by L. A. Knight
The jogger . . . the one Sam was growling at!
Oh, Jesus – he’s out to rape me!
She screamed—then abruptly stopped as he pressed the edge of a sharp knife to her throat. “Do that again and I’ll open a vein.”
She laid her head back, fighting the nausea rising up her esophagus. She heard Sam barking a million miles away; she felt her body trembling uncontrollably as he leaned in closer and whispered in her ear. “This is going to happen, do you understand? Lay back and enjoy it. Make noise and you die.”
She stifled a cry as he yanked hard on her jogging pants . . .
* * * * *
THE DOG HAD heard the cry.
Sam repeatedly attempted to leap the fence but it was far too high. Circling the yard past the training circuit, the German Shepherd suddenly broke for the doghouse and leaped onto its A-frame roof, using it to hurdle the fence.
The dog landed hard on the other side of the fence, regained its feet and raced across the street as it picked up its master’s scent—
--cutting off the unmarked police car. The vehicle braked hard, its driver executing a sharp U-turn to follow the loose canine.
* * * * *
THE TOUCH OF alien flesh to her naked thighs was too much. Nancy opened her mouth to cry out—only her breath was taken away as a brown blur smashed into her assailant, the suddenly clear night air rent with terrifying growls and a man’s screams.
Somewhere in the insanity, Nancy crawled away, her mind still shattered. She managed to hike her pants over her exposed hips and buttocks and curl into a ball of sniffling paralysis beneath the shrub—the chaos of screams interrupted by piercing red and blue strobe lights.
The unmarked cop car screeched to a halt, its two officers moving quickly, their guns drawn, their car’s searchlight revealing the German Shepherd, its teeth tearing into the jogger’s blood-soaked sleeve.
“Help!”
“Partner, I’ve got a clear shot . . .”
Nancy snapped awake.
The two police officers were about to open fire when a woman staggered from the bushes, her clothing torn, her neck bleeding.
“Sam, heel!”
The dog halted its attack and rushed to the woman’s side, sitting docilely by her right foot.
Sobbing hysterically, Nancy dropped to her knees, hugging the dog around its neck.
The cops holstered their weapons.
* * * * *
TWELVE MINUTES, THREE police cars, and an ambulance later, two dozen neighbors watched as a bloodied man in a jogging outfit was handcuffed to a gurney.
Nancy was seated in the back of one of the squad cars, an EMT tending to the cut along the side of her neck—the dog never leaving her side.
“It’s just a superficial cut where he had the blade pressing against your neck. You’ll be okay.”
One of the officers from the unmarked car joined them. “We called your friend, she’s on her way.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re lucky. We’ve been after this guy for quite a while.” He knelt by Sam and gave the dog a big hug, allowing Sam to lick his face. “Good boy. You’re a good doggy.”
Tears flowed down Nancy’s cheeks. “He saved me. And after I was so mean to him.”
“That’s the great thing about dogs. Unconditional love.”
A Lexus screeched to a halt by the curb. Helen and Vinnie pushed through the crowd and ducked under the yellow police tape, hurrying over to Nancy.
Helen freaked. “Oh my God, are you alright? Did he . . .?”
“No. Sam saved me.”
“The dog . . .oh, thank God.” Helen pet Sam, then turned to Vinnie, her emotions chaotic, and smacked him upside the head. “Why can’t you buy me a big dog?”
* * * * *
AT PRECISELY 12:14 in the morning, the 1976 Volkswagen Van with the two tone white and tangerine-orange paint turned into the driveway and parked, expelling its driver—a bearded man wearing a soaking-wet floral shirt and tuxedo pants. He paused to remove something from the glove box, then slogged to the front door and keyed in.
Jacob found Nancy on the sofa, cuddled next to Sam. “Vin called, he told me what happened. Are you okay?”
She nodded, then stood and sobbed against his chest.
The whimpering dog nuzzled his legs.
“Nance, I swear to God, nothing happened with me and Ruby. Not tonight, not ever.”
