Hot Dog

by Laurien Berenson

“What’s upstairs?”

  “Has anyone ever told you you ask too damn many questions?”

  Funny the things that will make you laugh in a semi-hysterical way when your life seems to hang in the balance. “Yes. Lots of people, unfortunately.”

  Pam stepped aside and I edged past her, through the doorway and into the hall. The Poodles began to howl. The gunshot had upset them; my leaving magnified their distress.

  She cast a withering glance toward the cellar door. “I thought Poodles were supposed to be smart. If you’re going to have a dog that barks all the time you might as well get a Jack Russell.”

  Slowly I started down the hallway. No point in hurrying. If Pam wanted me upstairs, I was pretty sure I wanted to be down.

  Besides, the first floor had doors that could serve as an escape route if I got the chance. Not that I’d be making any hasty exits; every door and window in the house was locked up tight. I’d seen to that myself.

  I’d hoped to keep the menace out; instead I’d barred it in with me.

  Keep her talking, I thought. Stall for time. It was all I could think to do.

  “Speaking of dogs,” I said, “how’s Dox doing?”

  “Fine,” Pam answered readily enough. Like we were two friends engaged in a casual conversation. Like maybe I’d comment on the weather next. “That puppy’s pretty cute. It wasn’t part of the plan, but I’m thinking maybe I’ll keep him for myself.”

  I nodded as if that made sense. Why not? She was the one holding the gun. Reaching the foot of the stairs, I paused. “If you don’t mind my asking, what was your plan?”

  Pam kept right on talking. She wanted me to know what she’d done. “In the beginning, it was just a game. You were annoying me, it seemed like I ought to annoy you back.”

  “So you tried out a couple of things,” I suggested. “Turning on my lights? Fiddling with my TV in the middle of the night?”

  “Yeah, silly stuff like that. I figured maybe I’d throw a scare into you. Give you something besides Bobby to concentrate on. Security around here isn’t too tight, you know? You ought to think about fixing that.” Her lips curved upward in a creepy pantomime of a smile. “Not that you’ll have to worry about it much in the future.”

  I ignored the implication and kept going. “When did you take my wallet?”

  “That was so easy it was a joke. You left your purse sitting in the kitchen when you and Bobby went upstairs at his house. It wasn’t something I’d thought about in advance, but let’s just say I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of you dragging my guy on a tour of the bedrooms.”

  I could have argued that I hadn’t dragged Bob anywhere. Or that Davey had been with us. Or that our days of making use of bedrooms together were well behind us. But it didn’t seem as though logic was going to make a big impression on Pam.

  “I’ll give you one thing,” she said. “You’re pretty damn resilient. I figured it would take you at least a couple of days to replace all the stuff you’d lost. I was congratulating myself on what a brilliant, spur-of-the-moment idea that was for getting you out of the way. Except that then you didn’t friggin’ get out of the way, did you?”

  Charting Pam’s mood swings would have made a veteran sailor seasick. Suddenly she was remembering why she was so angry again. The barrel of the gun motioned up the stairs.

  “Enough talk,” she said. “Get moving.”

  Not if I could help it.

  “I have to turn off the outside lights,” I said in a sudden flash of dubious, not to mention transparently desperate inspiration. “If I don’t, my neighbor Mrs. Silano will come and check on me. With all that’s been happening around here, I asked her to keep an eye on things. If the lights stay on too late, she’ll know something’s wrong.”

  “Where’s the switch?”

  Instead of answering, I started toward the door. Pam wasn’t stupid. She moved quickly to angle her body and head me off. I turned and went to the light switch near the front window instead.

  “It’s right here,” I said innocently.

  Cupping my hand around the switch, I used my fingers to raise and lower it. Up and down quickly, then more slowly, then fast again. The universal signal for SOS. Dot, dot, dot. Dash, dash, dash. Dot, dot, dot.

  Inside the well-lit hallway, the exterior lights weren’t that obvious. I didn’t think Pam could see what I was up to. Still, a distraction wouldn’t hurt.

  “Tell me about Dox,” I said. “Why did you take him?”

