01-Paw Enforcement

by Diane Kelly

  Was Seth crazy for taking a job on the bomb squad?

  Did I want to get involved with someone who might be crazy?

  Would Seth kiss me when we got back to my place?

  God, I hoped he would. After the day I’d had I could really use the distraction.

  When we arrived at my complex, the sun had begun to set, just a pinkish-orange tint remaining on the horizon. The only lights at the complex came from the apartment windows and the streetlight situated near the entrance. Not exactly a warm and inviting place. Nonetheless, Seth opened the car door for me and followed me up the stairs to my unit.

  I stopped at my door and turned to face him, my heart throbbing in anticipation. “Thanks for dinner.”

  “No problem.”

  Warmth pooled south of my belly button as his smoky gaze flickered to my lips, a signal that he was about to lean in and kiss me. I stood there a moment, warm and wanting, waiting for him to make his move.

  But he didn’t.

  When Seth began to back towards the stairs, my hopes imploded like an outdated Vegas casino.

  He put a hand on the rail. “Remember what I said. Keep an eye out for men with bags and backpacks.”

  I nodded, hoping my disappointment wasn’t written on my face. In case it was, I said a quick, “Bye,” unlocked my door, and slipped inside with my doggie bag. I leaned back against my door and closed my eyes.

  Why hadn’t Seth kissed me? Had this dinner been only a friendly gesture and not a date, after all? Did my breath smell like onion and garlic? Was it because of my stutter?

  How I wish I knew.

  Being left at the door without a kiss had been upsetting enough, but when my eyes opened and took in the half-chewed shoes strewn about my floor my anger erupted like Mount Vesuvius. I dropped my purse, tossed the bag of fajita meat onto the kitchen counter, and snatched the stiletto Brigit was currently mouthing out of her teeth. “Bad dog!”

  Some BFF she’d turned out to be.

  The closet door gaped open. No doubt the lever-style handle had made it a cinch for Brigit to open it. Just a little pressure from her nose or a paw and the latch would release. Looked like I’d have to make a trip to the hardware store for a hook and eye latch to keep the door closed.

  I picked up my ruined shoes and hurled them into my trash can one at a time, taking out my fears and frustrations on my footwear.

  Thunk!

  Thunk!

  Thunk!

  Thunk!

  I double-fisted the next two.

  Thunk-thunk!

  When Brigit dared to growl, I whirled on her. “Stupid dog!”

  THIRTY-TWO

  SHUT UP OR YOUR PURSE GETS IT, TOO

  Brigit

  Her partner was angry. Well, good. That had been the plan, after all.

  How dare Megan leave Brigit at home after the day they’d had! Megan wasn’t the only one who’d needed emotional support. Brigit did, too. And if her partner wasn’t going to give it to her, the dog had no choice but to calm herself by chewing on something. If Megan didn’t like Brigit chewing up her shoes she should’ve bought the dog a chew toy. Maybe now Megan would learn not to leave her partner at home when she went out.

  THIRTY-THREE

  TUNABOMBER

  The Rattler

  The Tunabomber?

  He slammed his laptop closed, dropped it to the floor, and stomped it hard with his boot. Still not satisfied, he gave it a kick, sending it crashing into the wall.

  Who the fuck did these Internet idiots think they were, hanging such a ridiculous label on him? They treated him as nothing more than a practical joker. Hell, he could’ve injured dozens of people today, maybe even killed someone. It wasn’t like he hadn’t tried. If not for that damn dog he would’ve accomplished his aims. She must’ve scented the leftover marijuana residue. That’s what he got for storing the pipes in the same backpack he’d stashed his weed in.

  Man’s best friend. What a bunch of bullshit.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  FORSAKEN

  Megan

  The instant the words left my mouth I realized I was being a mean, nasty bitch. Brigit was anything but stupid. She had saved not only my life but also the lives of countless others, yet here I was yelling at her. Some pack leader I was.

  I pulled a loafer out of the trash and dropped to the floor, placing the shoe in front of Brigit as a peace offering. Probably not what a trainer would recommend, but I’d rather sacrifice a shoe than have Brigit hate me.

