“Damn it, Jack,” my man yelled. “You want out so bad, then let me open the door.”
I held up my paw and whined. Now it was starting to hurt. I backed away on three feet.
My man held the door open with his hip, leaned, and grabbed me roughly by the collar. “Get out of here, Jack.” He jerked me toward the door and threw me out into the hall. “Get out, damn it.”
I yelped again. What had I done? I didn't like being yanked and thrown around. Or yelled at. Not by my man.
The other man in the hallway was bigger—wider than my man as well as taller—with long red hair and a darker red beard. He smelled like cheese. As I limped by, he kicked at me. “Fucking dog,” he said. “What the hell do you need with a fucking dog?” I tucked my tail, sidestepped his second kick and, forgetting my paw, ran for the stairs. As I went down the steps two at a time, the big man was laughing.
My man grunted something I couldn't hear as I hit the downstairs hall running, skidded on the hardwood floor, and hung a sharp left into the long hall to the kitchen, through the swinging door to the safety under the table. I put my head on my paws and listened to them come down the stairs. I was puzzled. It was getting worse. Now my man had yanked me. And yelled at me.
“Who knows she was here?” I heard the big man say.
“Her office, of course.”
“Dinkletter knew she was coming over here?”
“I told you, she was doing our books. Dinkletter is the one who assigned her.”
They were in the front hallway now. The big man sounded angry. “Then they're going to look for her here, aren't they, Bill? Jesus fucking Christ, Dinkletter's going to call the cops when she doesn't show up tomorrow. They're going to be all over this place.”
“I know. I know.”
“You've got to call him.”
“Dinkletter? Why?”
“To complain. Tell him she didn't show up today. You're pissed off. That kind of crap. You know.”
“It's after hours. No one'll be there.”
“All the better. Leave a voice mail.”
“I don't think I can …”
“You've got to, Billy boy. And you've got to do it now.”
My man mumbled something, and I heard them walk into the study. I ducked out from under the kitchen table, pushed back out into the hallway and, trying not to click my toenails on the hardwood floor between the Orientals, I followed.
I stopped just outside the study door and sat, holding in my tongue, attempting not to pant. It was getting hot in the house. “Mr. Dinkletter?” I heard my man say, obviously now on the phone at the big cherry desk over by the long windows. “This is William Wadsworth III. Wadsworth Industries. I … ah …” He was talking to an answering machine. “… ah, I'm calling because Jenny Darrel did not keep her appointment at my home office today.”
“Be pissed,” the big man whispered.
“I'm a busy man, Dinkletter.” My man's voice became angry. “Wadsworth Industries pays your firm a handsome fee every winter to audit our books and I expect your services to be commensurate with that sum. I also expect a full explanation and apology from you and Miss Darrel first thing in the morning.” He slammed down the phone. “How was that?”
“Not bad,” the big man said. “Now, where's her body? We've got work to do.”
I ducked back down the hallway to the kitchen and returned to my place under the table. I had to pee now, but it would have to wait.
They pushed through the door a few seconds later, and I watched their feet cross the room to the walk-in freezer door. “I can't believe you put her in the freezer,” the big man said, standing back as my man swung the heavy door open. I could smell the cold. And her.
“I didn't know what else to do with her,” my man said.
They entered the freezer.
“Nice,” the big man said. “Real nice. Look at those knockers. And what a soft …”
“Don't touch her.”
“Why not? She doesn't give a shit.”
“It's bad enough.”
“These the sheets from the bed?”
“I wrapped all her clothes in there, too.”
“You sure you got everything?”
My man sighed. “Everything except her car.”
“We'll do her car when we get rid of everything else,” the big man said. “I'll drive it. You can follow me in yours. We'll leave it down in Burly Town with the keys in it. It'll be a stripped shell by morning. Now … where are we going to make the beautiful Miss Darrel more manageable?”
“Do we have to? I'd rather just bury her and be done with it.”
