Death of a Dog Whisperer (9780758284570) (25 page)

A dozen airtight containers were stacked in the back half of the small building. Smaller packages, wrapped in plastic, were piled haphazardly on top of them. Several had spilled over the side and landed on the ground. Phil didn't appear to be the most careful custodian. No wonder Barney had been able to help himself.

Simply inhaling in the small, enclosed, space was a heady experience. As I'd suspected, this was no user's secret stash of weed. These were the hidden assets of a booming business. On the street, this much marijuana had to be worth thousands of dollars.

The rest of the shed was filled with a haphazard pile of junk. I saw cardboard boxes, a broken lawn mower, and a dented garbage can. Pushed against one wall was a threadbare upholstered chair. A small rickety table sat beside it. The tabletop held only two items: an ashtray and a roach clip.

“See?” Phil said with a snicker, following the direction of my gaze. “What did I tell you? Dorm furniture.” He shoved me that way. “Have a seat. I need time to think.”

Given no choice in the matter, I did as I was told. I tried to perch on the edge of the shabby seat but the chair's springs were shot. Its cushion was flat, stuffing half- disintegrated by years of use. No matter which way I shifted my weight, I felt as though I was being sucked downward into the seat's upholstered depths.

Nobody could make a quick getaway out of that chair. Which was probably just what Phil had intended.

“You can't keep me here,” I said, struggling to sit upright. False bravado wasn't much, but I figured it was better than nothing.

“Nice try.” Phil laughed. He leaned back against the door. “Lady, I can do whatever I want. I just have to take a few minutes and figure out what that is. Just like that dog trainer, you already know too much.”

“What did Nick do to you?” I asked. “Why were you so threatened by him?”

Phil straightened and strode to the opposite corner. He knelt down on the shed's dirt floor and began to rummage through a jumbled assortment of clutter. It was too dark for me to see what he was looking for, but when he stood up again, he was holding a metal toolbox.

“It was Barney,” he said. “That was the problem.”

“What problem?”

“He and that dog trainer were like long lost brothers. The damn dog told him everything.”

“Barney talks?” I said. Hopefully he'd realize how silly that sounded.

No such luck. Phil, busy pawing through the open tool chest, took my question at face value. Without glancing up, he said, “He did to that guy. That was Nick's whole shtick. He was like one of those animal communicator people. He understood what dogs were saying. And they told him stuff. All kinds of stuff. Even things that were none of his business.”

I thought of Fran's lavish praise of Nick's empathetic skills and sighed. “Did Fran tell you that?”

“Yeah, at first. But then I saw it for myself too. And right away I knew I had a problem.”

“How come?”

“Because Barney's a hound, all right? Nick told my mother that they're called scent hounds because of their noses. Do you know what scent hounds are trained to do?”

I did, but I shook my head anyway.

“They sniff things out of hidden places. Like at airports.”

“They detect bombs,” I said.

“And drugs,” Phil added flatly. “None of which ever mattered before. I mean, Barney's a dog, who's he gonna tell? I thought that was pretty funny until Nick came along. Then all of a sudden the joke was on me and it began to seem pretty damn serious.”

“So you killed him because you thought he knew your secret,” I said.

Phil set down the toolbox and turned around. He had a coil of rope in one hand and a roll of duct tape in the other. Even though it was warm inside the shed, I felt myself start to shiver.

“I killed him because I had to protect what was mine,” Phil said emphatically. “Nick thought he was so smart, talking to animals and finding out people's secrets. Well, who looks smart now? Because I'm still here, and I'm still in charge. And thanks to me that dog trainer won't ever be talking to anybody again.”

T
he words themselves were chilling enough. But their effect was heightened by Phil's triumphant tone. He wasn't even sorry about what he'd done.

There was still one more thing I wanted to know. “What about Thor?” I asked. “How did you get past him?”

“Who?”

“Nick's Rottweiler. When you were at Nick's house that night, how come he didn't come after you?”

“Because that dog trainer was a fool,” Phil said with a smirk. “That's why. He made the big dog lie down and be quiet when I got there. Nick told him that I was a friend. And by the time he knew differently, it was too late.”

I swallowed heavily. If anything, Phil's explanation had made me feel worse. When he started toward me, I sank back into the chair's depths. “You don't want to do this,” I told him.

Phil just laughed. “Says who? You? You don't have a clue what I want or don't want. Not that it matters now. I don't have a choice anymore.”

“Of course you do,” I said quickly. “There are always choices.”

“Like what?”

“You could let me walk out of here. Things will go better for you if you do.”

Phil shook his head. “Sorry. That's not going to happen.”

“Think about it. Isn't your mother going to wonder what happened if I don't come back? If I just disappear?”

I probably shouldn't have encouraged him to give the matter some thought. Because now Phil appeared to do exactly that.

