that,” the lady cop said. “There was a puddle of slag metal near the clip, still hot. Looks like somebody melted something with an acetylene torch.”

“Is that true, Falk?” Garrison demanded.

“I use torches every day, Sheriff. I was using one when you guys drove up.”

“He must have destroyed the weapon,” Larkin snapped. “That proves it was illegal!”

“What was illegal about it?” Luke asked. “Stolen? Serial number filed off? How would you know that, Larkin? Unless you planted it?”

“The gun doesn’t matter anymore, Falk. You’re under arrest. Assault on a federal officer!”

“I wouldn’t push that, Agent Larkin,” Sheriff Garrison said sourly.

“The sonofabitch broke my nose!”

“And you shot his dog! Any north-country judge would cut Falk loose and hang your ass, if we had a death penalty. This is my jurisdiction, my call, and I’m making it. You got a bad tip, Larkin. We didn’t find any dope and there’s no law against owning a puddle of molten steel. Pack it up, people! We’re done! Gus, do you want us to run your dog in to the vet?”

“I’ll see to my dog, Jerry. The bullet’s through and through. That stupid bastard is a worse shot than he is a cop.”

“You’d better watch your mouth, grandpa,” Larkin said.

“And you’d better pay up your life insurance, mister,” Gus retorted. “You ain’t long for this world.”

“That’s it!” Larkin snapped. “Sheriff, arrest this man for threatening a federal officer.”

“That wasn’t a threat, sonny,” Gus said, “it was a fact. Mastodons used to live around here, saber-tooths too. People find their bones in these hills. Big critters, bigger than you, even. But too stupid to live. The way a man who’d shoot an old dog is too stupid to live.”

“Sheriff?” Larkin demanded.