Dead and Doggone

by Dead

  man, mighty hunter with his picture in the paper."

  "You caught his fish," I said. "You probably shot his deer, too." Guides will do that, or all but. The guide hooks the fish, plays it, and when it's practically out of the water, the guy who's hired him —

  the sport, people say in Maine — takes the rod. Some sports don't even bother to do that. "Is that

  what burned you? You got tired of being kicked around? So you took him to where the bees were?

  And you carried his kit, right? You probably carried everything. All his gear. So when he got stung,

  you had the kit."

  "You know how much that tight bastard paid me?"

  "Not enough," I said. I had Rowdy hauled in close to me, but I believe that if I'd let him go, he'd

  have run up to Reggie, raised himself up, and licked Reggie's face.

  Reggie was ignoring him. He was busy talking about himself. "I'm here two weeks, and I'm

  keeping my ears open, and I get it all, see? I'm migrant labor, see? He's a cheap bastard, and I'm too

  dumb to work it out."

  "You got away with it. Nobody ever suspected anything. And you know what? Nobody thinks you

  had anything to do with the Quigleys. Because you're right. About being invisible?"

  "Damn straight," he said.

  “And you'll get out of it fine," I said. "Honest to God, it may have seemed as if I was checking on

  you, but all I ever wanted was to get the dog back. And Shane will keep his mouth shut. You think

  he wants people to know what he does? He never told me. He's ashamed of it."

  "He's already a dead man."

  "He won't talk, I'm sure of it. You don't have to kill him."

  Until then, we'd stayed at opposite ends of the lab. Reggie was still standing by the swinging

  door, right next to Shane, and I was leaning against the cage that had been Rowdy's. Reggie laughed

  again and kicked Shane as if he were kicking one of the tires on a used pickup he didn't intend to

  buy. Then he marched suddenly toward me, past the silent cages and the long steel table, and

  grabbed Rowdy's leash from my hand.

  I'd wondered whether he had a knife. Now I knew. I hadn't even seen him pull it. It was another

  hunting knife. I'd only seen the hilt of the one he'd used on Austin Quigley. This time, Reggie's hand

  covered the hilt, and I could see the blade. The shiny metal glittered as he held the cutting edge to

  Rowdy's throat.

  -25-

  Many esteemed experts on dog training believe that dogs are natural mind readers. Stay, Rowdy,

  I thought loudly. Good boy. Don't move.

  "Dumb dog," Reggie said. He had the leash hauled in tightly, and Rowdy was as immobile as if

  he'd been stacked up for a Novice stand-for-examination exercise. Was he reading Reggie's mind? I

  doubted it. "Do anything for your damned dog," Reggie added, "you and all the rest of them rich

  bastards."

  "That's right," I said. "So what do you want me to do?"

  Rowdy looked completely calm, patient, almost bored, as if he were waiting out some

  unaccountable delay in judging. In the cage beyond him, the Akita looked anything but bored.

  Aggressive toward other dogs" is what the books say about Akitas. Reggie probably hadn't read the

  books. His back was toward the cage, anyway.

  "Libby told me when that rich old bastard Stanton got his, you wrote some story about it. And

  they paid you for it, too."

  "Not very much," I said. Rowdy, stay.

  "You write about dogs?" he said. "That's what you do?"

  "I realize it strikes some people as a frivolous way to make a living," I said, "but it's honest work."

  "A lady writer." He sneered.

  "Did I ask for career counseling?"

  "Smart-mouth bitch."

  His sudden movement startled me. With the knife still poised at Rowdy's throat, Reggie yanked

  on the leash and dragged Rowdy toward the counter where Shane had been seated. The long steel

  table blocked my view of Rowdy, but he must have had to step on Shane. Reggie grabbed a pad of

  yellow legal-size paper that was lying on the counter and I slid it down the steel table toward me.

  "Write," he said. "Write to your boyfriend."

  "What?"

  "The cop. And don't try and get funny."

