by Eric Wilson
Wait up, girl. You should plant yourself in a seat and rethink this.
Mylisha lifted her chin and marched on.
This wouldn’t be the final act, not even close. Nevertheless, it would be sweet.
Hidden in the darkness, Asgoth paced by the Preston home on Oak Street, enamored with the golden glow oozing through the curtains and the muted yelps of Kenny’s puppy. A sadistic grin was carved across his lips. He wished he could knock on the front door and enter. He considered it but reminded himself it would be futile.
Asgoth pulled down on his argyle vest. He must wait.
Hours remained before the proper date rolled into position on the calendar. For a bit longer, that runt of a paperboy would be safe in his bed.
19
The Creature
The basement bounced the alarm clock’s sounds back and forth over Kenny’s head. This wasn’t like him to wake up late. Grownups were always talking about being tired and stressed. Was this what they meant?
Sunday again. Big newspapers.
And big trouble, according to Clay. Kenny wanted to discount the warnings but couldn’t shake them from his skull.
He shut off the alarm and stared into the darkness. He could feel moisture in the air, indicating it’d rained during the night. One of his favorite T-shirts said, “Oregonians don’t tan. They rust.”
Kenny loaded his shoulder bags and wheeled his bike through the side gate. In the drain from the roof gutter, water rumbled and sluiced onto the driveway, carrying leaves and worms and acorns. Junction City’s streets glistened.
“Kenny.”
“Clay. You sure you wanna do this? You don’t have to, you know.”
Clay wore a hooded sweatshirt over rain gear. He unloaded a ten-speed from the trunk of an old beater and pulled on a pair of biking gloves. “Would it seem strange if I said I think it’ll be fun? Always wanted to have a paper route, but sports kept me too busy when I was a kid. My dad had me trying everything—basketball, baseball, football.”
“My dad’s in Alaska.”
“For how long?”
Kenny adjusted his helmet. “He’s been gone since I was little.”
“Just you and your mom, huh?”
“And Gussy, my dog.”
“Did you tell your mom about me?”
Kenny noticed Clay’s furtive glances up and down the street. He knew this was the guy’s real purpose in being here, to serve as a bodyguard. Not that Kenny needed it, but he wasn’t going to complain, uh-uh. The streets did look a little spooky this early; plus it was nice to have a man who was concerned. Not to mention, he could use an extra hand with the Sunday editions.
“She’d freak if I told her. ‘Don’t talk to strangers,’ and that sort of stuff.”
“Good advice, Kenny. Especially today.”
“You’re serious about this, aren’t you? Hafta admit it seems kinda wacko.”
“What about the lady and the note she had you deliver? And that chess piece you found on the train engine? How do you explain those things?”
“Dunno.” Kenny hefted a saddlebag for Clay’s use. “Here. You can cover one side of the street, and I’ll cover the other. I’ll let you know which houses have special instructions. We get lucky, we might even find a tip.”
“See? I knew this would be fun.”
Clay’s face did not match his words as they pedaled into the street.
On the back porch of a house on Juniper, Asgoth was nearly finished with his trap. At his side he knew Monde was fine-tuning his plan, a mechanic of the mind calibrating psychological tools for maximum effect.
Behind them, a dog growled. Claws raked along wooden gate slats.
Asgoth shivered. “I know he can’t hurt us, but that thing scares me to death.”
“No need to worry, A.G. As you’ve marvelously demonstrated, you’re able to survive almost any danger.”
“Absolutely. But there are some I’d rather not experience firsthand.” Asgoth crouched near a welcome mat, adding last-minute details.
Monde rattled the fence, and the deep-throated beast went wild.
“Would you quit that?” Asgoth shook his head. “I already told you—”
A lock snapped like a branch in the morning calm, and the neighbor’s back door slammed into vinyl siding as a stubble-faced man thrust his barrel chest outside. Windows quivered in their panes, and the light fixture over his back door plummeted to the cement pad in a burst of frosted glass.
“Shut up, you stupid dog! See whatcha made me do?”