“We are going to bury her,” the big man said. “Here, give me a hand. Take the legs.” They were bringing her out into the kitchen. Their feet shuffled along the floor.
“I mean, bury her in one piece.” I heard my man grunt with exertion. “Watch her head.”
“Screw her head,” the big man said. “I asked, where are we going to do it?”
“Outside. In the potting shed,” my man said. “Next to the garage. There's a table in there.”
“You have the things I told you to get?” The big man let one of her arms go and opened the door to the backyard. Her hand flopped on the floor.
“I hope. The gardener keeps stuff in there.”
“He better have some good saws. Pruning shears wouldn't hurt either.” He picked up the dangling arm. “Turn off the light.”
My man switched off the kitchen light and they jostled her out the door. I took advantage of it remaining slightly open and pushed out, scooted down the steps and out into the yard. I really had to pee now.
They didn't see me and, as my urine puddled in the grass, I watched their dark shapes lurch to the potting shed, wrestle the body inside and then the door closed. The single fluorescent came on, for a second illuminating the yard like moonlight and then the red haired man pulled down the shade.
I couldn't get back into the house so, for a while, I lay on the stoop with one ear up and listened.
The big man swore. My man swore. A clay pot fell and broke. Then there was the sound of the little electric chain saw the gardener used to prune the peach trees in the fall. “Hold her still,” the big man growled.
“Oh, Jesus,” my man said.
The whine of the saw intensified. “Damn it, Bill, I said hold her steady. Not that way. There. Like that.”
“Oh, Jesus,” my man said again.
“Damn,” the big man said, grunting with effort. “That guillotine the French had must've been sharp.”
I sighed and closed my eyes. I must have dozed because plastic garbage bags crinkling was the next thing I heard.
“You pack both hands?” I heard my man say.
“Of course.”
“You're sure? I only remember seeing one.”
“Damn it, Bill, do you see any hands laying around in here anywhere?”
“I just want to make sure we get everything.”
Then my man backed the Mercedes out of the garage and they loaded the ten plastic bags into the trunk.
“Now, let's get out of these clothes,” the big man said.
“Take a shower. I hope you've got something that'll fit me.”
I watched them strip naked in the yard, bag their blood-soaked clothes, and put that bag in the car trunk with the others.
I got up off the stoop as they approached.
“You put a shovel in the car?” the big man said.
My man nodded. They were at the stoop now.
“I don't trust this mutt,” the big man said as I dodged away from another kick. I ran into the yard and stopped, braced to run again if he chased me. “We'll get rid of him tomorrow.”
“Get rid of him? I wish … but he was my father's.”
“Your father?” The big man laughed and opened the door. “Your father's as dead as Miss Darrel out there. He doesn't give a shit.” He scratched his naked crotch.
“Father's will stipulated that Jack be …�
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“Will, schmill, Bill. You gotta get rid of him. Look at him. I don't like the way he looks at us. He knows what's happened. He'll tell sure as shit.”
My man swatted a mosquito on the back of his neck. “How's he going to tell anyone?” He laughed.
“I don't know,” the big man said. “He will, though. Lassie used to be able to tell Timmy. Remember?”
“I don't think I have the stomach for it.”
“You can kill a gorgeous girl like that,” the big man said with a laugh, “but you can't do a fucking dog?”
“I told you, her death was …”
“Okay. Okay. I'll take care of old Jack for you tomorrow. How's that?” The door slammed behind them. My man said something, but most of it was too muffled behind the door to make out.
Since there was nothing I could do about any of it right then, I trotted out to the potting shed and nosed myself inside. I had only been able to imagine what they were doing and wanted to smell for myself. The stench of death and blood and bone was fog-thick in the humid little building and I recoiled, instinctively backing away from it. My rump rammed the door. The latch clicked before I could turn. I was locked in.
I started to bark my locked-in bark but thought better of it. I didn't want to be yanked again. Or kicked. Or yelled at. So, I lay down by the door and put my nose close to the damp dirt floor where the odor of death was thinner.
