If the Devil Had a Dog

by T. K. Lukas

  “Yes, but I’m not getting it back, as in receiving a gift. I’m taking it back, as in it’s mine and he doesn’t deserve it anymore. Not that he ever did.”

  “From whom or from what are you taking your life back? If that’s too sensitive, you don’t have to answer, but sometimes telling a nosy stranger your troubles can help. Unload, unburden, say what you want, and you don’t have to worry about the person judging you because you’ll never see him again. Stranger therapy. It’s really pretty damn brilliant. And it’s free and comes with complimentary wine.”

  Sidney warmed to Trevor, her residual misgivings abating. She needed someone to talk to, and his offer seemed genuine. Since it couldn’t be Jessi tonight, a stranger might be the next best thing. But first, she needed a little reassurance. “All right. Let me consider that. But tell me something about yourself, so we’re not complete strangers.”

  “Okay. I’m from Fort Worth. I live with my mother and two younger brothers about five miles from here, but I’m taking a few days for myself to decompress before I go home. I’ve spent the last month at Brooke Army Medical Center in San Antonio with Gunner helping other wounded warriors learn to walk on prosthetics, use a service dog, get back into the game of life, that kind of stuff. I love doing it. I go once a quarter, but it’s an emotional drain. So is living with my mom and two little brothers. No, not really, they’re great. Connor and Colton, the twins, are seniors in high school. They’re badass soccer players, international level, and are currently spending a semester in England, by invitation only, at the York Soccer Symposium. I moved back in with Mama—we kind of help each other out when the other needs a hand—but I’m looking for an apartment close by. When you’re twenty-six, living with your mama can cramp your life style. How am I doing? Want me to keep going?”

  “You’re doing great. Please—keep going.”

  “Let’s see—these scars and mechanical moving parts are from Iraq, two thousand and nine. They said they replaced my left eyeball with a realistic replica, but I told them ‘If it’s realistic, you need to figure out a way for it to get as bloodshot as my right eye when I get stinking drunk.’ I thought it was funny.”

  “That is funny.” Sidney laughed.

  “So, my right eye can see shadows on the peripheral with limited vision in the center. I can’t drive a car or sink an eight ball, but I can pour a glass of wine without spilling a drop. Most of the time. I was with the eighth Marines. Infantry officer. Now, Gunner and I attend college. I’m in the Master of Fine Arts program at Texas Christian University.” He broke off, giving Sidney a sideways glance. “Whew. That’s as much as I’ve talked about myself in one sitting. Ever.”

  “And you did a fine job. Wow, an MA in Fine Art—that’s impressive. What’s your medium?”

  “Sculpting. My undergrad was in graphic design, but staring at a computer screen gives me migraines these days. I’ve found that if I work in a semi-dark studio with no fluorescent lighting, just a little ambient sunlight, my head doesn’t split open. I’m working on a life-size bronze of a combat soldier with his service dog.”

  “Is Gunner your model?”

  “Indeed. I figure even if I end up losing the rest of my eyesight, I can still see with my hands and feel my way around the sculpture. I practice doing that. I blindfold myself to see what happens. I definitely need more practice, though. My figures come out looking very Picasso-esque. Oh—and I’m gay. I’ve not said that out loud before. Stranger therapy is brilliant. Very freeing.”

  Trevor took off his sunglasses and looked at Sidney, his right eye flashing an expression that seemed both relieved and grave at the same time.

  “Ah—that’s an extraordinary disclosure. I’m honored to be the one you shared that with. Have you been in denial, or—?”

  “Oh, yeah. All my life. My dad was a Marine. I’ve always tried to be him. He died four years ago right after I got my commission. He was so proud. He was a great man, but it would have killed him to know his son was gay. That was the way of his world—very black and white. All right, enough about me. Tell me about you and the life you’re taking back.”

