by Toby Barlow
And nobody else seems to notice.
He still feeds tacos to his three dogs.
He has moved them over to the adoption pens now.
But nobody takes them, people love the new mutts too much.
These new ones all play like dancers in a chorus line,
bouncing with bubbly skips
whenever prospective owners come strolling through
then slumping back down once their visitors depart.
One of the new guys is named Frio.
Anthony trains him for two days.
The kid won’t answer any questions, not even
“You ever been to Yucca’s? For Mexican food?
Habla Espanol?” Nothing. Blank.
“Aw forget it, we don’t have time.”
Coming back from the firing range,
Anthony swings by the house to pick up a bag lunch
she made for him.
She doesn’t notice and
Anthony doesn’t catch it either as
the kid stares at her walking down the path,
watching her like he’s known her
his whole damned life.
The Frio kid hits his marks, finishes his training
and moves on into the ranks.
Anthony looks in the mirror and
wonders if these new guys hate him
like he hated Calley.
He remembers the kerosene
of Calley’s breath, and as he mulls it over
his mind jumps track, slipping to the easy river
where his woman’s love for him resides
and just like that, he feels her kisses
warming the inside of everything
and smiles.
Yeah, Calley was an asshole.
His insecurity dissolves like smoke in the wind,
because if a woman that good can love him that right
well then…
That’s what love does.
It chases the dragons away
before their claws can sink in.
V
Peabody the cop drives toward the city kennel,
his gut unsettled and his mind unable to sort this out.
Venable, the fat Polynesian, and the two other goons
popping up at his place the other night
still doesn’t sit right.
Nothing was said, no threat, nothing but charm
which made his wife even hard to deal with later.
But when she went inside for more iced tea, Venable pushed the point.
Peabody shrugged, kept it vague as to
whether he would keep watching
the blondes’ house.
He told Venable a little of what he’d learned,
but not too much.
Acting without any real calculation,
just keeping it all close.
“We’re interested in everything,” said Venable,
“the girl, the dogs,
even this one-eyed man you describe. Everything.
But most of all, whom they all might be working for.”
Peabody didn’t say anything, waited for whatever came next.
“I’ll gladly pay you for as long as it takes.”
Peabody sighed, said, wow, well, you know, maybe.
Money is money and “Why do you want them, anyway?”
“Would it surprise you to learn that they are criminals?”
“I can’t say it would surprise me, no.”
“Would it surprise you to know that they are killers?”
“Really, who did they kill?”
Venable thought for a moment before answering,
“I’m afraid that falls outside your jurisdiction.”
“Well.” Peabody smiled. “At least we don’t have any secrets.”
Peabody’s been meaning to go back to the pound
to see the dogcatcher for weeks now.
Ever since they heard about the guy showing up in the cages.
That guy skipped bail and disappeared.
So no rush there.
But Peabody still wants to see the dogcatcher,
since this all started the day they met
at the house where a dog’s footprints
crossed the floor of a bloody room.
Everything in some way
seems to lead back to that day.
Worth some time,
worth some questions.
He pulls into the lot, turns off the ignition,
walks through the entrance and sees Anthony.
Anthony recognizes him,
gives him the “one sec” as he walks toward a phone
that lies off the hook.
Then Peabody the cop watches
as it all begins
to go
seriously
wrong.
VI
She had been thinking of Seattle again
or Spokane or just someplace north
of LA, maybe up past San Francisco
where she could travel with him
through redwood and the fog
listening to old Al Green, her fingers
intertwined with Anthony’s
as they took the curves and vanished softly
into the white haze of the coastline.
On the rare clear evenings
they could watch the sun retire
tucking itself down behind the sea.
And there on the beach,
lying with their bodies together
they would warm each other through the night
until those first fingers of dawn
came to tap them awake from their sleepy embrace.
These futures surge through her mind, then hit a wall,
as the questions rise to slow her dreaming down.
What if she did go?
She wonders about Lark.
Could she trust him? Would he follow her?
Would she be safe?
Probably? Maybe? Is that enough?
These beasts track not just with the scent, but with the law too.
She would need to make a new identity, but so what?
Is she even safe now? From the pack? From Lark?
