My eyes cut to the cages on the left—past two mewing cats and a snoring Yorky terrier to the last cage in the row.
The cage with the door hanging open…
And no Stanley inside.
12
I blinked. Widened my eyes. Scanned every shadow in the recovery room. And even though the scan came up empty, my brain stubbornly blocked the logic—refusing to make sense of the information my eyes were processing.
Surely, Stanley must be hiding. Or someone was playing a cruel joke. But one more scrutiny of the empty cage and the empty room and I knew this nightmare wasn’t over.
At that moment, Val pushed through the door of the animal hospital, a small brown bottle of pills in her hand. “Nearly forgot. These are Stanley’s antibiotics. One tablet morning and—” She stopped, frowned, obviously perturbed by the wide-eyed panicked expression on my face.
“Stanley’s gone,” I told her, my voice barely above a whisper.
Open mouthed, Val stared at the empty cage and then let out a yell that reverberated through the room. “Terry! Come quick! Kat’s dog isn’t in here! He’s gone!”
“Gone? Gone where?” Disbelief made Terry’s voice harsh as he bullocked his way through the cartoon-labeled door into the sterility of the animal hospital.
“I don’t know,” said Val, her voice small and worried. “He was in his cage when I checked half an hour ago. And…and now his crate’s empty and he’s nowhere in the room.” She twisted her hands together and her gaze, pleading forgiveness, swung across to me. “I’m so sorry, Kat. Whoever took him must have come in while I was out back washing the towels.”
Tears welled behind my eyes and I covered my face with both hands. What if the dog-napper was Jack’s murderer? If so, he was a hundred times more dangerous than the geriatric guy in purple pants. In fact, after what I’d seen in that refrigerator—my sweet lovable GAP dog’s life would mean less than unwanted gum on the killer’s shoes.
Hand shaking, I dug into my back pocket, feeling for my mobile. Time to bring in the Big Guns.
Time to contact DI Adams.
* * *
The Colombo look-alike slouched against the wall of my dog kennels, frowning at the four heaped bowls of meat and kibble balanced in my arms. Spiral notebook in hand, he scratched behind his left ear before digging into his multiple coat pockets, doubtless in search of a writing instrument.
“Right,” he said producing a squashed cigarette butt, sniffing its stale fragrance then stashing his find into an inside coat pocket. “Now, tell me exactly what happened at the vet’s today.”
I shook my head.
Now
he wanted to know. After Stanley’s disappearance, I’d speed dialed Detective Inspector Adams to report the dog’s disappearance. Huh. May as well have sent my message via a tottering old aged pensioner equipped with a generic-issue walking frame with two wonky wheels. I narrowed my eyes at the detective. Had Adams rushed to the vet surgery with lights flashing and sirens blaring? Nope. Had the slouching detective taken finger prints at the crime scene? Nope again. Had he organized patrols equipped with machine guns to hunt down the dog-napper? Ya gotta be kidding! Instead, when I rang he’d let out a string of unprintable curse words and told me to get the hell off the line because he was in the middle of a drug bust. Then, just before hanging up he said—
if
he had time—he’d be around to see me later in the day.
I glanced at the battery operated clock on the nearest wall. The clock with hands shaped like racing greyhounds in full flight. I’d discovered this kitschy piece in one of several dusty boxes at the local Op shop and it made me smile so I’d bought it for my temporary kennel house.
Almost 5 pm—definitely later in the day. Six hours since Stanley had disappeared from the recovery room at Terry Blackburn’s veterinary surgery. My narrow eyed look turned into a scowl. Hell, by this time, the dog-napper could have caught a plane to the north of Australia and be rounding up kangaroos to slaughter for fun along the Dingo-proof and may never be found.
I was in the middle of feeding my racing team and couldn’t stop to talk to Adams and his surly female companion, Constable Belinda Chalmers. Didn’t fancy the roof of the kennel house lifting off and landing up the road, due to disgruntled barking. So I answered their questions while I worked.
