The China Dogs

by Sam Masters

  Montgomery has grown over the years and now covers 640 acres of northwestern Jacksonville. It provides close to $200,000 of crops and services to the community.

  This fine August morning, Justin T. Cartwright is the officer-in-charge of the ten-man Landscape and Nursery detail working the prison’s two-acre vegetable field. As usual, thirty-three-year-old Jax Layton is one of the slackers.

  The big, dark-haired officer shouts across the soil. “C’mon, less chatter and more work, Layton. Those peppers aren’t going to pick themselves.”

  “I need a minute.” He bends a little, puts a soiled hand beneath his prison issue T-shirt and rubs at his heart. “I got a stitch.”

  Cartwright thinks he’s faking. He walks around the row of dark green plants bulging with waxy orange peppers. Gets up close to the muscular inmate and issues his second and final warning. “It’s stitches you’ll be needing if you keep mouthing off. Now get those habaneros harvested.”

  “Give me a minute.” He really does have a stitch. Or at least that’s what he hopes it is. His old man died of a heart attack in his early forties and it’s always at the back of his mind.

  The big guard leans over Layton and shoves the rounded end of the baton into the soft nest of flesh under the man’s chin. “Get the fuck up and start working.”

  Tension sparks across the plot. A guard dog barks. One of the officers slips the safety off his rifle. Other inmates stop working and watch in silence.

  Stitch or no stitch, the way Jax Layton sees it, he’s been left with no choice but to stand up for himself. If he lets Cartwright humiliate him now, then he’ll never get over the loss of face.

  He straightens up just as he was told to. Then he smashes his forehead hard into the bridge of the screw’s nose. Before the blood even comes, he drives his knee hard into Cartwright’s testicles. The second he does it, he knows he’s only got time to swing one good punch before the other guards make their move.

  Layton launches a jaw-breaking haymaker.

  A warning shot goes off somewhere behind him.

  The damned guard dog barks like crazy.

  He straightens up. Steps away. Braces himself for the beating that he knows is going to come.

  Only it doesn’t.

  The German shepherd is going mad. It’s jumping all over its handler, George Jennings.

  Only, it’s not jumping.

  It’s biting.

  The other guard, old man Foreman, waves his rifle back and forth but can’t get off a shot for fear of hitting George.

  Layton’s glad they didn’t set that damned dog on him. It’s chewing up George real bad.

  Foreman finally swings the rifle butt and manages to knock the mutt away for a second.

  The dog shakes its big bloody head.

  Someone across the soil shouts, “Jesus Fucking Christ.”

  Now, everyone sees what a mess the dog has made of Jennings.

  It’s ripped holes in the man’s face and arms.

  The guy is blind.

  He’s on his knees. Blood drips through his fingers as he holds his hands to his face.

  Foreman’s frozen with shock.

  He looks like a kid who just whacked a hornet’s nest and knows he’s about to get his ass stung to death.

  As the German shepherd jumps Foreman, Layton turns his attention to Cartwright. He’s still moaning and groaning, while curled in a fetal position holding his balls.

  His gun is there for the grabbing.

  It would be a crime to look a gift horse in the mouth.

  Jax Layton sticks a knee into the fallen guard’s side and unholsters the weapon.

  Now anything is possible.

  Anything on earth.

  47

  Historic District, Miami

  Ghost brews a pot of rich Colombian roast, while Zoe sulks in the shower and dresses. He hopes when she materializes she’s calmer.

  As he’s getting white mugs from the cupboard, she walks into his kitchen of cool Italian marbles and brushed metals, wearing the tiny red dress she’d turned up in last night.

  She looks self-conscious as their eyes meet. “Not quite the daytime look, is it?” She sits at a breakfast bar and fiddles with her phone.

  “Oh I don’t know—it still looks great to me. You want coffee?”

  “Intravenously.” She reads mails on her phone. “You know those dog incidents you’ve been covering?”

