An Apple for the Creature

by Harris, Charlaine

  “Ya think?” Remy asked, as Marlowe scurried away from the woman, to cower behind him.

  “I’ve never met a dog that I couldn’t train,” she said, staring at Marlowe as if he was a challenge. Then she looked back at Remy, and started toward him, hand extended. “Jacqueline Kinney,” she said.

  “I’m Remy Chandler,” Remy responded, taking her hand and shaking it. It was rough and callused. “What can I do for you?”

  Marlowe continued to watch the woman, scooting closer to press against his leg.

  “I’d like to hire you, Mr. Chandler,” she said, looking around the office.

  “What seems to be your problem, Ms. Kinney?”

  “Jackie,” she told him. “Call me Jackie.”

  “Okay, Jackie.” He gestured for her to take the chair in front of his desk as he went around to take his own. Marlowe remained close to him, as if some strange static charge had caused him to stick. “Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong?”

  “Thanks,” she said as she lowered herself down into the seat. “For the past month or so, someone has been trying to disrupt my business, and my life.”

  Remy slid a notepad over in front of him and picked up a pen for writing notes.

  “And why do you think that?”

  She dug into the pocket of her coat and removed a folded piece of paper. “I found this in my mailbox not long before the problems started,” she said, as she leaned across the desk to hand the wrinkled paper to Remy.

  BEWARE THE BAD HOUR it read in capital letters, obviously written by an angry hand.

  “And you have no idea who could have left this?” Remy asked.

  Jackie shook her head. “I didn’t even know what it meant, and thought it might be one of my staff pulling a joke.”

  “I’m guessing it wasn’t?”

  “No, they had no idea, or where it came from, and honestly, I threw it in my desk drawer and never gave it another thought—until the problems started.”

  “Problems?” He set the note down and picked up his pen.

  “It started really as a kind of feeling . . . an uneasiness in the air, I guess, and I wasn’t the only one to feel it. I run an obedience school and kennel, and the dogs staying in the kennel seemed to feel it too. They began barking and carrying on twenty-four-seven. In all my years of boarding dogs, and I’ve been doing this for a long time, I’ve never seen animals act that way. It was as if they could sense something coming.”

  “The Bad Hour?” Remy suggested.

  “Maybe.” Jackie shrugged. “Whatever that’s supposed to mean.”

  “Has there been anything other than this strange uneasiness that you and the kennel dogs have been feeling? A physical threat, maybe?”

  “The uneasiness was just the beginning,” the older woman said, nodding. “It wasn’t long before I started to sense a presence . . . and then it started to show me that it was there, and what it could do.”

  “A presence?” Remy questioned. “Do you mean like a ghost, or an evil spirit or something?”

  “I wouldn’t know what to call it,” Jackie said. She was sitting taller in her chair, her breathing coming quicker. Whatever it was, it was clearly frightening her. “It likes to slam doors and slide furniture around in the middle of the night. I hear barking inside my bedroom, but I don’t have a dog of my own.”

  Suddenly, Remy heard that familiar alarm bell start to go off inside his skull; the one that signaled this was likely one of those cases. The weird shit, as his closest friend, Boston homicide detective Steven Mulvehill, liked to call them.

  “And your business? You say you run a kennel?” Remy asked as he jotted down some random thoughts.

  “Kennel and obedience school,” she answered proudly. “I’ve been in business for close to thirty years.”

  “And the presence is affecting that as well?”

  Jackie nodded grimly. “I teach obedience classes in an old barn, but I had to cancel my summer classes because none of the puppies would go into the building.”

  Remy was looking at his notes, unsure exactly how to proceed.

  “Ms. Kinney . . . Jackie, it’s not that I’m unsympathetic to your situation, but I’m really not too sure how a private investigator would . . .”

  “My father had a collection of Civil War memorabilia that I was trying to sell a couple of weeks ago. I met a gentleman who was interested in some of Dad’s things, and as we were talking, I mentioned my situation to him. He said you’re the best person for my problem. He said that cases like this . . . of a more unusual nature, were your specialty.”

