“They sniff things out of hidden places. Like at airports.”
“They detect bombs,” I said.
“And drugs,” Phil added flatly. “None of which ever mattered before. I mean, Barney’s a dog, who’s he gonna tell? I thought that was pretty funny until Nick came along. Then all of a sudden the joke was on me and it began to seem pretty damn serious.”
“So you killed him because you thought he knew your secret,” I said.
Phil set down the toolbox and turned around. He had a coil of rope in one hand and a roll of duct tape in the other. Even though it was warm inside the shed, I felt myself start to shiver.
“I killed him because I had to protect what was mine,” Phil said emphatically. “Nick thought he was so smart, talking to animals and finding out people’s secrets. Well, who looks smart now? Because I’m still here, and I’m still in charge. And thanks to me that dog trainer won’t ever be talking to anybody again.”
Chapter 25
The words themselves were chilling enough. But their effect was heightened by Phil’s triumphant tone. He wasn’t even sorry about what he’d done.
There was still one more thing I wanted to know. “What about Thor?” I asked. “How did you get past him?”
“Who?”
“Nick’s Rottweiler. When you were at Nick’s house that night, how come he didn’t come after you?”
“Because that dog trainer was a fool,” Phil said with a smirk. “That’s why. He made the big dog lie down and be quiet when I got there. Nick told him that I was a friend. And by the time he knew differently, it was too late.”
I swallowed heavily. If anything, Phil’s explanation had made me feel worse. When he started toward me, I sank back into the chair’s depths. “You don’t want to do this,” I told him.
Phil just laughed. “Says who? You? You don’t have a clue what I want or don’t want. Not that it matters now. I don’t have a choice anymore.”
“Of course you do,” I said quickly. “There are always choices.”
“Like what?”
“You could let me walk out of here. Things will go better for you if you do.”
Phil shook his head. “Sorry. That’s not going to happen.”
“Think about it. Isn’t your mother going to wonder what happened if I don’t come back? If I just disappear?”
I probably shouldn’t have encouraged him to give the matter some thought. Because now Phil appeared to do exactly that.
“After I’m done here, I’ll go move your car down the road somewhere,” he said after a minute. “My mother won’t even notice. I’ll tell her you left in a hurry because you were worried about Davey.”
After I’m done here. I didn’t even want to think about what that might entail.
“She won’t believe you,” I said.
“Sure she will. She believes everything I tell her. You’ll wait here until it gets dark,” Phil informed me. “And then I’ll move you too.”
Not if I could help it, I thought.
He stopped in front of the chair. “Stand up.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.” Phil leaned down, grabbed my arm, and pulled me to my feet. “Give me your phone.”
“I don’t have it with me.”
Phil shook his head. He looked annoyed. “You want me to go looking for it?”
I reached around and slipped the phone out of a back pocket. The damn thing was always ringing when I didn’t want to be disturbed. Now when I desperately needed a connection to the outside world, not even a peep. Reluctantly I handed it over.
“Now your car keys.” Phil beckoned with his fingers.
I dug them out of another pocket and dropped them into his palm.
“Where’s your purse?”
“In my car.”
“You really don’t want to mess with me,” Phil warned.
Or what? I wondered. How could things possibly be any worse?
“Go look for yourself,” I told him. “I didn’t need it for anything so I left it in the car. I thought this was a safe neighborhood.”
“Your mistake.” He chuckled under his breath. It wasn’t a pretty sound. “Hold out your hands.”
“What are you going to do?”
Phil uncoiled the rope. “What do you think?”
As long as we were talking, I still had a chance. Once Phil tied me up, I’d be completely under his control. I’d lose all possibility of escape. I couldn’t allow that to happen.
I tried to back up but the chair was right behind me. To my right was a stack of plastic containers. Left, toward the door, was where Phil stood. Wildly I looked around for a weapon.
I wanted something big and heavy. Something that would make me look formidable, fierce. And everywhere I looked I saw . . . nothing. I was surrounded by junk and none of it was even remotely useful.
