He found the key and the remote device by the telephone, where he'd left them. He rushed to the cage, the electronic wand at his ready, and frantically went about unlocking the wire door. He was so excited that he forced the key, and damned near broke it off. He tried again and the lock came unsprung. He kept one hand firmly against the cage, to hold the dog inside, and readied the shock collar's wand.
How was he going to do this? He needed to get the dog out, the money out, and then the dog back inside. He hit the button, just to make sure it worked. The collar buzzed. The dog looked terrified in there. It looked mad as all hell. /istay," Maybeck commanded. He showed the dog the remote device, believing this would serve as a warning. The dog growled.
Maybeck swung open the cage door.
The dog sprang out of the cage like a thirty-pound bullet.
Maybeck triggered the wand. He heard the collar buzz, but the dog was on him now and had him by the forearm. Maybeck let out a roar and hit the button again. Again the collar buzzed, but there was clearly no shock delivered. As a training device, the remote could be set either way-to deliver just the sound of the warning buzz or the sound and the shock. The Doc never set the remote to buzz the collar without delivering a shock, because the dogs weren't that well trained.
But he had this time. Maybeck knew how a pit bull worked its opponent: fast and dirty. It went for your arm if you were holding an object. Once that object was dropped, it went for your heels and calves. Once you were down, it went for your throat.
it was for this reason he seized the dog by the collar and pulled, struggling with his wounded hand to maintain hold of the wand. The dog's jaws were gripped onto him like a bear trap. How many times had he witnessed this death grip in their backwoods contests? How many times had he wondered what it must feel like to have one of these things locked onto you? And now he knew! If he let go of the wand, if he dropped it, would he have time to get out that door? If not, then what were his choices?
The teeth were through the muscle now and into the bone and nerve, like two saw blades heading for each other. On his knees, Maybeck continued pulling against that collar, trying to choke his adversary to pull him off, but it was useless. The thing was like a pain machine. Instinctively, Maybeck sounded the collar repeatedly, until his fingers stopped working. The remote tumbled out of his hand.
Before the wand reached the floor, the pit bull was already going at the rest of him. It got a good piece of his front thigh. Maybeck deflected its next attempt and made it to his feet. He completed two full steps before the dog severed his right Achilles tendon. Maybeck cried out again, but fear stole his voice. No sound came out. His right foot flopped uselessly, like it didn't belong there. The leg dragged behind him. He stumbled, but bounced back up; if he went down, it was all over.
He danced his way toward the window, trying to give his adversary a moving target, but the dog's reactions were ten times as quick as his. When he swung his leg left, he felt a bite. The calf muscle. Kicked it right. Calf muscle again. He fell to his knees. The fucking dog bit him right square in the ass and held on tight.
He rolled hard to his left, right on top of the thing. It yipped and briefly let go. Free! Maybeck used every last bit of his strength to come to his feet. He aimed his head low and dove, throwing himself out of the second-story window. Nothing out there but sidewalk, parked cars, and pavement.
The last thing he heard was breaking glass.
It Lou Boldt was watching Maybeck's apartment when the guy came out of the window doing a swan dive. He was followed by some kind of dog. It seemed to him to happen in a kind of eerie slow motion. The guy was waving his arms as if it might slow him down. Good luck. He looked bloody, he looked bad, even before he hit the fire hydrant.
Boldt didn't have the kind of reactions necessary for field work; he didn't have any business being out here on surveillance. He sprung open his car door, pivoted, and was going for his gun when it occurred to him that maybe it was a bomb that had made the guy jump. Maybe the place was about to blow.
Boldt ducked behind the shield of his car door, waited a beat, and trained the gun on the window from which Maybeck had just exited. Maybe someone had thrown him out. That was more how it looked, now that he thought about it. In situations like this there was no explaining the way he thought. Fragments of ideas attached themselves and then let go, replaced by another consideration. This by another and another. He considered his own self-defense, he considered the welfare of the innocent people on the street around him. The dog flew out the window like a smart bomb. Straight down.
It It literally bounced off the sidewalk, came to its feet-a front leg bent sideways and broken-and attacked Maybeck. It was like nothing Boldt had ever seen.