  “Because he was little and cute.” Pam snorted. “Like I said, it’s not as though a lot of planning went into this.”

  Just what I wanted to hear. The woman holding a gun on me was prone to impulsive behavior. Still, the fact that she wasn’t big on making plans might be made to work in my favor.

  “What were you after? Why did you break into my house in the first place?”

  “I was just upping the ante, okay? Playing the game for higher stakes. When snitching your wallet didn’t get your attention, I decided to go for something bigger. Bobby told me your dogs were really important to you, and I knew how upset I’d be if one of my animals went missing. I figured looking for Dox would take your mind off me and Bobby. Give you something else to do so you’d stop hounding us.”

  I’d asked Bob to stop broadcasting every detail about my life. Now maybe he’d listen to me. Now maybe he’d understand why. If I ever got the chance to tell him.

  “I was going to take one of the Poodles,” said Pam. “But it’s not like they come when they’re called.” She gave me an accusing look. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you that dogs ought to wear collars? Where are their tags? What if they got lost?”

  I could have told her that Faith and Eve were microchipped, but what would be the point? I suspected the irony of this whole topic was going right over Pam’s head.

  “And then I saw the Dachshund, all crated up and ready to go. I’ve never liked big dogs much anyway. Little dogs are more my style. So I picked him up and off we went.”

  Just like that. As though breaking in and stealing something was the most natural thing in the world. The reasonable next step.

  In Pam’s mind, every time I hadn’t responded the way she’d wanted me to, I’d goaded her into taking more drastic action. I supposed, in a demented way, that explained why we were now standing in my hallway with a gun pointed at my heart. Have you noticed how many times I’ve mentioned that a gun was pointing at me? Yeah, so have I.

  “Lights out.” Pam chuckled snidely. “You’re done.”

  My hand slipped away from the switch, my last chance gone.

  “Get it?” she asked, amusing herself.

  I got it all right.

  29

  “Why are we going upstairs?” I asked.

  “More questions.” Pam heaved a dramatic sigh. “Don’t you ever stop asking questions?”

  “No.” Right now, the questions were what was keeping me alive.

  “First you’re going to write a nice long letter,” Pam said, “saying how depressed you are about the breakup of your marriage and the loss of your dog. Not to mention that other guy who dumped you last year. You’ve been having a real run of bad luck lately, haven’t you?”

  If and when I saw Bob again, I was going to strangle him. I couldn’t believe he’d told Pam about my problems with Sam, too.

  “Bob and I broke up years ago,” I pointed out. “And the dog you took wasn’t even mine.”

  Doubt flickered ever so briefly in Pam’s eyes. I liked that. I kept talking.

  “And that guy who dumped me? He’s back. Or didn’t Bob mention that? So if you think anyone’s going to believe that I was unhappy enough to want to kill myself, you’re nuts.”

  “It won’t matter what they want to believe,” Pam said determinedly. “Because you’ll be dead and they won’t have any choice.”

  You’ll be dead. The words were all the more chilling for the matter-of-fact tone in which they’d been spoken.

  I was not go
ing to let that happen. I was not going to be defeated by Pam. I just had to figure out how to prevent it.

  “Go on,” she said. The muzzle of the gun nudged against my side. “Up the stairs.”

  The Poodles were still barking frantically. I’ve always known that Faith and I were attuned on a level that transcended mere physical communication. She knew something was wrong and she wanted to help. If only I could come up with a way to let her.

  A loud thump came from the direction of the kitchen. Several moments later, the bruising sound was repeated. It sounded as though the big Poodle was throwing herself against the basement door. What a good girl. Faith wasn’t going to give up and neither was I.

  “No,” I said.

  “What you mean, no?”

  Let her figure it out. The statement sounded self-explanatory to me. Not only that, but I was damn sick and tired of that gun poking me in the ribs. Without her stupid weapon, Pam was nothing. With it, she thought she owned the world. Well, not my world. Not that day. It was time to make a stand.

  “What are you going to do?” I said, my voice as hard as I could make it. “Shoot me right here? That’ll mess up your suicide scenario, won’t it?”