  “Aha.” He pours her a cup. “Cream and sugar?”

  “Just black. I need the kick first thing.” She scrolls as she talks. “They’re not just in Miami—the attacks.”

  “What d’you mean?”

  She looks up at him. “Well, I was interested in what you were doing, so after I saw you on TV, I set up a Google Alert on canine incidents, and look . . . ” She holds out the iPhone so he can see. “There are dozens of them. All over America. All over the world.”

  Ghost puts her coffee down and looks over her shoulder. “There are a lot of dogs in the world, so I guess that naturally translates into a lot of bites.”

  “And deaths, see . . .” She puts the phone into his hand.

  DOG ATTACK VICTIM TRIES TO SAVE OWNER’S LIFE

  New York Times

  A cyclist who was attacked by four dogs shook off her bite wounds and battled to save the life of the animals’ owner after he suffered a heart attack trying to pull them off her. The 47-year-old woman was out biking . . . See all stories on this topic>

  MASTIFF BITES PUT 7 PEOPLE IN HOSPITAL

  Error! Hyperlink reference not valid.

  Police shot dead a mastiff that turned on a family and their neighbors in what onlookers have described as a rabidlike frenzy. The group were enjoying a BBQ when the two-year-old hound jumped and snapped at them, causing three adults and four children to need more than a hundred stitches among them. See all stories on this topic>

  Ghost reads then hands the phone back. “I don’t know if it’s the heat or the fact that the economy has dipped again, but over the last few days things seem to have gotten worse.” He looks confused for a moment. “I really don’t know what’s at the root of all this. When Kathy Morgan died, I told the press that I thought the killer dog might be a stray. God knows there are so many roaming around these days. Then we found the guy on the golf course, and it looks like he’d been killed by his pet. Next we get the young boy playing soccer killed by a rottweiler.”

  “You think they’re all connected somehow?”

  “That’s why we’ve set up an Incident Room—to discover if there’s a common denominator. But I don’t see how there can be. Different breeds. Different people. Different times, places, and circumstances.” He glances at his watch. “Listen, I’m in danger of running late.” He nods to her coffee. “If you drink that quickly, I’ll drop you back at your friend’s place before I head into work. That way you won’t feel too self-conscious catching a cab looking like you stayed out unexpectedly.”

  She smiles. “Most considerate.”

  “Or I could just give you a key?”

  “What?”

  “A key. I could give you one so you let yourself in and out, when you want.”

  Zoe is speechless.

  She feels like she’s a little kid on a seesaw and some giant bully just sat down on the other end and is bouncing up and down.

  “A lift would be great. Thanks.”

  48

  Montgomery Correctional Center, Jacksonville, Florida

  Jax Layton knows there isn’t a member of his family who wouldn’t stand up and applaud him if he put a bullet through Justin Cartwright’s big dumb head. But as he’s well aware, the punishment for that in Florida is the death penalty, and he has no intention of swapping his two-year stretch for a cell on Death Row.

  Instead, he’s going to do what
Foreman should have done—had the old fool had the skill and nerve to do it. He’s going to shoot the damned guard dog.

  The German shepherd is ripping chunks out of the white-haired guard, and Layton reckons it’s now or never. He rests Cartwright’s 9mm on his left forearm, squints along the barrel and, because the dog’s jaws are so close to Foreman, aims for its body. There’s a crack of gunfire and the round disappears into a fuzz of black and gold fur.

  Everyone holds their breath and waits for the outcome.

  The dog jerks and stumbles but doesn’t go down. Enraged, it bites hard on Foreman’s leg.

  The old guy falls to the dirt.

  It’s only a matter of time before the big dog chews him up.

  Layton lands a second shot.

  This time it’s higher up, just under the shoulder.

  The dog’s front right leg gives way.

  Layton knows that he has it now. All he has to do is get up close and finish the thing off.

  He skirts a big harvest barrow already stacked with peppers. Moves around until he gets a clean shot at the mutt’s head.