  “Quick and abbreviated. I was born in Dallas. Live and work in Fort Worth. I’m a psychologist. Besides seeing a few patients suffering from traumatic brain injuries and reestablishing how they deal with daily life, I work for attorneys to help them select jurors. That’s how I met my husband. Actually, my cousin’s husband, Rafael, introduced us. Rafe and Winston are business associates and Rafe thought we’d be a good match. Anyway, I’m ashamed to say that this is my third marriage. It seems I have a talent for picking good horses, just not good husbands. Anyway, we’ve been married for all of eight months. Today, I served him with divorce papers. It’s going to get ugly. I may end up with scars and mechanical moving parts myself when it’s all said and done. If I’m lucky.”

  “Your hands are shaking. So was your voice. You’re serious. Tell me about him—what happened—why you’re so scared of him.”

  How much should she tell this kind stranger? How much could she reveal? There were so many reasons why she feared her husband—so many reasons for leaving. She shuddered, thinking about all that had occurred this past week. She decided to start her story with the dogs.

  *****

  Sidney pulled on her pink hoodie and set the jogging program on her phone to ‘Start Run’ as she stepped onto the back porch of Winston’s Fort Worth ranch house. She still thought of it as his ranch, even though he’d insisted she redecorate right after the wedding to make it feel like her own. Whistling again, she called to her dog. “Breck! Here, Breck.”

  Damn it, where are you. The dog had never been gone longer than a few minutes. It had now been several days.

  The early morning fog had lifted and the riding trails that ran along the black pipe fence line at the back of the property were muddy from the previous night’s rain. Sidney took care to watch where her feet landed, not wanting to step in a hole or trip over a rock or a tree root. She loved jogging alone on the trails cut for horseback riding, but they could be treacherous if one was not paying attention to the rough and undulating terrain. She covered four miles each run, taking first the path along the perimeter fence line, followed by the switchbacks that were cut diagonally throughout the back pasture. The last segment was the path that took her into the deep woods. Preferring the sounds of nature, she didn’t listen to music when she ran.

  When her running program indicated she’d covered two miles, Sidney looked at her watch to check her pace. As she did, she momentarily took her eyes off the ground. She tripped and stumbled on the uneven pathway. Her hands outstretched, she braced to catch herself from doing a face plant. The ground, softer and looser than the rest of the trail, gave way where she landed to the side of the path.

  A sickening, sweet odor arose from the wet leaves heaped in a pile. She pushed aside the leaves and loose dirt scattered over what appeared to be a shallow grave. Her heart sank to her stomach. She recognized her dog’s red and black plaid collar.

  Oh… Oh, God no.

  Despite covering her mouth and nose with her hand and pinching her nostrils closed, escaping the putrid smell was impossible. A closer look revealed what appeared to be a bullet hole that formed a perfect dark circle in the back of the dog’s skull, and a fragmented, shattered hole gaped in the front where the bullet must have exited. Breck’s yellow coat was matted with blood. Maggots crawled in and out of the wounds, the nostrils, the eyes and mouth. Her jaw was fixed open, as if in an everlasting howl.

  Sucking in a deep breath and holding it, Sidney quickly covered the dog with the fallen leaves. She crawled away from the grave on her hands and knees, retching. Vomit covered her shirt and left a sticky trail to the gruesome scene. Still on all fours, she heaved again and again until nothing more came up, until her ribs and muscles ached and her throat burned.

  She sat back on her heels and wrapped her arms tight around herself. Salty tears streamed down her face. She tried to imagin
e who could have done something so horrifying. “I’ll come back for you, Breck. I won’t leave you—I’ll bury you deeper.”

  She wiped the tears from her face and glanced around, making a mental note of her location. Then, she remembered to hit the “stop run” selection on her jogging program to set the GPS, which would record the exact coordinates.

  As she pushed off from the ground to stand on wobbly knees, she dusted the wet grass and leaves from her leggings. Then, from the corner of her eye, something caught her attention. A small mound of white peeked up from the fallen leaves under a post oak tree. It appeared to be a heap of sugar or a dollop of cream, the item incongruous with its woodland surroundings.

  Odd.

  She slipped over and knelt down, brushing the grass and dirt aside. Digging with her bare hands, she uncovered more of the object. It was the rounded top of another skull with bits of white hair yet attached.