That thought trips her up.
She’s trusted him since before she made the first change.
But now she’s something else.
And as much as she hates to admit it
every time the phone rings she fears
it’s her past calling her back again.
She wants to hide her blood and the beast within.
She wants all the demons to sleep.
And Lark is the greatest monster of them all.
The father and the guide, the priest and the hunter.
Love him as she does, she knows
Lark stands on the road between her and the future.
He bares his teeth in her dreams.
All she wants is Anthony.
She tells herself
just talk to Lark.
She tells herself
it will all be okay.
Lark will understand,
she tells herself.
Just talk to Lark, talk to him.
And she wonders
if Lark would be safe
in a room
with her now.
All she wants is Anthony.
“Yeah, hi, Lark, I don’t know
if you’re picking up messages
but it is important. I need to see you
this afternoon. If it’s possible.
Let me know.
please.” She pauses,
impatiently wiping a tear.
“…Thank you.”
She moves through the day,
the plan is a good one, a smart one.
Her ideas spin as the day unwinds
thinking of what she’ll tell Anthony.
She’s sure he’ll go with her.
So sure. He’s easy and true,
just like h
e promised.
It’s all she needs.
She thinks of the first time they kissed.
How she met him that afternoon again
at the bar and he talked on, rambling over a beer
about three dogs he wouldn’t put down.
He said he didn’t know why.
He mentioned a dog he had when he was a kid.
He talked nervously, like a man who didn’t want
to notice everything he was giving away.
His voice kept going
and she was looking into his eyes thinking about
his unspoken bond with those three dogs.
When he walked outside, they paused by the car.
She let him stand a little close
and smiled at a small joke, taking his jacket between
her thumb and finger. A small gesture
that opened the door.
Just like that.
As she stared at the ceiling that first night
her body softly falling back into itself,
she thought of how we dream of journeying
on spaceships to other universes, other worlds,
but really, for the forever,
we’re stuck here on the dirt and
the only time we will travel anywhere truly unknowable
is when we slip into the skin of another,
venturing into their mysteries,
always hoping for
a safe landing.
The doorbell rings.
She swings by the bureau on the way to the door,
a small precaution she tends to follow these days.
Slipping the gun Anthony bought for her
out of the top drawer
she tucks it into her waistband.
The cold of the metal
chills the small of her back.
She looks through the eyehole
and sees a UPS delivery girl.
“Who is it?” she asks.
“Delivery,” answers the voice.
“For who?”
“Anthony Silvo.”
“You can just leave it there, thanks.” Her pulse is up.
“I gotta get a signature,” says the delivery girl through the door.
How do you measure something like this?
It could be the truth, it could be a lie.
The moment would be so small and almost believable
if she didn’t smell the dog.
Closing her eyes and breathing deep, concentrating,
she can now hear
the dog’s soft breath just outside the door.
She measures this moment, weighing the fear and
the quickening sense of desperation,
knowing that no matter what happens next,
so much is ending.
She times her moves fast, sliding the gun out,
squinting deep for the moment that is ripe to explode
one, two, three—
she pulls open the door full and fast
falling back as sure enough
the dog lunges in fierce and snarling.
So first
she fires one very loud bullet directly
into the dog’s skull
sending him down empty and sudden.
Then, as the delivery girl leaps
over, screaming shrill,
she jams the pistol
into that open shout of a mouth
and pulls the trigger again.
Even before that echo ends
she’s closed the front door with her foot and now sits
bloodied on the floor, sobbing.
That was just seven seconds.
So fast in fact that the dead things beside her
still twitch and rasp
in the thick expanding pool
of warm dark liquid.
She drags the dog into the garage.
Then the delivery girl.
She kneels by their sides.
She looks at the clock.
It’s early. But there’s so much to do.
Her racing pulse won’t slow down.
She looks around for garbage bags and a butcher knife
before deciding that
devouring it all is probably the best way.
But first she’d better wash up the mess.
An hour later and the halls are scrubbed clean.
The ruined rug is stashed in the trunk of the car.
In the garage, she gets on her haunches next to the corpse
preparing to change into the kind of beast
that can do this sort of thing.