“After I'm done here, I'll go move your car down the road somewhere,” he said after a minute. “My mother won't even notice. I'll tell her you left in a hurry because you were worried about Davey.”

After I'm done here
. I didn't even want to think about what that might entail.

“She won't believe you,” I said.

“Sure she will. She believes everything I tell her. You'll wait here until it gets dark,” Phil informed me. “And then I'll move you too.”

Not if I could help it, I thought.

He stopped in front of the chair. “Stand up.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.” Phil leaned down, grabbed my arm, and pulled me to my feet. “Give me your phone.”

“I don't have it with me.”

Phil shook his head. He looked annoyed. “You want me to go looking for it?”

I reached around and slipped the phone out of a back pocket. The damn thing was always ringing when I didn't want to be disturbed. Now when I desperately needed a connection to the outside world, not even a peep. Reluctantly I handed it over.

“Now your car keys.” Phil beckoned with his fingers.

I dug them out of another pocket and dropped them into his palm.

“Where's your purse?”

“In my car.”

“You really don't want to mess with me,” Phil warned.

Or what? I wondered. How could things possibly be any worse?

“Go look for yourself,” I told him. “I didn't need it for anything so I left it in the car. I
thought
this was a safe neighborhood.”

“Your mistake.” He chuckled under his breath. It wasn't a pretty sound. “Hold out your hands.”

“What are you going to do?”

Phil uncoiled the rope. “What do you think?”

As long as we were talking, I still had a chance. Once Phil tied me up, I'd be completely under his control. I'd lose all possibility of escape. I couldn't allow that to happen.

I tried to back up but the chair was right behind me. To my right was a stack of plastic containers. Left, toward the door, was where Phil stood. Wildly I looked around for a weapon.

I wanted something big and heavy. Something that would make me look formidable, fierce. And everywhere I looked I saw . . . nothing. I was surrounded by junk and none of it was even remotely useful.

As my gaze swung back toward Phil, it skimmed past the roach clip. Then stopped and returned. If I couldn't find big and heavy, something small and sharp would have to do. I reached down and snatched it up.

“What are you going to do with that thing?” Phil asked incredulously. “Poke me?”

“If I have to.”

“Yeah, I'm scared now.”

He dropped the coil of rope to the floor at his feet. Then Phil looked up and took a step forward. His hand lifted and curled into a fist. I tried to duck to one side but I wasn't nearly fast enough.

His fist flew toward me and connected with my jaw. My head snapped back. Pain exploded in a burst of light behind my eyes. It was white hot and all encompassing.

I fell backward into oblivion.

When I came to, I was half-sitting, half-lying, on the shed's dirt floor. My back was propped against the wall and my hands, bound tightly together, rested in my lap. A length of rope connected them to my feet, which extended out in front of me and were tied as well. A wide strip of duct tape covered my mouth.

That realization immediately caused my muscles to clench in panic. All at once I felt as though I couldn't breathe. Eyes wide and terrified, I inhaled sharply through my nose.

Even that sudden burst of oxygen wasn't reassurance enough. On the edge of panic I began to struggle against the ropes. They tore at my skin but the knots that held the bonds in place didn't budge. Rope burns formed quickly and that fresh throbbing finally halted my fruitless, frantic, endeavors. It brought me to my senses and made me stop and think.

But when I leaned my head back against the wall to consider my next move, a spasm of pain radiated up the side of my jaw. Reflex made me twist my head and jerk away. Helpless, unable to cradle the area with my hand, I could do nothing but clench my teeth and endure.

My eyes began to water. Then my nose started to run. I shook my head to try and clear it. That was a huge mistake. My agonized gasp was swallowed by the tape that pulled at my lips. Once again I felt skin begin to tear.

Stop it! I told myself angrily. Stop and breathe and calm down. You have to do better than this.

Once again—this time gingerly—I leaned back and let the wall support my weight. I needed a good idea. I needed a plan of escape. Phil had said that he'd be back for me after dark. Through the narrow slits of space between the shed's warped boards, I could still see light outside. Hopefully that meant I had time to maneuver.

First I had to get free. I looked around, scanning the shed's interior. All I needed was a sharp edge, something keen enough to fray the thick rope so that I could pull the knots apart.

The tool chest was shoved back into the far corner, and I could see that its lid was tightly latched. Earlier, Phil had found a length of rope and a roll of duct tape inside the box. I wondered what other kind of resources it might contain.

Pushing myself away from the wall I began to move, inchworm-style, across the ground. Progress was slow and painful. Twice I unbalanced and tipped sideways, my head and shoulder smacking down hard onto the earthen floor. Each time, I lost precious minutes struggling to right myself again.

Halfway there I paused, breathing heavily from the exertion. My chest felt tight. Blood pounded in my ears. I lifted my head and shoulders and stretched them back, aching for relief.