There were shrieks of hysteria. There was the sickening sound of the dog at work, of car motors nearby, and a motorcycle in the distance-Boldt was … aware of all the sounds. There was this nauseating moment when an active imagination couldn't help but fill in what was happening to the fallen man, and a terrifying moment as Boldt raced across the street, weapon drawn, debating whether or not to shoot the dog.
The decision was made for him: As he cleared a parked car, the dog looked over-actually seemed to focus on the gun, not him-and charged.
He came on low to the ground, and he came fast, as if that broken leg attached to him was nothing but a prosthesis.
Boldt fired once and missed. Fired again and missed. The dog closed the distance faster than Boldt could calculate his next shot. He fired again wildly, missed again. There was blood on its whiskers-he could see that clearly-and a spirited determination in its eyes that pushed Boldt to turn and run.
But Boldt held his ground, his training kicking in. A man with a gun could beat an attacking dog, but not two dogs. The rule was: Two, screw; one, use the gun.
Boldt steadied his weapon-waiting, this time; waiting-preparing to fire.
The blast hit the dog sideways. One minute the dog was there, the next gone-just like that. Dead under the car, if the trail of blood was any indication.
Boldt had not fired. The boy was no more than seventeen, Asian, wearing a winter overcoat. The brief look Boldt got of the gun convinced him it was a large-bore.45 semiautomatic-the gangs called them Cop Killers after a hit record. The gun was there, then it wasn't-just like the dog. The boy stuffed it out of sight and went off at a run.
Boldt knew the kids in gangs carried guns sometimes serious guns but it had never occurred to him that they knew how to shoot at anything but each other. Hitting that dog, even from the side, was no easy shot. But maybe-just maybe-the kid had saved Boldt's life. "Hey!" Boldt called after him; he wasn't sure whether he intended to arrest him or thank him. The kid's pace increased. Boldt ran half a block on instinct but stopped himself when his thoughts caught up to him. What was he going to do, shoot the kid?
A siren wailed in the distance. Someone had called the cops. I am a cop, Boldt thought. Then he took a look at Maybeck. He didn't feel anything. No nausea, no remorse, no sympathy. Nothing like he had felt at the sight of Connie Chi's body. His brain registered that this too was probably a homicide, though it would be one hell of a kill to prove. This mess before him was also a victim. But justice had been served here, at least in the eyes of Lou Boldt, and nobody was going to make him feel wrong about feeling good, Nobody. It was later now. Maybe forty-five minutes had passed, he wasn't sure; he had lost track. It was dark. The neighborhood wasn't interested in the killing any longer. He'd been upstairs, had taken some notes. He had bought a disposable camera at a local Quik-Mart and had tried to photograph the scene himself because SPD was so focused on the Safeway killing that only a single patrol car and a body bag team from Dixie's office arrived to help out. In this light, he wasn't likely to get any decent shots.
He took a picture of the fire hydrant. It was a gravestone now as well. How appropriate that Maybeck had hit a fire hydrant, Boldt thought, taking one last shot. Where this guy was going maybe he was there already-he'd be
putting out fires day and nigt for the rest of eternity.
His pager rang. He hoped it was Daphne with news of Pamela Chase or Tegg. He had a hell of a time shutting the thing off, but he finally hit the right button.
He called in on his cellular. The message was from Lamoia, who had obviously abandoned the Safeway investigation at some point; Lamoia had a way of getting away with things like that. He was slippery without being sleazy. Nothing from Daphne. That worried him.
The message was read to him by the dispatcher: "Administration building, 8 P.m." Boldt checked his watch: 7:45. He jumped in his car and took off. The body bag boys were screaming something at him, but Lou Boldt wasn't listening. Donnie Maybeck was yesterday's news.
