Bait Dog: An Atlanta Burns Novel

by Wendig, Chuck

  “Then you won’t get the rest of your money.”

  Shit. “Fine. It’ll just have to be that way.”

  Atlanta hangs up the phone and simmers.

  * * *

  She paces the house for a while. The dog trotting in her wake. Evening steps in when afternoon fades and at a certain point Atlanta is surprised to discover she wants her mother. Wants to see her, wants to talk to her, wants her to make pancakes because hell if a stack of Mama’s pancakes isn’t the most comforting thing in the world. Like a golden pillow slathered in warm buttery syrup. Atlanta goes to the fridge just to see if they have the fixings for just such a golden pillow. It’s there on the fridge that she finds the note.

  It’s in her mother’s handwriting and it’s held fast to the fridge by a Dunkin Donuts magnet. The note reads:

  Atlanta

  Gone for few days. Cousin Harley is down in Richmond and hes a lawyer now so I’m visit with him to help with forclosure prob.

  Love

  Mama

  Atlanta plucks the message. Reads it a few more times just to make sure she gets it.

  She should be happy about this. House to herself, for one thing. But more importantly, if the shit goes down here and the Mountain Man comes looking for his dog or the Nazi shit-birds come home to roost, Mama won’t be standing underneath the sky when it comes falling down.

  But that’s not how Atlanta really feels. What she feels is anger at her mother running away. And sadness over being alone. And above all else, fear. She’s scared. Scared of what’s coming, scared of having to face it all by herself. Once in a while she’d just like to be a little girl again, crawling up into her mother’s lap and watching television and eating M&Ms and popcorn of out of one big bowl. That can’t happen. Not now. Maybe never again. It’s a hard realization figuring out your parent is just another crazy screwed-up human being.

  Just like everyone else ever.

  * * *

  Three days come and three days go and nobody comes for her or the dog. Nor does Mama come home. She calls on the morning after Atlanta finds the note, and Atlanta thinks to yell at her mother, to open up with not one barrel but two, but somehow she just doesn’t have it in her. Day after the mess at the Farm and Atlanta’s feeling sore all over. Groggy, too. Like she was a little bit drunk. Or maybe like she was chained up to a metal pole and hit in the back with a canine tranquilizer.

  Instead she just tells her mother everything’s fine, it’s quiet, no problem.

  It’s not fine. Atlanta’s twitchy, now. A shoot-out will do that to you. She keeps thinking she sees movement by the windows—just a shape, just a blur—but nobody’s ever there. Sometimes when the house is quiet she suddenly hears breaking glass or the bang of a gun but it’s all in her head. Shakes her up just the same.

  Two days later and Mama’s still not home. Called again on the evening of the third day just to say that Harley’s got a job he’s doing but when he’s done he’ll sit down and go over the house situation. In the meantime she’s “hanging out” there.

  Atlanta sits on the screened-in porch. The first fireflies of the night flicker to life. Cicadas complain in a curtain of sound. The dog rests his head on her lap and makes a low satisfied whine in the back of his throat.

  She says that out loud: “The dog.”

  Last few days she’s been feeding him whatever she could find around the house. Out-of-date Ritz crackers. Generic brand Cheerios (“Ring-yos”). Ramen noodles. Microwave pizza. He ate it all. No complaints. Of course, that means she’s damn near out of food. Atlanta makes a mental note that tomorrow will be a food shopping trip. Last year they were able to get food stamps but they changed the rules and now if you’re under 60 and you have too many assets—like, say, a falling-down old farmhouse—then no food stamps or assistance for you.

  But she’ll be okay. She’s still got some of Jenny’s money left—though the rest sure would be nice. She thinks that tomorrow could be a kick-ass shopping trip. Won’t have to go to the Amish store for off-brand or expired food. She can hit the Giant instead, pick up some fancy cheese and lunchmeat, some soft white bread. She’ll still have enough for a month or two of the mortgage, help stave off the foreclosure a little while longer.

  “I guess I ought to buy you some proper dog food,” she tells the dog.

  The dog looks up at her from his resting place on her lap. His eyes move, but not his head. His jowls are pooled underneath him like bedsheets.

  “Don’t get excited. You’re still not my dog.”

  The dog closes his eyes.

  “Though I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to name you. Just so I’m not running around saying, ‘Hey, dog, come here,’ or, ‘Hey, dog, quit lookin’ at me like that.’” She ruminates on it. “I could just call you Asshole or Shithead. Because you’re kinda both, you ask me.” One eye opens and the dog bleats. “Okay, okay, just kidding. For a man-eater you’re awful dang sensitive. You got a head like a cement block so we could go with Blockhead. A little nicer, at least, won’t get me too many looks out in public. But I figure since you’re Velcroed to me every doggone step I take, let’s just go with White Shadow. Whitey, for short.”

  The dog starts to snore.

  “Yeah, no, it’s not like I was talking or anything.” She rolls her eyes. “Have a nice nap, Whitey.”

  Whitey. What a blockhead.