“I know. She called. She told me about the cancer. Why are you all wet?”
“I saw you speed off in the water taxi, so I leaped in after you.”
“You leaped into the Intracoastal from a moving boat? You? Mr. Hydrophobia?”
“I had to catch you. Plus, I needed to get away from that crazy bitch, Olivia.”
“Olivia Cabot?”
“She hired me to do her father’s birthday party. I was going to tell you, but I figured we’d see each other aboard her yacht. Only this gay pet dude spiked my ginger ale with ecstasy, then Olivia tried to jump my bones.”
“Wait . . . my boss was trying to sleep with you too?”
“What can I tell you, I’m a gray pussy magnet. Only it was the craziest thing—every time I tried to get away from her, I kept getting shocked . . . like I was wearing Sam’s collar.”
She looked at his wrist. Seeing the dive watch, she tore it loose and tossed it. “How strange? Maybe you shouldn’t do her gigs anymore.”
“I only agreed to take it because I needed the money . . . for this.” He reached into his pocket and removed the small box he had kept in the Volkswagen’s glove box the last two weeks. “For you.”
She opened it—revealing a one carat diamond ring. “Jacob?”
“They say the third time's the charm. Marry me, Nancy, and I promise to put away my smelly shoes and wipe the toilet seat . . . and I’ll even buy you a white foofie dog.”
She wiped back tears, then leaned in and kissed him. “Thanks, but I already have a dog.”
DOG TRAINING THE AMERICAN HUSBAND
LESSON ONE: BECOMING A FAMILY
Several dozen wedding guests filed into the sanctuary, the wedding ceremony minutes from starting. Helen located the Maid of Honor by the women’s dressing room – Lana dressed in a pink floral. “How’s it going with the bride?”
“Nancy needs fifteen more minutes. Where’s the best-man?”
“In the men’s room, getting Cabot ready for my mother-in-law.”
* * * * *
DR. VINCENT COPE was seated on a toilet, facing Truman Cabot. The old man’s back was pressed against the stall door, his dress pants unraveled in a pile around his ankles, exposing his silk boxer shorts.
Peeling the paper from the back of the colostomy bag’s doughnut-shaped rubber housing, Vin applied a small amount of paste, and then pressed the adhesive in place against the exposed flesh of Truman’s lower left belly.
The retired millionaire fidgeted. “Are you sure your father had a colostomy bag?”
“Yes. Along with the rest of Ma’s lovers. Now hold still while I snap the colostomy bag in place. Jesus, Truman, did you have to fill it with so much urine?”
“How the hell else will she see it when I walk Nancy down the aisle?”
Spencer entered the bathroom. The dog trainer washed his hands, then checked his breath again, readying himself for his next kiss. “Ruby Kleinhenz. Best-in-show. God, I feel like a teen again.”
Suddenly Spencer realized he was not alone . . .
“Slow down! You’re hurting me!”
“Damn thing’s hard as a rock. I need to drain it if you expect me to slip it back inside your pants.”
“Don’t jerk it! It’ll explode all over your face.”
Glancing in the mirror, Spencer saw the old man’s head bouncing against the inside of the stall door.
The dog trainer gagged, and then hurried out.
* * * * *
SANDRA BEACH SAT in the cramped dressing room, drying her own tears as she listened to her youngest
daughter. “We wanted to tell you, but what was the point? We adopted you when you were only eight weeks old. Lana was only two. How did you find out?”
“Dad told me on his death bed. He apologized for leaving Lana a larger inheritance. He said it was done . . . because she was his.”
“Yes, you received less money, but that was because we paid back all your college loans . . . not to mention the down payments your father and I forfeited from two cancelled wedding ceremonies. As far as Lana being his, your father was delirious; they had him on heavy doses of morphine. He loved you just as much as your sister and was so proud when you earned all your degrees. He was your father, Nancy. Look at your face—you ruined your make-up.”
Nancy dries her eyes. “I love you, mom. I guess this wasn’t the best place to bring all this up.”