  Pam backed away a step, eyeing me warily. “It will still work. I’ll just have to change things a bit, that’s all.”

  “And I’m not writing any letter either.”

  Her lips pursed. Pam growled under her breath. “Then I’ll just have to type one. There must be a computer around here somewhere.”

  There was, but I wasn’t about to help her by pointing that out. Now that there was space between us, I was feeling better. At least I could take a deep breath. I forced myself to draw oxygen, lots of it, into my lungs.

  “Let me think a minute,” said Pam.

  Another thump came from the back of the house. Her eyes shifted briefly in that direction. It wasn’t much, but it might be the only chance I was going to get.

  Back braced against the newel post, I kicked upward hard. Too late, Pam looked back. Her eyes widened as my foot connected with her outstretched wrist. As if in slow motion, I saw her fingers open, release. Her index finger was twined around the trigger, caught there even as the gun began to fall. The weapon wobbled briefly in midair, then fired.

  For a moment, I couldn’t do anything but stare. Sound was suspended, time as well. My shirt seemed to part magically as a streak of crimson appeared across my upper arm. The bullet punched me like a blow. I stumbled backward, but felt no pain.

  Crumpled on the steps, I watched the gun skitter across the hardwood floor. Vaguely, I heard another crash. It sounded like breaking glass, but I couldn’t be sure. Black spots were dancing in front of my eyes; maybe I was hearing things too.

  Pam dropped to her knees, scrambling to get to the gun, determined to finish what she’d started. Some part of my brain was yelling at me to get up, to reach the weapon first, but I couldn’t seem to make it happen.

  A stream of dark red blood ran down my arm, soaking into my shirt, dripping over my fingertips. I stared at it in fascination. Every move I made seemed to take forever. There was a rushing sound in my ears; it pulsed with the beating of my heart.

  It occurred to me that this was an incredibly stupid way to die. I thought about Davey and I wanted to cry. But it was too late for that now . . . too late for anything. When Pam came up with the gun a second time, there was nothing I could do to stop her.

  “Now look what you made me do,” she snapped.

  There was blood around me on the stairs, on the floor. Pam’s fake suicide was turning out to be messier than she’d intended. I clutched my arm to my side. The wound was beginning to sting as if someone had applied a burning brand to my flesh.

  “You’re a real pain in the ass, you know that?” She didn’t bother to train the gun on me now. Her hand hung down at her side; she was holding all the cards and we both knew it. “All you do is cause trouble. I can’t imagine what Bobby ever saw in you.”

  “I can,” said a quiet voice from the doorway.

  Sam was holding a shovel he must have picked up outside. His shirt was torn; his jeans, streaked with mud. His eyes swept around the hallway, narrowing at the sight of blood. He swung the shovel with more anger than finesse, and when it connected with Pam’s gun arm, we both heard the bone crack.

  Under the circumstances, it was an enormously satisfying sound.

  Pam shrieked and grasped her hurt wrist with her other hand, holding it to her chest. The weapon fell. Quickly Sam retrieved it. I heard the wail of sirens drawing near. The Poodles began to howl anew.

  “Don’t move,” Sam said to Pam. He pointed the shovel for emphasis. “Just stay right there.”

  He crossed the room and sat, with infinite care, beside me on the steps. He looked like he wanted to put his arms around me, but didn’t dare. “You’re going to be all right. Help will be here in just a minute.”

  “I think it’s just a flesh wound.” In truth, I wasn’t sure, but I was trying to sound brave. My voice quivered.

  “Don’t talk.” Sam reached up and brushed the hair back off my brow. His fingers were cool and strong. “Don’t worry about a thing. Everything’s going to be fine.”

  A wave of dizziness washed over me. My head spun. My eyelids fluttered.

  “I think I’m going to faint,” I whispered.

  Sam held out his arms and caught me.

  30

  Dox got his happy ending after all. Retrieved from Pam’s house early the next morning, the little Dachshund was none the worse for the adventures he’d been through. Say what you would about Pam—and by the time the police were finished interviewing me, I’d said plenty—she did treat her animals right.