A low snarl escalated into one sharp bark.
“Just won’t listen, will you? Filthy, no-good mutt!”
Behind the wooden slats, the man appeared to move through time-lapse frames. He wore cowboy boots and no shirt. Curly chest hair sprouted with vigor around the straps of his coveralls. Cursing, he swung back a leg and shot the boot’s toe into the animal’s ribs. Did it twice more.
The dog slunk to the ground, growling, tail tucked—but eyes ablaze.
“That’ll teach ya to shut your pie hole! I’m tryin’ to get some sleep here.”
Asgoth peered over at Monde. His partner was a statue of intense thought, black hair lacquered to his head, sharp nose pointed forward. One hand covered his mouth, but there was no shock or sympathy behind the gesture. Instead, for the first time since they had worked together, Asgoth heard Monde start to giggle—the sound of a bird, high pitched and mocking.
The irate neighbor was headed back indoors, grumbling all the way.
Monde grabbed at the gate. Rattled it.
Again the dog went berserk.
Dmitri Derevenko entered Junction City from the north. He passed a church with a Scandinavian windmill on display, then spotted Safeway and Papa Murphy’s pizzeria.
These small towns amused him, wearing facades of respectability, while behind closed doors immorality played across plasma TV screens. No different than in Russia. Modern technology had paved new roads for age-old perversion.
He thought of the Cuban. And the old German.
His bullets had brought their lives to an end, but didn’t the Scriptures make it clear there was a time to kill? For the common good, evil men must be removed.
I’m one of the good Russian men. The Brotherhood will do what it must.
Dmitri pressed his palm against his hip. The angel there, carved from flesh, accompanied him every step of his journey. She justified his actions, held his hand as his victims tried to inhabit his waking dreams. Although destiny wore him down at times, he felt comforted by the angel’s presence.
Following MapQuest directions, he arrived at the site of Engine 418.
The tender car and cab gleamed beneath a fine mist while plumes of fog around the huge iron wheels gave the illusion of steam. Encircling the beast of burden, the fence seemed a grave injustice.
Dmitri parked his rental car and approached. He bowed once before attempting to scale the metal bars, but the bars turned to molten lava in his hands. He pulled back. Scorched.
He tried again at a different spot. Same reaction. Again.
Five minutes later he roared like a creature robbed of its prey.
“We’re almost done, I hope.”
“Couple of blocks left.” With Clay looking to him for instruction, Kenny felt a glow of pride. “Here, let me show you how this house works. We gotta go to the back.”
They propped up their bikes and went around to the back porch, where flowerpots lined the railing and wind chimes jingled. On the ground, a fuzzy mat welcomed them.
“Paper goes here?” Clay asked. “On the mat?”
Kenny nodded. “And look, we got our first tip of the day.”
He lifted an edge of the mat to reveal a pack of watermelon Koolerz. At the same moment, he caught the shifting of a shape behind the wood slats next door, but he knew better than to let that Rottweiler scare him. The gate was always locked.
“Leave the gum alone,” Clay said.
“These people�
�re okay. They’ve left me stuff before.”
“Don’t touch it. Look at the powder around the edges.”
Kenny frowned at the pink-tinted dust sprinkling the pack. Strange. Maybe his protector had a point. As he stood and turned, he bumped into an earthen pot that seemed intentionally placed in his way. It wobbled and then toppled from the rail. Shards of red pottery scattered over the walkway. In his attempt to catch the object, his head brushed a wind chime, and the metal tubes rang with chaotic frenzy.
The dog came unglued. Behind the fence, a territorial growl built into aggressive, fang-tipped barks. The Rottweiler’s anger was unlike anything Kenny had seen. Jaws snapped; slobbering lips peeled back, ripe with rage; large paws backed by muscular shoulders pounded against the gate.
Ka-clickk …
In the moment before the gate crashed open and the animal rocketed into full view, the tinny sound of the releasing clasp swept over Kenny’s arms, combed through his hair, shoved the breath back down his throat into his lungs.