“I should say not. Thank God Jacob’s a stable man or I’d really be worried about you. Now when can I expect some grandbabies?”
* * * * *
RABBI SOLOMON JIAN stood at the pulpit, the groom and best-man to his left.
The music began.
As Maid of Honor, Lana walked down the aisle first, followed by Helen, a bridesmaid. Rabbi Jian's eyes widened as he witnessed a second bridesmaid stride down the aisle in pumps, her dress barely containing the female bodybuilder’s two-hundred and thirty pound muscular frame.
Next up was the flower girl. An inebriated Carmella Cope puttered slowly down the aisle in her motorized wheelchair, dropping rose petals from a basket as she veered drunkenly from side to side, ramming guests and knocking over flower arrangements on both sides of the aisle.
Vinnie guided her into her parking space in the first row, taking the keys.
The music changed, announcing the Bride. The crowd stood.
Nancy was escorted slowly down the aisle by Mr. Cabot, the old man’s pants bulging on his left side from the fake colostomy bag.
Jacob leaned over to whisper in his brother’s ear. “Vin, have you got the ring?”
“On the way.”
Sam followed the bride down the aisle, carrying a pillow in his mouth, the ring held in place by a white ribbon.
“Nicely played, sir.”
“Thank you. Have you have got your vows?”
Jacob’s expression dropped. “Vows?”
The guests on the left side of the aisle shrieked as they were doused by a fountain of urine—Mr. Cabot’s colostomy bag having sprung a leak.
From the front row, Carmella Cope eyeballed Truman like a bee to honey.
“Your wedding vows, Jacob! You and Nancy agreed to make up your own vows.”
“Shh, it’s okay. I’ll just quote her some John Lennon. I’ll open with, ‘A dream you dream alone is only a dream. A dream you dream together is reality.’ Then I’ll hit her with, ‘Love is like a flower; you’ve got to let it grow.’ I’ll end with, ‘and we all shine on . . . like the moon and the stars and the sun.’ or do you prefer, ‘I’m not going to change the way I look or the way I feel to conform to anything. I've always been a freak.’”
“You are a freak.” Vin searched his tuxedo jacket pocket and extracted a wedding card. Turning his back to the crowd, he tore open the envelope, pocketed the check, and then shoved the “sentiment” in Jacob’s pants pocket without reading it.
“Wanda picked it out for me; I’m sure it’s bleeding sentiment.”
* * * * *
HAVING FINISHED HIS Rabbinical duties, Solomon Jian turned to the young couple. “And now Nancy and Jacob would like to exchange vows they’ve written especially for this blessed occasion. Nancy?”
Nancy removed a slip of paper from her cleavage. “To my best-friend and partner: Today we continue a journey that began only a short time ago. You are the man of my dreams, my one true soul mate. I eagerly anticipate the chance for us to grow together, getting to know the husband you will become, falling in love a little bit more each and every day. You are the Y who empowers me.”
“Lovely. Jacob?”
Jacob removed the wedding card his brother had slipped in his pocket fifteen minutes earlier. “Hickory Dickory Doc, we hope she likes your cock. If she likes to screw, Congrats to you, Hickory Dickory Doc.”
The Rabbi’s jaw dropped.
Nancy smiled. “Well, I would have preferred a John Lennon quote, but I do like your cock.”
“That’s what I told Vin but he insisted I take the card.”
Helen shot her husband a look to kill.
Vinnie snatched back the card. “Beautiful sentiment. Empowering, don’t you think? Rabbi, you, uh, want to finish the ceremony.”
“Uh, yes. I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride.”
* * * * *
THE GUESTS WERE seated at tables situated around a small dance floor. The band played a hokey rendition of Adele’s, “Someone Like You,” as Jacob and Nancy Cope took their first dance together as husband and wife.
Nancy glanced at the table on her left where Truman Cabot was seated next to her mother-in-law, the millionaire offering her a ‘thumbs-up.’ Spencer was seated at the next table over, he and Ruby holding hands.
“Jacob, I need to ask you a question. The whole time I was training Sam . . . did you know I was using the dog training techniques on you?”
