Still, in a strange way, Dennis found Morley interesting, if not likeable. He was a bright and intriguing talker, and a wizard at chess. But when they played and Morley took a piece, he smirked over it in such a way as to make you feel he had actually vanquished an opponent.
The second and last time Dennis visited the house was the night before he left for the States. Morley had wiped him out in chess, and when finally Julie walked him to the door and called the dogs in from the yard so he could leave without being eaten, she whispered, “I can’t take him much longer.”
“I know,” he whispered back. “See you in about a week. And it’ll be all over.”
Dennis looked over his shoulder, back into the house, and there was Morley leaning against the fireplace mantle drinking a martini. He lifted the glass to Dennis as if in salute and smiled. Dennis smiled back, called goodbye to Morley and went out to his car feeling uneasy. The smile Morley had given him was exactly the same one he used when he took a chess piece from the board.
“Tonight. Valentine’s Day,” Morley sad, “that’s when you two planned to meet again, wasn’t it? In the parking lot of your hotel. That’s sweet. Really. Lovers planning to elope on Valentine’s Day. It has a sort of poetry, don’t you think?”
Morley held up a huge fist. “But what you met instead of your sweetheart was this. . . I beat a man to death with this once, lover boy. Enjoyed every second of it.”
Morley moved swiftly around the table, came to stand behind Dennis. He put his hands on the sides of Dennis’s face. “I could twist your head until your neck broke, lover boy. You believe that, don’t you? Don’t you? . . . Goddamnit, answer me.”
“Yes,” Dennis said, and the word was soft because his mouth was so dry.
“Good. That’s good. Let me show you something. Dennis.”
Morley picked up the chair from behind, carried Dennis effortlessly to the center of the room, then went back for the lantern and the other chair. He sat down across from Dennis and turned the wick of the lantern up. And even before Dennis saw the dog, he heard the growl.
The dog was straining at a large leather strap attached to the wall. He was muzzled and ragged looking. At his feet lay something red and white. “Chum,” Morley said. “The light bothers him. You remember ole Chum, don’t you? Julie’s favorite pet . . . Ah, but I see you’re wondering what that is at his feet. That sort of surprises me, Dennis. Really. As intimate as you and Julie were, I’d think you’d know her. Even without her makeup.”
Now that Dennis knew what he was looking at, he could make out the white bone of her skull, a dark patch of matted hair still clinging to it. He also recognized what was left of the dress she had been wearing. It was a red and white tennis dress, the one she wore when they played racquetball. It was mostly red now. Her entire body had been gnawed savagely.
“Murderer!” Dennis rocked savagely in the chair, tried to pull free of his bonds. After a moment of useless struggle and useless epithets, he leaned forward and let the lava hot gorge in his stomach pour out.
“Oh, Dennis,” Morley said. “That’s going to be stinky. Just awful. Will you look at your shoes? And calling me a murderer. Now, I ask you, Dennis, is that nice? I didn’t murder anyone. Chum did the dirty work. After four days without food and water he was ravenous and thirsty. Wouldn’t you be? And he was a little crazy too. I burned his feet some. Not as bad as I burned Julie’s, but enough to really piss him off. And I sprayed him with this.”
Morley reached into his coat pocket, produced an aerosol canister and waved it at Dennis.
“This was invented by some business associate of mine. It came out of some chemical warfare research I’m conducting. I’m in, shall we say . . . espionage? I work for the highest bidder. I have plans here for arms and chemical warfare . . . If it’s profitable and ugly, I’m involved. I’m a real stinker sometimes. I certainly am.”
Morley was still waving the canister, as if trying to hypnotize Dennis with it. “We came up with this to train attack dogs. We found we could spray a padded up man with this and the dogs would go bonkers. Rip the pads right off of him. Sometimes the only way to stop the beggers was to shoot them. It was a failure actually. It activated the dogs, but it drove them out of their minds and they couldn’t be controlled at all. And after a short time the odor faded, and the spray became quite the reverse. It
made it so the dogs couldn’t smell the spray at all. It made whoever was wearing it odorless. Still, I found a use for it. A very personal use.