Kenny stared in denial. “That gate’s always locked.”
Although he trusted Clay’s intentions and enjoyed the male attention, he had resisted, until this second, the reality of any deadly danger.
“Get behind me,” Clay ordered. “And run!”
Clay had already decided to protect Kenny Preston at any cost. To lose the kid would be to lose his own peace of mind. His past, his present, his foreboding future would collapse into one heap upon his head, crushing him.
But he’d never counted on a dog entering the fray.
On a logical level, Clay understood Rottweilers were not inherently evil. He could hear Dr. Gerringer explaining how the fear mechanism triggers a knee-jerk moral opposition to the source of one’s fear—if it scares you, it must be bad. Clay also knew dogs’ protective instincts were beneficial and often desired.
On a visceral level, however, this beast sent shudders through his limbs.
His senses went into overdrive: the taste of battery acid in his mouth; the touch of sweat droplets beneath his rain gear; the sound of cracking gate slats and grinding pottery beneath his feet; the smell of wet, musky fur, as the black and brown creature hurtled into the open …
And the sight of a rake poked down into the grass.
Clay scrambled across the wet lawn, slipped to one knee, got his fingers around the handle. The Rottweiler was charging, claws tearing up clods of mud.
Clay yanked on the garden implement, but the metal tines bit into the turf. Rebutted by his own strength, he was pulled forward and off balance. He landed hard. The rake’s handle was underneath him. He rolled. Twisted the tool from the earth so that it lay atop his chest like a spine ripped from an enemy carcass.
The dog was upon him. Curved nails slammed into Clay’s thigh, thrust through his weather gear by rock-solid canine muscle. Above his throat, ropes of saliva dangled from snarling jaws.
He shoved the rake upward, and the Rottweiler’s fangs clamped down on the wood. The dog stumbled against this impediment, momentum carrying him up and over. In a black blur, the body hit the ground and skidded beyond Clay’s torso.
Clay clambered to his feet as the dog did the same.
The next attack was a blast of energized fury. Kill or be killed.
Clay drew back the rake, spun its unyielding metal prongs into position, and swung them with every ounce of his strength toward his relentless foe. He alone stood between this creature and a thirteen-year-old boy. He alone recognized that death was here on this early Sunday morning, stalking on paws and four legs.
No room for mercy.
7.1.1.0.4 …
“Not today!” he screamed, arching the heavy tool through the air.
The dog’s speed was explosive. He came in low, entering the circumference of the swinging rake. The force of Clay’s own motion spun him around; in a whirl, he corkscrewed on sturdy legs, a matador avoiding the blood-tipped horns of a bull.
The Rottweiler lunged past. One tooth snagged Clay’s skin, tore at his forearm.
He felt nothing. He was in the heat of battle.
To his horror, he watched the animal sprawl on the rain-slick lawn, catch itself with massive paws, then turn its broad head toward a figure in the driveway. The creature had found its original, more manageable target. The throaty bellow of a maniacal murderer could not have sounded more bloodcurdling than the growl he now heard.
“Kenny!” Clay was appalled by the kid’s lingering presence. “Get away!”
He couldn’t wait for Kenny to respond. He had to intervene. He pursued the accelerating killer across the backyard, but the dog was built for short bursts of speed, and Clay was losing ground. He was running low on options.
In three deliberate, turf-grinding steps, he cocked the rake back over his head and windmilled it forward. The metal tines became predatory claws of a dinosaur. Clumped weeds and roots flew from the rake like eviscerated entrails from its previous feasting.
Down, down, toward the racing animal.
He couldn’t let the Rottweiler reach the kid. Kenny would be shredded.
Extending the man-made claw to its limit, he realized he would be short of his target, unable to detain or destroy the marauder. He let the rake fly. It scraped and thudded along the beast’s rippling back, producing an enraged yelp and a backward snap of fangs. Fell useless to the dirt.
Kenny remained frozen in the path of destruction.
