Blind Rage: Team Red, Book 4

by T. Hammond

  Chapter Nine

  ** Morning, Friday - Jan 11th **

  “Oh, oh,” Red said in an I’m-in-trouble-now tone, two seconds after a cyclone of energy burst through the dog door.

  “What?” I asked cautiously. “Lights on, Red,” I ordered, preparing for the worse.

  Light flooded my mind in tandem with two wet puppy paws landing on my lap, as Tank excitedly tried to stretch up and lick my chin. I reached over him, placing my coffee cup safely on the table. Scooping up the wiggling puppy, I held him away from my body, sending a glare toward my remorseful dog. From my view of the room, I assumed Red was still outside, only his head poking through the door flap. Likely as wet and muddy as Tank, he waited because he knew he needed to be dried off first. Right under his nose was a trail of muddy-wet prints, weaving around the living room, before veering straight toward the couch.

  With a frustrated sigh, I secured Tank in his crate, knowing I’d have to completely strip and wash the bedding inside. “Seriously Red? You couldn’t have waited two minutes for me to grab a towel, before letting Tank tramp mud through the living room? You’re bigger than him. You could have laid in front of the dog flap to keep him outside.”

  “He is devious and cunning,” my dog remarked, in all solemnity. “I was tricked.”

  “So, you’re claiming you were outwitted by a twelve-week old puppy?” I inquired, with a sarcastically upraised brow. Through our mind-sight link, I was able to see myself, as if looking in a mirror. For additional effect, I crossed my arms, canting my head in an imitation of a German shepherd’s inquisitive head tilt. Hey, mirroring is a proven management technique, and I needed every advantage when dealing with my super-clever canine.

  Red tentatively crept fully through the doorway, stopping on the large mat placed there so we could dry the dogs inside. After listening to my complaints, about having to put boots and a coat on to dry the dogs on the deck, Ken came up with a simple solution which didn’t require braving the frigid air.

  “I’m not sure outwitted is the correct word. Did I mention he was devious? He doesn’t need to be smarter than me to be sneakier,” Red challenged.

  Technically, he was correct. In reality, I’m sure my dog was exaggerating. “So, tell me Mr. Smarty Pants, just how did ole Thunder Paws get by you? He does nothing with stealth, so I find it hard to believe cunning was involved.” Tank was more apt to barrel over something than plan a way around it.

  “It was the cat’s fault,” Red accused, changing strategies. “She was prowling down the fence, no doubt planning to infiltrate our yard. I looked away for only a minute.”

  Ah, now the truth comes out. Through Red’s peripheral vision, I scanned around the living room, mentally following the trail of dirty wet paws prints covering Red’s dog bed, the decorative skirt at the base of the Christmas tree, and most irritating, a cushion on the cream-colored couch where two incriminating prints told a story of good puppy, gone bad. Oh, man, did it have to be the sofa? The only pale-colored piece of furniture on the main level?

  “I’m very disappointed in you, Red. You assured me, after he raided the pantry, and again, after he snuck into my room and made rags out of my bed skirt, you would be more aware of where he was when you let him out of his crate.” The perspective of the room changed as he dropped his head to ground-level. Two paws on either side of his snout indicated he had adopted his increasingly familiar contrite posture. Even without visual cues, through our empathetic link, I felt his shame. Our bond, and Red’s emotional transparency, made it nearly impossible to stay mad at him for any length of time.

  “I’m sorry, Teresa. I let myself get distracted by the cat. I should have put Tank in his crate before I defended the yard. It’s like you told me before, I need to pay attention to my priorities.” Even his tone sounded pathetic.