“I let Chum go a few days without food and water while I worked on Julie . . . And she wasn’t tough at all, Dennis. Not even a little bit. Spilled her guts. Now that isn’t entirely correct. She didn’t spill her guts until later, when Chum got hold of her . . . Anyway, she told me what I wanted to know about you two, then I sprayed that delicate thirty-six, twenty-four, thirty-six figure of hers with this. And with Chum so hungry, and me having burned his feet and done some mean things to him, he was not in the best of humor when I gave him Julie.
“It was disgusting, Dennis. Really. I had to come back when it was over and shoot Chum with a tranquilizer dart, get him tied and muzzled for your arrival.”
Morley leaned forward, sprayed Dennis from head to foot with the canister. Dennis turned his head and closed his eyes, tried not to breathe the foul-smelling mist.
“He’s probably not all that hungry now,” Morley said, “but this will still drive him wild.”
Already Chum had gotten a whiff and was leaping at his leash. Foam burst from between his lips and frothed on the leather bands of the muzzle.
“I suppose it isn’t polite to lecture a captive audience, Dennis, but I thought you might like to know a few things about dogs. No need to take notes. You won’t be around for a quiz later.
“But here’s some things to tuck in the back of your mind while you and Chum are alone. Dogs are very strong, Dennis. Very. They look small compared to a man, even a big dog like a Doberman, but they can exert a lot of pressure with their bite. I’ve seen dogs like Chum here, especially when they’re exposed to my little spray, bite through the thicker end of a baseball bat. And they’re quick. You’d have a better chance against a black belt in karate than an attack dog.”
“Morley,” Dennis said softly, “you can’t do this.”
“I can’t?” Morley seemed to consider. “No, Dennis, I believe I can. I give myself permission. But hey, Dennis, I’m going to give you a chance. This is the good part now, so listen up. You’re a sporting man. Basketball. Racquetball. Chess. Another man’s woman. So you’ll like this. This will appeal to your sense of competition.
“Julie didn’t give Chum a fight at all. She just couldn’t believe her Chummy-whummy wanted to eat her . . . Just wouldn’t.
She held out her hand, trying to soothe the old boy, and he just bit it right off. Right off. Got half the palm and the fingers in one bite. That’s when I left them alone. I had a feeling her Chummy-whummy might start on me next, and I wouldn’t have wanted that. Oooohhh, those sharp teeth. Like nails being driven into you.”
“Morley, listen—”
“Shut up! You, Mr. Cock Dog and Basketball Star, just might have a chance. Not much of one, but I know you’ll fight. You’re not a quitter. I can tell by the way you play chess. You still lose, but you’re not a quitter. You hang in there to the bitter end.”
Morley took a deep breath, stood in the chair and hung the lantern on a low rafter. There was something else up there too. A coiled chain. Morley pulled it down and it clattered to the floor. At the sound of it Chum leaped against his leash and flecks of saliva flew from his mouth and Dennis felt them fall lightly on his hands and face.
Morley lifted one end of the chain toward Dennis. There was a thin, open collar attached to it.
“Once this closes it locks and can only be opened with this.” Morley reached into his coat pocket and produced a key, held it up briefly and returned it. “There’s a collar for Chum on the other end. Both are mad
e out of good leather over strong, steel chain. See what I’m getting at here, Dennis?”
Morley leaned forward and snapped the collar around Dennis’s neck.
“Oh, Dennis,” Morley said, standing back to observe his handiwork. “It’s you. Really. Great fit. And considering the day, just call this my valentine to you.”
“You bastard.”
“The biggest.”
Morley walked over to Chum. Chum lunged at him, but with the muzzle on he was relatively harmless. Still, his weight hit Morley’s legs, almost knocked him down.
Turning to smile at Dennis, Morley said, “See how strong he is? Add teeth to this little engine, some maneuverability . . . it’s going to be awesome, lover boy. Awesome.”
Morley slipped the collar under Chum’s leash and snapped it into place even as the dog rushed against him, nearly knocking him down. But it wasn’t Morley he wanted. He was trying to get at the smell. At Dennis. Dennis felt as if the fluids in his body were running out of drains at the bottoms of his feet.
