Stories (2011) (46 page)

Morley slipped the collar under Chum's leash and snapped it
into place even as the dog rushed against him, nearly knocking him down. But it
wasn't Morley he wanted. He was trying to get at the smell. At Dennis. Dennis
felt as if the fluids in his body were running out of drains at the bottoms of
his feet.

"Was a little poontang worth this, Dennis? I certainly
hope you think so. I hope it was the best goddamn piece you ever got.
Sincerely, I do. Because death by dog is slow and ugly, lover boy. They like
the throat and balls. So, you watch those spots, hear?"

"Morley, for God's sake, don't do this!"

Morley pulled a revolver from his coat pocket and walked
over to Dennis. "I'm going to untie you now, stud. I want you to be real
good, or I'll shoot you. If I shoot you, I'll gut shoot you, then let the dog
loose. You got no chance that way. At least my way you've got a sporting chance
-- slim to none."

He untied Dennis. "Now stand."

Dennis stood in front of the chair, his knees quivering. He
was looking at Chum and Chum was looking at him, tugging wildly at the leash,
which looked ready to snap. Saliva was thick as shaving cream over the front of
Chum's muzzle.

Morley held the revolver on Dennis with one hand, and with
the other he reproduced the aerosol can, sprayed Dennis once more. The stench
made Dennis's head float.

"Last word of advice," Morley said. "Hell go
straight for you."

"Morley . . ." Dennis started, but one look at the
man and he knew he was better off saving the breath. He was going to need it.

Still holding the gun on Dennis, Morley eased behind the
frantic dog, took hold of the muzzle with his free hand, and with a quick
ripping motion, pulled it and the leash loose.

Chum sprang.

Dennis stepped back, caught the chair between his legs, lost
his balance. Chum's leap carried him into Dennis's chest, and they both went
flipping over the chair.

Chum kept rolling and the chain pulled across Dennis's face
as the dog tumbled to its full length; the jerk of the sixty pound weight
against Dennis's neck was like a blow.

The chain went slack, and Dennis knew Chum was coming. In
that same instant he heard the door open, glimpsed a wedge of moonlight that
came and went, heard the door lock and Morley laugh. Then he was rolling,
coming to his knees, grabbing the chair, pointing it with the legs out.

And Chum hit him.

The chair took most of the impact, but it was like trying to
block a cannonball. The chair's bottom cracked and a leg broke off, went
skidding across the floor.

The truncated triangle of the Doberman's head appeared over
the top of the chair, straining for Dennis's face. Dennis rammed the chair
forward.

Chum dipped under it, grabbed Dennis's ankle. If was like
stepping into a bear trap. The agony wasn't just in the ankle, it was a
sizzling web of electricity that surged through his entire body.

The dog's teeth grated bone and Dennis let forth with a
noise that was too wicked to be called a scream.

Blackness waved in and out, but the thought of Julie lying
there in ragged display gave him new determination.

He brought the chair down on the dog's head with all his
might.

Chum let out a yelp, and the dark head darted away.

Dennis stayed low, pulled his wounded leg back, attempted to
keep the chair in front of him. But Chum was a black bullet. He shot under
again, hit Dennis in the same leg, higher up this time. The impact slid Dennis
back a foot. Still, he felt a certain relief. The dog's teeth had missed his
balls by an inch.

Oddly, there was little pain this time. It was as if he were
being encased in dark amber; floating in limbo. Must be like this when a shark
hits, he thought. So hard and fast and clean you don't really feel it at first.
Just go numb. Look down for your leg and it's gone.

The dark amber was penetrated by a bright stab of pain. But
Dennis was grateful for it. It meant that his brain was working again. He
swiped at Chum with the chair, broke him loose.

Swiveling on one knee, Dennis again used the chair as a
shield. Chum launched forward, trying to go under it, but Dennis was ready this
time and brought it down hard against the floor.

Chum hit the bottom of the chair with such an impact, his
head broke through the thin slats. Teeth snapped in Dennis's face, but the dog
couldn't squirm its shoulders completely through the hole and reach him.