  “What the fuck?” Bastian’s voice behind me snapped in irritation; he had stopped to survey the happy trail of puppy prints decorating the living room. Bas crossed his arms, canted his head (coincidence? I think not), and glared at Red. I almost smiled at the picture of us, side by side, adopting the same posture, as if confronting a recalcitrant child. “Tank barfing all night, after eating a whole bag of dog treats, wasn’t enough of a clue that you can’t let him out of your sight? How about the fabric trail he laid out from Teresa’s room, down the staircase, when he ripped off the material-thingy around her bed? (I’m sure he knew I called it a dust ruffle or bed skirt). Oh wait, I know. You must have thought I was wrong to accuse Tank of demolishing the unopened 24-pack of toilet paper? All that T.P. strewn through the Cave was probably an attack of garden gnomes, right?”

  Did he have to mention those atrocious gnomes? And, I hadn’t known about the toilet paper incident. “Did you add T.P. to the shopping list so Ken can replace it?”

  “Already taken care of, Babe,” he said softly, his warm tone at odds with the evil glare directed toward Red. “I think we need to take the latch extension off Tank’s cage for a while, until Red can prove he’s mature enough to handle the responsibility.”

  Ouch. Poor Red. He must have thought so too, as our mind-sight went black. Not from the usual “Lights off” when our link is severed, but as a result of the paws lifted from the floor to cover his eyes. Now the emotions coming from him were guilt and remorse.

  “Let’s count this as a warning, Bas,” I suggested, relishing my role as the good cop. Half of my vision came back as a paw lifted from his right eye. “We should give him one more chance before we take away his puppy.”

  “Take away?” Red was truly alarmed now, his head snapped up, “What do you mean ‘take away’ my puppy?”

  “Well, I can’t watch him, Red.” I answered logically, approaching my dog. I swiped a towel off the stack by the door and started drying his paws. “Everyone else is monitoring security or training on the computers.” Red automatically lifted his legs as I circled around him, then stood still as I briskly toweled his wet belly. “Ken and Gwyn are busy with keeping the household in order; there’s a lot of work to be done with all the people coming and going. There’s no one else. If you can’t handle your responsibility, Tank being so devious and all, we don’t have many options. We’d probably have to ask Gil to take him for training, until he’s a little older.” I shook my head sadly. Standing, I balled the towel up to throw in the hamper.

  “You’re sending him away to boarding school?” Red was horrified. I tried not to crack a smile. Gil was a cop, granted, but did Red really associate a month or two at Gil’s house, to sending him off to some kind of military academy? “You can’t do that, Teresa. You know Dude will torment him,” Red worried, referring to Gil’s apparently terrifying seven-pound munchkin cat. Red moved toward me, head-butting my thigh. I noticed he avoided looking in Bas’ direction, glancing up to my face instead. My dog knew the weak link here. “Please, one more chance. I’ll watch him really well. I promise.”

  I glanced over my shoulder toward Bastian, who still stood rock solid, arms akimbo, waiting for my verdict. He raised a brow in inquiry. “Tank’s already in the crate. I can drop him off, if you’d like.”

  Red’s anxiety level increased, his head pressed more firmly against my leg to redirect my attention. “I promise, Teresa. Please don’t send Tank away. He’s so young and innocent. He’ll come back from Gil’s a different pup. Disillusioned and cynical.”

  Oh man, he was making it really hard to keep a straight face. How does he think up this stuff? I pivoted, turning my face away from Red before a smile broke through. “We certainly wouldn’t want Tank coming back to us disillusioned and cynical,” I repeated, letting Bas know the direction of our conversation. The twitch at the corner of his lips told me he was hard-pressed to hold back a grin, also.

  “Gil’s probably at work now,” Bas told me, brushing his fingers through his chin hair in thought. “Maybe we can give Red another chance?”

  I was momentarily distracted by the movement of his hands, stroking the goatee which made a p
erfect frame for his mouth; it looked like he was adding a closely-trimmed beard, emphasizing the broad strength of his jawline. Damn it! I belatedly realized he’d yanked the good cop role right out from under me. Well, nothing says there can’t be two nice cops, I suppose. Turning back to Red, I conceded, “We will give you another chance. I understand you want time to yourself for cat stalking and running with the guys through the woods. Until his legs get longer, Tank will cramp your style, so you put him in his crate when you can’t watch him. You know he’s never in there long.” Which was true, as soon as Tank grows bored and wants attention, one of the Mustangs inevitably respond to his pitiful howls. It’s not uncommon to wander into the living room and find Tank roughhousing with the security team.

