by Mark Wheaton
“Fuc…”
He hadn’t even finished the word before something much larger and faster than the shepherd intercepted the smaller animal in mid-flight. The two animals tumbled halfway across the roof before Bones smacked his skull on the short edge wall. Rolling over, he leaped to his feet, only to find himself face to face with the massive black dog that had so recently been sniffing around his doorstep.
The mastiff growled at Bones with such anger that the shepherd took a step back. The massive animal sounded more like a heavy tank rumbling over rough ground than anything that shared any kind of genetic common ground with Bones.
“Bones! Get him!”
Bones and Alvis both turned to the rooftop landing as Becca appeared. Alvis aimed his gun at the little girl, prompting Bones to answer her earlier question. In fact, he would defend her. Ignoring the black dog, the shepherd flew at Alvis, his jaws biting down into his arm just in time to make the drug dealer’s first shot go wide. But even as Bones tore into the young man’s flesh, the black dog had clamped his own teeth into the shepherd’s right flank.
Bones whipped around, gnashing his newly bloodstained teeth at the monstrous black dog. Rather than engage the shepherd, the animal continued tearing at Bones’s flesh. Blood flowed freely from several jagged punctures in the smaller dog’s leg, turning his fur a deep red.
Alvis, meanwhile, was holding his savaged arm and yowling in pain. Through his anguish, he caught sight of Becca and raised the gun. She managed to duck away before he fired, but he pulled the trigger anyway. The bullet ricocheted off the stairwell ceiling. Alvis heard a dull groan.
He stepped over to the landing and looked down. In the dull light, he saw a body lying on the steps below, bleeding from the head.
• • •
Back on the roof, Bones continued to fight. Though limping, the shepherd managed to stay away from the larger animal’s lumbering attempts to tear the flesh away from Bones’s stomach. The shepherd attempted a few quick bites at his opponent’s throat, but even when he connected for an instant, the flesh was too thick to penetrate.
It was like biting into a tightly wound rope.
But then the black dog batted Bones aside. His claws scratched at the shepherd’s snout, drawing blood even then. Bones skittered backward, shaking his head like a fighter trying to clear his mind, the bell to end the round still too far away.
Before the shepherd could leap back into action, however, the black dog cocked its head at the sound of the arriving sirens. It then turned back to Bones, growling with tremendous violence. Bones, never one to back down, did so now. The shepherd moved back three steps to allow the larger canine a clear path to exit.
As the dog reached the stairs, it fixed its gaze on Bones one last time before disappearing into the shadows.
• • •
Trey didn’t know what happened. He’d climbed up the stairs as fast as he could, the gun feeling light in his hand. He didn’t understand what Becca was doing in Building 9, much less with Bones, and less than that, running towards the sound of gunfire.
“Becca! Hold up! Where are you going?!”
There was no response, only the sound of more footsteps. A few more flights, and Trey was downright winded. He slowed, grabbing the rail to propel himself higher. When he heard the flurry of gunshots flying into the stairwell landing above, he felt weightless, all the breath sucked out of his lungs at once. It wasn’t until a second later, when he heard Becca command the police dog to attack, that he breathed normally again.
He kept going up the stairs, ready for anything as he reached the last flight to the roof. Though he still couldn’t see Becca, he could now clearly hear the sound of the dog fight, followed, seconds later, by the screams of someone he recognized as Alvis.
“Is that Alvis?”
Trey turned in time to see Janice coming up the stairs behind him. Before he could answer, there was another shot and a spark he caught in his peripheral vision. Then he saw Janice’s eyes go blank as she slumped to the floor. She hadn’t made a sound, but as soon as he reached her, his fingers found the blood pouring from the side of her head.
IX
As Alvis moved into the stairwell, Becca realized that he hadn’t seen her pressed up against the wall only a few steps down. She was trying to will herself invisible, and it seemed to be working. That’s when she realized that Alvis was staring at something below her. She tried to see what it was, but was too afraid.