  The pistol kicks in his hand.

  The German shepherd goes down with a yelp.

  For a second there’s silence. Then the hot Florida air fills with whistling, clapping, and cheering.

  Jax Layton, local car thief and habitual petty offender, takes a hero’s bow.

  49

  Coral Way, Miami

  The famous clarinet opening of Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue plays in Ghost’s Dodge as he drops Zoe off and pulls away from Jude’s apartment block.

  The lieutenant is happily lost in the complex classical and jazz composition when his phone rudely beeps and, due to the horrors of Bluetooth, the music is muted and he’s forced to answer it on the in-car system.

  “Lieutenant Walton.”

  “Hi, this is Sandra Teale.” In case he’s forgotten who she is, she adds, “The vet from the beach at Key Biscayne.”

  He remembers her all too well. “Hi there, do you have some good news for me?”

  “I have news—though I’m not sure you’ll find it good.”

  “Try me.”

  “I’ve now examined both the dog that killed Kathy Morgan and Matt Wood and also the animal that killed Alfie Steiner and they have something in common.”

  Ghost’s pale albino eyes light up. “They do?”

  “Yes. They both had massively high levels of a type of epinephrine in their systems.”

  “That’s adrenaline, right?”

  “Correct. But these were of such high levels that at first I suspected both animals might have been suffering from Cushing’s disease—that’s a condition where the adrenal glands, which are situated at the top of the kidneys, produce too much of the stress hormone cortisol because of an adrenal or pituitary tumor.”

  “But that wasn’t the case?”

  “No it wasn’t.” Teale looks down at her notes. “Both dogs were perfectly healthy. No growths or diseases of any kind. No reason for them to have such high adrenaline rates.”

  “So they were doped?”

  “I thought so but I couldn’t see any signs of injection. It’s possible to put some extra adrenaline down to the excitement in the animals’ final moments and of course the reaction to the shootings, but levels still wouldn’t be this high.”

  “So how do you explain such high levels?”

  “For the moment, I can’t. What’s more, the boys in the tox lab say what they found is not normal epinephrine, it’s an incredibly concentrated mutated version of it.”

  “Now I’m out of my depth. I know epinephrine is an adrenaline chloride, but beyond that I’m a fifth grader.”

  She tries to make it simple. “You’ve heard of the fight or flight mechanism, right?”

  “Sure. The psychological trigger that makes us decide whether to run for our lives or become violent in order to protect ourselves.”

  “Right. Well, the ‘trigger,’ as you eloquently call it, is the autonomic nervous system, and it is divided into the sympathetic and parasympathetic branches. In general, these two systems oppose each other. When stimulated, the sympathetic system increases heart rate, blood pressure, and cardiac activity. What happened in the case of both these animals is that some highly concentrated drug homed in on the chemical receptors in their cells and sent them into an aggressive overload.”

  “So the dogs panicked and fought?”

  “That’s what I believe happened.”

  Ghost turns the Dodge into the police station yard. “Do you think they could have been experimented on somehow?”

  She’s been wondering the same thing. “I really don’t know. There’s no clear evidence of it. I’ve asked for the medical records of the Wood dog. It could be that it was being treated with some new drug that I haven’t heard of. But from the autopsy, I couldn’t spot any underlying condition that looked as though it needed treatment. Do you know yet who owned the other animal?”

  He switches the car engine off. “I don’t have a name for you, but I’m on my way into the office right now, so hopefully I will in a very short time.”

  “Will you let me know, Lieutenant?”

  “Of course.” He looks at his phone. “Is this the best number to get you on?”

  “It is.” She takes a beat, then adds, “It’s also good for fixing dinner on, or just coffee.”

  Ghost is surprised by her suggestion. He can often go months without attracting any female attention, now he’s suddenly got too much. “Then I’d really better make sure I don’t lose it.”

  “You do that. ’Bye.”

  He hangs up and heads inside.