  There was a surge of optimism from the oversized fur-ball at my feet, as Red realized he and Tank were getting a reprieve.

  While I held Red primarily accountable, I was looking forward to having a young boy in the house. Wesley’s addition could represent an energy outlet for Tank. I mentally imagined them tromping through the woods together, playing fetch with tree branches, and ducking behind the pines in impromptu games of hide-and-seek. Which brought up another point. “Red, Wes and Marcia will be here in a couple days. You know I’m relying on you to keep Wes and Tank safe when they’re in the woods.”

  “I’ll do better, Teresa,” he promised, the sincerity strong behind his words. “I understand you’re trusting me. I can do this. I can keep watch over Tank and Wes. Let me show you what a good boy I am.”

  I crouched down at the edge of the floor mat, holding out my hands to encourage my dog closer. Red snuggled his head into my arms, careful of his cleaner, but still damp, coat. I framed his face, lifting his head so we were nose to nose, giving me a very clear view of my own face as seen through his adoring eyes. “I love you, Red. Even if we didn’t have our extra connection, I would still love you for your loyalty and good heart. I’m so glad you’re my dog, and I’m your person.”

  “I love you, too, Beautiful. You can depend on me.”

  I ruffled his ears and buried my nose in a dry spot on the ruff of his neck, enjoying the healthy doggy smells of forest and play. “I’m giving you a lot of responsibility, Red. You need to let me know if it gets to be too much, okay?”

  “But, if I can’t watch him, you’ll send Tank to Gil’s,” he whined anxiously.

  “We’ll try other things first, all right? But, when you take him out of the crate, he becomes your responsibility, so you need to watch him. One option, if he’s too much of a rascal, we can block off the dog door so he can’t get into the house without someone opening the slider. But that means you will also be blocked out.”

  “Oh! Maybe Bas and Jaspar can make a remote for the dog door!” His body quivered. I laughed at his enthusiasm—Red was such a guy. He’d already figured out the remote for the TV, and he had a key fob to get into the pantry when the door was closed, but nothing beat the fobs for the cars with their loud chirps (I drew the line at noisy beeps when he wanted to get to the snack shelves). “I don’t see a remote for the dog door in your future, but we will consider all options if Tank gets out of hand.”

  “An automatic door may not be a bad idea, Teresa. I can devise a button, too high for Tank, but Red could press it to unlatch the dog flap. Like one of those handicap buttons to open doors. Jaspar had some great ideas for the last door we rigged, so I’ll run the idea by him to see if he wants to help. It will also add a little more security; the dog door is one of the few un-alarmed entry points for the house. We might even be able to disguise the button.” Beyond appreciating him anew for his collaborative spirit, I loved the lilt in Bastian’s voice as he considered the possibilities. There was something incredibly endearing about a fully capable man who was confident enough to show glimpses of the excited and playful boy within.

  “You may get your wish, Red.” I kissed the top of his snout. “See how much we love you?”

  “I really want to lick your face, right now,” he said, completely ruining the moment. “You have bacon-breath.”

  Dogs! “Don’t you dare,” I growled, “or you’ll be eating rice and peas for the rest of the month.”

  I think my dog was laughing at me. I didn’t hear him in my mind, but there were waves of happy amusement in his emotions. A gentle head-butt to my shoulder over-balanced me, and I fell right on my rear. Yeah, now I could hear the mental mirth clearly.

  The front door opened, followed by Gwyn’s, “What the hell happened here?”

  Bas, a few Mustangs observing from the kitchen, and I chorused, “Tank!”

  Red took the opportunity to glance toward the kennel. The bad puppy in question was turned away so he stared at the blank wall, ignoring our collective censure. There was a tell-tale flick of his ears, suggesting he was aware the conversation revolved around him.