  Her hands became raw as she clawed away at the dirt, the wet soil becoming embedded underneath her manicured nails. Soon, the entire skull emerged. Around the skeletal vertebrae was a gold bandana with the ranch’s logo—a medieval knight dressed in chainmail and riding a black warhorse, with the letters CWK Ranch in bold red script. She had tied it around the neck of a stray white terrier that had wandered onto the property soon after she’d moved in with Winston. Cotton, as she had named him, disappeared within the week.

  “I don’t want a homeless stray around here,” Winston had said the day the puppy showed up in the barn, frightened and hungry. “We have working dogs. The Doberman’s provide security. That mongrel is a worthless piece of shit.”

  “I’ll find a home for him. He’s sweet and adorable. He looks like a West Highland Terrier. Someone will want him,” Sidney pleaded. The dog soon disappeared.

  Later that evening, her hands raw and scratched from digging in the dirt, Sidney lay in bed wondering how to confront Winston about her earlier discovery. Any confrontation had to be handled with restraint and moderation. A wrong word, a misplaced phrase, or an ill-timed glance from her could cause his violent temper to erupt. He’d had the usual pre-dinner double scotch followed by a bottle of wine with dinner. Two generous cognacs were dessert. Her instinct told her to wait until he was sober, but her anger and revulsion over what she’d discovered on her morning jog overruled her better judgment.

  “Winston, darling,” she whispered, choosing her words carefully. “I need to ask you something.”

  He rolled over. “I’m half asleep. What is it?”

  “On my run this morning, I came across…” She took a deep breath, steadying her nerves. “I came across the graves of two dogs. Not really graves, just shallow holes they were dumped into. One was the stray puppy I named Cotton, the little skinny terrier that showed up when I first moved here. The other was Breck.”

  “You said you needed to ask me something. That wasn’t a question. That was a statement. Do you have a question or not?” Winston propped his head in his hand and stared at her, waiting for a reply. The beginnings of a sly smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. He enjoyed a good cross-examination.

  “Do you know anything about it? Do you know how both dogs could have come to be buried on the trails or how they could have died in the first place?” Sidney’s pulse raced. She fought to keep her voice even, despite the adrenaline pushing it higher.

  “What are you accusing me of, Sidney? Are you saying I killed those dogs?”

  “No. I’m not accusing. I’m not saying. I’m—asking.”

  “Dogs run away. Dogs get lost. Dogs on ranches die due to any number of reasons. It’s a tough life for a dog on a ranch. Who knows what happened.”

  “The person who put the bullet in the back of Breck’s head knows damn well what happened.” Sidney rolled over, turning her back to Winston.

  Sharp fingers on her shoulders jerked her around to face him. He kept her shoulders in a vice-like grip. “Look at me. What the hell are you saying? Are you implying that I killed those dogs?”

  “Stop—you’re hurting me. I need to know if—”

  “That’s a slanderous thing to say about your own husband. Any evidence? Eyewitness accounts? Can you prove that in a court of law?” The playful smirk on his face and twinkle in his eyes revealed his heightened level of enjoyment. Drawing Sidney into an argument he knew he’d win aroused him more than foreplay. It was an act he performed often.

  “Let go of my shoulders, and let go of the attorney-speak. Just talk to me. Tell me you had nothing to do with killing those dogs.”

  “I had nothing to do with killing those dogs.”

  “Say it like you fucking mean it,” Sidney screamed. She tried to pull away from his grasp, but his fingers dug into her shoulders.

  Winston spun over on top of her, pinning her arms above her head with his hands. He forced her legs apart with his legs and entered her with rough, brutal force, each thrust a punitive stab. “I hate it when you use such filthy language. It’s beneath you—makes you sound like a common whore. If that’s what you are, I’ll treat you like a common whore.”

  “No—don’t—”

  The punishment, harsh and humiliating, lasted minutes, yet seemed like a lifetime.

  When it was over, Winston scooped Sidney up in his arms and carried her to the front door. He opened it and dumped her onto the porch. Shutting the door, he secured the lock. The house went dark. Inside, his footsteps echoed as he retreated down the hallway to the master suite.