  "What am I supposed to say?" I took a couple of steps to- ward the steel table.

  "You're gonna confess. Your crazy father carves up old wrinkle face, and you take care of the

  husband yourself." He gave Shane a kick. "And pretty boy here."

  "Nobody's going to believe that. Why would I have killed Austin Quigley?"

  "You're the writer." Reggie was enjoying himself. He gave me that big smile. Then he dropped the leash, grabbed Rowdy's collar, pulled hard on it and, with his other hand, lifted the knife up to the

  light and tilted the blade back and forth.

  "Austin knew my father did it," I said quickly. "He saw him, and he was threatening to tell the

  police. Unless something. Unless he was paid. His business is failing. The shelves are half empty,

  and he just did some renovation. It must have cost something. He needed the money, and he hated

  his wife, anyway. He was glad to be rid of her. But I couldn't pay him because I'm only a dog writer.

  I didn't have the money. So I found a better way to shut him up. Will that do?"

  "Nice," he said, but the knife was back at Rowdy's throat. "And Robert Redford here stole your

  dog."

  "He does look like Robert Redford, doesn't he? Someone else said the same thing about him." I

  took another step to- ward the table and toward the Akita. Just one more step would put me closer

  to that cage than Reggie was, if Reggie didn't move. In dogs we trust. "But he did buy the dogs," I

  added. "I could kill him for that. That's credible. Maybe you have a future in dog writing. You could

  take over for me at Dog's Life. I've already started the next column for you. It's about submissive

  urination." I took that next step toward the table. "How did I kill Shane? Did I stab him, too? You

  know what? I just had a great idea. Why make it up? Let me do him in. Then I won't have to invent

  it."

  The man had deliberately led Ed Nichols to his death, withheld the bee sting kit, and watched the

  poor guy die. He'd stabbed Sissy, he'd stabbed Austin, he'd been an accessory in murdering God

  knows how many dogs, and now he intended to kill both Shane and me, yet I swear that he looked

  shocked when I propoSed doing no more than giving Shane what he deserved.

  "Let me get this down on paper first," I said. "Toss me a pen, will you? There must be one on that

  counter. Never mind. I've got one here."

  The Akita was risky. As I'd hoped, Reggie glanced first toward the counter, then toward me. I'd

  undone the clasp on my shoulder bag. "Put your hands on the table," he said. "No, really, I've got a pen right here," I said.

  Cramped though he was behind the wire mesh, the Akita started lunging and hurling himself at

  his door.

  "Watch out!" I yelled. "His door's opening!"

  Reggie turned his head. I took one more step toward the Akita, reached into my bag, pulled out

  the Ladysmith, and aimed it at Reggie.

  "Gee, it isn't a pen, after all," I said. "It's something even mightier."

  And my beautiful dog? He trusted me, even as he must have felt that blade start to press hard on

  the soft fur of his throat.

  "If you so much as splice one hair on his coat, I will shoot you," I said. "Don't even think about it.

  Get that knife away from him this second."

&n
bsp; Reggie held completely still, as if he hoped first to stop time, then to reverse it.

  "This really is happening to you," I said. "It's not a dog story. If you hurt my dog, I will kill you.

  Move that knife very slowly away from his throat. Very, very slowly. Now."

  Reggie's eyes shifted back and forth, toward me, toward the Akita, toward the knife, but he

  moved the blade a couple of inches away from Rowdy.

  "If I even start to wonder whether you might throw that knife," I said, "I will shoot you. Your

  hand will move very slowly. If it even starts to move quickly, I'll shoot. In case you wondered, I am a

  good shot. Remember? I come from Maine. When little girls in all the other states were dressing

  their Barbie dolls, I was out back with my twenty-two. I don't remember learning to shoot any

  better than I remember learning to walk. I always knew how. Get it?"

  "Yeah," he said.

  "Then move. Hold the knife by the blade, put it gently on the table, turn the hilt toward me, and

  give it a gentle. gentle push in my direction. Now."

