Hair of the Dog

by Gordon Carroll

  Tracking is the art of searching out a path taken by a person from footstep to footstep. The dog is searching a combination of human scent and ground disturbance. People drop skin cells with their smell on them every second of the day. Some of these cells get caught up in clothing, others blow away on the wind and some drop straight down to the ground. Ground disturbance is what happens when a person moves across a surface. The more disturbed the surface, the easier and longer-lasting the track. For instance, when a heavy man, say like Jerome, walks across a thick lawn, he will break blades of grass, releasing chlorophyll (hence the alkali trail), disturb dirt and dust, knock over small rocks and crush bugs and microbes, all leaving a miniature path of destruction that a dog’s sensitive nose can sniff out. Dirt’s a close second, not as good as grass, but decent. Cement or asphalt not so much. That’s called Hard Surface Tracking in the industry and it takes more training and a dedicated pooch to really master it. Max is that kind of pooch. If someone walked over it, Max can and will follow them. Humidity, wind and temperature all play a part in making it easier or harder, but with Max, it really doesn’t matter. If he’s hunting you, he will find you.

  Max cast around for about fifteen seconds before locating the track and taking off like a rocket, leaving me to run along behind him. I still hadn’t recovered from my last case, not to mention the beating I took from Jerome, but he had to quarter a bit and keep his nose close to the ground, so I was able to keep up. He went across the grassy expanse, through a screen of bushes, across a street, along a sidewalk, up to the corner of a house, around to the backyard, over a fence, through an adjacent backyard, through a gate to another corner of a house, across the front yard, down to a sidewalk, back up to the corner of the house, over to another yard, down another sidewalk, back up to some bushes, through yards for about two blocks, past a long fenced area to another group of houses and finally up to a church parking lot where I saw a large figure crammed under a dashboard, legs and butt hanging out the door and little Keisha’s face looking at me through the back window, just like she had been the first time he drove away from me.

  That wasn’t about to happen again.

  When the Alpha first let him out of the car and put him on the grass, Max caught the thousands of swirling scents that had been disturbed by the passing feet. It took him only a short time to locate the starting point and lock in on the track. Once on, he never lost it. The prey was heavy, the man and the little girl he had smelled at the house where he’d fought and defeated his prey. But now the man and the girl were his prey and he would find them. Max would not hurt the girl, she was no threat or challenge… but the man… the man he would hurt.

  Max worked fast, the disturbance along the path heavy and easy to follow. Even along the hard surfaces there was dust and left over scent from the grass’s chlorophyll and bug juice and a hundred different odors that were transferred from the man’s shoes to the cement and asphalt. All so new and so easy to follow.

  And then he caught their scent… not the ground disturbance… but them… their spore… their individual smells blowing to him on the slight breeze and he left the track to follow the currents of the air like a shark scenting blood in the ocean, honing in with amazing speed and accuracy until he had them in sight… there just ahead. He saw the man, half-in and half-out of the car, and he launched like the torpedo that genetics and training had made him to be.

  “Daddy!” cried Clair from the backseat. “It’s that man and his doggie!

  Jerome pushed himself out from under the dash, groping for the gun in his waistband as he turned toward the back of the car. Something fast and strong hit him in the forearm and stomach, latching on with crushing force. He slammed into the door, his mind screaming pain as massive teeth crushed down on the meat and bone of his wrist. He tried to pull the gun free, but found it impossible to get past the pain and terror that suddenly enveloped him at the understanding that he was being eaten alive.

  My gun was in my hand and just coming in line with Jerome’s center mass line when Max hit him full force. Jerome’s body struck the door so hard I thought it would break it free and then he was on his back. Max was ripping his wrist away from his body and the gun Jerome held went flying through the air before clattering to the asphalt.

  Max made a sort of bubbling growl way low in his throat, sounding like a cross between a werewolf and a demon… only scarier. And he wrenched his head back and forth so fast I was afraid he would come away with the man’s hand in his mouth.

  I kept my gun on Jerome.

  Jerome’s battle instincts kicked in and he grabbed Max’s right hind leg with his free hand and tried to snap it in two. But the dog was fast and released his hold on his right wrist and reattached on his left wrist, teeth going all the way to the bone and then tearing the muscle and skin like wet tissue paper.

  For as far back as Jerome could remember, he had never screamed out in pain, but he screamed now, as this beast of teeth and fur and fury tore at and into him. He did scream, and it made him seem small and weak and ashamed so that he felt a rage that he also could not remember experiencing. A rage that blanked the pain and fear and gave him the strength to grip the body of the dog to him and stand up. He jerked the dog off the ground and over his head with one hand, his other still gripped in the dog’s jaws.

  He would crush the animal’s skull against the asphalt.

  Max felt the man try and go for his back leg. He let go of the arm he held and sunk his canines into the reaching wrist, raking through meat and feeling the power as bloodlust threatened to blank his conscious thought. But years of experience in the wild made him cap his emotions and adrenaline so that he kept himself clear. He felt his body lifted off the ground and understood the man meant to smash him against the ground.

