No Man's Dog by Jon A. Jackson

that had some kind of electric or electronic lock. That was as far as he could drive. He was surrounded by thick sumac and a mixture of mature hardwoods and dense scrub pine.
    Mulheisen got out the phone and, with the aid of the instruction booklet he’d wisely remembered to bring along, he managed to dial the right number. It rang and rang. No answering machine and no one picked up the phone.
    Mulheisen got: out of the car and walked along the fence that ran into the woods. The fence posts were steel, sunk in concrete with frequent bracing, the four strands of barbed wire very taut. Nogood place to get over. He returned to the car and sat there, eating one of his apples, which was so juicy that he had to dig out some paper toweling and wipe his sticky hands. He’d left Detroit that morning but it had been a long drive. It was getting late. He had seen school buses on the road on his way out from town. It had been a sunny day but now that the sun was going down it was cool. He tried the phone again. No answer. He decided to go back to Queensleap, find a motel, and try to contact Luck later.
    There was no place to turn around. He began to back up the car, an awkward process, the road twisty and hemmed in by the brush. He looked for a little clearing, or at least a wide spot, but none offered. He was halfway back to the county road when a large, four-wheel-drive pickup truck with a massive steel brush guard came hustling up in his rear and stopped just in time. Mulheisen slammed on his brakes. The two men he could see in the cab of the pickup were bearded and wore dark baseball caps. They just sat in the vehicle and waited.
    â€œWell, now what?” Mulheisen thought. He started to get out, but when he turned back to the wheel he realized that, unheard, another truck had come up from the other direction. It had stopped barely a couple of feet from his bumper. He was trapped, with heavy brush on either side, barely enough room to open a door. But he managed, squeezing out and deciding that the later arrival was more likely to be Luck, still sitting behind the wheel of the pickup in front of him.
    It was a peculiar impasse, he thought. It appeared that the custom in these parts was to just sit in one’s vehicle and wait for the stranger to make a move. Like the other vehicle, the new arrival was one of those high-riding, monster pickups with four-wheel drive and a sturdy brush guard. It was a fairly new Dodge Ram, he noticed, a little smaller than a B-17 and covered with mud and dirt.
    Mulheisen approached the truck. The window rolled down electrically and the driver peered down. He was a mild-looking fellow, clean-shaven, wearing photo-sensitive glasses that just retained a shadow of tint. He had steel-gray hair under a canvas waterproof field hat.
    Mulheisen’s cop mind registered this as: handsome man, and conscious of it . . . strong, straight nose, firm mouth, prominent chin . . . late middle age but could pass for much younger . . . could be a businessman, more likely an executive in a large corporation rather than an entrepreneur.
    â€œHaving trouble reading?” the man said. He didn’t smile, but he didn’t frown either.
    â€œAre you M. P. Luck?”
    â€œI am, and you’re on my land. Who might you be?”
    â€œThe name is Mulheisen. I’m from Detroit. I came up here to see you.”
    â€œMulheisen?” The man’s calm gaze turned to a speculative frown. “Are you a cop?” he asked, not suspiciously so much as mildly curious.
    â€œNo,” Mulheisen said.
    â€œFunny, you look like a cop,” Luck said. From his tone, he might have been teasing.
    â€œWell, the truth is, I used to be. But I quit.”
    â€œHow come?”
    â€œPersonal problems,” Mulheisen said. “My mother was . . . injured. She needed my help.”
    Luck nodded, thoughtfully. “Was? She’s better now?”
    Mulheisen nodded. “She’s much