Dressed in a navy blue cashmere blazer, a white pinpoint Oxford and a multi-colored Italian silk tie, Elden Tegg warmed with the sight of his guests enjoying themselves. He loved the role of host, of provider, although secretly, in his innermost thoughts, he despised the pretensions of these people. Tonight was Peggy's opera dinner. Five of their twelve guests were voting members of the opera board, including its chairman, Byron Endicott. Despite Maybeck's earlier problem with the police and his own discovery that the county police had dug up Anna Ferragot's grave, Tegg attended his wife's dinner, clinging to a plan set in motion earlier in the day with a call to Vancouver. The harvest would take place tomorrow morning as planned. Tegg would deliver the organ himself. He had a noon flight booked out of Vancouver for Rio via Mexico City. His life as a veterinarian was finished; when he hit Rio he would be carrying Wong Kei's money and would have access to several accounts here in the city. If he worked quickly enough, that money could be electronically transferred before the little people had figured out how to even spell his name. That money was his ticket to buying his way in as a transplant surgeon. A new life.
A part of him recognized this as delusion. Fantasy. It all seemed too simple. It all worked out too easily, too perfectly. And yet he convinced himself that people did this kind of thing all the time. He read about them in the paper: Executives vanishing with the entire corporate pension; secretaries disappearing with their bosses; housewives cleaning out the joint accounts, never to be heard of again. All it took was a little courage, a little planning, and a lot of quick decisions.
He was focused on the upcoming harvest and his own escape. All he had to do was maintain a certain pretense of normality for the next few hours-fool everyone-and by tomorrow noon he would be gone, off to his new life. This was the way it was done, wasn't it? "The way what is done?" the woman in front of him asked.
Had he said something to her? Was he thinking aloud, speaking his thoughts for everyone to hear? "Sorry?" he asked, trying to remember her name, distracted by a piece of mushroom at the corner of her lips.
"What's that?" she asked, her napkin finding the mushroom.
Tegg's eyes found her breasts. Right out there for everyone to enjoy. There was more silicon in this room than hors d'oeuvres.
More tucks than in a Scottish kilt.
His wife signaled him so that this guest could see. What a lifesaver! He excused himself and dashed off to her side.
Peggy looked radiant, though somewhat awkward, in a Japanese tea dress cut so tightly around her hips and knees that she moved from guest to guest like a hobbled horse. Most of the other women in the room fell noticeably short of Peggy's high standards for presentation, though not for lack of trying.
His wife mouse-stepped past him and whispered, "T.J.'s having trouble with the company, but he won a Pro-Am in Scottsdale last month." She scooted over to the champagne and had a word with one of their white-gloved servers.
Tegg wasn't up to this pandering and politicking. For years he and Peggy had worked so hard to acquire this kind of social acceptance, but now that it was here, especially at a time of such nerve-racking decisions and potentially catastrophic problems, it all seemed so fake to him. They had bought this acceptance, by throwing his harvesting money at the arts-ballet, summer dance, the opera-by being seen. By blending in.
Ridiculous nonsense. What would Peggy say if she found out her substantial contributions to the arts came not from his work at the clinic but from the harvested kidneys of degenerate runaways? "Wonderful to see you again, Elden. How's the practice?" Thomas-T.J.-Harper owned the second-largest retail department store in the Northwest. He had white hair, white teeth, and wore a tailored suit from London. "Keeps me in stitches," Tegg answered, waiting for the rag merchant to see the humor. The man responded with a slight grin, though it seemed forced. Everything was forced at occasions like these. Tegg wasn't sure what to say next. He drank some champagne. "You did a fine job on Ginger's leg," Harper said.
Ginger was the Harper's terrier mutt. Tegg felt his face flush.
These kinds of comments made him feel like cheap labor, a gardener, or a house cleaner. A little person. Tegg felt he was groveling, and he hated himself for it. He forced kind words from his mouth, for Peggy's sake. "I understand your golf game is in top form. Congratulations on Scottsdale."
The man glowed. "We ought to go out sometime."
"I'd love to," Tegg replied. He wasn't much for golf, although they belonged to the club-more for appearances and for Peggy's sake than his own. Tegg excused himself and headed straight for Tina Endicott, whose eyes betrayed a restlessness that Tegg interpreted as sexual urgency. Byron Endicott had incited a great deal of envy in the hearts of the males in his social set by marrying this twenty-eight-yearold stunner, forty-odd years his junior. It was anybody's guess as to how long it would hold together, how much loose play Byron was willing to tolerate. Endicott had asked for a telephone twenty minutes earlier and had yet to reemerge from the study. Tina had legs that didn't stop and lush auburn hair.