Something pushed into her, and she felt hot breath on her arm. Twisting her head, she saw the monstrous black dog, its snout inches from her face. Even with its mouth closed, she could see its canines poking out over its lower jaw. Its eyes were a wet black, as if ready to ooze out of the monster’s skull. It licked its chops, a pink tongue splashing out like a snake’s, thrilling at the opportunity to taste Becca’s flesh.
But then it was gone.
Becca didn’t dare turn her head as the dog trotted down the stairs.
“Aw, fuck, Trey,” came Alvis’s voice. “I didn’t know you guys were down there.”
At the mention of her brother, Becca’s head jerked downward, and she spied Trey sitting on the steps below her. Cradled in his arms was the dead body of a girl she didn’t recognize.
Alvis stepped past Becca, idly checking his gun. “You at least get to bang her first?”
He’d made this remark in jest. Becca could tell that much from the lilt in his voice.
But in response, Trey raised the gun he’d pulled from Alvis’s couch, aimed it at its owner’s face, and pulled the trigger once. The gunshot echoed down the stairwell even as Alvis’s body was thrown backward, his head striking the wall before sliding down to the steps next to Becca. It was as if he’d finally seen her there and decided to settle in for a chat.
Becca found herself screaming at the top of her lungs.
• • •
Everything happened quickly after that.
The police arrived and swept through Building 9, finding Becca and Trey still in the stairwell next to the bodies of Janice and Alvis. They made the two survivors get on their knees, interlacing their fingers behind their heads. Becca had forgotten all about Mrs. Fowler’s gun in her waistband until one of the policemen took it out, placing it on a step above her where she could easily see it.
The cops had deduced what happened and were going easy on the pair. Paramedics arrived, but it was clear neither of the victims could be revived. Janice was taken down first.
The residents of Building 9 had stayed behind closed doors during the shooting, but as soon as police were heard on the stairwells, they moved out into the halls to get a look. Janice was covered by a yellow sheet, but just enough residents had glimpsed her chasing after Trey to spread the word that she was one of the victims. By the time the body had been carried all the way to the ground floor, her father was waiting in the lobby to see if the rumors were true. When he saw it was his baby girl, he started screaming and wailing as if something sharp and terrible had begun spinning its way through his guts.
“I’ll take this.”
Becca turned and saw Detective Leonhardt coming up the steps towards her. For some reason, his appearance caused her to burst into tears, a truant child caught. Leonhardt already knew that they’d found his business card in her pocket with the gun, but wasn’t sure if this made it better or worse. She’d clearly considered calling him before going on this misadventure, but he hadn’t made a strong enough impression for her to follow through.
“You okay?” Leonhardt asked, putting his arm around Becca as he offered her a handkerchief.
She nodded unconvincingly and they sat in silence for a moment.
“What’re they going to do to my dog?” she finally asked.
“What dog?”
At that moment, shouts were heard from above followed by savage barking. Leonhardt looked up in alarm as several patrolmen hurried back onto the landing from the roof.
“There’s a pissed-off dog up ther
e!” one of the patrolman called down. “Looks hurt!”
Leonhardt eyed Becca. “Your dog?”
“He saved me. You want the other dog.”
Other dog, Leonhardt thought, reminding himself again that parenting a preteen girl was no one’s idea of an easy time.
• • •
When the officers brought Trey down in handcuffs, Janice’s father lunged for his throat. Rather than fight back, Trey allowed himself to be manhandled for a moment before the officers tore the grieving man off him. Just as Mr. Gaines made another attempt, Detective Garza stepped forward and calmly placed a hand on the fellow’s chest.
“He didn’t kill your daughter. That guy’s dead.”
For a moment, Gaines looked confused. But then he saw that the guilt in Trey’s eyes wasn’t over Janice’s death, but putting her in harm’s way in the first place.
“Who killed her?” Mr. Gaines barked.