But then a dark voice cuts in
from behind her
“Hi,” he says. “The door was unlocked.”
She freezes, still on her hands and knees,
hearing only
Lark.
Exhaustion and desperation are
released with every sob.
Lark whispers in her ear.
She clenches his shirt in her fist,
wipes the tears from her face, and nods.
They get a box of matches down from over the stove
and light the papers in the recycling bin
along with the rose print curtains.
As the fire catches and smoke
begins to slip out the windows
they leave the house, walking
across the green lawn
of the quiet neighborhood.
They drive away,
turning the corner
just as the flames meet the fumes
of the open gas cans
in the garage.
VII
Baron leaves Potter’s law offices.
It’s been a small risk seeing Potter again.
They had worked together
back in Lark’s pack.
But Potter had shown no signs of concern
at any of the changes. All Potter saw
was a big check after a long drought.
“Missed you boys,” said Potter.
“We’re back,” said Baron.
Potter eyed his notes. “This is a funny sort of cause for you.”
“It’s not like I’m asking you to do it pro bono.”
“No,” said the lawyer, “but that’s normally what something like this would be.”
“Just stop the killing.”
Baron’s been finding his way, pushing his dogs
to fit his vision. It’s not Ray’s method, no more
moving the pack from bunker to bunker,
they can stay in one place.
Things can be simpler, less brutal.
It’s not Lark’s path either, there’s no office for the pack,
no tailored shirts or pressed suits.
Baron’s way is something faster, less calculating.
And he likes to think it’s working.
On his way to the car, Baron calls Sasha.
She was sent to find the girl.
Should have been simple. No sweat. But still,
Sasha’s not answering her phone.
Baron stops by the advertising agency on the way.
It’s a quick meeting.
They think he’s a philanthropist soft on mutts.
They show him the “Adopt Today” posters.
They show him the “Bring Benji Home” print.
They show him the “Better Than a Boyfriend” TV script.
He kills “Benji” and approves the rest,
signs a check to spill the work all over LA.
This town is about to go
absolutely crazy for canines.
Back in the car, he calls Sasha again.
No answer.
VIII
Ignoring every stoplight and fast as the car will carry them,
Peabody drives a shaking sweating Anthony
to what was his home.
Before Peabody even brings the car to a stop
Anthony is out of the passenger seat,
weeping,
running,
cops grab him at the line, holding him back
as he stares down at the blackened body
they’re pulling out of the still smoldering house.
The face gone and the body still warm
but warm the wrong way and
far beyond recognition.
A woman, they say.
Lit fire to the house and shot herself, they say.
Anothony is shouting and on his knees.
Horrible tragedy, they say.
One of our grief counselors is coming.
He is on his side, already covered in cinders.
Nightmare for you.
She killed your dog too.
Stopping suddenly, Anthony looks up.
“What do you fucking mean ‘dog’?”
Peabody looks up, catching it too,
just as sharp
but hearing it different.
IX
Baron paces the warehouse, impatient.
He’s heard about the fire now, some of the pack
cruised by on his orders.
He doesn’t like the sound of it.
If Sasha got the girl, she’d be back by now.
But he doesn’t want to face that.
And if that girl got away, she’s smart
so she’ll run far.
If Sasha is lost, Baron’s close to lost too
but he tightens his chest and stands up straight.
Love may have brought him here
but now power and the plan have their own demands.
Damn. He should have sent five, not two.
Even three would have been better.
He wasn’t thinking straight.
He’s been running dogs through the kennel
for two weeks, everyone is stretched thin.
He barks and sends four dogs out,
look for Sasha, look for the girl,
go, now.
Damn where is she?
Damn.
Knowing someone isn’t coming back
doesn’t mean you ever stop waiting.
X
Outside the station
Peabody dials his cell in the car,
while inside Anthony completes
the paperwork that always accompanies tragedy.
The lisp picks up.
“Hello, Detective Peabody.”
“Listen,” says Peabody. “I don’t have time to fuck around.
There was a fire. Someone died today.”
At the other end of the line
there is a sigh. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Whatever.” Peabody is impatient.
“It was at a dogcatcher’s house,