As my gaze swung back toward Phil, it skimmed past the roach clip. Then stopped and returned. If I couldn’t find big and heavy, something small and sharp would have to do. I reached down and snatched it up.
“What are you going to do with that thing?” Phil asked incredulously. “Poke me?”
“If I have to.”
“Yeah, I’m scared now.”
He dropped the coil of rope to the floor at his feet. Then Phil looked up and took a step forward. His hand lifted and curled into a fist. I tried to duck to one side but I wasn’t nearly fast enough.
His fist flew toward me and connected with my jaw. My head snapped back. Pain exploded in a burst of light behind my eyes. It was white hot and all encompassing.
I fell backward into oblivion.
When I came to, I was half-sitting, half-lying, on the shed’s dirt floor. My back was propped against the wall and my hands, bound tightly together, rested in my lap. A length of rope connected them to my feet, which extended out in front of me and were tied as well. A wide strip of duct tape covered my mouth.
That realization immediately caused my muscles to clench in panic. All at once I felt as though I couldn’t breathe. Eyes wide and terrified, I inhaled sharply through my nose.
Even that sudden burst of oxygen wasn’t reassurance enough. On the edge of panic I began to struggle against the ropes. They tore at my skin but the knots that held the bonds in place didn’t budge. Rope burns formed quickly and that fresh throbbing finally halted my fruitless, frantic, endeavors. It brought me to my senses and made me stop and think.
But when I leaned my head back against the wall to consider my next move, a spasm of pain radiated up the side of my jaw. Reflex made me twist my head and jerk away. Helpless, unable to cradle the area with my hand, I could do nothing but clench my teeth and endure.
My eyes began to water. Then my nose started to run. I shook my head to try and clear it. That was a huge mistake. My agonized gasp was swallowed by the tape that pulled at my lips. Once again I felt skin begin to tear.
Stop it! I told myself angrily. Stop and breathe and calm down. You have to do better than this.
Once again—this time gingerly—I leaned back and let the wall support my weight. I needed a good idea. I needed a plan of escape. Phil had said that he’d be back for me after dark. Through the narrow slits of space between the shed’s warped boards, I could still see light outside. Hopefully that meant I had time to maneuver.
First I had to get free. I looked around, scanning the shed’s interior. All I needed was a sharp edge, something keen enough to fray the thick rope so that I could pull the knots apart.
The tool chest was shoved back into the far corner, and I could see that its lid was tightly latched. Earlier, Phil had found a length of rope and a roll of duct tape inside the box. I wondered what other kind of resources it might contain.
Pushing myself away from the wall I began to move, inchworm-style, across the ground. Progress was slow and painful. Twice I unbalanced and tipped sideways, my head and shoulder smacking down hard onto the earthen floor. Each time, I lost precious minutes struggling to right myself again
.
Halfway there I paused, breathing heavily from the exertion. My chest felt tight. Blood pounded in my ears. I lifted my head and shoulders and stretched them back, aching for relief.
The movement lifted my gaze. Was it my imagination, I wondered, or was the light outside growing dimmer? Could the sun already be dropping in the sky? I had no idea how much time I might have lost while unconscious.
Sam was probably already looking for me, I realized. But there’d be no way for him to track me here. No doubt he’d try my cell phone first. He would be annoyed, but not alarmed when I didn’t pick up. No one was going to come riding to my rescue. And I had only myself to blame.
I sighed and started across the floor once again. My progress was still slow, but it was steady. Goal in sight and coming closer, I stopped thinking and just kept moving.
Ten long minutes later, I reached the toolbox. I twisted around, angling my body sideways so that my hands could reach the latch. My fingers fumbled briefly then popped the clasp open. The box’s lid lifted, then fell backward, revealing a cluttered upper tray. A Phillips head screwdriver, a pair of pliers, a small hammer, and an assortment of loose nails and screws were crammed in beside the roll of duct tape.
Nothing useful there.