  My eyes filled with fresh tears as I put my nose to hers and scratched her behind each ear. “I’m sorry, Brigit. I shouldn’t have y-yelled at you. I’m so sorry.”

  Initially she stiffened at my touch, but a moment later she relaxed. Her tongue slid out of her mouth and licked my chin once, giving me a doggie kiss, letting me know all was forgiven.

  I returned the gesture, giving her a smooch on the snout. “I really don’t deserve you, do I?”

  * * *

  Despite the two margaritas, I tossed and turned until the wee hours Saturday night, unable to quiet my mind enough to rest. Around 3:00 AM, Brigit finally had enough and climbed down onto the floor where she could sleep in peace.

  Sunday morning, bleary-eyed and more bushed than bushy-tailed, I dragged my butt out of bed, showered, and threw on a pair of jeans, sandals, and a green blouse. I fed Brigit, loaded her in the car, and, twenty minutes later pulled up to the curb in front of my childhood home.

  The house was a three-bedroom, two-bath, one-story wood frame model in the Arlington Heights neighborhood of Fort Worth. The yellow paint had faded unevenly and most of the trim was peeling, but the lackadaisical upkeep served to give the small house a comfortable and unpretentious feel. It also served to give the homeowners association a reason to send an occasional letter to my parents, suggesting some sprucing up was in order. Those letters, in turn, served to ignite my mother’s Irish temper. How many times had I heard her say, I’ll be damned if I’ll have some busybody tell me when it’s time to paint my house! My father, who would be tasked with the unenviable job of painting the house, gave my mother his full support and wholeheartedly agreed they should stand their ground and leave the house as is.

  I climbed out of my car and Brigit hopped out behind me. I’d dressed my partner in her police vest so she could attend church with us this morning. After that stunt she’d pulled last night chewing up my shoes, I didn’t trust Brigit enough to leave her home alone. If I didn’t know better I’d think this had been her plan all along.

  Taking a breath to prepare myself for the noise and chaos that characterized my childhood home, I put my shoulder to the cockeyed front door and forced it open. Brigit trotted in ahead of me, generating a protest from my mother’s trio of indistinguishable orange tabby tomcats. They stood from their perches on the back of the sofa and arched their backs.

  Yooowwwl!

  Hisssss!

  Rurrrrrrr!

  “Get over yourselves,” I admonished them. Snobs.

  Brigit ignored their insults, exacting payback by trotting into the kitchen and promptly wolfing down their kitty kibble. Crunch-crunch-crunch.

  As always, my auburn-haired mother flitted around the kitchen like a hummingbird on speed, gathering up the breakfast dishes, trying unsuccessfully to find her misplaced house keys among the clutter on the countertop, and calling out to my father, “Hurry up, Martin, or we’ll be late!”

  We were late every week. It was our family tradition.

  She waved a dish towel at me in greeting while she downed the last of her coffee. After adding her mug to the stack of dirty dishes in the sink, she fluttered her hand about. “See if you can find my keys.”

  She’d been misplacing her keys for years. When would this woman learn to get a routine?

  While I began to poke around on the counter, my mother hustled off to check my dad’s status, stopping in the hallway to holler, “Gabby! Joey! Get a move on!”

  The errant keys were lodg
ed behind the toaster. I’d just retrieved them when my fifteen-year-old sister, Gabrielle, slipped into the kitchen. Like me and our other siblings, she had my father’s dark hair and my mother’s freckled face. Though Gabby had swiped a coat of mascara onto her lashes and slipped into a cute sundress, it was clear from the lack of accessories and her haphazard ponytail that she’d rolled out of bed only minutes before.

  “Hey, Megan,” Gabby said, her voice still croaky from sleep.

  As the only two female offspring, Gabs and I had shared a room until I left for college seven years ago. With ten years’ age difference between us, the arrangement had been far from ideal. I’d wanted peacock-blue spreads for our twin beds, but she’d pouted and whimpered and argued until she’d gotten her way and our beds were adorned in a childish princess pink. I constantly tripped over her menagerie of stuffed animals, while she routinely played in my makeup. She’d set our curtains on fire once when she’d played with my flaming batons without permission. Fortunately, with Gabby approaching adulthood now we had much more in common and were growing closer.