  The AC in the station house is set to lower than a fridge. The place drives him crazy. It’s either too hot or too cold. Somehow, they never manage to get it right. He’s just about to clear reception when the desk sergeant, a big bull of a guy named Stefan, shouts across to him, “Yo, Ghost—you got a visitor.”

  The lieutenant looks toward the row of hard plastic chairs reserved for members of the public unfortunate enough to have to wander in off the street and ask for help. A smartly dressed white guy with well-cut, dark hair is playing Tetris on his phone.

  He looks up as soon as the cop heads his way. “Lieutenant, Carlo Affonso from CBS.”

  “What can I do for you, Carlo, I’m in a hurry.”

  “Off-the-record comment on the dogs?”

  Ghost smiles at him. “You guys don’t do off-the-record.”

  “On-the-record, then.”

  He decides to give him a break. “Off-the-record.”

  Affonso nods.

  “You need to have a look at bite rates—fatal and nonfatal. I suspect you’ll find they’re pushing a line to a new peak. Dogs are being more aggressive for some reason. Might be the recession. Might be the heat. Or maybe they’ve just had enough of being dragged around on a leash and having their butts kicked.” He starts to walk to the security door that only cops can get through.

  The reporter is catching his drift. “I want to do a piece that makes people take more care around dogs. You got any statistics, or pictures of attacks, anything that can help me?”

  Ghost has his swipe pass on the electronic reader. “You got a card?”

  Affonso pulls one out of his shirt pocket.

  Ghost takes it and looks it over. “I get something the public needs to know, I’ll call, but don’t pester me anymore.” He passes through to the other side.

  He’s pocketing the reporter’s card at the top of the stairs when he almost walks straight into his captain, Bob Cummings.

  “What the fuck, Ghost?”

  “Apologies.”

  “Accepted. I was on my way to your squad room. There’s some Little Miss Dazzlebutt from the CIA squatting in my office saying she ain’t g
onna move until she sees you.”

  50

  The White House, Washington DC

  President Molton’s morning proves hectic.

  Breakfast with speechwriters, a quick intelligence briefing, an Executive Office session on fiscal reform, and a tough one-on-one with the VP on internal budgets. He and Pat Cornwell are only just done when Don Jackson is ushered in for his slightly postponed eleven o’clock meeting.

  “My apologies for keeping you waiting.” Molton gestures to sofas around a low but large glass-topped table. “I’ve updated Pat on our conversation last night re General Zhang.”

  Jackson flips open his attaché case. “I’ve brought a transcript of the call, in case you’d like to scrutinize it.”

  “I’d like to scrutinize Zhang’s head on a platter,” says the VP. “’Morning, Don. How you doing?”

  “I’m fine, thank you, sir.” Jackson settles opposite the two politicians and hands over copies of the transcript.

  Molton starts to flick through it.

  Cornwell is still staring at Jackson. “You know, you don’t look so ‘fine,’ Don. We’re used to seeing you with a bit more spring in your step.”

  “Optimism doesn’t come easy when you’re talking to the Chinese, Mr. Vice President. I feel somewhat as though my spring is pretty much sprung at the moment.”

  Molton gets to business. “Tell us first, what are the hard facts on dog attacks?”

  “Not good, sir. We’ve had two fatalities. One at a correctional center in Jacksonville and one at Lake Jackson. Given my name is Jackson. I can’t help but point out they could have been deliberately targeted in order to send us a message.”

  “You serious?” The VP looks astonished. “You need time off, my friend, you’re seeing shadows where there aren’t any.”

  The President is too long in the tooth to jump to conclusions. “Maybe not, Pat. Don’s right to point it out, now let’s pick through the details.”

  Jackson hands out more sheets. “These are the case details. Millers Landing, Lake Jackson, early hours of this morning. A young couple who bred dogs and a local jogger were killed by animal or animals unknown.”

  Cornwell jumps in. “Animals unknown? That’s gator country. Could easily be one of those big lizards.”