As he was revving himself up for his conversation with Tina, his wife again caught his eye and offered a glance at the diminishing caviar that told him his guests had gone through twenty-five hundred dollars worth of fish eggs in half the allotted time. Message received: The soup course would be advanced and served any minute. He and Peggy could work a party the same way he and Pamela could handle a harvest.
It just wasn't as much fun. Tegg nodded toward the study indicating he would fetch Byron Endicott. Peggy acknowledged and tottered off toward the kitchen.
As Tegg crossed the foyer, a waitress answered the front door.
Facing him, her features twisted in anxiety and her swollen limbs trembling with trepidation, stood the piggish Pamela Chase. What was she doing here? More problems? Tegg felt a tic coming on and reacted quickly as his shoulder and head attempted to meet, by hurrying to greet Pamela. The young waitress flinched with his tic and glanced quickly away, as if she hadn't seen it. He saw a fear in Pamela's squinty little eyes that he didn't care for one bit, "Pamela? Problems?" he questioned. "It's important," she said, maintaining her cool surprisingly well, glancing sideways at the uniformed caterer. "An emergency at the office." The electricity in her eyes told him this required immediate action.
He motioned her toward the study, well aware he would have to evict Byron Endicott. If he didn't handle this carefully, rumors of a scandal would be started before the fish course.
As he ushered Pamela into his study, his mind sorting through possible explanations for her arrival-had Maybeck opened his little package? — he tried to see this young woman through the eyes of Byron Endicott. He knew damn well the kinds of things that would be said about them if he failed to handle this correctly. But he didn't care. Let them talk. By tomorrow, a new life.
Control, he reminded himself, feeling another tic coming on but refusing it, as if slamming a door in its face. Unknowingly, he slammed the door to his study. It made a tremendous crash. Pamela jumped. old man Endicott mumbled into the receiver and hung up. He rose to his feet and came around the desk with a suspicious, irreverent expression. "And who is this lovely creature?" he asked Pamela.
Tegg experienced a flash of embarrassment. He said, "This is my surgical assistant, Pame
la Chase. Byron Endicott," he said, indicating the old man. "I'm afraid something has come up at the clinic, Byron. We'll need the study for a moment if you don't mind."
"Enchanted," Endicott said, taking her hand. "Not Douglas Chase's little girl?" "Yes " Pamela said, looking to Tegg nervously. "An such a lovely young woman!" he lied. "Last time I saw you … But just look at you!" he said, leering artificially.
She blushed. Endicott grinned at Tegg. "I'll leave you two," he said, his implication obvious. "But you must introduce her around, Elden, or I'll raise a stink. I promise." To Pamela he said, "We are all very close friends of your parents. You really must say hello before you leave."
Endicott smirked, gave Tegg a teasing, nasty look, and let himself out of the room. "I'm sorry for coming," she said. "Not to worry," Tegg replied. "You look awful. What is it?" He closed the door tightly, a dozen thoughts crowding his brain. "The police came to my apartment asking about my trips to Vancouver."
At first he couldn't be sure he had heard her right, but from her grave expression, from the constriction in his own chest, he knew that indeed he had. He felt the betraying savagery of two. tics overcome him-like two sharp bolts of electricity. He fell into a chair. His blood banged so loudly in his ears he couldn't hear what she said next. First Maybeck, now Pamela. Too close. Much too close. There was no time to waste. He began plotting immediately. "They know about everything," she said. "They offered me a deal if I gave them you."
Had Maybeck talked? His attorney, Howard Chamberland, had assured him everything was fine-Maybeck had been released on a misdemeanor charge. His palms went clammy. Control! he reminded himself again, answering her perplexed and ghostly gaze with a squaring of his shoulders and a lifting of his chin. The police moved about as fast as languishing sea lions, certainly no match for his latest plans. No reason to panic. Evaluate the situation. Analyze. Indecision was anyone's biggest enemy. He had contingencies.
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