The Wicked Flea (24 page)

“No one’s here,” remarked Ceci, meaning no one who counted, in other words, no one with a dog. People who show their dogs cling to the erroneous belief that pet owners can’t be real dog people. Hah! Ceci was proof to the contrary.

I pointed out the self-evident: “We are.”

To my relief, Ceci made no effort to linger around the parking area or the field, but eagerly strode toward the woods. Thriving under her care, Quest ambled at a pace that was slow for Rowdy and me, but decent for him. Taking the same trail we’d used the day Ulysses and Douglas had found Sylvia’s body, we talked dog talk: Quest’s positive response to his new drug regimen, the pros and cons of various brands of senior dog foods. We encountered remarkably few other people, with or without dogs: two or three runners, a grimfaced woman with a merry golden retriever, a young man who looked too exhausted to bear the weight of the yellow-haired baby in his backpack. The golden was on leash, and for once, no loose dogs were in sight. I heard not a single blast of an air horn; maybe the horrible fad I’d foolishly introduced had peaked and was declining. The footpath we’d followed to the scene of Sylvia’s murder was now behind us, and we’d gone beyond the place where Douglas had turned back to search for Ulysses on the day the improbable hound had discovered her body.

Just ahead of us, the trail forked, and noticing the split, Ceci switched from the topic of dogs. “Like the Robert Frost poem! Except that they’re paths, not roads, are they? And the woods are more brown than yellow, and those pines or spruces or whatever they are are still green, well, not
still,
since they’re evergreens...”

Knowing Ceci, I expected her to add that the nonroads in the non-yellow wood hadn’t actually diverged. She didn’t. For once, she fell suddenly silent. Turning to her to see what was wrong, I found that she’d stopped to stare into the deep woods to our right. I felt no alarm, and neither of the dogs gave any indication of anything amiss. Quest was his usual bearlike, giant self. Rowdy’s tail was sailing back and forth over his back, but malamutes carry their tails over their backs, and even for a malamute, Rowdy is an exceptionally happy boy. For a second, I panicked at the possibility that Ceci was having a heart attack. Quest had been setting the pace, which was a near creep for Rowdy and me, but perhaps a near sprint for Ceci. Her expression, however, didn’t suggest pain, and she wasn’t clutching her chest or showing any other alarming signs. She didn’t look sick. What she looked was stunned. My eyes followed the direction of her gaze. A stranger watching my face would probably have worried that I was having a heart attack. Like Ceci, though, I was simply astounded.

In the woods, perhaps, forty feet from us, framed by a pair of six-foot hemlocks, stood a tall man wearing a long trench coat and a black ski mask. The knitted hood covered his head and face. It had small slits for his eyes and a smallish mouth opening to permit breathing. He needed it. For heavy breathing. The trench coat was buttoned from his neck down to his waist. Below, it was open. As was his fly.

Weirdly enough, it took a moment for the reality of the exhibitionism to register on me. I’d certainly heard about the exhibitionist in the park. Being an adult speaker of English, I knew the right words. Still, they did not immediately occur to me, probably because their connotations were so static, so entirely immobile. An art
exhibition.
Paintings. Oils on canvas. But this exhibition was no still life! Hey, in case you’re as naive as I was, let me warn you:
Flashing
suggests speed:
in a flash.
Well, his right hand was moving fast enough, but he didn’t just
expose
himself briefly and take off.

When the reality hit me, it crossed my mind that maybe I should feel scared. Pia had been horribly frightened by this same experience. But she’d been alone. I glanced at Ceci, whose initial amazement was turning to shocked bewilderment and what looked to me like fear. Suddenly, I was enraged. Reaching into my pocket, I grabbed my key ring, thrust it at Ceci, and said, “Car keys! Go back to the car! Can you do that?”

She nodded.

“Go!” I’m a dog trainer. I’m used to giving orders.

Ceci nodded again.