“Was a little poontang worth this, Dennis? I certainly hope you think so. I hope it was the best goddamn piece you ever got. Sincerely, I do. Because death by dog is slow and ugly, lover boy. They like the throat and balls. So, you watch those spots, hear?”
“Morley, for God’s sake, don’t do this!”
Morley pulled a revolver from his coat pocket and walked over to Dennis. “I’m going to untie you now, stud. I want you to be real good, or I’ll shoot you. If I shoot you, I’ll gut shoot you, then let the dog loose. You got no chance that way. At least my way you’ve got a sporting chance—slim to none.”
He untied Dennis. “Now stand.”
Dennis stood in front of the chair, his knees quivering. He was looking at Chum and Chum was looking at him, tugging wildly at the leash, which looked ready to snap. Saliva was thick as shaving cream over the front of Chum’s muzzle.
Morley held the revolver on Dennis with one hand, and with the other he reproduced the aerosol can, sprayed Dennis once more. The stench made Dennis’s head float.
“Last word of advice,” Morley said. “He’ll go straight for you.”
“Morley . . .” Dennis started, but one look at the man and he knew he was better off saving the breath. He was going to need it.
Still holding the gun on Dennis, Morley eased behind the frantic dog, took hold of the muzzle with his free hand, and with a quick ripping motion, pulled it and the leash loose.
Chum sprang.
Dennis stepped back, caught the chair between his legs, lost his balance. Chum’s leap carried him into Dennis’s chest, and they both went flipping over the chair.
Chum kept rolling and the chain pulled across Dennis’s face as the dog tumbled to its full length; the jerk of the sixty pound weight against Dennis’s neck was like a blow.
The chain went slack, and Dennis knew Chum was coming. In that same instant he heard the door open, glimpsed a wedge of moonlight that came and went, heard the door lock and Morley laugh. Then he was rolling, coming to his knees, grabbing the chair, pointing it with the legs out.
And Chum hit him.
The chair took most of the impact, but it was like trying to block a cannonball. The chair’s bottom cracked and a leg broke off, went skidding across the floor.
The truncated triangle of the Doberman’s head appeared over the top of the chair, straining for Dennis’s face. Dennis rammed the chair forward.
Chum dipped under it, grabbed Dennis’s ankle. It was like stepping into a bear trap. The agony wasn’t just in the ankle, it was a sizzling web of electricity that surged through his entire body.
The dog’s teeth grated bone and Dennis let forth with a noise that was too wicked to be called a scream.
Blackness waved in and out, but the thought of Julie lying there in ragged display gave him new determination.
He brought the chair down on the dog’s head with all his might.
Chum let out a yelp, and the dark head darted away.
Dennis stayed low, pulled his wounded leg back, attempted to keep the chair in front of him. But Chum was a black bullet. He shot under again, hit Dennis in the same leg, higher up this time. The impact slid Dennis back a foot. Still, he felt a certain relief. The dog’s teeth had missed his balls by an inch.
Oddly there was little pain this time. It was as if he were being encased in dark amber; floating in limbo. Must be like this when a shark hits, he thought. So hard and fast and clean you don’t really feel it at first. Just go numb. Look down for your leg and it’s gone.
The dark amber was penetrated by a bright stab of pain. But Dennis was grateful for it. It meant that his brain was working again. He swiped at Chum with the chair, broke him loose.
Swiveling on one knee, Dennis again used the chair as a shield. Chum launched forward, trying to go under it, but Dennis was ready this time and brought it down hard against the floor.
Chum hit the bottom of the chair with such an impact, his head broke through the thin slats. Teeth snapped in Dennis’s face, but the dog couldn’t squirm its shoulders completely through the hole and reach him.
Dennis let go of the chair with one hand, slugged the dog in the side of the head with the other. Chum twisted and the chair came loose from Dennis. The dog bounded away, leaping and whipping its body left and right, finally tossing off the wooden collar.
Grabbing the slack of the chain, Dennis used both hands to whip it into the dog’s head, then swung it back and caught Chum’s feet, knocking him on his side with a loud splat.
Even as Chum was scrambling to his feet, out of the corner of his eye Dennis spotted the leg that had broken off the chair. It was lying less than three feet away.