Bracing both hands together, I slid my fingers under the handle, lifted the tray, and slid it sideways. My aim was awkward and off-kilter. The tray caught on the edge of the metal box and began to tip. Unable to move quickly, I couldn’t right it in time. Instead I could only watch as the tools slid off the lowered side and clattered into the dirt. The damage was already done, so I let the tray slip from my fingers too. It landed on top of the discarded gear.
Turning back to the tool chest, I had another look inside. In the semi-darkness, it took me a moment to realize what I was seeing. Then my eyes opened wide. My nose pinched inward as I sucked in a startled breath.
Gun.
Tucked away in the bottom of the box, the weapon was half-covered by an oily rag. Its barrel jutted out of one side. The butt of the handle was visible on the other. Just looking at it, I felt a frisson of fear snake its way down my spine.
I’ve got a gun, Phil had told me earlier. And here it was.
Let’s be clear about something. Everything I know about guns I learned from watching crime dramas on TV. Which is to say that I’m the last person in the world that should be ever handling one. I wanted no part of that thing.
Even so, I couldn’t help but stare. I was half-fascinated, half-afraid. The rational part of my brain knew that the gun couldn’t move—much less shoot—without human intervention, but it still seemed unwise to take my eyes off it. As if I thought there was a chance that the weapon might leap up of its own accord and fire.
It was a silly reaction on my part; I knew that even then. And it made me wonder if that punch to the jaw had addled my brain more than I’d realized. Annoyed by the possibility, I wrenched my gaze away and had a look at the rest of the container’s contents.
It was then, finally, that my luck began to change.
Nestled in beside a vise grip, a tape measure, and another hammer, was a box cutter. A ray of hope lent new energy to my movements as I reached inside the metal chest and pulled the tool out. The implement’s blade was retracted into its handle. Fingers scrambling, I found the catch and released it. There was a soft snick and a razor-sharp edge appeared.
After several false starts, I figured out how to angle the blade so that I could maneuver it back and forth for maximum effect. The knife edge sliced through the rope with swift, clean, efficiency. As soon as the first coil binding my wrists split and fell away, I was able to start wriggling one hand loose. With the first one free, the other soon followed.
Immediately I reached up and I peeled away one corner of the duct tape. Bracing myself, I gave the strip a sharp yank. A searing wash of pain brought fresh tears to my eyes as the tape tore free. The discomfort was well worth it, however, when I was finally able to open my mouth wide and draw in a deep, restorative, gulp of oxygen.
After that I made short work of the shackles around my ankles. Within minutes I was able to kick the ropes away. My legs ached as I straightened them and stood up, but it felt wonderful to be on my feet again—almost as if I was once more in control of my own destiny.
Carefully I retracted the blade and tucked the box cutter into my pocket. If the need for a weapon arose again, I had no intention of being caught empty-handed a second time. Then that decision led to another realization: I needed to do something with the gun.
Even unarmed, Phil was bigger and stronger than I was. And if he had the weapon in his hand, I’d have no means of defense at all. I had to make sure that he couldn’t find it quickly.
Once again, I surveyed my surroundings. My gaze went to the shabby upholstered chair with its ragged cushion. I strode over and lifted the seat pillow, looking for a seam in the back. Better yet, there was a zipper. When I slid it open, bits of decayed and crumbled foam rubber came tumbling out. Perfect.
Using just the tips of my forefinger and thumb, I pinched the rag around the gun. Then I lifted it out of the toolbox, carried it across the shed, and dropped it inside the cushion. With a smooth whir, the zipper closed the opening. Carefully I maneuvered the big pillow back down into place. When I was finished, the chair looked as though it had never been disturbed.
Quickly I gathered up the remaining tools and packed them back in the box. Then I shoved the chest itself back in the dark corner. One problem solved. Now I just had to figure out how to get myself out of the shed without being seen.
A discreet rattle of the shed’s door confirmed what I’d already suspected: the padlock was back in place. I was locked in.
Considering the shed’s state of disrepair, I could probably kick loose a couple of boards, then pry them apart to create an opening. But that seemed like entirely too noisy a proposition. I had no idea where Phil might be, and the last thing I wanted to do was alert him to the fact that I was not only awake, I was also untied.