  Remy frowned. “This gentleman,” he said. “Did he happen to have an interest in weaponry?”

  “Yes, he did,” Jackie said. “He purchased some of my father’s cutlasses. His name was Francis . . . I didn’t get a last name. He paid cash.”

  Remy nodded. Francis was once the guardian angel Fraciel, until he was banished to earth after siding with the Morningstar during the War. Fraciel, now going by the earthly moniker of Francis, had seen the error of his ways, and had begged for the Almighty’s forgiveness. Instead of imprisonment in the Hell prison of Tartarus, God had shown unusual mercy and had sentenced Fraciel to guard one of Hell’s entrances on earth, as well as to act as one of God’s own personal assassins.

  The former guardian angel had a love for medieval weaponry—all weaponry, really—and often hired himself out to the highest bidder when the Almighty didn’t have anybody that needed smiting, so he could afford to expand his collection.

  Remy often found Francis’s skills quite beneficial for some of his own more dangerous cases.

  “Was Francis wrong in sending me to you, Mr. Chandler?” Jackie asked.

  Remy thought for a moment. In spite of how Marlowe seemed to feel, there was something about this old dog trainer that Remy liked. And since his schedule happened to be open at the moment, he figured what the heck.

  “No, that’s perfectly fine,” he said. “I’d be happy to take your case.”

  “No, make leave,” Marlowe said in a doggy grumble as he continued to cower beside Remy’s chair.

  Remy reached down to pet his dog’s head and said, “Since your problem seems to focus around your property, I’ll need to go there.”

  “Of course,” Jackie agreed. She stood, ready to leave, looking relieved, as if a huge weight had been lifted. “In fact, why don’t you come tonight?” she suggested. “Our first class of obedience training for new dog owners actually begins tonight. Bring your boy there, and mingle with the class while you’re doing your thing.”

  Marlowe peeked around the corner of the desk to watch the woman leave.

  “Who knows?” Jackie said with a hint of a smile. “Maybe you’ll learn something.”

  NOW

  Remy opened the back door of the car for Marlowe to get out.

  The dog just sat there, looking everywhere but at him.

  “Come on,” Remy urged. “Let’s go.”

  The dog lowered his head, still not looking at Remy.

  “No,” he said with a throaty grumble. “Not going . . . not a bad dog.”

  “I didn’t say you were a bad dog,” Remy said. “I just want you to get out of the car.”

  “Bad dogs go school,” Marlowe said. “Not bad dog. Good dog.”

  “Of course you’re a good dog,” Remy said. “Who told you that only bad dogs go to school?”

  The black Lab turned his dark brown gaze to his master’s. “You say.”

  “Me?” Remy asked. “When did I ever . . .”

  And then he remembered. Ever since Marlowe was a pup, Remy had been teasing the dog about his rambunctiousness, threatening to send him to obedience school if he didn’t learn to behave.

  “Marlowe, I was only kidding,” Remy tried to explain, climbing in beside his friend.

  “No kidding,” the dog said, refusing to make eye contact again.

  “Really, it was just a joke.” Remy started to ruffle the dog’s ears. “Like
when you said you were going to bite me back at the office.”

  “Joke?” Marlowe asked, daring to look at him again.

  “Just a joke,” Remy soothed. “I swear . . . you are not a bad dog.”

  “No school?”

  “Well, we still have to go in, I’m afraid,” Remy explained. “We have to see what we can do about helping Jackie.”

  “Jackie scary,” Marlowe said.

  “Yeah, a little, but she still needs our help.”

  “Wait here?” Marlowe asked.

  “No, I think you need to come in with me,” Remy said. “We have to pretend we’re here for school, so we can figure out who’s trying to hurt Jackie’s business.”

  “Jackie scary,” Marlowe said again.

  “Yes, I know she’s scary, but it doesn’t change the fact that she needs our help, all right?”

  Marlowe didn’t respond.

  “So are you getting out of the car?”