  * * *

  Turns out, she has a nice nap, too. Falls asleep in the chair on the porch. Eventually Whitey slides off her and lays on the floor splayed right at her feet. Occasionally letting loose these noxious puffs of fly-killing dog-fart that wake her from her slumber long enough to make a sour face and curse him and the rest of his litter. Then, back to sleep.

  At around 9PM, she wakes up again.

  This time to the crackle of gravel under approaching tires. Headlights slice the darkness as a car eases slow down the driveway toward the house.

  No, not a car. An SUV. A big one, too. Chevy Tahoe. White.

  Atlanta’s not sure what to do, here. She thinks to go hide. Lots of places to do that—into the corn, out back of the house, in the cellar with the doors all locked.

  The dog—or, rather, White Shadow—starts to growl in the back of his throat. He stands. Stiffens. She sees the hairs on the back of his neck go sharp like the bristles of a boot brush.

  Hell with it. Dog’s ready to meet this head on. So’s she.

  Atlanta feels around the side of the wicker chair in which she sits, finds the squirrel gun leaning there. On the other side, a box of shells. She dips her hand in way you’d reach into a bowl to grab some cheese doodles, then pockets a bunch, and saves one.

  That one goes into the broken barrel. Then she snaps the gun closed, the vibration running along her hand.

  By the time she nudges open the screen-door with her shoe, the Tahoe’s here. Sliding to a stop. Her heart’s stuck up in her throat. What happens now? Men come tumbling out of the car? Guns at the ready? Winky and Bodie and Ellis Wayman? A hail of gunfire? The other day at the Farm was her first real shoot-out—something no teen girl should ever think, much less say—and she’s not eager to repeat the experience.

  And yet, here she stands. Gun up. Hammer cocked.

  Door opens and a big man gets out of the front.

  But it’s a different big man that she expects.

  It’s Orly Erickson.

  He’s still got that sculpted beard. That big logjam chest beneath a too-tight powder-blue polo. He’s not big like Wayman is big—Wayman is a feature of the landscape given flesh and bone and life, like he’s something that woke up in the forest one day under a big carpet of twig-tangled moss and left his Sasquatch brethren to come live amongst the villages of man. Orly’s like a big-game hunter on safari. Wayman’s fatter, sure, but he looks to have earned his body. Orly Erickson forged his—an act of artifice, like something you build.

  Orly holds up both hands. Smiles teeth that are like his son’s: broad, too white, too even.

&nb
sp; “Atlanta Burns,” he says. “You ought to put that thing away before someone gets hurt.”

  “Seems this is the second time we’re in this situation,” she says, trying to keep her voice from trembling. “You want me to steal another piece of jewelry from you? Maybe take your shoes, your watch?”

  Last time they saw one another, Atlanta had a revolver pointed at him. Stole the ring off his finger—an heirloom passed down from his own father. She chucked it in a pond later that night. Because fuck him, that’s why.

  Orly’s smile disappears for a moment, surely thinking about that ring. But then it comes back, like a flash of lightning in an otherwise dark sky. “Heard you were up at the fights the other day.”

  “Must’ve been someone else.”

  Whitey sidles up next to her. Coiled like a spring. Orly’s about twenty feet away, and she wonders suddenly if the dog’s going to make a move. She puts a hand on his haunches, and he relaxes. A little.

  “You keeping tabs on us?” he asks.

  “Now why would I do that?” She knows she’s entering the rattlesnake’s den on this one, but she can’t help herself: “Not like you killed one of my friends or anything.”

  “Hey, now, watch your mouth with accusations like that. We’re just having a polite conversation. Besides, that boy killed himself. Police reports say so. Suicide is a hard thing.”

  “Suicide must be a disease that’s going around. Heard tell of other gay kids catching it. Maybe a few Mexicans, too. Thank the Lord no white folks are getting hurt.”

  To this, Orly says nothing. Instead his eyes wander to the dog at her side.

  “That’s a nice dog, there.”

  “Who, Whitey? He’s all right. Stinks up a room pretty bad, though. His butt smells like a bunch of squirrels climbed in an old jockstrap and died. Maybe it’s the frozen pizzas I’ve been feeding him.”

  Orly laughs. “Whitey. That’s a good name.”

  Suddenly she gets it. “Oh, see, no. I’m not being racist, you old bastard. It’s not a white pride thing, it’s a, he’s-a-dog-and-he-happens-to-be-all-white thing. Dang you people got one mind about things, don’t you?” Her lip hooks into a sneer. “What are you doin’ here, anyway? You’re sure not here to talk to me about dogs.”

  “Actually, I am. That dog in particular.”

  “Go on.”

  “I want him.”

  “Just because he’s white?”

  “Because he’s a rare breed. You don’t see too many Argentine Mastiffs around.” He steps in front of his own headlights, his massive shadow darkening the house. “May I come up and talk?”

  “You may—“ He starts to take a step forward. “Long as you don’t mind picking birdshot out of your pretty teeth.”

  He steps back. “I’ll stay down here, then.”

