When one of Kari's teachers dropped by the bookstore to tell him she might have seen Kari at a nearby gas station, he dropped everything. A couple of teenagers near the service station ignored his inquiry. They just stared at him. This wouldn't get him anywhere. It had been an hour, hour and a half. She could be anywhere by now. Could she be hanging around this neighborhood? Bars, tattoo parlors, bingo halls, and a few small diners, with apartments above them.
Suspicious stares met him as he looked in bars and walked through the shabby hallways of some apartment buildings. Clusters of kids here and there, but no Kari. He'd learned by now not to shove her picture at them and ask questions, because even if they knew, they wouldn't tell. Too bad he hadn't brought Thor. The dog could find her where he couldn't and besides, the sight of him discouraged hostilities.
In the end, he drove back to the bookstore and let himself in to finish the shelving job he'd abandoned earlier in the evening. A janitor was vacuuming the upper floor when he came in.
“You Buchanan?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Browning left you a note. He said if you came by tonight to give it to you.”
The envelope contained a check covering his pay since last payday, and a W-2 form listing his meager earnings. Also a note asking him to leave his keys with the janitor.
Well, that was that. The decision was a no-brainer. He had to move out in a few days, and he and the animals would camp out in his truck for a week or two, till he could find a new job. Maybe drive up in the mountains at night and sleep out in his sleeping bag. The animals could stay in the car for warmth. It couldn't be too bad. Showers at the field house, and a cellular phone for an address. Most of his meager possessions were already in rented storage. Time to look for a full-time job. If Rick didn't come through with an exhibition soon, he'd quit school at the end of the semester and work until he had enough money to go back. Maybe some independent study courses.
“Sorry, boy, you can't come this time,” he told the dog as he got ready to leave for the tennis courts. Thor whined, disappointed.
“Quit feeling sorry for yourself, Thor. You're not allowed on campus. And I need to teach some klutzes how to toss up a ball and hit it. You'd get to it before they did. Want to stay outside?”
The dog scratched at the door.
“Will you knock that off? I just painted that freaking door!”
The yard didn't amount to much more than a couple of grassy patches among the weeds Kitt kept trimmed like a bona fide lawn. The broken-down fence even in its glory days would have presented no obstacle to a dog of Thor's size. But he was well trained now, and would not leave when told to stay.
“When I come back we'll throw a few balls, okay?”
Thor's mournful face receded in the side mirror.
After the tennis lesson he stayed for a while at the library, and for the first time in months found himself immersed in his studies. For a few hours he recaptured the thrill of discovery that had marked his first months away from the tour. When he finally closed his book he felt almost peaceful.
Outside, he debated with himself. Straight home or take a quick look around the Park Strip? It was a popular teenage hangout, and in this weather they'd be there in droves. What was the point? If she wanted to come home, she could've done it a thousand times over.
Is there really any point? Give it an hour, that's it. What if he found her and she told him to get lost? Was Kari thinking about where she was going with her life, or was she just living from day to day? What did she do all day? Did she think about coming home?
Is she alive?
The homeless kids roaming the neighborhoods and hanging out in abandoned buildings, under bridges and in warehouses were no band of romantic adventurers. In his meanderings he'd seen the frightened runaways who'd pack it in after a short independent streak, and he'd come across the hookers and the druggies, the street-hardened veterans and gang members of the back alleys, oozing with cocky insolence, often armed and dangerous and nearly stripped of conscience. He'd thought about his life on the pro tour— hotels, limousines, talk shows, airplanes, taxis, commercials, and matches, matches, matches. Now he was a traveler on a strange planet.
His innocence stood in glaring contrast to the cynicism of the city. These kids, with their weapons and their drugs and their defiance—were they really scared inside as he kept hearing from counselors and armchair psychologists? They didn't look scared. Did Kari run around with a gun or stand on street corners, smoking cigarettes and eying passing cars?
He pulled up in front of his driveway to find a couple of neighbor kids pointing to the back of the house.
“They got'im,” said one of them tentatively, checking out the safety of approaching Kitt with his scoop.
“Who, what?”
The boy pulled back and pointed over his shoulder. Kitt ran around the house.
By the back door, all four legs stretched hard and stiff, his great head cramped back as though straining for air, foam still clinging to the sides of his mouth, lay Thor. A little heap of fluff lay twisted and motionless against his back, as if it had been tossed there by the wind.
There was a numbing rhythm to the digging and heaving as he slammed the shovel back in the deepening hole, driving it down with both feet. He worked furiously, blocking his thoughts, his back to the trail past the boulder that hid Thor's body from his view, focusing on the next shovelful and the next.
He'd driven high up in the mountains and struggled up the trail, carrying the blanket-wrapped body of his dog, with the kitten tucked in a fold. He'd slid and scraped and climbed around the Apache Loop, and past the treacherous crevasse Thor had fallen into last winter, then up the steep, rocky path past the junction with the northbound trail, where he remembered their last overnighter. His powerful arms and shoulders were magnets of spasms, his leg muscles quivered and vibrated with the exertion. Forcing himself on, he'd reached the sheltered spot below the rocky bluff where they had so often rested from a long hike, taking in a breathtaking view of the verdant valleys and foothills of Mount Rawley. There was a deep depression in the rocky surface there, and wildflowers would soon spring up again in the soft soil that filled the hollow. But the snow had only just melted, and it was barren now, with just some rough, stubborn grasses waving in a breeze broken by the overhanging cliff.