  I gave my sister a hug, then stepped back. “You look extra-tired today.” It wasn’t intended as an insult, merely an observation.

  She yawned and smiled at the same time. “I had a date last night. I was too excited to sleep.”

  I’d possibly had a date last night and been unable to sleep, too, though I couldn’t claim my insomnia was due to excitement.

  “Deets,” I demanded, taking Gabby by the shoulders. “Now.”

  She glanced behind her to make sure our mother wasn’t around. “His name is T.J.,” she said in a stage whisper. “He’s totally adorbs! I met him at a party and he goes to Paschal and he’s, like, the best kisser ever!”

  Adorbs? Really, when did people get too lazy to finish their words?

  I forced enthusiasm into my voice: “Yay!”

  My little sister was getting more action than me. How sad was that? Still, I was happy for her even if I was feeling a little sorry for myself now.

  My dad slunk into the kitchen, putting an end to our girl talk. Dad was tall and black haired, with a lean but strong physique thanks to his job on the line at the General Motors assembly plant in nearby Arlington. While my mother tended to be hyperactive, highly energetic, and high-strung, my father was just the opposite. Slow moving, serene, sedate. There were times I was tempted to check him for a pulse.

  He gave me a kiss on the forehead and ruffled the fur on Brigit’s butt. “Your dog’s getting fat.”

  “She’s not fat,” I insisted. “She’s just big boned.” Actually, Brigit had gained four pounds since becoming my partner, but that wouldn’t stop me from coming to her defense.

  Joey, who moved like a stealthy spy, appeared next to my dad. “Hey, tuna head.”

  I pointed a finger at him. “Don’t make me hurt you,” I said, “’cause you know I will.”

  Mom stepped back into the kitchen and I tossed her the keys. “What’s this about tuna?”

  My parents tended to be a little out of touch. Raising five children, they’d had no time to watch television while we were growing up. With me out on my own and my other two brothers in college, only two of their children remained at home now. But these days they DVRed their favorite shows and skipped the commercials and news blasts.

  Joey snorted. “Get a clue, Mom. A bomb went off in the Chisholm Trail mall yesterday and Megan got splattered with all kinds of gross stuff.”

  “A bomb?” My mother’s eyes went wide and she looked from my brother to me. “Oh, my God!” she shrieked. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

  The better question was why hadn’t my sister or brother thought to tell my parents? Both of them had been aware of it. Come on, people. Communicate!

  “It was a crazy day,” I said. “Super b-busy.”

  The truth of the matter was that, early on, I’d stopped trying to share my feelings with my parents. They’d been too busy producing one child after another, and each new baby’s needs had taken priority. Stuttering made conversation difficult enough for me, but trying to share my intimate feelings with an exhausted mother and father over the wails of a crying sibling just seemed futile. I’d withdrawn and learned to work through my emotions on my own, mostly by escaping into books or, if I was particularly angry, using Dad’s hammer to break small rocks on the patio out back. The baton twirling had later replaced the hammer, allowing me to hurl my problems into the air and forget about them momentarily.

  Of course what goes up must come down.…

  I knew my parents wanted to be there for me now, to provide what support they could, but old habits are hard to break.

  “Did anyone get hurt?” my mother asked, her face drawn in concern.

  No sense telling them about the screw in my ass. It would only worry them. “Brigit got a nail in her hip, but that’s it.”

  My dad looked down at her. “Is that why she has the bald patch?”

  I nodded. “The EMT had to shave her to apply the anesthetic.” I glanced up at the clock, as much to end the conversation as to remind everyone we had no time to dawdle. “We better get going.”

  I loaded Brigit back in my car and followed my parents’ Suburban to the church. We arrived just in time to sneak into the back row while the priest and acolytes were making their way up the steps to the altar. A few of our fellow congregants glanced back on hearing Brigit’s tags jingle but soon turned their attention back to the front of the church.