I juggled the dishes in my arms, then straightened to my full height of five feet five, which was still a good six inches shorter than DI Adams. “I told you what happened, Inspector. Someone stole my dog.”
Adams produced a basic blue ballpoint pen from a deep pocket in his long overcoat and flipped a new page open in his spiral notebook. “Could your missing dog have pushed the door of his cage open and escaped?”
“No, I told you over the phone, Stanley was dog-napped.” I opened the nearest kennel door, slid a bowl of beef, kibble and vitamins inside—to the excitement of a bouncing, barking Zorro—refastened the kennel door, repeated the procedure three more times and then turned to Detective Adams, hands on hips. “Even if Stanley managed to rattle his cage door loose, there’s no way he could have escaped from the recovery room. The dog may be bright but even
he
doesn’t know how to turn the knob on a door.”
“Hmm…”
I sent him an accusatory scowl. “If you remember, I told you at the police station last night my dogs were under threat. You took no notice. And now look what’s happened… Stanley has been kidnapped.”
“Hmm…” he said again as he scratched on the paper with his ballpoint pen, discovered it had no ink, and began to delve into his coat pockets for another. “Maybe that was because I was more interested in the fact that you and your over-indulging friend had discovered the body of a murder victim.” He hitched one eyebrow. “Inside a house you’d broken into.”
I shook my head in frustration, barely refraining from stamping my foot like a tetchy two-year-old. “Tanya and I did
not
break in—we were chased into the house by Lantana’s guard dogs. I told you that too.” I turned away from him to snaffle four more food bowls from the table beside the fridge. “Don’t you
ever
listen?”
While I fed the last of the yapping dogs, the Inspector’s questions continued. Not that he listened to any of my answers. It was like having a discussion with a stone statue. Finally, I decided to reverse the role and ask some questions myself.
“As you have no intention of adding Stanley to your
Missing
list, let’s talk about the missing human. My sister, Liz. Have you heard anything from the Port Augusta police about her disappearance?”
DI Adams scratched at his stubbly five o’clock shadow. “Actually…”
“
We’re
asking the questions, Ms. McKinley,” snapped Constable Chalmers who’d been unusually quiet up until now. Perhaps she wasn’t keen on the unblinking stare the black and white greyhound in the end kennel was giving her. Note to self: if Chalmers gives me any trouble let Rastus out of his kennel, then sit back and enjoy the show. Chalmers had special pheromones that seemed to attract all male dogs. And Rastus was no exception.
“The Port Augusta police are exploring all possibilities but haven’t come up with a strong lead yet,” DI Adams admitted. “This isn’t the first time your sister has disappeared you know. That Scott fellow reported her missing once before and she was found hugging a tree scheduled to be cut down, twenty miles away.”
“Oh.” Could Liz be doing something similar now? Out hugging trees or chaining herself to an old soon-to-be-demolished building? But that still didn’t answer the question of why her bracelet was in Jack Lantana’s house. Or could Ben be right? Was it a coincidence and Lantana had merely found Liz’s bracelet on the street where she’d dropped it?
Adams broke into my thoughts. “And that Scott fellow isn’t what he seems either.”
“What do you mean?”
“Scott Brady has a record. The man might only be in his early twenties but he’s already spent a couple of stints in jail. Burglary, and assault with a weapon.” DI Adams shook his head. “If I were you I wouldn’t be inviting your sister’s boyfriend home for a Sunday roast.”
“I don’t
do
Sunday roasts.” I ran the hot water in the sink and added a large squirt of Liquid-Fresh, ready to wash the dogs’ dishes—even though most had been licked so clean they sparkled.
DI Adams shuffled his feet before raising both eyebrows. “And I’d be warning that sister of yours to watch out for him.”
“Gotta find her first,” I reminded him and stood, hands on hips, as I watched him bury his notebook in a deep pocket inside his overlarge overcoat. “So…you’re not going to do anything about finding my dog, are you?”