The minutes went by and then the hours, and he was hitting nothing but solid rock now, but he kept battering it till the shovel broke, and he smashed the handle on the stony ground till there was nothing left but splinters and chunks. White-faced and grim, his soul in screaming revolt, he staggered back to where Thor and Kaz lay covered by his best blanket, and he stood staring at them in desperate disbelief. As in a daze he knelt and lifted the dog in his arms with hopeless tenderness, carried him up the trail and laid him in the grave under the bluff. With shaky hands he pulled back the blanket and stroked Thor's head.
“Thor, Thor! Good dog, Thor. Good dog.”
It was starting to get late and he couldn't tear himself away, pressing his face against the dog's thick, cream-colored coat, running his fingers through the rough fur.
“I love you, Thor.”
He reached over and held the kitten in his hand and then put it back, gently petting its tiny head, scratching the little ears. How can yon love something that much in just a few short weeks?
His eyes traced the outline of the beloved dog. A strong, muscular body and long legs. The proud, heartbreakingly still tail. His strong neck and noble head with its soft mouth and large eyes, the curve of his forehead and the ears with the tips flopping down. He etched into his memory the exact shade of creamy butter and the chocolate blaze of Thor's face. Then he studied the kitten with its bluish grey and white and the smattering of dark tiger stripes, tiny claws now tucked under its chest. His mind branded with their image, he finally drew the blanket over Thor's head, tucking it in around the two of them. Twice more he pulled it back for another look. With his bare hands he shoved the dir
t back, patting and stamping it down. He hauled in rocks and small boulders and covered the grave till the rocky mound nearly reached the cliff above. For a while longer he sat quietly, his thoughts now breaking loose from the harsh grip of his will, and he almost smiled as he recalled Thor coaxing him into a run down the mountain, his jubilant bark bouncing off the cliffs.
But when the mountain breeze picked up and howled and hissed its requiem in sharp, icy gusts around the bluff, he buried his face in his hands and sobbed till the salt of his tears had burned his eyes raw.
The next day he walked through the yard, picking up the rawhide bone, and Thor's ball and tug ropes. Not far from the house, a few pieces of cheese lay scattered through the grass. He crouched down, puzzled, and stared at the chunks of yellow, trying to absorb the shock of it.
Who would have known? Who could possibly have known?
A neighbor stopped and leaned on the fence.
“Sorry about your dog, Buchanan.”
He nodded.
“Thanks.”
“Bet it was the cheese. Kids said somebody tossed that cheese over there. I wouldn't touch it if I were you.”
He looked up sharply. He was right then. It was the cheese. But who—and why? Thor didn't bother anybody. He stayed in his yard and didn't bark.
“They saw it?”
The man shrugged.
“They saw a truck stop right over there a ways. Somebody threw that there cheese from the window. Kids didn't think anything of it.”
“What kind of truck? Did they get a license number?”
“Why should they? They didn't know anything was wrong till the dog started acting funny, rolling around, like.”
“I need to talk with them.”
“They're just kids. They don't know nothing.”
The boys couldn't tell him much, but one remembered it had been an older pickup, kind of beat up and rusty, some damage to the rear, maybe a fender missing. It had pulled up by the fence, then driven off, but fifteen minutes later it had come back and a guy got out. They'd been playing basketball on their driveway and didn't pay much attention till Thor started whining. He'd been rolling around on the ground, his head thrown back, his mouth foaming. First they didn't know what to do, but when the guy came back and went in they figured he'd take care of things. When the man left and the dog still lay there, they'd told their mother, but by that time the dog was dead.
“And the cat?”
“We didn't see no cat.”
Why had the driver come back? Just to make sure Thor was dead? And Kaz?
He slapped his hand against his forehead. How did Kaz get out? She was asleep on my bed when I left.
Back at the house he inspected the doors and found what he hadn't noticed the day before. The lock on the back door had been forced. A simple trick. Even the deadbolt didn't penetrate far into the worn door frame. Nothing much to it. Easy pickings for anyone who was serious about getting in.
So it wasn't random viciousness. Somebody had planned it, somebody who knew that Thor liked cheese and that Kaz stayed in the house. Figured out when he'd be gone, and then made his move. First Thor, because the big dog wouldn't have let anybody in. So he'd thrown Thor the poisoned cheese and given him fifteen minutes to die, and then he'd come back and stepped over the dying dog, forced the door, grabbed the kitten and broken its neck. Kaz wouldn't have eaten the cheese. She'd have sniffed it carefully. Not like Thor, who gulped stuff down. Kaz's head had been twisted at an odd angle. It all fit.
Who? Why?
He took the chunks of cheese to the vet, who sniffed them and said he was suspicious.
“I can't tell you how sorry I am, Kitt,” the veterinarian told him. “Thor was just about the best dog I ever saw. There are some sickos out there.”