The movement lifted my gaze. Was it my imagination, I wondered, or was the light outside growing dimmer? Could the sun already be dropping in the sky? I had no idea how much time I might have lost while unconscious.

Sam was probably already looking for me, I realized. But there'd be no way for him to track me here. No doubt he'd try my cell phone first. He would be annoyed, but not alarmed when I didn't pick up. No one was going to come riding to my rescue. And I had only myself to blame.

I sighed and started across the floor once again. My progress was still slow, but it was steady. Goal in sight and coming closer, I stopped thinking and just kept moving.

Ten long minutes later, I reached the toolbox. I twisted around, angling my body sideways so that my hands could reach the latch. My fingers fumbled briefly then popped the clasp open. The box's lid lifted, then fell backward, revealing a cluttered upper tray. A Phillips head screwdriver, a pair of pliers, a small hammer, and an assortment of loose nails and screws were crammed in beside the roll of duct tape.

Nothing useful there.

Bracing both hands together, I slid my fingers under the handle, lifted the tray, and slid it sideways. My aim was awkward and off-kilter. The tray caught on the edge of the metal box and began to tip. Unable to move quickly, I couldn't right it in time. Instead I could only watch as the tools slid off the lowered side and clattered into the dirt. The damage was already done, so I let the tray slip from my fingers too. It landed on top of the discarded gear.

Turning back to the tool chest, I had another look inside. In the semi-darkness, it took me a moment to realize what I was seeing. Then my eyes opened wide. My nose pinched inward as I sucked in a startled breath.

Gun
.

Tucked away in the bottom of the box, the weapon was half-covered by an oily rag. Its barrel jutted out of one side. The butt of the handle was visible on the other. Just looking at it, I felt a frisson of fear snake its way down my spine.

I've got a gun,
Phil had told me earlier. And here it was.

Let's be clear about something. Everything I know about guns I learned from watching crime dramas on TV. Which is to say that I'm the last person in the world that should be ever handling one. I wanted no part of that thing.

Even so, I couldn't help but stare. I was half-fascinated, half-afraid. The rational part of my brain knew that the gun couldn't move—much less shoot—without human intervention, but it still seemed unwise to take my eyes off it. As if I thought there was a chance that the weapon might leap up of its own accord and fire.

It was a silly reaction on my part; I knew that even then. And it made me wonder if that punch to the jaw had addled my brain more than I'd realized. Annoyed by the possibility, I wrenched my gaze away and had a look at the rest of the container's contents.

It was then, finally, that my luck began to change.

Nestled in beside a vise grip, a tape measure, and another hammer, was a box cutter. A ray of hope lent new energy to my movements as I reached inside the metal chest and pulled the tool out. The implement's blade was retracted into its handle. Fingers scrambling, I found the catch and released it. There was a soft snick and a razor-sharp edge appeared.

After several false starts, I figured out how to angle the blade so that I could maneuver it back and forth for maximum effect. The knife edge sliced through the rope with swift, clean, efficiency. As soon as the first coil binding my wrists split and fell away, I was able to start wriggling one hand loose. With the first one free, the other soon followed.

Immediately I reached up and I peeled away one corner of the duct tape. Bracing myself, I gave the strip a sharp yank. A searing wash of pain brought fresh tears to my eyes as the tape tore free. The discomfort was well worth it, however, when I was finally able to open my mouth wide and draw in a deep, restorative, gulp of oxygen.

After that I made short work of the shackles around my ankles. Within minutes I was able to kick the ropes away. My legs ached as I straightened them and stood up, but it felt wonderful to be on my feet again—almost as if I was once more in control of my own destiny.

Carefully I retracted the blade and tucked the box cutter into my pocket. If the need for a weapon arose again, I had no intention of being caught empty-handed a second time. Then that decision led to another realization: I needed to do something with the gun.

Even unarmed, Phil was bigger and stronger than I was. And if he had the weapon in his hand, I'd have no means of defense at all. I had to make sure that he couldn't find it quickly.

Once again, I surveyed my surroundings. My gaze went to the shabby upholstered chair with its ragged cushion. I strode over and lifted the seat pillow, looking for a seam in the back. Better yet, there was a zipper. When I slid it open, bits of decayed and crumbled foam rubber came tumbling out. Perfect.

Using just the tips of my forefinger and thumb, I pinched the rag around the gun. Then I lifted it out of the toolbox, carried it across the shed, and dropped it inside the cushion. With a smooth whir, the zipper closed the opening. Carefully I maneuvered the big pillow back down into place. When I was finished, the chair looked as though it had never been disturbed.

Quickly I gathered up the remaining tools and packed them back in the box. Then I shoved the chest itself back in the dark corner. One problem solved. Now I just had to figure out how to get myself out of the shed without being seen.