I was confused. Why was my man so angry with me? It seemed as though he had been getting less and less patient with me over the past several months. And he hadn't been feeding me. Not every day anyway, like usual. He had been fine for a while after the father died. Let me ride in the Mercedes. Even took me to the country once … He didn't let me out of the car, but it smelled nice though the crack in the back window. But then, he started to change. He fired the gardener and cook. Yelled at them like he was now yelling at me. He was on the phone a lot. He stayed up late. Drank from a bottle. He would still be in the study—sometimes on the floor—in the morning when I went to look for him to put me out. And then the girl began coming to the house. She was nice to me. Always brought a dog biscuit in her purse and didn't mind when I sniffed at her crotch. And my man was nicer. And now this. I sighed. Who was the big man with red hair? He didn't like me and was making my man angry at me again. If only I knew what I was doing wrong, I thought. If only I could find a way to make my man like he was before. If only …
I heard the back door open and the two of them come out. I decided not to bark, remembering how angry my man had been when he let me out of the bedroom. And I could only imagine how angry the red haired man would be. So I lay there and listened to them go to the driveway.
“Just follow me,” the big man said. “Once I ditch her car in Burly Town, we've got all night to get rid of the rest.”
“Where?”
“Where what?”
“Where are we going to get rid of the rest?”
“A little here.” The big man laughed. “A little there. A little everywhere.”
I listened to the car doors slam, the engines start and then they were gone. A cricket began chirping in the far corner of the shed. Ordinarily I would have hunted it down—I liked their crunchy, sweet taste—but tonight I was too tired.
I closed my eyes and dozed and dreamed of my days with the father. Our trips to the hunting camp. The cold, misty mornings and the distant honking of migrating Canada geese. The smells of the woodsmoke, the coffee, the bacon, the guns, and wet wool. I felt the icy water, my feet swimming, the soft, warm, feathered bulk held lightly in my mouth. And I dreamed about the words of praise. The hugs and long rides home perched high and proud in the front seat. The special treats when the big tree went up in the house.
I heard the Mercedes return several hours later and only my man got out. After he entered the house and clicked the door shut I fell asleep again, this time dreaming of last summer and chasing that musty smelling woodchuck across the yard. I remembered how he had managed to escape me by diving though a hole in the back wall of the potting shed. How I had followed—it was tight—and by the time I had wriggled myself inside, he was long gone down the burrow hole he had behind the bags of peat moss. Over the next several days I had tried to dig him out and might have succeeded but the gardener caught him cockily sunning himself by the rhododendrons, shot him in the eye with his twenty-two pistol, and dumped the big brown rodent in the garbage can with the locking lid. I could barely smell its pungent fur through the thick plastic.
I awoke. Sunlight pressed yellow against the closed window shade. Flies buzzed at the back of the shed. Sparrows squabbled and scratched along the tin roof. Old Charlie barked on his chain in the backyard three over. I stood and stretched. The smell was worse. Hugging the dark along the wall under the shelf, I went to where I remembered the woodchuck burrow hole to be and nosed behind the peat moss bags. The gardener must have filled it in before leaving, but the jagged opening in the shed wall was still there. I pushed my head through but my shoulders wouldn't fit. It was tighter than I remembered. I backed out and took a few steps away from it. Maybe if I ran at it like I'd done with the woodchuck, I'd fit. I took another couple steps back into the shed—I wanted to get a good running start—and my back left paw stepped on something soft and cold that grabbed at my foot. I yelped and jumped, spinning to attack whatever it was.
It was a hand. Tentatively, I sniffed it. It was her hand. The same one that had dragged on the floor in the kitchen—lying there palm up in the dim morning light. My weight in its center had caused it to clench.
I picked it up by the thumb, carried it to the hole in the wall, and dropped it out into the yard. Then I backed up again and charged. The opening was tight and the jagged sides hurt, but I was free. I turned, scooped the cold hand into my mouth, and ran for the house.