Garza shot a thumb over his shoulder to the stairs. “Should be coming down any minute.”
Janice’s father eyed Trey one last time before the patrolmen led him outside.
• • •
Though a couple of officers wanted to shoot the German shepherd, Animal Control arrived shortly after Alvis’s body was carried out of the building and took over. Despite having lost a significant amount of blood, Bones continued snapping at anyone who got close, including the men trying to slip the lasso over his neck. When they missed, the emboldened shepherd clambered to his feet as best he could and got in a fighting stance.
Rather than challenge the animal, the control officers deferred to a K9 unit trainer who booked it over from Garden City to handle the situation. Rather than a leash or prod, the trainer brought only a single tool: an old worn-out tennis ball. He sat cross-legged next to the door for a moment as the wounded shepherd backed away. After a few minutes, he got to his feet and, very animatedly, began waving the ball as if playing with his own pet in the park.
Without thinking, Bones got to his feet and began tracking the movements with his snout. For a moment, he was a different dog. The trainer gently bounced the ball over to the shepherd and, after a moment, it was returned. The trainer repeated this three times before calling for someone to bring water. A bowl was brought up and a bottle emptied into it. It took a few more minutes before Bones would take a drink, but by then, the trainer was already addressing him by name and stroking his fur.
When the trainer slipped a harness over the animal’s neck, Bones barely seemed to notice. A few minutes later, the shepherd was gently sedated and trucked off to a nearby emergency veterinary clinic in midtown utilized by the NYPD. New Yorkers seeing the police escort for an ambulance tearing down Broadway might’ve imagined a visiting dignitary had a heart attack or, worse, an officer had been struck down in the line of duty. After a fashion, this was precisely what had happened, but most would’ve been surprised to know what was lying on the stretcher inside.
“He’d lost some blood and we had to stitch him in a couple of places, but other than that, he was in pretty good shape.”
Leonhardt smiled across his desk to Becca and gave her a thumb’s-up. Though this answered her most repeated question of the past two hours, it didn’t change the solemn expression on her face.
“You figure out what made the scratches?” Leonhardt asked.
“Likely another canine,” the veterinarian reported. “Much, much larger than this animal. Anybody report seeing anything like that out there?”
Leonhardt looked over at Becca. She eyed the detective as if she could hear every word of his conversation.
“Nah, no one mentioned another dog,” he said flatly, meeting Becca’s gaze. “But everything went down before we got there. We’ll ask around.”
“You might want to. It might be somebody’s pet, but it’s clearly dangerous. If it’s just some feral animal, it could get at some kid.”
“Thanks. I owe you one,” Leonhardt added, though he didn’t worry the vet would ever have any reason to collect. Hanging up the phone, he turned back to Becca. “Bones is going to be fine. Did you know he’s considered one of the best police dogs on the East Coast? You rescued a real hero.”
Becca’s eyes twitched at “rescue.” Leonhardt took a deep breath.
“That’s how I’ve decided to characterize your detention of the German shepherd,” Leonhardt explained. “You knew it was police property, didn’t you?”
Becca shrugged.
“Correct answer.”
There was a moment of silence, the pair still trying to feel each other out. Just as Leonhardt was about to give up on the idea of getting anything out of the little girl, Becca spoke up.
“How much trouble is Trey in?”
“Some,” Leonhardt admitted. “Depends on whose weapon that was. At the end of the day, though, he shot a man who had been firing willy-nilly into the street and other buildings, wounding a man through a window and then killing the girl in the stairwell.”
Leonhardt’s eyes flitted upward as he saw a severe-looking woman walk into the detectives’ bullpen, only to be directed his way. Social services.
“If I’m the District Attorney’s office, I’d plan to go pretty easy on the kid if I didn’t want to get hung out to dry by the press.”
“Can I talk to him?”
Leonhardt glanced up at the woman making a beeline for his desk. “That might be complicated.”
“I’ll tell you about the dog.”