As she turned and began to lead Quest back down the trail, I whispered fiercely, “Rowdy, let’s go!” And off we went, into the woods, after the man, who must’ve taken advantage of my delay to zip or at least button his pants. Damn it! He’d turned and was fleeing nimbly, not hampered by clothes falling off. But he was in sight. Enraptured with the primitive joy of the chase, Rowdy plunged through the low underbrush, taking the lead, pulling me after him, inspiring me to holler to our quarry, “You picked the wrong woman this time, you son of a bitch! I am no one’s goddamned victim! And I’m going to get you!”

Ahead of me, Rowdy leaped over a log. High on adrenaline and hellbent on vengeance, I mimicked Rowdy, cleared the log, landed lightly, and pounded on, dashing around and under low-hanging branches, and shrieking, “Go, Rowdy! Go! We’re going to catch this bastard! Run, Rowdy, run!”

Run he did! His ears flattened against his head, his mighty legs eating up the ground, his tail flying boldly like a banner of war, Rowdy charged ahead, and through the leather leash that joined us and through the intangible bond of love that united us, his wild strength and his savage speed flowed into me until I was stronger and faster than myself, half woman, half malamute, invincible!

Rowdy and I gained ground. Our prey was about twenty feet ahead of us. “I’m going to get you!” I snarled. “I’m stronger and faster than you, you sick son of a bitch! Watch out, because you’re going to trip and fall, and I’m going to catch you and kick the shit out of you and tear you into thin little strips of skin and flesh, do you hear me? Watch out!”

Ah, the power of suggestion! The ski-masked head bobbed briefly as the man checked to see exactly what would trip him. Something did. His own feet? Suddenly, he faltered. And fell. Hard! His body gave a loud
whomp.
Until then, I’d been all wrath and speed, ferociously determined to catch the villain. What on earth had I intended to do with him once I did? Deliver a lecture on keeping his pants zipped? During the chase, I’d been in aggressive pursuit. Rowdy had been having fun. I’d growled, threatened, and snarled. Rowdy’d been playing a happy game. Even now, when the object of the chase lay ahead of us, when our enemy had been felled, Rowdy showed no intention of transforming himself into the sort of dog who could be commanded
—Guard him
!—to pounce on the evildoer and wrap massive, toothy jaws around the scoundrel’s throat while I, ignobly if safely, scurried off to call the police. If the situation had been reversed, if the man had chased me, if he’d threatened me in any way at all, commands to Rowdy would have been equally useless and entirely unnecessary. All on his own, Rowdy’d have stopped him. The dog was eighty-eight pounds of muscle and bone. He loved me. And he didn’t need my advice.

It occurred to me that I should take his. Contemplating the man, Rowdy saw no threat. Because there was none? Enjoying the last of the adrenaline, I felt more puzzled than brave. Above all, I felt determined to see the damned man’s face. Even if he got up and bolted, I’d know the face, and I’d pick it out in a mug book or a police lineup.

I trust Rowdy. Even so, swooping quickly down, I grabbed a rock far bigger than I’d have chosen to fend off an aggressive dog. The man stirred. Before he had a chance to recover from the fall, I was standing over him. The ski mask had twisted to become a blindfold. With one hand signal, I dropped Rowdy. With a second signal, I ordered him to stay. Holding the rock in my strong right hand, directly above the man’s head, I reached out with my left, grabbed the ski mask, and ripped it off.

For the second time, I was utterly stunned. Surprised, amazed, astonished, incredulous!

“Douglas?” I blurted out.
“You?”

Ceci’s eligible gentleman, the man she’d insisted I just had to meet. Douglas, the lovely person.

Chapter 34

Imagine the letdown! The damned crash! I’ll tell you, the sight of Douglas’s ever so sickeningly
nice
face knocked the emotional wind out of me. Only seconds before, Rowdy and I had been soaring godlike through the woods in glorious pursuit of truth, justice, and the rights of women. And how had our noble and zealous chase ended? With the apprehension of this piddling nonentity.

“You!” I exclaimed. “You perverted nebbish!” Douglas had fallen face down. When I’d pulled off that ridiculous ski helmet, he’d rolled onto his side. Now that I was yelling at him, he turned onto his back and looked directly at me. He made no effort even to sit up, never mind to rise to his feet and run.

“What’s a nebbish?” he asked.