  The big dog sighed heavily, and stood up on the backseat.

  “There’s a good boy,” Remy said as he got out of the car, Marlowe leaping to the ground behind him.

  “We’re gonna have to put this on you.” Remy showed Marlowe the leash, then leaned in to attach it to his collar. “Now remember, you’re going to have to help me out.”

  The two walked side by side toward the large barn. The sound of dogs barking from the kennel at the back of the sprawling property was carried on the night wind.

  Remy stopped to listen, hearing the panic in the raised voices of the kennel dogs. Yeah, they most definitely had to do something about that.

  “So I know you’re a good dog, and you’re very smart, but you’re going to have to pretend that you’re not. Do you understand?” Remy asked as they started toward the barn again.

  Marlowe stopped and stared at Remy as if he were crazy.

  “We’re supposed to be going to classes to learn things that you already know, so you’re going to need to pretend not to know them.”

  “Pretend stupid?” Marlowe asked.

  “Exactly,” Remy said. “Pretend stupid.”

  Several other dog owners and their pets were making their way down the path toward the barn, and Marlowe watched as they passed and went inside.

  “Stupid dogs go school. Marlowe smart. Pretend stupid.”

  “That’s it,” Remy said, giving the leash a slight tug as they headed toward the barn entrance. “We have to look like everybody else so we don’t stand out. Got it?”

  “Got it,” Marlowe answered.

  They reached the door to the barn and Remy took hold of the handle, pulling it open for the dog to enter.

  Marlowe sat down, staring.

  “What are you doing?” Remy asked.

  “Being stupid,” Marlowe replied as he continued to stare at the open door.

  “Okay, let’s pull back a bit on the stupid and get inside,” Remy said, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

  He could have sworn that the Labrador rolled his eyes as he passed by into the barn.

  —

  Marlowe trotted into the building with Remy close behind him.

  The dog was immediately on alert as he took in his new surroundings. The smell of urine washed over his senses, and he suddenly realized how bad some of these dogs really were.

  Following his nose, he glanced over to see a woman kneeling down with a handful of paper towels mopping up the floor as a white poodle stood innocently by, feigning disinterest.

  “He does this when he’s frightened,” the middle-aged woman in the New England Patriots jacket tried to explain to Remy. “Guess it’s obvious why we’re here,” she said with a nervous laugh.

  Marlowe knew that it wasn’t fear that made the dog pee inside the barn; it was the desire for his scent to be the strongest, marking his territory. He pulled Remy over toward the poodle as the woman quickly disposed of the damp towels, tossing them into a nearby plastic barrel. She kept the dog tight to her side, although he struggled to get closer to Marlowe.

  “He isn’t very nice,” the woman said to Remy. “They say he needs to be socialized better. I hope these classes work.”

  “What’s his name?” Marlowe heard Remy ask.

  “Vincent,” she replied, still holding the poodle back.

  Bad dog better name, Marlowe thought as he extended his muscular neck toward the defiant poodle.

  He heard Remy making small talk with the woman as he fixed the poodle in his sternest of stares. “No pee,” he growled at the white, curly-haired dog.

  “I pee . . . mine,” the poodle retorted, his entire body quivering with excitement.

  “Not yours,” Marlowe corrected.

  “Mine!” the dog barked, straining on his leash.

  With a harrumph, Marlowe went to the spot where the dog had just relieved himself, sniffed it, then positioned himself over the damp floor.

  “Not yours,” Marlowe said again, letting a quick stream of his own urine spray upon the spot.

  —

  “Marlowe!” Remy yelled in horror as he watched his dog urinate on the barn floor.

  The dog looked at him with an expression that said, What’s the problem?

  “What the hell are you doing?” Remy asked, dragging him over to one of the many paper towel dispensers bolted to the walls around the barn.

  “Teaching,” the dog explained.

  “Yeah, this one escapes me,” Remy muttered softly. He pulled a handful of towels from the roll and returned to the scene of the crime.