The negotiations between the woman from social services and Leonhardt were brief, tense, and eventually involved Becca inviting the woman to go to hell. As Leonhardt took Becca back to the interrogation room, the social worker took to her cell phone to hunt down her superior, Leonhardt’s superior, or Becca’s older brother.
As soon as they had settled into their chairs, Leonhardt opened his hands.
“The dog.”
“Trey?”
“We’ve got a few minutes. But he’s on his way, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“It’s a big black dog, but not like any I’ve seen before. His body looks like a big bulldog and his face looks like a normal ol’ dog.”
“Like the police dog?”
“Like Bones, yeah. Long nose.”
“Snout.”
“Snout.”
“You said you had a picture of him.”
Becca looked down at her hands. “The police dog had a camera on him when all the cops got shot.”
“You have the camera?”
Becca nodded. It took all of Leonhardt’s self-control not to exit the room and go to retrieve the camera immediately.
Get what you can from the girl, he told himself.
“What’s the dog doing on the camera?”
“Watching. The police rush in, everybody starts shooting, Mrs. Fowler comes out and starts shooting, and the dog just watches.”
“From the doorway?”
“I guess. It’s just strange. The camera on Bones bounces up and down. He’s fighting and running. This dog just stands still like nothing’s happening. It’s so weird-looking.”
“What happens then?”
“Once everybody was dead, the dog just kind of walked away. Then, last night, he and Alvis came back around my apartment. It was sniffing under the door.”
Leonhardt was cringing. That a girl this young could talk so easily about such grim, horrific violence was something he found unsettling.
“And it was on the roof with Alvis just now?”
“Yep, same dog. It attacked Bones.”
“And before that?”
“Same thing. Just watching Alvis shoot, calm as you please.”
Calm as you please. The girl sounded like Leonhardt’s grandmother. “And then it left again?”
“Walked past me on the stairs,” Becca said, her demeanor shifting enough to tell Leonhardt this wasn’t the whole truth. “I don’t know where it went.”
“Had you seen it before the shooting in your hallway?”
“Yeah. It was with Mr. Preston before he died and then was with Mrs. Fowler when she went crazy. It gets next to people and makes them kill.”
“Wait, who’s Mr. Preston?”
“The first one. You guys just thought it was a suicide. The dog drove him to do it like it did Mr. Lester.”
Leonhardt wasn’t ready for this assessment, but pressed on. “You think Mrs. Fowler killed Devaris Clark?”
“I know she did.”
“But why?”
“Because the dog told her to.”
There was a knock on the door and Leonhardt went to answer it.
“Got Trey,” Garza said when he saw Leonhardt.
“You stay with them, but give the time they want,” Leonhardt said quietly. “She earned it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll fill you in later. I’ve got to get back to East Harlem.”
• • •
They hadn’t told anybody about the shoeprint in Devaris Clark’s blood. The idea that anyone else had been involved hadn’t leaked. The story was that he’d gotten high and fell. That was it.
That there had been a shoeprint. That a witness had seen Devaris flying up the steps. That the time between Devaris’s interaction with the detectives and the first call about the body on the pavement left him no time whatsoever to have smoked out.
All of this had been held back from the press.
For his own peace of mind, Leonhardt had run the math a few times. The only way Devaris could’ve hit the ground at his time of death was if he left the detectives, ran back to the building, ran up the steps, and immediately ran off the edge. He might’ve slowed down for some of it, but it happened so quickly that the detective had actually wondered if somebody who had seen him and Garza stop the young man might imagine they had a hand in his death.
When Leonhardt entered the apartment of Mrs. Fowler for the second time in twelve hours, he didn’t even bother turning on a light. He walked straight through her living room to the bedroom which smelled of rosewater and mothballs. He turned on the light in her closet and began going through her shoes. All were orthopedics, whether slippers, tennis shoes, or nurse’s shoes, but none matched the printout he had brought of the partial shoeprint.