“This is Newton! How can you not know the word
nebbish
? It’s Yiddish for a goddamned nobody. You, for example. Nice, wholesome, polite, inoffensive, clean-cut Douglas.” As I’ve just said, he was now lying on his back. His trousers were buttoned, but his fly was still open. He knew it, too. His eyes were on me. “Zip your pants,” I added vehemently. “And keep them zipped.”

Still flat on his back, he complied. “I didn’t have time before,” he said. “I was in a hurry.”

“And exactly why was that? I’ll tell you why. Because you were too busy giving offense to an elderly woman who has been nothing but friendly and pleasant to you. You know, I am perfectly happy to give no thought at all to anything anyone wants to do in private. Or anything between consenting adults. But what you have been committing is a crime
with
victims. Pia was terrified. Ceci is undoubtedly still upset. And these are women who are supposed to be your friends.” Out of the comer of my eye, I saw Rowdy stir. No wonder he hadn’t sensed a threat. I caught his eye and mouthed a silent
Stay!

Douglas let his body relax completely, as if he were sinking into the depths of a soft couch. An analyst’s couch? “It’s a compulsion,” he said somberly. “A compulsion beyond my control.”

“This is why you’re seeing Dr. Foote,” I said. “Is that what she told you? That this was beyond your control?”

He sighed. “She’s a terrible therapist, isn’t she? Useless. To me, that is. I hope she’s been more helpful to you.”

“Well, no, as a matter of fact, she hasn’t been very helpful,” I admitted. “But that’s different, because my problems... Douglas, this entire time, Dr. Foote has known about you?”

“Of course she’s known about me. What are shrinks for?”

“That you’ve been exposing yourself in the park? All this time, she’s known, and she’s done nothing to stop you from victimizing innocent women? How long have you been seeing her?”

“Six months.”

“She’s let this go on for
six goddamned months
?”

“Well, what do you expect her to do?”

“Cure you. That’s what you’re paying her for, isn’t it?”

“Dr. Foote says it’s a normal impulse.”

“Your problem has nothing to do with
impulses.
It has to do with behavior.” Thus spoke the dog trainer.

Sounding genuinely curious and gratified, he asked, “Do you really think so?”

Now, he’d switched to flashing his symptoms. Damn it! I was about to remind Douglas that his career as a victim of impulse had just undergone a radical change because he’d finally been caught. Before I spoke, I felt a twinge of fear. As a dog trainer, I trust fear. When a strange dog gets a certain glint in his eye, fear is the saving voice that warns you to move smoothly out of range of his teeth. Sometimes, you don’t even see the glint. You just feel scared. You take a step back. The dog lunges. And misses your throat. So far, Douglas had remained flat on the ground. Fear, the dog trainer’s salvation, reminded me that it had been Douglas’s dog, Ulysses, who’d found Sylvia’s body and that this belly-up creature at my feet had been the first person at the scene of her murder. Had Ulysses really
found
Sylvia? Or had Douglas seized on the dog’s disappearance in these same woods to “find” his own victim? Maybe Sylvia’s murder had nothing to do with her family and no correspondence with fatal dog attacks. The alternative scenario was simple: Carrying the urn containing her husband’s ashes, Sylvia followed the footpath to the clearing with the small boulder. Douglas exposed himself to her. Somehow, she recognized him and threatened, in turn, to expose him. To the police, to the community, to ridicule and humiliation. And he shot her. Had he used an air horn to cover the sound of the gunshots? Douglas probably owned one of the wretched devices. They’d been handed out freely to the dog group, of which Douglas was a member. Why hadn’t I thought of that? Because, as usual, I’d been obsessed with dogs and had seen human beings through my dog-colored glasses. Wilson presumably had an air horn, but so far as I knew, Eric didn’t. Eric wasn’t a dog walker and hadn’t needed one. And Douglas was, all too conspicuously, an intact male. If he’d killed one woman who’d caught him, I had every reason to feel more than a twinge of fear.

I still hadn’t answered his question. Belatedly, I said, “Yes, but I’m a dog trainer. I think in terms of behavior. What I’m sure of is that you need to see someone who can help you stop, uh, doing this.”