Canine Christmas (29 page)

The paper then wafted down, the hands staying in the air and about even with the carroty hair and the face below it that was almost, but not quite, Joe Bob Brewster's.

Chief Lon Pray said, “Just a day of bad biorhythms, Earl.”

“Chief, I was beginning to think I'd have to hit you in the head with a hammer.”

Lon Pray watched the Santa coffee mug shake as the man holding it shuddered in his rocking chair. “You did everything you could, Joe Bob. It just took me a while to catch on.”

“I mean, I lead with my brother, I flick my head toward the house, I even go on about Old Feller and‘strangers.’ But all you do is kind of grin and drive off.”

“Joe Bob, I just didn't get what you were telling me till I drove past half an hour ago.”

“When my brother Earl was out here.”

“Right. I'm guessing he wasn't too pleased with your mentioning his name to me.”

“He thought he had a tight plan, all right,” said Joe Bob, taking a slug of coffee. “Him and the other two hit the bank, then run down to the fire road. One gets in his own pickup that they left there, the other runs with Earl almost to my place. Old Feller didn't kick up any fuss when his owner's brother happens to stroll around from the back and ask how I'm doing. Then Earl tells me that him and his‘friend’ are gonna be in the house for a few days, waiting for things to cool down before they call their third friend to come back and pick them up.”

“Along with the guns and the money.”

“The money Earl never showed me, but he sure did wave that gun under my nose, and I knew I couldn't say anything direct-like to you, or he'd have shot through the window there and killed the both of us.”

Pray said, “So you tried to tip me, Earl didn't like it, and he came out onto your porch here to impersonate you.”

“Which was pretty smart of him, what with my habit of sitting out here.” Joe Bob took another slug from the mug. “Only my book wasn't big enough to cover his whole face, so he had to use a newspaper, which I doubt you've ever seen in my hands. That was what tipped you, right?”

“That plus some other things. I wondered how out-of-towners would know about the mill money and the fire road. I also wondered why the third man in the bank never spoke.”

“Simple,” said Joe Bob around another sip of coffee. “Old Mary Boles might've recognized his voice.”

“Another thing was, when I drove by a little while ago, your brother wasn't rocking in the chair like you do.”

“Earl tried that, but his rhythm was all off, and he caught Old Feller's tail underneath.”

“That's the last thing.”

“What is?” said Joe Bob.

Pray gestured toward the sleepy hound. “Old Feller wasn't switching his tail under your chair, and that seemed to me oddest of all.”

“Habits.”

“What?”

“Habits,” said Joe Bob Brewster. “We all have them. Sometimes they hurt, but sometimes they help, too.”

Chief Lon Pray found himself nodding in time to Old Feller's tail.

Eye Witness

David Leitz

Author of numerous short stories and the Max Addams fly-fishing mystery novels, DAVID LEITZ splits his time between a 250-year-old farmhouse on the north coast of Massachusetts and a cabin in the woods of southern Vermont. For more information about Mr. Leitz and his writing, see
www.whitefork.com
.

“I wish I was half the man my dog thinks I am.”
Anonymous

I watched him murder her; his bare left knee pressed hard between her soft, white, flopping breasts, holding her down as his thumbs pushed knuckle-deep into her neck. Her face turned blue, her mouth gaped, and her long legs kicked around his naked hips like she was running somewhere.

And as usual, I yawned.

I was used to it. I'd been watching him do it all week; hump her and then flip her to her back where she would twist and claw as he climbed roughly to her chest, straddled it and, throttling her neck with one hand, leaned over her face.

They were like that; violent in their lovemaking … growling, biting, slick with sweat when it was over … only this time she didn't cough or laugh or even slap him.

She just sprawled there on the bed of twisted sheets. And smelled of death.

He walked to his chair by the now-dead fire, wrapped his bony shoulders in the afghan, and sat. Then he lit a cigarette, exhaled at the ceiling, and scratched me behind the right ear. “I think I've got a problem, Jack, old buddy,” he said to me. “A big problem.”

It was the first time he'd touched me in days. I licked his hand. It was strangely warm and tasted of her.

He pulled it away. “Jesus, Jack.”

After he finished his cigarette, he flipped the butt into the fireplace and we both slept.

When I awoke, he was gone. So was she. The bed was stripped to the mattress, the pillows were on the floor, and I could hear voices in the downstairs hall.

“It just got out of hand,” I heard him say. “We went crazy. It was like she was begging me to do it.”

“I told you she was a bad one,” a man's voice I'd never heard before said. “I told you. When she first started coming here I told you she'd find a way to fuck you over. Didn't I?”

My man didn't answer.

I got to my feet, stretched, shook, and went to the big carved door. It was ajar but my nose wouldn't fit in the opening. I couldn't open it.

I whined.

They were still talking and couldn't hear me.

I barked. Two short, sharp ones like I use when I get trapped in the kitchen bathroom after drinking from the toilet bowl. I barked again.

“Shit,” my man said. “I must've shut Jack in the bedroom.” His feet started up the stairs.

“The bedroom … ?”

“Yeah. The bedroom.” The footsteps were almost to the top of the stairs.

“You telling me he was there?” Now I heard the other man start up the stairs. He was heavier. “The fucking dog saw you do it?”

They were in the upstairs hall now. “She seemed to get more turned on when he watched,” my man said.

The door opened before I could get out of the way, and it caught my left foot as it swung in. It startled me more than it hurt and I yelped.

“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 …”

“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?”