20
Dog Day Afternoon
Dmitri wiped his greasy hands with a wad of paper towels. He stood over the trunk of the rental car, a white Taurus, and dropped the towels beside his ice chest. Disappointment squeezed his stomach. He had tried to search Engine 418, with less than pleasing results.
Almost a week in Portland? Inactive.
Now this opportunity to further his preordained purpose? Interrupted.
He’d questioned the validity of any old Rasputin curse, but the strange reaction at the fence had convinced him. Lenin himself had left an object on this Finnish locomotive; yet pressing concerns and early successes had distracted the man from later tracking it down. The secret had remained dormant until recent studies brought its existence to light. Without delay, Brotherhood forces had squelched this revelation and schemed to make the object their own.
Dmitri was called forth, delegated, and deployed. An agent of destiny.
I’ve followed instructions. Here I am, in Junction City, halfway around the globe.
“And a foolish curse holds me back?” He shook his head at this absurdity.
His outburst startled an elderly woman plodding along the sidewalk. She drew her leashed dog near and lifted it to her chest, eyeballed Dmitri as though he were an animal abuser deserving severe punishment.
“I apologize if I frightened you.” He reached into the ice chest, peeled a lid from a thin tin can. “Would your pet like a pickled herring?”
The woman’s mouth crinkled with cynicism, while the Chihuahua made no attempt to hide perked ears and flared nostrils. It began to whine.
The woman took one step back. “What’s that you have there?”
Dmitri relaxed his facial muscles, opened wide his blue eyes—the epitome of a kindhearted dog lover. He moved toward her, herring can extended. “Your pet is welcome to eat. I wonder … you must know many things about this city. Perhaps you have knowledge of this train engine?”
“Walk by it every day. Have for years.”
“Is it true? Rumors about Lenin on Engine 418?”
“Those aren’t rumors, my boy. Those are well-guarded secrets. I’ve been keeping an eye on this train for a long time. For ages, it seems.”
Astride his mountain bike, Kenny watched Clay’s valiant but failed attempt to protect him. He should’ve run, as Clay had insisted. But how could he leave behind his new companion?
Kenny chose instead to stay. It was what friends did.
Now he realized the foolhardiness of his choice. Too late to escape. If he took off at this
moment, he might get twenty yards. By that time, the Rottweiler would draw even with him, clamping teeth into his leg and bringing him down.
Kenny brandished the bike pump. He could use it to swat the beast away.
Yeah, right!
He dropped the pump, leaned low over the bike, used his thighs to propel him headlong on a collision course with the dog. Better to face his attacker than allow it to catch him from behind.
Speeding forward, he zeroed in on the creature. He heard men’s yells, but they accomplished nothing. The dog was still coming at him.
The Rottweiler leaped. Kenny hunched his shoulders, lowered his helmeted head between the handlebars, drove a knobbed front tire into the heaving tan belly. Strands of drool lashed his chin; fur and claws blurred past his face. A crushing weight careened into his back, then tore free on its way down to the pavement.
The bike wobbled and collapsed beneath him.
Kenny, powered by adrenaline, paid no heed to the pebbles in his kneecap and elbow. He scrambled and felt Clay’s large hands lift him to his feet.
As he whipped around, he was certain the Rottweiler would be pouncing at his thirteen-year-old throat. He braced himself. Tensed every muscle. His imagination ran wild with movie-generated images as the noise of claws tearing into asphalt awakened primal fears.
He was screaming.
But he was unaware of it until a sound much louder cut him off.
Planted in the neighboring gateway, a man wearing cowboy boots and coveralls lowered a sleek black handgun. He hooked a meaty thumb around a shoulder strap, spit with distaste into the dirt at his feet.
“Friggin’ waste of a dog! A full-on, mind-blowin’ waste.”
Kenny was still wary. He stared at the immobile form.
“Count yourselves lucky,” the man grumbled. “I’ll never know where she got it, but that dog was born with a mean streak. Woulda killed ya and been downright proud of it.” He scratched at his chest. Cursed. Considered the dead animal in the driveway. “Think you two can help lift her into my stink-in’ garbage can?”