Dennis let go of the chair with one hand, slugged the dog in
the side of the head with the other. Chum twisted and the chair came loose from
Dennis. The dog bounded away, leaping and whipping its body left and right,
finally tossing off the wooden collar.

Grabbing the slack of the chain, Dennis used both hands to
whip it into the dog's head, then swung it back and caught Chum's feet,
knocking him on his side with a loud splat.

Even as Chum was scrambling to his feet, out of the corner
of his eye Dennis spotted the leg that had broken off the chair. It was lying
less than three feet away.

Chum rushed and Dennis dove for the leg, grabbed it, twisted
and swatted at the Doberman. On the floor as he was, he couldn't get full power
into the blow, but still it was a good one.

The dog skidded sideways on its belly and forelegs. When it
came to a halt, it tried to raise its head, but didn't completely make it.

Dennis scrambled forward on his hands and knees, chopped the
chair leg down on the Doberman's head with every ounce of muscle he could
muster. The strike was solid, caught the dog right between the pointed ears and
drove his head to the floor.

The dog whimpered. Dennis hit him again. And again.

Chum lay still.

Dennis took a deep breath, watched the dog and held his club
cocked.

Chum did not move. He lay on the floor with his legs spread
wide, his tongue sticking out of his foam-wet mouth.

Dennis was breathing heavily, and his wounded leg felt as if
it were melting. He tried to stretch it out, alleviate some of the pain, but
nothing helped.

He checked the dog again.

Still not moving.

He took hold of the chain and jerked it. Chum's head came up
and smacked back down against the floor.

The dog was dead. He could see that.

He relaxed, closed his eyes and tried to make the spinning
stop. He knew he had to bandage his leg somehow, stop the flow of blood. But at
the moment he could hardly think.

And Chum, who was not dead, but stunned, lifted his head,
and at the same moment, Dennis opened his eyes.

The Doberman's recovery was remarkable. It came off the
floor with only the slightest wobble and jumped.

Dennis couldn't get the chair leg around in time and it
deflected off of the animal's smooth back and slipped from his grasp.

He got Chum around the throat and tried to strangle him, but
the collar was in the way and the dog's neck was too damn big.

Trying to get better traction, Dennis got his bad leg under
him and made an effort to stand, lifting the dog with him. He used his good leg
to knee Chum sharply in the chest, but the injured leg wasn't good for holding
him up for another move like that. He kept trying to ease his thumbs beneath
the collar and lock them behind the dog's windpipe.

Chum's hind legs were off the floor and scrambling, the
toenails tearing at Dennis's lower abdomen and crotch.

Dennis couldn't believe how strong the dog was. Sixty pounds
of pure muscle and energy, made more deadly by Morley's spray and tortures.

Sixty pounds of muscle.

The thought went through Dennis's head again.

Sixty pounds
.

The medicine ball he tossed at the gym weighed more. It
didn't have teeth, muscle and determination, but it did weigh more.

And as the realization soaked in, as his grip weakened and
Chum's rancid breath coated his face, Dennis lifted his eyes to a rafter just
two feet above his head; considered there was another two feet of space between
the rafter and the ceiling.

He quit trying to choke Chum, eased his left hand into the
dog's collar, and grabbed a hind leg with his other. Slowly, he lifted Chum
over his head. Teeth snapped at Dennis's hair, pulled loose a few tufts.

Dennis spread his legs slightly. The wounded leg wobbled
like an old pipe cleaner, but held. The dog seemed to weigh a hundred pounds.
Even the sweat on his face and the dense, hot air in the room seemed heavy.

Sixty pounds
.

A basketball weighed little to nothing, and the dog weighed
less than the huge medicine ball in the gym. Somewhere between the two was a
happy medium; he had the strength to lift the dog, the skill to make the shot
-- the most important of his life.

Grunting, cocking the wiggling dog into position, he
prepared to shoot. Chum nearly twisted free, but Dennis gritted his teeth, and
with a wild scream, launched the dog into space.

Chum didn't go up straight, but he did go up. He hit the top
of the rafter with his back, tried to twist in the direction he had come,
couldn't, and went over the other side.

Dennis grabbed the chain as high up as possible, bracing as
Chum's weight came down on the other side so violently it pulled him onto his
toes.