  We sat down, Brigit taking a spot on the pew next to me and resting her head in my lap. The hard pew was bad enough on a good day, but with the tender puncture wound on my butt sitting on the hard surface today felt like a penance. Perhaps God was punishing me for lusting after Seth yesterday.

  The priest began his usual machinations and recitations. I’d like to say I paid attention to the mass, but my thoughts were elsewhere. Mumbling, “Thanks be to God,” at the requisite intervals, I looked up at the cross that hung on the wall over the altar, at the bloody half-human, half-divine being affixed to it. Maybe I shouldn’t feel so bad that people were making fun of me on YouTube. After all, I might be a cop who risked my life for the people of Fort Worth, but Jesus had actually given his life to save all of mankind and look what people had done to him. Stuck a crown of thorns on his head and nailed him to a cross. A crappy way to treat the purported messiah, wouldn’t you say? I supposed I couldn’t expect more for myself than the Son of God had received.

  When it was time for communion, I picked up Brigit’s leash and led her down the aisle with me. Call me crazy, but the concept of communion had always creeped me out a little. If transubstantiation truly occurred, turning the wafers into Christ’s body and the wine into his blood, wouldn’t participating in the sacrament make us some type of vampire cannibals? I might raise the issue with one of the deacons if I didn’t think I’d be referred for an exorcism.

  When the priest put the communion wafer in my hands, Brigit glanced up, looking pissed that the priest had given me a treat and not her. She didn’t know it, but she wasn’t missing anything. I mean, I know communion was supposed to be a blessed sacrament, but the wafers tasted like cardboard and stuck to the roof of your mouth. You’d think the messiah’s body would be a little more appetizing. At least his flesh was gluten-free and low calorie. If the pope really wanted to grow the church, he’d think about replacing the dry, tasteless wafers with Thin Mint Girl Scout cookies.

  But perhaps I think too much.…

  It might have been a sin, but I bit off only half of the wafer. Once we’d returned to the pew, I discreetly fed the rest to Brigit. God wouldn’t mind, right? After all, she was one of his creatures. But did he really have to give her so much fur?

  Uh-oh …

  Brigit opened her mouth and extended her neck, making a hacking noise that reverberated throughout the quiet cathedral.

  Hack!

  Haack!

  Haaaack!

  Crap! The darn dog was gagging on
the communion wafer. Heads turned to gawk at us.

  Haaack!

  The wafer ejected from Brigit’s mouth covered in saliva and landed on the floor. I kicked the gooey blob under the kneeler, hoping nobody would realize what she’d coughed up. Grabbing Brigit’s leash, I hustled her out the back doors and into the foyer. Before I could stop her, she’d dragged me over to the font, propped her front legs on it, and lapped up a mouthful of holy water. Slurp-slurp-slurp.

  I covered my eyes with my hand. I hoped the Big Man had a sense of humor or my soul would be sent straight to hell. Thank God we were the only ones in the foyer and none of the other parishioners had seen Brigit drink from the font. The church would’ve excommunicated me.

  When mass was over, my family reassembled at my parents’ house for lunch. My mother made sandwiches for all of us, fixing one for Brigit as well. My partner made short work of her lunch, wolfing it down in four bites. So much for manners.

  When lunch was over, I gave each of my parents a kiss on the cheek and chucked Joey under the chin. “See y’all later.”

  Gabrielle walked me out to my car. Her face looked pensive. “Do you think the bomber will strike again?”

  I shrugged, though honestly I thought the chances were close to 100 percent certainty the sicko had plans to detonate another bomb. Whatever aims the bomber had hoped to achieve by planting explosives in the mall had likely gone unfulfilled. But when and where the next explosion would take place was anyone’s guess. “Don’t worry, Gabs. I’ll be careful.”

  Tears welled in her eyes. “Promise?”

  “Promise.” I gave her a hug. It was sweet of her to worry, though I hated to see her emotionally burdened. The teen years were hard enough without a bomber piling on more angst. “Let me know how things go with T.J.”

  Her face brightened. “I will!”

  Brigit and I settled into the car and, with a final wave and good-bye bark, headed off for the mall.

  THIRTY-FIVE