Time was passing much too quickly. The sun was dropping lower in the sky. Pressing my eye to a narrow opening between boards, I saw that dusk’s long shadows were beginning to fall across the yard. The oncoming darkness would help hide my escape, but it also meant that Phil might return at any time. My window of opportunity was starting to close.
I looked around the shed once more, hoping for inspiration. I felt like I was overlooking something important, something that should have been obvious. I stared at the containers piled in the rear of the shed and frowned thoughtfully. Then all at once, it hit me. I knew what I’d been missing.
I’d forgotten about Barney, the dog who would eat anything. Two days earlier before we’d taken him to the vet, Barney had been digging around the shed. Basset Hounds are expert and enthusiastic tunnelers. If Barney had created an entry to get himself into the shed, then there was a way for me to get out. All I had to do was find it.
I strode over to the stacks of containers and began shoving them aside to reveal the base of the wall. At first I saw nothing. The packed earth floor I exposed looked as though it hadn’t been disturbed in years. I moved a second stack, and then a third. Aching, sweating profusely, I was beginning to question the wisdom of my idea when I lifted a container to set it aside, and finally found what I was looking for.
Loose dirt scattered across the floor drew my eyes to a Basset Hound sized hole that was just visible beneath the lower edge of the wall. Quickly I stooped down for a closer look. Bending low over the opening, I dipped my head into the opening and twisted around to look out. I could see the tops of trees and the darkening sky above them.
I could see freedom.
Luckily for me, Barney was a chunky dog. The tunnel he’d created for his own use was already pretty sizeable. Nevertheless, I dug at the crumbling edges and clawed at the loose dirt with my fingers to enlarge the hole’s rounded perimeter.
Within minutes, I had a space that looked like it might b
e big enough for me to fit through. I spun around, lay on my back, and shoved myself down into the opening headfirst. Pushing with my feet, pulling with my hands, I inched beneath the wooden boards.
Dirt tangled in my hair. A jagged rock tore at my shirt. My shoulders were too wide; they caught at the base of the hole. With a sharp jerk, I twisted them free and kept going. Back aching, feet scrambling on the loose debris, I shimmied and swiveled and maneuvered my way through the narrow tunnel.
Head tipped upward, all I could see was sky. That was more than enough to keep me moving.
By the time my hips reached the bottom of the passage, my arms and shoulders had cleared its upper edge on the outside. I leaned back and braced my elbows on the ground behind me, then gritted my teeth and pulled hard. With one last painful wrench, I dragged my legs through the opening. Their final release sent me sprawling backward.
Breathing heavily, covered in dirt, I collapsed in a heap on the grass. I’d gained my freedom but I felt utterly drained by my efforts. And I wasn’t in the clear yet. Not by a long shot.
Lying on the ground, partially hidden by the shed, I hoped I wasn’t visible from the back of the house. But I couldn’t afford to relax. I needed to gather my strength quickly. I had to be gone before Phil discovered that I was missing. And without knowing where he was, any direction I chose to run was going to be a calculated gamble.
With a quick look around, I opted for the route that offered the shortest distance from the shed to the sheltering woods at the perimeter of the yard. The span of open lawn I would have to cross was about twenty feet. I could sprint that far in a matter of seconds. Once I reached the woods, it wouldn’t be hard to hike to a neighboring house or out to the road. If I could just get to that dense band of trees, I’d have a chance—as long as Phil didn’t see me and come racing in pursuit.
It was now or never, I thought. I didn’t feel ready, but it didn’t matter. I still had to go. It was time to take my chances.
Slowly I levered myself up. Crouching, I hugged the side of the shed, hoping that its dark shadows would swallow me. Once I was out in the open, I would need to be moving fast. I was gathering my resources, getting ready to make a run for it, when the back door to the house flew open. It banged against the wall and as Phil came racing out.
Death of a Dog Whisperer (9780758284570) Page 24