The dog made a gurgling sound, spun on the end of the chain,
legs thrashing.

It took a long fifteen minutes for Chum to strangle.

When Chum was dead, Dennis tried to pull him over the
rafter. The dog's weight, Dennis's bad leg, and his now aching arms and back,
made it a greater chore than he had anticipated. Chum's head kept slamming
against the rafter. Dennis got hold of the unbroken chair, and used it as a
stepladder. He managed the Doberman over, and Chum fell to the floor, his neck
flopping loosely.

Dennis sat down on the floor beside the dog and patted it on
the head. "Sorry," he said.

He took off his shirt, tore it into rags and bound his bad
leg with it. It was still bleeding steadily, but not gushing; no major artery
had been torn. His ankle wasn't bleeding as much, but in the dim lantern light
he could see that Chum had bitten him to the bone. He used most of the shirt to
wrap and strengthen the ankle.

When he finished, he managed to stand. The shirt binding had
stopped the bleeding and the short rest had slightly rejuvenated him.

He found his eyes drawn to the mess in the corner that was
Julie, and his first though was to cover her, but there wasn't anything in the
room sufficient for the job.

He closed his eyes and tried to remember how it had been
before. When she was whole and the room had a mattress and they had made love
all the long, sweet, Mexican afternoon. But the right images would not come.
Even with his eyes closed, he could see her mauled body on the floor.

Ducking his head made some of the dizziness go away, and he
was able to get Julie out of his mind by thinking of Morley. He wondered when
he would come back. If he was waiting outside.

But no, that wouldn't be Morley's way. He wouldn't be
anxious. He was cocksure of himself, he would go back to the estate for a drink
and maybe play a game of chess against himself, gloat a long, sweet while
before coming back to check on his handiwork. It would never occur to Morley to
think he had survived. That would not cross his mind. Morley saw himself as
Life's best chess master, and he did not make wrong moves; things went
according to plan. Most likely, he wouldn't even check until morning.

The more Dennis thought about it, the madder he got and the
stronger he felt. He moved the chair beneath the rafter where the lantern was
hung, climbed up and got it down. He inspected the windows and doors. The door
had a sound lock, but the windows were merely boarded. Barrier enough when he
was busy with the dog, but not now.

He put the lantern on the floor, turned it up, found the
chair leg he had used against Chum, and substituted it for a pry bar. It was
hard work and by the time he had worked the boards off the window his hands
were bleeding and full of splinters." His face looked demonic.

Pulling Chum to him, he tossed him out the window, climbed
after him clutching the chair leg. He took up the chain's slack and hitched it
around his forearm. He wondered about the other Dobermans. Wondered if Morley
had killed them too, or if he was keeping them around. As he recalled, the
Dobermans were usually loose on the yard at night. The rest of the time they
had free run of the house, except Morley's study, his sanctuary. And hadn't
Morley said that later on the spray killed a man's scent? That was worth
something; it could be the edge he needed.

But it didn't really matter. Nothing mattered anymore. Six
dogs. Six war elephants. He was going after Morley.

He began dragging the floppy-necked Chum toward the estate.

* * *

Morley was sitting at his desk playing a game of chess with
himself, and both sides were doing quite well, he thought. He had a glass of
brandy at his elbow, and from time to time he would drink from it, cock his
head and consider his next move.

Outside the study door, in the hall, he could hear Julie's
dogs padding nervously. They wanted out and in the past they would have been on
the yard long before now. But tonight he hadn't bothered. He hated those
bastards, and just maybe he'd get rid of them. Shoot them and install a burglar
alarm. Alarms didn't have to eat or be let out to shit, and they wouldn't turn
on you. And he wouldn't have to listen to the sound of dog toenails clicking on
the tile outside of his study door.

He considered letting the Dobermans out, but hesitated.
Instead, he opened a box of special Cuban cigars, took one, rolled it between
his fingers near his ear so he could hear the fresh crackle of good tobacco. He
clipped the end off the cigar with a silver clipper, put it in his mouth and
lit it with a desk lighter without actually putting the flame to it. He drew in
a deep lung-f of smoke and relished it, let it out with a soft, contented
sigh.