The back door, of course, was closed. Normally I would have barked and pawed at the screen until my man came and let me in, but my mission was to improve his mood and his opinion of me, not irritate him further.
I ran around the house and tried at the front door, but it, too, was closed. Sometimes one of the cellar windows was left ajar in the summer to let in fresh air, so with the hand still clamped in my jaws, I began a slow inspection of the narrow windows along the foundation. As I passed under the long windows to the study, I heard my man's voice through the wall. I sat, pricked my ears, and listened. He was talking on the telephone. “Of course, I'm upset, Dinkletter,” he said. “I waited most of the day for her.”
There was a pause while he listened to Dinkletter on the other end. Then he said, “Well, I wish you'd listened to your messages before you called the police. Now I have to endure another inconvenience because of your negligence. The New Year is only a few days away.”
Another pause and then, “Yes, you do that, Dinkletter. Call them and tell them how unhappy I'm going to be to see them. Of course, a lot of good it's going to do if they're already on their way.”
Pause.
“Yes, I'm sure you are, Dinkletter, but it's really too late, isn't it?”
Pause.
“I don't really care, Dinkletter. And make sure you pass on my sentiments to Miss Darrel also. When she shows up.” My man slammed down the phone receiver and laughed.
I started for the next basement window when I heard him dialing. I went back to my place under the study window. The hand in my mouth wasn't cold anymore. “It's me,” my man said. “I just got off the phone with Dinkletter. He called the cops first thing. Evidently she was living with her sister and the sister called Dinkletter before he had a chance to hear my message.” He paused, listening. Then he said, “Any minute now, I guess.” He sighed. “I'm ready as I'll ever be.” Another pause. “No I haven't seen him this morning. But he'll be around groveling for his kibble. I'll lock him in.” Another pause. “Fine. I'll call you when they leave. You can come get him then if it's so important to you.” He hung up, and I heard his footsteps cross the room and enter the hallway beyond. “H
ere, Jack,” he yelled. “Here, Jack. Time for breakfast, old buddy.”
My stomach growled. Food can wait, I thought, mouthing the hand. I have more important things to do.
Two more basement windows and I found what I was looking for. After that, it was simple: shoulder it open, leap through to the basement floor, cross over to the back stairs, up to the servants' door—that had a latch not a knob—nose it open, and head for the study via the dining room. I could hear my man calling me as I stood on my hind legs and deposited the hand beside the telephone on the cherry desk. Right next to the big tree he'd put up last week.
Now things will get back to the way they used to be, I thought as I trotted toward the kitchen and the sound of the electric can opener. My man will be happy when he sees the hand—he was so worried about losing it last night. He'll know I found it for him, and it will prove how helpful and loyal I can be. He'll see it and know I would never tell what I know about the dead woman. And he'll scratch my belly and throw sticks for me to catch and maybe even take me to the hunting camp like the father did. But, mostly, he'll never let the big, red haired man take me away, because we'll be friends again.
He fed me a big bowl of canned mixed with dry and sat at the table smoking while he watched me gobble it down. Then he locked me in the bathroom like I knew he would. I didn't mind. He would be letting me out as soon as he discovered what I did for him. I drank from the toilet and then lay down by the door to wait.
The front doorbell rang an hour later. A man's voice introduced himself as police lieutenant Grabel Smolowitz. “And this here is Sergeant Rita Sanchez,” he added.
My man invited them inside. “I hope you've found her,” he said.
“Her?” Sergeant Sanchez said. “You mean, Miss Darrel?”
“Yes. Of course I mean Miss Darrel. She's missing, isn't she? I talked to her boss, Mr. Dinkletter, this morning. She was supposed to be here yesterday but didn't show up. My company pays Dinkletter …”
Lieutenant Smolowitz interrupted my man. “When was the last time you saw Miss Darrel?”
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