Chum rushed and Dennis dove for the leg, grabbed it, twisted and swatted at the Doberman. On the floor as he was, he couldn’t get full power into the blow, but still it was a good one.
The dog skidded sideways on its belly and forelegs. When it came to a halt, it tried to raise its head, but didn’t completely make it.
Dennis scrambled forward on his hands and knees, chopped the chair leg down on the Doberman’s head with every ounce of muscle he could muster. The strike was solid, caught the dog right between the pointed ears and drove his head to the floor.
The dog whimpered. Dennis hit him again. And again.
Chum lay still.
Dennis took a deep breath, watched the dog and held his club cocked.
Chum did not move. He lay on the floor with his legs spread wide, his tongue sticking out of his foam-wet mouth.
Dennis was breathing heavily, and his wounded leg felt as if it were melting. He tried to stretch it out, alleviate some of the pain, but nothing helped.
He checked the dog again.
Still not moving.
He took hold of the chain and jerked it. Chum’s head came up and smacked back down against the floor.
The dog was dead. He could see that.
He relaxed, closed his eyes and tried to make the spinning stop. He knew he had to bandage his leg somehow, stop the flow of blood. But at the moment he could hardly think.
And Chum, who was not dead, but stunned, lifted his head, and at the same moment, Dennis opened his eyes.
The Doberman’s recovery was remarkable. It came off the floor with only the slightest wobble and jumped.
Dennis couldn’t get the chair leg around in time and it deflected off of the animal’s smooth back and slipped from his grasp.
He got Chum around the throat and tried to strangle him, but the collar was in the way and the dog’s neck was too damn big-
Trying to get better traction, Dennis got his bad leg under him and made an effort to stand, lifting the dog with him. He used his good leg to knee Chum sharply in the chest, but the injured leg wasn’t good for holding him up for another move like that. He kept trying to ease his thumbs beneath the collar and lock them behind the dog’s windpipe.
Chum’s hind legs were off the floor and scrambling, the toenails
tearing at Dennis’s lower abdomen and crotch.
Dennis couldn’t believe how strong the dog was. Sixty pounds of pure muscle and energy, made more deadly by Morley’s spray and tortures.
Sixty pounds of muscle.
The thought went through Dennis’s head again.
Sixty pounds.
The medicine ball he tossed at the gym weighed more. It didn’t have teeth, muscle and determination, but it did weigh more.
And as the realization soaked in, as his grip weakened and Chum’s rancid breath coated his face, Dennis lifted his eyes to a rafter just two feet above his head; considered there was another two feet of space between the rafter and the ceiling.
He quit trying to choke Chum, eased his left hand into the dog’s collar, and grabbed a hind leg with his other. Slowly, he lifted Chum over his head. Teeth snapped at Dennis’s hair, pulled loose a few tufts.
Dennis spread his legs slightly. The wounded leg wobbled like an old pipe cleaner, but held. The dog seemed to weigh a hundred pounds. Even the sweat on his face and the dense, hot air in the room seemed heavy.
Sixty pounds.
A basketball weighed little to nothing, and the dog weighed less than the huge medicine ball in the gym. Somewhere between the two was a happy medium; he had the strength to lift the dog, the skill to make the shot—the most important of his life.
Grunting, cocking the wiggling dog into position, he prepared to shoot. Chum nearly twisted free, but Dennis gritted his teeth, and with a wild scream, launched the dog into space.
Chum didn’t go up straight, but he did go up. He hit the top of the rafter with his back, tried to twist in the direction he had come, couldn’t, and went over the other side.
Dennis grabbed the chain as high up as possible, bracing as Chum’s weight came down on the other side so violently it pulled him onto his toes.
The dog made a gurgling sound, spun on the end of the chain, legs thrashing.
It took a long fifteen minutes for Chum to strangle.
When Chum was dead, Dennis tried to pull him over the rafter. The dog’s weight, Dennis’s bad leg, and his now aching arms and back, made it a greater chore than he had anticipated. Chum’s head kept slamming against the rafter. Dennis got hold of the unbroken chair, and used it as a stepladder. He managed the Doberman over, and Chum fell to the floor, his neck flopping loosely.
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