  He did as he was told, but we weren't out of danger, of course. Reggie still held Rowdy's collar, and my beautiful, trusting dog still stood right next to him. I could force Reggie to let go of the

  collar, but what would Rowdy do? Would he come instantly when I called him? Or would he ignore

  me, rise up in the air, and put his paws on Reggie's shoulders? If so, or even if he lingered long

  enough for Reggie to get hold of him, his huge body would completely shield Reggie. Did Reggie

  believe I'd shoot through my dog? I'd risked Rowdy's life already. The bluff had worked then, but I

  thought Reggie must have seen through it by now. Once he had the chance, I thought, Reggie would

  turn my dog into a massive, living buffer against the little .38 revolver.

  Rowdy and I had spent hundreds of hours working on his recall. If he did what he'd been trained

  to do, he'd dash to- ward me the second he heard that command. He'd ignore anything Reggie did

  or said. He'd ignore the Akita and all the other dogs, If. I remembered him off leash at the show,

  dashing around in circles, entertaining the officials and the spectators, vaulting out of the ring,

  When he'd put on that performance, he'd known he was at a show. And now? Just how accurately

  had he assessed this situation? Would he come straight to me? Or would he let himself become the

  hostage I could never sacrifice?

  He was the least obedient and most intelligent dog I'd ever owned. I gambled that for once, his

  intelligence would tell him to obey.

  "Good so far," I said to Reggie. "Just keep it up. Hold your right hand high up above your head."

  He did.

  "Fine," I said. "Now, with your left hand, undo Rowdy's leash. Let him loose." Instantly, I called,

  "Rowdy, come!”

  As I'd expected, Reggie started to crouch and reached out for a fistful of fur or the tip of Rowdy's

  plumy white tail, but he was too slow. Rowdy galloped toward me, veered around the end of the

  metal table, and planted himself squarely in front of me, close enough so I could have patted his

  head, but not between my feet. It was a perfect recall. In the ring, with an American Kennel Club

  judge scoring him, it would have earned us thirty points. In that lab, with Reggie Cox reaching for

  his tail and trying to take refuge behind him, it probably earned us our lives.

  And people say obedience training ruins a dog's personality.

  "Rowdy, heel," I said. "Good boy."

  -26-

  Always carry an extra leash. You never can tell when you'll need it. Mine was in my shoulder bag.

  I dropped in the knife and took out the leash. I fastened one end to Rowdy's collar and held the

  other end in my left hand, just as most experienced handlers do. It makes sense. The dog heels and

  sits at your left side. If the leash is in your left hand, your right hand is free to open doors, carry

  shopping bags, or grasp the pearly little revolver that was your father's idea of the perfect hostess

  gift.

  In back of me, the door of the cage that had held Rowdy stood open. From the cage next to it, my

  father's terrified wolf dog stared at me. With the revolver trained on Reggie and with Rowdy at heel,

  I edged away from Clyde and the empty cage.

  "Guess what?" I said to Reggie. "There's an unexpected vacancy at this establishment. We just

  need to ask one guest to change rooms. He won't object. See that golden retriever? The one in the

  last cage, right by that noble scientist, David Shane. When I tell you, not before, you're going to

  lower your left hand, open that cage, then get your hand back in the air. If you more too fast, or if

  you hesitate, or if you say one word, or if you do one other little thing I don't like, I'll shoot you. Do

  it now."

  As I'd instructed him, he reached toward the cage, undid the latch, and opened the door. I had no

  idea what Shane had done to the dog besides removing his vocal cords. I wasn't even positive the

  poor golden would be able to walk after who knew how long in that cage. But he was a golden. He'd

  try. They always do.

  I smacked my lips together, whistled, and called him to me. "Come here, boy! That's a good dog.

  Come!”

  He walked stiffly, but he wagged his tail, and, of course, he came to me. Golden retrievers are the

  best obedience dogs on earth. I was betting that if this one had had even one or two lessons, he'd

  come when he was called. Besides, goldens know I'm one of their own. That's why I'd picked his

  cage. I hated to jail him again so soon, but I had to — Rowdy hates competition — and the golden

  didn't seem to mind. Besides, Rowdy's vacant cage was larger than the one the golden had just

  vacated.