  Gwyn sighed heavily. “Who was supposed to be watching him this time?”

  Again, the chorus sang out, “Red.” My perspective changed as Red, once again, dropped his head between his paws.

  “I’m in trouble again, aren’t I?” he sighed, dejected.

  “Red is properly contrite, Gwyn. He’s promised to take better care of Tank. Bas is even considering a remote for the dog door to make sure we can monitor canine comings and goings.”

  Gwyn’s smile turned positively evil as she reached for her cell phone, from Red’s perspective tapping what had to be a speed dial number. “Hello, darling. Are you still mad at Double D and Crooner?” Her grin widened at, what I suspected was, Russ’ affirmative answer. “Marvelous. Have I got a dirty job for them,” she cooed. “There’s a four-footed dog-castrophy in the living room. Should keep them occupied with a carpet shampooer and upholstery cleaner for half-a-day, or so.” She chuckled at her husband’s reply. “Yes, I think so, too. Whenever they’re ready, I’ll send them to the store to get supplies. Thanks, sweetheart.”

  With a hard poke at her disconnect button, Gwyn smiled with movie-star brilliance. “Problem solved.”

  “Which ones are Double D and Crooner?” I wondered aloud. “And what did they do to warrant cleaning duty?”

  “Double D is Dean Dawson, a tribute to his initials as well as his preference for busty babes. The woman can be ugly as sin, but if she’s sporting a generous rack, Dawson won’t notice anything above her neck,” Bas offered, helpfully. “Crooner is Larry Andrews; he has a singing voice to rival Sinatra.”

  “Dawson was over an hour late reporting for his shift this morning. Andrews was caught taking selfies in the PT area mirrors downstairs. We have zero tolerance for picture-taking in the basement,” Gwyn explained. “The reflection showed some of the Cave’s layout and computer monitors. Luckily, Andrews hadn’t posted the images. He was being a bonehead after his workout, careless of where he was. Russ was wondering what to do for punishment, so Tank has provided a great opportunity for atonement.”

  Oh, I bet Russ was livid. I’ll admit, I was glad the cleaning chore wouldn’t fall on Ken’s shoulders. Once again, I followed the muddy trail through Red’s vision. The paw prints on the couch may end up being the hardest to clean.

  Two sets of feet pounded the basement stairs, moments later appearing in the kitchen. The taller of the two, Larry Andrews, was the first to register the extent of the mess. “Oh crap, we’ll be scrubbing for days,” he moaned.

  “It’s your fault,” Dawson accused, glaring at Andrews. “He was only mildly annoyed when I showed up late. You had to whip out a camera, in the Cave no less, to snap pictures of your sweaty ass for Rosie. From annoyed to ballistic in five easy clicks.” Dawson’s hand snapped out to thump his partner—soundly enough I could hear it from a room away—on the back of the head. “Great going, dude.”

  Andrews dropped his gaze, obviously embarrassed. “Sorry, man. Can’t believe I did somethin’ so dumb. I know better. I wasn’t thinkin’ ‘bout where I was.”

  “Coulda been worse,” Dawson reflected. “Leastways he didn’t send u
s back to SD.” Referring to their home base in San Diego.

  “Come on, you two. I’ll give you a list of the supplies you’ll need.” Gwyn directed them to the dining room table, pulling a little spiral notebook and ballpoint pen from her apron pocket.

  Bas took advantage of the lull in household drama to kiss me sweetly. He promised “See you later for lunch,” before disappearing into the pantry.

  “If you see a brand name listed on here, don’t buy generic,” Gwyn warned, tearing out a page and extending it toward Dawson who stood closest to her. “Rent a heavy-duty shampooer, but be sure to get one that has a hand-held attachment for doing the couch and cushions. Call me if you have any questions. Did Russ give you a credit card?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Dawson replied, folding the paper before sliding it into his back pocket. “’M’on, Crooner. Sooner we get ‘er done, the sooner we can get back to the fun stuff.”