  A part of Max, a part his animal brain could not hope to understand, smiled at the challenge. This would not be the easy prey it first appeared to be. This man would be a worthy opponent. Something Max had sorely missed since his fighting days back in Germany.

  As the man swung Max down toward the earth, Max shifted his hold and flipped his entire body around so that the man’s own strength was used against him, pulling his weight around and forcing him to fall, awkward and hard, on his side, Max on top, not even touching the ground.

  Max let go of the man’s wrist… and went for his throat.

  Jerome jerked Max high over his head, and with horror, I realized he was going to slam him against the asphalt. From that height and with that kind of strength, it might kill Max. I sighted in and started my pull on the trigger when suddenly, Max spun about and Jerome spilled to the ground with Max on top.

  That’s when I heard the screeching tires and saw the Bloods pouring out of the car about thirty yards from us.

  I changed my sight picture as the first Blood snapped off a round that slapped into the street about ten feet from me. I put two into him. I aimed for center mass, but the first slug hit him low in the belly and the second in the side of his hip as he turned. He took three staggering steps and then fell in a sort of tangle of limbs. More bullets spit my way from the running Bloods and I moved to the side, reacquiring the next closest target, and sent two more rounds down range. I heard “thunks” as copper jacketed lead hit the car Keisha was standing in. I realized I had to take the battle away from her. I moved further to the left, hoping to draw their fire, and shot three times fast, aiming low so that if I missed, the bullets wouldn’t go far and hit any innocent homeowners or churchgoers. The stunt worked, one gang-banger going down with a wound to his leg and the others stopping their charge and hiding behind their car for cover as they shot over the hood and roof at me.

  I ran for the car and made it just as a bullet shattered out the back windshield. Keisha screamed and I saw Jerome fighting Max through the open car door. I made the hard choice and jerked open the back door, scooping Keisha into the crook of my arm. I yelled to Max; “Foose!” and ran with Keisha toward the front of the church and then for th
e building itself, the car acting as a shield. Max beat us by about ten strides and then we were around the corner. I peeked around the brick of the building and saw Jerome in a gun battle with the Bloods.

  Keisha screamed and I saw Jerome look back at us. His eyes held something deep and dark for me. I turned and ran with the little girl, Max trotting alongside.

  In the distance gunshots barked and sirens wailed.

  19

  Senator Marsh and company pulled up to my front door, just like they had on that first day, only this time, Morgan Freeman wasn’t dressed for a casual day of golfing. He wore a ten-thousand dollar, dark-blue, shadow-plaid Kiton suit, accented with a blazing white shirt, maroon tie and handkerchief. He wasn’t wearing a golfing visor and he looked every bit the political animal; affable and sincere.

  Clyde, massive as always, opened the door for him and he stepped down and held out his hand. I shook it, the usual three pumps, firm and assured and then the release, just like last time. His smile was real, bright and confident, his eyes sparkling in the daytime sun as he looked around.

  “I knew I picked the right man,” he said. “Where is she?”

  “With the police,” I said.

  The smile left, both his lips and his eyes, and suddenly he transformed from the vote-seeking politician to the commander of political power that he had owned for so many decades.

  “I thought I made myself clear in that the police were not to become involved.”

  “I know,” I said, “but it couldn’t be helped. Remember the Bloods from last time?”

  He didn’t say anything, didn’t so much as twitch an eyelid, so I continued.

  “Another batch showed up and there was a shootout. The cops saved the day. People were shot, people were bleeding, people got arrested. I had to tell them what was what.” I lied smoothly. “They took her.”

  He inhaled deeply, then said; “I see. And where are they holding her?”

  “Aurora Police have her. Whether they’ve turned her over to Human Protective Services yet, I don’t know.

  “And Jerome Larkin?” asked the Senator.

  “From what the cops told me he got away. He may have been wounded; they found blood, but that might be from my partner, Max.” I hitched my head toward the house where Max lay. Max looked at the senator and then at Clyde standing beside him and started licking himself.

  “And the gang members that attacked you?”

  “I wounded a couple; one’s in the hospital under police guard. The rest got away.”

  Marsh pursed his lips as if considering then nodded his head, looking every bit the Speaker of the House in Olympus Has Fallen. “Very well then. This whole thing turned out to be far more violent than I’d imagined. But the girl is safe and that’s all that really matters. I thank you for your service. The money has been wired to your account with a sizable bonus. You came through far more quickly than I thought possible. Your reputation is justified and that is a rare thing these days.”

  And just like that, he was back to the nice Morgan Freeman from Dolphin Tale, all smiles and grandfatherly. He put an arm around my shoulder and shook my hand again, and this time it was different, this time it was a real handshake, and right then I might have voted for him myself. He had that kind of charisma.

  “Thank you, Mr. Mason. Come visit me sometime, either in Washington or Chicago. I can never repay the favor you have done for me here, but I will do what I can.” He let go my hand and turned for the SUV.

  “Oh,” he paused and turned back to me, “I’ll need that Secret Service badge back.” He laughed lightly and it made me feel sort of light and happy. Man this guy was good.

  I fished the thin leather wallet out of my back pocket and handed it to him.

  “Thanks,” I said. “It came in handy a couple of times.”