  “Your call.” She shrugs. “Not much to talk about, anyway. This dog ain’t yours.”

  “He’s not yours, either.”

  “If you say so.” Time to figure out how much he knows. “So whose dog is he, then?”

  Orly chuckles. “I think we both know who that dog belongs to. I’m surprised Wayman hasn’t come for him yet.”

  Again the dog growls. Ears bristling. Atlanta says, “If you know who owns this dog, what’s your angle? You want to return him to his rightful owner?”

  “Nope. I want him for myself.”

  “Figured you were friendly with Wayman.”

  Again that smile drops. “Friendly enough.”

  “Friendly enough to take his dog?”

  “Friendly enough,” he says again through gritted teeth, as if to really say, Not friendly at all.

  “Your toadies were up there the other day.”

  “Just carrying the flag for the cause.”

  It’s then she gets it. It clicks like the satisfying hammer of the gun in her hand. “You don’t like Wayman’s operation because he invites the undesirables. Meaning, folks who don’t look like you or me or Whitey here.”

  “I’m not here to go over that again with you.” She can tell by now Orly’s getting tired of this conversation. The smile hasn’t come back. His voice has a cheese grater edge to it. “I’m here to make an offer on that dog, plain and simple.”

  “Not interested.”

  “Don’t you even want to hear the offer?”

  “Like I said, not interest—“

  “I’ll talk to the bank. Fix the little problem I hear your mother’s having with the mortgage.” He shifts in the light of the Tahoe, shadow puppets on the wall dancing behind her. Every time he moves, the lights hit her eyes, make her squint. “Hell, maybe I’ll even get them to lower her rate a little bit—might be a little wiggle room there.”

  “For the dog.”

  “For the dog.”

  Temptation dangles above her head, tantalizing as a bunch of ripe red grapes. All she has to do is shake the devil’s hand and send Whitey on his way. Probably to train. And to fight. And maybe to die. She’s not sure if Orly just wants to exert some grudge against the Mountain Man or if he really wants to see this dog in the ring. She’s not sure if that even matters. The fight is the fight no matter why it takes place.

  She looks down at Whitey. He doesn’t take his eyes off Orly.

  So easy. So easy to just give in. Let the dog go. Watch her problems—or at least one problem—melt away. She’s got no loyalty to dogs. Doesn’t even like them much.

  But this dog…

  This dog saved her life.

  Aw, crap.

  “It’s up to him,” she says. “Whitey, you wanna go with the man in the fancy white car? Go and be a big bad dog fighter? You can go if you want.”

  But Whitey doesn’t budge. Of course he doesn’t.

  She shrugs. “Guess he’s not interested.”

  “You’re making a mistake. I’m handing you the keys to your cage.”

  “You come back here again, I’ll be handin’ you your balls in a cereal bowl.”

  Orly nods, resigned to it. He heads back to the Tahoe, throws open the door. Before he steps up into the full-size, he calls out over the top of the door, “You better watch out, Atlanta Burns. All you want to do is burn everything down around you, but don’t forget that people you love will get burned, too.”

  “Is that a threat, Mister Erickson?”

  “Well, girl, you take it to mean however you—“

  She shoots out one of the Tahoe’s headlights. Orly cries out, hurries into the car and throws it in reverse. The SUV wibble-wobbles backwards, bounding in and out of the shallow ditch along the driveway, then back up the driveway until it’s gone.

  Atlanta lets out a breath she didn’t even realize she was holding in.

  She hunkers down and hugs Whitey.

  The smelly beast licks her ear. Sandpaper and slobber.

  It’s quite nice. But she can’t help but worry she just made a real bad decision.

  * * *

  “That dog’s still freaking me out,” Shane says, staying about fifteen feet away from Whitey at all times. At present Shane stands there, rubbing his hands all nervous-like. “Are you sure you’re keeping him?”

  Whitey sits, panting. Atlanta waves Shane off. “I’m not keepin’ him. I’m just… holding onto him until this storm blows over. That’s all. I don’t want a dog.”

  “Did you call a shelter or anything?”

  “No. Not yet. And I can’t take him to a shelter, anyway. He’s some kinda… rare breed.”

  “You could sell him on the Internet.”

  “To some stranger? I don’t think so.”

  “You bought dog food for him.”

  “And a dog bed,” she adds.

  “I’d say he’s your dog.”

  Again she waves him off. Whitey drops to the ground on his back, squirming around. Maybe itching his back or pretending he’s rolling in gopher shit or something. She’s not a dog psychologist and doesn’t care to find out what’s going on in that bowling ball he calls a brain.

  Shan
e says he’ll make lunch. Though Atlanta hit the grocery store this morning, it’s not like she knows what to do with most of the ingredients she procured—so she was figuring again on a packet or Ramen noodles, or maybe a microwave pizza (though admittedly a higher-grade microwave pizza than she’s normally used to). But then she called Shane and told him what happened and, here he is. Offering to stay over for a couple-few nights until her Mama comes home. She asked him what good he would be if Orly came back, and he said he’d “bring his katana.”