  Shocked by the rush of cool air on her naked skin, Sidney banged on the door and pounded the bell. “Open the door. What are you doing, Winston? Let me in.” She banged until her fists hurt, then picked up the cast-iron boot scraper and used it as a doorknocker. Gouged splinters of wood from the heavy oak door stuck to her skin.

  She waited, ear pressed to the door, listening, hearing nothing.

  “Winston,” Sidney shouted, her mouth pressed against the doorjamb as she pounded with both fists. “At least toss me some clothes. Asshole!”

  A light in the barn in the ranch manager’s apartment flicked on. Curtains slid apart. Roberto stood silhouetted in his window, looking toward the main house. Sidney ducked behind the potted palm trees on the porch, trying to conceal her nakedness. She waited until the light in the barn went dark.

  Barefooted, she sprinted to the horse trailer parked next to the barn. She high-stepped over sharp stones and prickly grass burrs, trying not to cry out from the injuries to her bare feet. After opening the tack room door, she found a horse blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders. Sitting in the dark, confined space of the tack room, breathing the familiar smell of leather, horse, hay, and oats, she held a hand over her mouth and quietly wept.

  After a long while, the smell and the presence of all things horse—for her, all things good—calmed her. She began to gain control, to start the mental process of centering herself. Soothing herself. Thinking. Figuring out a way to break free from the grip of a dangerous man.

  A momentary stab of panic threatened her composure before clarity set in. She knew what she must do. Make a plan. Be smart. Prepare to fight for her life. Set herself up for a day to get the hell out—and resolve to make that happen soon. She understood that to stay in this marriage was perilous. He would hurt her worse than he already had.

  CHAPTER 6

  Fort Worth

  The night air cooled as stars poked through the darkened sky. They twinkled and reflected against the pool’s smooth surface as Sidney reached for her robe. She didn’t know if she felt more like crying or curling up in a little ball in a corner somewhere. Or both. Hearing herself speak out loud the things she’d endured, the things she’d denied, the things she’d finally come to face head-on, made her realize how much she hated the wreck her life had become. She needed to take her life back. She needed to regain control.

  I’ve lost myself somewhere along the way. How did I let that happen?

  “Jesus H Christ, Sidney. And I thought Iraq was scary. What t
he hell did you do?” Trevor refilled the wine glasses and gave Gunner a chew toy from the backpack.

  Sidney smiled, ignoring the little bit of wine Trevor spilled. “I stayed in the horse trailer the rest of the night. Wide awake—planning. The next morning when the maid came, I slipped inside the house behind her. Winston was eating breakfast. He glanced up from his newspaper, but never said a word.”

  Trevor raised his glass, clinking it against hers. “To you. You’ve got more balls than a lot of men I know. So, then what?”

  “Then, I showered, dressed, and went upstairs to my office. I called a divorce lawyer, my banker, my trust fund manager, and then my cousin. I put my plan in motion. I gave myself one week to get out. It’s been one hell of a long week.”

  “Was he always that crazy?”

  “No. Yes, I guess. I don’t know. He’s the most complicated human being I’ve ever known. He’s smart. Energetic. A workaholic, really—he has a passion for law.”

  “What else?” asked Trevor.

  “He was fun. He had an insatiable appetite for adventure. He could be very charming, was often quite generous, to me, anyway. He could be kind, too, when it benefited him. When I first met him, I was impressed with the compassion he showed toward an elderly client of his. But, strange things would happen, like people he held grudges against would end up hurt. Badly hurt.”

  “And you served this man divorce papers today? Why the hell don’t you have a bodyguard? Do you carry?”

  “I don’t carry. I’m terrified of guns. He’s not. He had them all over the house, at least one in every room, often more, just in case.”

  “In case of what?”

  “Some of his clients are not whom I would call the upper crust of society. In fact, it dawned on me why he married me after a dinner party he’d hosted for some very wealthy foreign clients. I was a tool for his trade. He asked me to study and pay specific attention to these four particular dinner guests. Afterward, I had to give him a detailed accounting on each one, what I thought about their personalities, their strengths and weaknesses, et cetera. He wanted an inside advantage in knowing how to handle them—how to pressure them into doing business his way. He was, is, a master manipulator.”