“Not at first.”
“When did you start to get suspicious? Was it the sex? The walks in the park? The exercise routine?”
“I think it was just before you had Sam neutered; the time you hired the mobile dog groomer to come over and bathe the dog. For days my eyes were tearing at work; that’s when I realized you paid them to fumigate my van for fleas.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“It needed it.”
“I know.”
“I’ll blow you on the drive to the airport.”
“Cool.”
Nancy stopped dancing, her right shoe sliding in white icing. “Jacob, where’s the dog?”
“The dog?” He searched the room, his eyes settling on the dessert spread—Sam’s front paws on the table, the German Shepherd eating the wedding cake. “Aw, hell, it’s ruined. Vin’s kids were supposed to be watching him.”
“It’s okay.”
“Stupid dog’s gonna shit his brains out. Remind me to tell Vin to keep him chained outside tonight.”
Nancy kissed her husband. “Don’t tell him. He’ll figure it out in the morning.”
THE END
Contact L. A. Knight by email at [email protected]
VOSTOK
Part II of The LOCH
by
NY Times best-selling author
STEVE ALTEN
PROLOGUE
Davis Station, East Antarctica
Latitude 68 degrees 35'S, Longitude 77 degrees 58' E
2 March
Thomas Nilsson definitely had his “monk-on.”
“Monk-on” was Antarctic slang for being in a foul mood, and the fifty-one year old marine biologist’s temperament fit the bill. His day – if you could call four hours of sunlight a day – had begun twenty hours and eighteen hundred miles ago back at McMurdo Station with a “Dear John” e-mail from his wife. Keira had begun the transmission with “You know how I’ve been telling you unhappy I’ve been,” and ended with “I sold the house. Your belongings are in storage; I left the dog with your mother.”
Twenty two years of marriage . . . deleted in an e-mail.
In Antarctica, they called it being “chinged” and it happened a lot among the scientists and support personnel stationed at McMurdo and the other thirty-seven international bases located around the continent. It wasn’t enough to work in the coldest, driest, windiest, and most isolated environment on the planet . . . getting here was so difficult that accepting a research grant meant leaving your loved ones for a minimum of six months . . . or longer, if you were crazy enough to winter on the ice.
Like most of the four thousand visitors (there are no indigenous people in Antarctica) Tho
mas Nilsson’s six months had begun at the start of summer, which ran from late September through February. In Antarctica, the difference between winter and summer was literally night and day. When the vernal equinox arrived on March 20, the sun would disappear, casting the continent into six months of frigid darkness, with temperatures plunging as low as minus 70 degrees Fahrenheit. Nilsson was scheduled to fly out on one of the last C-130 transports and had been counting the hours until he would see his nineteen year old daughter again, could take his first hot shower of the new year, and made love to his wife.
Now he had to settle for two out of three.
For twenty minutes he stared at the laptop monitor, contemplating a response. For inspiration, he rolled up his left sleeve and glanced at the tattoo on his forearm. Contemptus mortis, pulchra vulnera amor laudis. Contempt for death, beautiful wounds, joy for victory.
Keira had just stabbed him in the heart; his only response was to find a way to make the wound beautiful. His base commander knocked and entered moments later. “Hey, Tom. Heard you’re the newest member of the Ching Club. Been there twice myself. My condolences.”
“You tell Shaffer the next time he hacks into my e-mail he’ll wake up bound and gagged in his long johns out on the ice.”
“It’s a rough gig. The strong relationships survive; the weak crumble. I remember my first winter – ”
“Paul, another time, okay?”
“Right. I actually came by with an assignment. Got a transmission this morning from the Aussies. They’re in desperate need of a marine biologist out at Davis. You’re one of the few remaining eggheads left on the ice. There’s a cargo transport leaving in twenty minutes if you want the gig.”
“Davis? On Prydz Bay? That’s clear across the continent. And why the hell do the Aussies need a marine biologist? I thought they’re studying the Amery Ice Shelf.”