  “How were you teaching by pissing on the floor?” Remy asked him as he started to sop up the still-warm puddle.

  “Said room his. . . . Not his,” Marlowe explained.

  “So you showed him that the room wasn’t his by peeing on his pee,” Remy finished.

  “Yes,” Marlowe barked happily.

  “You know what, no more teaching, okay? Let’s leave that to Jackie.”

  Marlowe didn’t really care for that, but agreed for the sake of higher learning.

  Remy tossed the wet paper towels into the barrel, and took a moment to absorb the vibe in the room. Jackie had talked about feeling a presence, something that had prevented her summer puppy classes from happening, but all he could sense at the moment was the nervous anticipation of people desperate for their dogs not to do anything embarrassing.

  He watched as a large man in baggy shorts and a red hoodie was dragged by an equally large Saint Bernard to see a cream-colored French bulldog, owned by a mother and little girl, that didn’t appear at all interested in the other dogs, focused instead on killing a spider that had been trying to cross the room. There was an attractive young woman with a slightly older companion whose eyes were glued to a BlackBerry. She was trying to calm a shivering German shepherd mix who seemed terrified of the other dogs. An older couple—probably retired—stood off by themselves, a howling dachshund held tightly in the woman’s arms.

  “How old?” asked a voice nearby, and Remy spun to face a woman with a coal black dye job, drawn-on eyebrows, and a turquoise velour sweat suit. She held a small, puffy-furred black dog protectively in her arms that silently studied him and Marlowe with deep, dark eyes. Remy didn’t know what kind of dog it was, maybe a Maltese, or some kind of terrier, but it was cute in that ankle-biting kind of way.

  “Excuse me?” Remy asked.

  “Your dog,” she said, looking down at Marlowe. “How old is he?”

  “Oh, he’s four,” Remy replied.

  Marlowe pulled on the leash, trying to get closer to the woman, as well as the dog in her arms. She backed up quickly as if afraid, holding her little dog closer to her.

  “Sorry,” Remy said, hauling Marlowe back. “He’s perfectly harmless.”

  “This one isn’t,” the old woman said, eyes darting to her little friend, who remained perfectly calm and silent cradled in her arms.

  “Bit of an attitude?” Remy asked with a smile.

  “You might say that,” she answered
coldly.

  There was silence then, and Remy tried to fill the uncomfortable moment by again looking around the barn. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Even extending his preternatural senses, Remy experienced nothing more than anxiety from the dog owners in attendance, and their pets.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” the older woman said suddenly.

  “Excuse me?” he asked.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” she repeated, her expression showing as little emotion as the tiny black dog she held in her arms.

  “I really don’t understand what . . .”

  “He’s too well behaved,” she added, motioning with her chin to Marlowe, who was sniffing the air, taking in all the various scents. “Maybe an advanced class would be better for him.”

  “Maybe,” Remy said, petting his dog’s head. “But I think a refresher course might do him some good.”

  A chorus of dog barks suddenly filled the air of the barn, and Remy glanced over to see Jackie Kinney entering through a back door, striding across the wood floor, clipboard in hand. He was amused by the air of confidence she exuded as she stopped in the center of the room, her eyes falling upon each and every person, and their dog. Like General Patton about to address his troops.

  “Good evening,” she said, her voice booming with authority. “First off, I’d like to thank you all for choosing the Kinney Obedience School for your dog’s education, and for having the wherewithal to realize that a dog needs training if it is going to be a part of your family . . . a part of your day-to-day life.”

  She looked around the room again, this time only making eye contact with the dogs. Remy could have sworn that the majority averted their gazes, surrendering dominance, as her stare touched them.

  “I’m scared,” Marlowe grumbled, as Remy gently stroked his blocky head with the tips of his fingers.

  Jackie raised the clipboard. “Before we get started, I’d like to take attendance.”

  The trainer began to read from the list, ticking off the names of the owners and their dogs as they responded.

  “Remy Chandler and Marlowe?” she called out, and before Remy could respond, Marlowe let out a booming bark to let her know that they were there.