  "Your turn, Reggie," I said. "Your room is ready. Climb in. Feet first. Oh, is it too small? Well,

  you're in good company. All the other guests here have cramped quarters, too, and I don't hear

  them complaining. Now, why is that? Pull the door shut."

  The metal clanged. Now I had them in one place, Reggie in the cage, Shane on the floor nearby.

  Rowdy and I moved right near them. With the little revolver trained on Reggie, I slipped the loop of

  Rowdy's leash onto my wrist, then used my left hand to rip the duct tape off Shane's mouth.

  "I hope you didn't plan to grow a moustache soon," I said. His pants were still wet. I was almost

  starting to feel sorry for him. "Having trouble talking? Cat got your tongue? Do you have cats here,

  too? Let me take a look around." I didn't want to see any more, but I had to know. I stepped over

  him and pushed in the swinging door through which Reggie had appeared, the door next to his new

  cage. I leaned against the open door and kept the Ladysmith trained on him. I looked in. The inner

  room held no cats, no rabbits, no mice, no rats. All of the creatures in there had once been dogs.

  The lab where we'd been, the first room, the outer one, was just prep, Shane had said. He hadn't

  lied.

  I moved back toward him and let the door swing shut. I never wanted to open it again. I didn't

  feel sorry for Shane anymore.

  The Akita was stirring again, still trying to bark, still making a grotesque joke of himself every

  time he opened and closed his jaws, bared his teeth, and made not a sound. The golden had been

  some family's pet, I was sure. The beagle, too, I guessed, and probably most of the others: the

  handsome shepherd-collie mix with the thick ruff around his neck,
the two medium-size brown

  dogs, the big black dog in the cage next to Reggie. I didn't know their families, of course. The only

  one whose family I thought I knew was the one I'd seen spread out on the table in the inner room,

  the big black mutt with the splotch of white over one eye and another splotch of white on his tail. I

  was pretty sure his name was Grover and that he'd been good with kids.

  I'll tell you about only one other thing I saw in that inner room. It wasn't a dog and never had

  been. It was only a big cardboard box. It was filled with dog collars. Some of those collars still had

  tags.

  Dogs don't want revenge. That Akita didn't. I did. But how? The Akita? Or the Ladysmith? The

  dog or the gun? Either way, Reggie could take the fall for me. I talked to the dogs for a few minutes.

  Then I talked to Shane.

  "This big guy here, the Akita?" I said. "He's called Romans Twelve Nineteen. Does that sound like

  a funny name for a dog? Romans Twelve Nineteen? It's a good name. It suits him. 'Vengeance is

  mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.' He will, too. The second I open this cage."

  Rita claims to believe that what stayed my hand was some residual, hitherto unsuspected,

  reverence for human life. I have insisted, in her hearing, that if killing Shane could have restored

  the body of that black dog with the white splotch over his eye and on his tail, if it could have

  rebarked all the dogs Shane had debarked, if it could have undone everything he'd done, I wouldn't

  have hesitated, but my values are different from Rita's, and she doesn't like to realize how different.

  Rita is right about my reverence for life. All life. All lives. If I'd killed Shane, I'd have achieved more

  than revenge. I'd have saved the lives of all the dogs that would ever enter a laboratory of his again.

  What really stopped me was Rowdy. How sure was I that the Akita would go for Shane and not

  Rowdy? Rowdy wouldn't have run from the fight, and he wouldn't have stood a chance. He's my

  dog, and I love him, but I'm realistic about his limits. And how sure was I that Reggie would really

  end up taking the fall for everything? If not, where would Rowdy be? I also thought about Romans

  12:19.

  A tan phone hung on the wall above the counter, near the spot where Shane had been sitting

  when I'd walked in. II picked up the receiver and dialed Steve's number.