“It’s on my ‘to-do’ list,” he said then his gaze hardened and his frown deepened. “But it’s
not
on yours.” He took two steps closer, leaning right into my face. I could smell the lingering tanginess of his aftershave and spotted a small nick on his chin where he’d miscued while shaving. “Which means, I do
not
want to find you asking questions or getting involved in this case in any way. Do I make myself clear?”
“But it’s
my
sister and
my
dog that’s—”
“Ms. McKinley… Kat…there’s a very inventive, cold blooded killer out there. A killer who wouldn’t think twice about chopping you into very small pieces, packing the blood soaked chunks into a plastic container and mailing them off to your mother.” He hitched one eyebrow, never dropping eye contact. “Am I scaring you?”
Scaring me? Hell, he had me almost wetting my pants
.
I nodded.
“Good.”
I gave him a weak smile, attempting to bring some humor into the present horror-show. “Chopping Guy would need to affix the right amount of stamps on the parcel, otherwise—knowing what a cheapskate my mother is—she’d refuse to pay excess postage.” My smile held on like Tarzan’s Grip. “What do you think, DI Adams? Would the post office send the package back—or bury me in the Dead Letter Office?”
My favorite Colombo-look-alike detective didn’t bother answering. Instead, he just hunched his shoulders, then indicating with a head flick to his assistant that the interview was over, stomped out.
13
DI Adams’s cautionary words reverberated in my head—creeped me right out—so much so, as I loosed each dog into emptying yards before bedding them down for the night, my overactive imagination upped the terror and turned it into a horror movie. A Freddy Kruger movie on steroids—with me, the latest vulnerable victim, cowering on center stage, while the villain, his sharp silver axe dripping blood, crouched in every cupboard, lurked in every shadow, hid behind every tree.
His goal—to hack chunks from the body I loved—mine—and methodically pack the severed pieces in a parcel addressed to Mother.
After locking up, I grabbed a short sharp breath and trudged along the dirt path toward the house. Hunched inside myself. Fighting the urge to break into a mad ungainly sprint and bolt for the front door. Why had I planted so many trees and bushes on either side of this path? They created too many shadows. Too many gnarled twisted boughs that resembled a man’s arms reaching out for me. First thing in the morning, I’d pay Mr. Turner from next door to drive his tractor over and bulldoze the lot.
Was Adams right? Should I endanger my life to investigate Liz’s disappearance only to find she’d chained herself to some threatened hundred and fifty-year-old gum, marked with an x, due to tree rot? Liz probably wouldn’t even leave the damn tree to attend my funeral.
But she
was
my sister. And she
was
missing.
And so was Stanley.
Were Liz, Stanley and Jack’s killer all connected? My brain did a quick lap of the mental trail, banged into several insurmountable hurdles, burnt and crashed—still with no answers.
Surreptitiously checking over both shoulders for a shadowy boogey man sneaking up on me with a raised axe, I ducked inside the house, locked and secured the front door with a security chain and turned on several lights. But I still didn’t feel safe. Not until my two house-pets, plus Stella, had been let into the house and I’d turned the key in the back door.
Whew! After toeing off my old sneakers and tossing my battered yard parka onto the back of a kitchen chair, I regarded the dogs bouncing around my feet, threatening to upend me due to their one-track-minds.
“Right, guys, I know—it’s past your dinner time, but you’re not likely to collapse of hunger,” I told my tap dancing cheer squad while filling three doggy bowls with beef and kibble and then placing them on the colorful linoleum, several yards apart. “And Lucky,” I warned the tail wagging black greyhound whose drool was currently threatening to flood the kitchen, “keep out of the other dogs’ food—especially Tater’s bowl—or you’re likely to lose that cheeky black nose. You know that little guy’s not a sharer.”
Thank goodness there was no need to bring out the First Aid kit tonight. Within seconds Tater had licked his bowl clean and by the time Lucky slunk over to investigate his bowl, Tater was over helping Stella give her dish a final polish. I grinned. My lion-hearted Tater may be a teacup Chihuahua—but he’d always be King of the McKinley household.