  The first call she’d made after her arrest had been to make arrangements for the care of her ponies and dogs. The second had gone to a lawyer. The third call was to Bob. By that time, he’d talked to me, and he declined to speak with her.

  I know he feels guilty. I know he thinks he should have seen some sort of sign. But Pam fooled all of us, not just my ex-husband.

  Later, when I developed the roll of film that had pictures of Davey and Willow on it, I stopped and stared at the very first shot, taken the day the palomino pony had arrived in my front yard. Davey was sitting astride Willow. Pam and Bob were standing on either side, their arms intertwined behind him. If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought they were a happy family group. So I guess some indications were there from the beginning, if only I’d known to look for them.

  Peter called George Firth the next day and officially declined his donation, offering to return the puppy that afternoon. George, of course, was in his office, hard at work when Peter spoke with him. I’m sure my uncle planned it that way. George had a date that evening with Lynda French; the two of them were going to go boat shopping. On such short notice, it was tough to see how Dox could be made to fit into his busy schedule.

  “Puppies are like babies,” Peter pointed out. “They make their own schedules and you have to adjust to them.” Into the silence that followed, he added, “If I might make a suggestion, I know of a home where this puppy would be much appreciated and very well cared for.”

  “Marian, right?” George had grumbled.

  “Sometimes it isn’t easy to do the right thing.” Peter’s years in the priesthood served him well at times like this. He always knew just what to say. It took him less than ten minutes to talk George into giving up the puppy, registration papers and all. Best of all, he left George feeling virtuous about the decision he’d made.

  Marian received Dox back with open arms and tears in her eyes. She registered him with the AKC as Tulip Tree Pandemonium, a name that seemed to suit just fine. She calls him Panda for short and promised Aunt Peg we’d be seeing him in the show ring next year.

  Peter’s silent auction, held the next month, was a huge event, raising more money for his Outreach program than he and Rose had even dared dream. In part that success was due to the efforts of
cable news reporter Jill Prescott. I finally gave her the interview she wanted, my capitulation based on the condition that the piece also highlight Peter’s very worthwhile charity.

  With no dead bodies to catapult the segment to the national news, it remained a local story. But while Jill didn’t get the career bump she’d been hoping for, her follow-up piece on Peter’s program and the inner-city kids it benefits was well received in humanitarian circles, bringing them both a great deal of exposure. There’s been talk of an award and Jill’s on-air time has increased dramatically.

  As for me, luckily I did have just a flesh wound. The bullet creased my upper arm, leaving a track that stung like fire. As it healed, it turned into a scar that reminds me daily just how fragile life can be. Something like that tends to put everything into perspective.

  When we got home from the hospital in the early hours of the morning, after Faith and Eve had been placated and walked, Sam and I finally got a chance to talk. We sat down on the couch in the living room. My head was fuzzy from the painkillers they’d given me in the emergency room, but my sense of resolve was very clear.

  “How did you know that I was in trouble?” I asked. “I tried calling you at home. Did you get my message?”

  Sam snuggled close. “I haven’t been home. Not for more than a couple of hours in the last few days.”

  That surprised me. I lifted my head from the cushion. “Where have you been?”

  “You may not like the answer to that question.”

  “Tell me anyway.”

  “I’ve been outside, sitting in my car, keeping an eye on things. I parked a couple houses down, hoping you wouldn’t notice. You didn’t want me to come in, but I couldn’t just leave you alone here. I knew something was wrong, I had to try and help.”

  The SUV I’d seen parked in the shadows the night before had been Sam’s, I realized suddenly. He’d been outside, sleeping in his car, while I’d been prowling around the house, thinking about him.

  “Were you out there when Pam arrived tonight?”

  “No,” Sam said, frowning. “Jill had pulled up earlier, Rich was with her. I’d begun to wonder if the fact that the two of them were always hanging around at the wrong time was more than coincidence. But when I walked over to their car to confront them, they took off. That made them look even guiltier, so I ran back to my car and followed them. That’s where I was when you got home. You tried to reach me on my cell phone, right?”