“You're positive it was the cheese?”
“I'm as sure as I can be without an autopsy. And from what those kids said—classic symptoms of poisoning.”
Kitt swallowed hard. He had one more question.
“How rough was it for Thor?”
The vet's eyes were sympathetic.
“Don't torment yourself, Kitt. It wasn't easy, but it didn't last long. “
Wynne's visit was something of a shock.
“What are you doing here?”
“How gracious. May I come in?”
He shrugged, opening the door wider. She looked around with obvious distaste.
“Truthfully, Kitt, I don't know how you stood it this long. So you're finally moving. About time. With Kari and the dog gone, maybe you can get a decent place.”
“I have arrived. Wynne Lloyd-Rutgers approves of me.”
She surveyed him critically.
”You've changed. You even look different. Your hair is kind of streaky but it used to be almost platinum.”
“Not as many hours in the sun, I guess.”
“I liked you as a towhead.”
“You always did like me for stupid reasons.”
“What's with the sarcasm—the new Kitt Buchanan?”
“Take it or leave it. It makes no difference to me.”
She stared at him, probing, thoughtful.
“Is all this negativism about Jeff?” she inquired, her voice betraying more speculation than understanding.
“About Jeff?”
“Jeff screwed up,” she said slowly, “but without him you wouldn't have been a champion in the first place.”
“Such confidence.”
“You were business to him, and apart from his recent stupidity, he was as good at managing as you were at playing. He might and might not have worked his way out of it if you'd kept playing.”
“We'll never know, will we?”
“No, but Jeff doesn't matter. You do. I hate to say it, but somebody needs to save you from yourself.”
“And you're the Salvation Army.”
“You are an impractical, sentimental idealist. Jeff was a businessman. You think you can make it in this world with daydreams and good works. You'll never be great again without someone like Jeff.”
“Really.”
“So get a grip! You said there were no more challenges in tennis. Well, here they are! Show the world you can make it again after two years out, without your brother!”
“Show'em I can get rich again, all by myself, like a big boy?”
“Yes. If you don't do it now, in ten years you'll still be living in a dump trying to make a living with some loser job.”
“There you go. Think success.”
“You have no clue,” she said contemptuously, “You were a celebrity, and you thought it was all you. Well, it wasn't. You were just the sucker with the talent.”
“This is going somewhere?”
“You thought Jeff was your substitute daddy. You let him run your life and your career, and he stabbed you in the back. But did that wake you up? You let him rob you blind, you file no charges, and then you get his messed-up kid to raise. I am not dumb, Kitt. I have a pretty good idea why she couldn't be around Daddy. But you still don't get it, do you?”
“I'm stupid, remember?”
“Jeff used you your whole life. He used you to get rich, he used you to get status, he used you to clean up after him. Remember the touching stories about how he sold his BMW and mortgaged his house to put you through the academy?”
”SO?”
“He sold his BMW because the bank was about to repossess it, well before your parents died. He always did have bigger appetites than bank accounts. He double-mortgaged his house three weeks before your parents' crash to set himself up in business. Your training and upbringing were financed by your parents' life insurance. They had a big policy. They were suckers, too, Kitt. They made him your guardian— the money was for your raising and education through a doctorate or whatever. They had already paid for his. Jeff had lots of cash left after he shipped you off, and believe me, he didn't use it on you. From day one on you were a net profit. Big brother didn't tell you about that, did he?”
“It's easy enough to find out simple things like that.”
”If it isn't too much trouble, could we get to the point of this conversation?”
Her tone changed abruptly. Like Wynne, he thought.
“I'm sorry. I didn't come here to pick a fight. Kitt, can't we at least be friends?”
He stared at her. Spring sunshine played through the red highlights of her chestnut hair, and her short, tight skirt and low-cut cream shell under the violet blue of a silky jacket that matched her eyes left little room for disappointment. She reached over and rested a suggestive hand on his arm. She breathed money and sensuality. Had she ever held any attraction for him?
He shrugged off her hand. “Good one, Wynne.”
“So we disagree on your career. I am still here for you.”
“Funny you should mention that. I was going to send you a thank-you note.”
“You're the one who virtually ran me out of town, so I let you find out on your own what you've started.”
“Oh, I did. I found out about a lot of things. Like backstabbing. “
She raised her eyebrows.
“That's supposed to mean something to me?”
“Drop the act, Wynne. I know you torpedoed the scholarships.”
“I don't have the slightest idea what you're talking about.”
“You know to the fifth decimal what I'm talking about. I had a chat with Daddy about the Buser Foundation and the scholarship committee at Montrado U.”
She stared at him for a long moment and took a deep breath.
“My father would not have told you about that. What is it—did Jeff blab?”
“Just a lucky guess, Wynne?”
“So I made a mistake. Have you never done something stupid while you were trying to protect someone?”
“I see. A therapeutic dose of sabotage.”
“My methods may have been awkward. But I wanted what was best for you.”
“And you got to decide what that was.”
“Because you're naive! If you went back now, you could still make it to the top by Christmas. Pick up the phone and you're back on the tour in a heartbeat. Show some guts!”
Break Point Down Page 29