  He cocked his head as if considering. “Well, if you ever consider coming back to work for the government, you let me know.”

  “Thanks,” I said, “but that boat has sailed.”

  He nodded with that grandfatherly sincerity that Morgan Freeman can put on display so effortlessly. “I understand. And again, thank you.”

  He tipped his head to me; I tipped back and watched as the entire convoy loaded up and drove down my mountain.

  I looked at Max. He stared back as if to say I was a shmuck for falling for the senator’s charismatic charm.

  “Come on,” I said out loud, “he’s a nice guy.”

  Max’s left ear twitched.

  “You saw him, you heard him.”

  Max just stared.

  “Didn’t you see that smile? The way he tipped his head at me?”

  The ear twitch thing again.

  “You just don’t like Clyde,” I said.

  The stare.

  “Hey, It’s not like I’d vote for the guy or anything, I’m just saying he’s nice.”

  The twitch.

  “Classy.” I said.

  The stare.

  “Trustworthy,” I said.

  Max’s eyes narrowed.

  I reached into my front pocket and took out the shiny Secret Service badge. I’d traded it with one of my old PI badges.

  “Okay,” I said, “maybe not trustworthy.”

  Max didn’t grin, he didn’t bark. But his eyes were no longer narrowed and the twitch stopped.

  Baby steps.

  20

  Jerome alternately rang the bell and knocked for a good five minutes before breaking in. The sun still lit the sky overhead, and a giant, bloody black man, too long in front of a house in this neighborhood, was sure to draw attention. He smashed out one of the little side windows next to the front door with the butt of his gun and reached in and undid the two thumb latches. The realtor combination lockbox affixed to the doorknob would hold a key of course, but Jerome knew nothing about defeating a combination lock and so he took the chance on the noise.

  The house was nice and clean, staged for sale, and there was always the chance the family might be at church instead of having vacated. But the fridge held only a couple of items and the cabinets were mostly bare, so he thought it might be safe for the time being.

  Stripping off his tattered shirt in the master bedroom, he gingerly fingered the torn flesh of his forearms and wrists. Fresh blood seeped and ran into the sink. The dog had really done a number on him, and so fast. His stomach had only sustained a few scrapes, but his arms were in bad shape. He let the water run through the wounds and had to clench his teeth to keep from crying out. Still, tears leaked from his eyes and his whole frame shook and trembled. He ripped up the bed sheets and used them as bandages, a difficult task with his trembling and palsied fingers. He used his teeth to tighten them down, then threw up in the toilet before collapsing on the bed, exhausted and weak.

  When he closed his eyes, he saw the white man carrying Clair from the car, Clair crying and screaming for her daddy to save her. And then he did cry, hard and long, and it had nothing to do with the pain from his wounds.

  Clair was gone… she was gone. The white man had her. But why and for who? Was he a cop? He wasn’t a Blood, that much Jerome knew. Would he hurt her? If he was a cop, or working for the cops, then he wouldn’t, but if he had anything to do with the Bloods, she was as good as dead. Only the Bloods had tried to kill the white man too, so no, he wasn’t with them.

  Jerome wiped at his eyes. That left the cops. The white man had to be a cop, or somehow connected with them, and that meant she was at least safe. That they wouldn’t hurt her, and that maybe he could find her. Get her back.

  Thinking, except in fast tactical situations, was hard for Jerome and it made his head hurt, but he had to figure out a way to get her back. He would do anything, kill anyone standing in his way.

  In his mind he kept seeing Clair crying for him as she fell asleep, with her pudgy thumb stuck in her mouth and her little fingers resting on his cheek.

  He wanted to crush the tough little white man and his dog for taking her, but he didn’t ev
en know who he was. He forced himself to go back to the police. She would be there, at the police station. He’d seen the cop cars as they drove up, even while shooting at the gangsters and trying not to get shot. He saw they were Aurora Police cars and knew their main station sat near Alameda and Chambers.

  Jerome made up his mind right then. He would go there and get her. He would walk right through the front doors and shoot until they gave her to him. The tactical part of his brain told him this was wrong, that he would fail, that they would kill him before he made it past the front doors, but the rest of him, the part that saw her sweet smile and reaching arms pushed him on.

  But how? He’d had to leave his bag, money, and all but the one gun with only four bullets left. He’d need a car, money, weapons.

  It didn’t matter… nothing mattered… nothing but Clair.

  Jerome sat up, saw that his makeshift bandages were holding better than expected, and slowly flexed his fingers. They worked… they hurt… but they worked. The dog’s teeth hadn’t severed any vital tendons or ligaments as he’d at first feared. He’d have some nasty scars, but scars, like anything but Clair, didn’t matter.

  The room spun for a few seconds before stabilizing and coming back into clear focus. The nausea still wobbled through his stomach and bowels, but he thought he’d be okay, that he wouldn’t throw up again, at least for now.

  A cursory search of the house turned up little. No weapons, no money, no clothes. Just seven stale crackers, an unopened can of diet pop in the refrigerator, and a steak knife that he found on top of the furnace downstairs in the basement. He took it. As a weapon it wasn’t much, but better than nothing.