by Susan Conant
The man slammed the door shut. “Beautiful puppy,” he said. Puppy. Only a real dog person would’ve realized how young Sammy was. “Great bone. Nice Kotzebue head.”
Correct. Three strains—Kotzebue, M’Loot, and Irwin-Hinman—contributed to today’s Alaskan malamutes. The Kotzebue dogs were the original malamutes bred by Milton and Eva B. (“Short”) Seeley at the Chinook Kennels in Wonalancet, New Hampshire. Short Seeley had strong opinions about malamute head type. Among other things, she bred for small ears and a soft expression that comes, in part, from dark, almond-shaped eyes set at just the right angle. Sammy had Rowdy’s beautiful Kotzebue head. When this man looked at Sammy, he knew what he was seeing.
Graham Grant.
I turned and finally got a look at him. Yes, somewhere, sometime I had seen him, presumably at the National Speciality where Phyllis Hamilton had said I’d met him. On that occasion, he must’ve looked better than he did now. How he looked now was like all hell after a bad accident. Elise had told me that Graham Grant was thirty-five or forty, as he appeared to be. He was maybe five-ten, with a wide build and massive shoulders, but his grubby brown-plaid flannel shirt and stained jeans hung loose, and his face was gaunt. The shagginess of his straight brown hair suggested the need for a barber rather than the pursuit of trendiness, and around his hazel eyes was a raccoon mask that was fading from black to green and brown. He needed a bath, a shave, a haircut, a change of clothes, and a month of three squares a day. More important, he needed to get rid of the hunting knife he held in his right hand.
“Thank you,” I said. “I’m biased, of course. But all he needs to finish is one major.”
“My stuff.”
“I have no idea what you mean. If I did, I’d give it to you. Search the house if you want. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Including my blue bitch.”
“I don’t know what to tell you except what I’ve already said. You’re welcome to look. If you don’t believe me, look for yourself.”
I expected him to put the knife to my throat or maybe to slap or punch me. What he did was far worse. He deftly undid the latch to Sammy’s crate, waited for Sammy to emerge, wrapped his left hand around Sammy’s collar, and put the knife to Sammy’s throat. “My stuff,” Grant said coolly. “Now.”
CHAPTER 30
I could think of nothing except the Smith & Wesson sitting uselessly in the drawer of my nightstand in our bedroom on the second floor of the house. The distance between the kitchen and that nightstand seemed like a thousand miles. At the same time, I could almost feel the weight of the revolver in my hand. My right index finger twitched. I am an excellent shot. Exercising the gift, however, requires a weapon.
Before I could respond to Grant’s repeated demand, a demand I’d have met if I’d been able, Grant suddenly did something peculiar. Background: I’d left the house in a hurry. In spite of my haste, I’d put the plate I’d used for my sandwich in the dishwasher, where I’d also put the dog bowls. Under the table, however, was one object I’d overlooked and thus failed to tidy up: Sammy’s Pink Piggy, in one of his three manifestations. To my astonishment, Grant pointed to it and said, “Cut the bullshit. Pick it up.”
Pink Piggy? For a second, fear stole my power of rational thought. Could it possibly be true that Graham Grant had invaded my house and was holding a knife to Sammy’s throat because I’d left a dog toy on the floor? Because I hadn’t finished the housework?
In what felt like a moment of temporary insanity, I obeyed the order. “It’s nothing,” I said. “But you can have it if you want.”
Sammy’s gleaming eyes were on Pink Piggy. His full white tail was waving over his back. I took care not to squeeze the toy; if Sammy heard the squeaker, he’d be likely to leap for Pink Piggy, with consequences I didn’t want to risk.
I said, “It’s nothing but an old toy. Look at it. You can see how worn it is. It’s a Dr. Noy’s toy. That’s all it is.”
“Open it.”
“If I do, my dog is going to go for it.”
Grant tightened his grip on Sammy’s collar. I ripped the Velcro apart, extracted the pouch, opened it, removed the squeaker, and put all the parts of the toy on the kitchen table.
“There,” I said.
“The rest of them,” Grant ordered.
“There are two more somewhere. Just like this one. Old toys. With new squeakers.”
“Cut the bullshit!”
“I have no idea what you mean. If I did, I’d give you whatever you want.”
“It was in the paper. The body was found by Holly Winter. You. You were the first person there.”
“I have already told you that there’s another Holly Winter. She lives in Cambridge. I cannot help it that we have the same name.” As I spoke, I frantically tried to think of a plan. If I could distract him, then…? Then I could somehow knock the phone off the hook? If Sammy broke away, then…? Then I could scream and hope that someone heard me? Mrs. Dennehy? Another neighbor? Kevin, returning home, getting out of his car, hearing me, and coming to my rescue, mine and Sammy’s? Or if Sammy freed himself and ran upstairs, I could bolt after him, race to the nightstand, and get my hands on my Smith & Wesson?
“This is getting real old,” he said.
“There is another Holly Winter. That’s true. And she has to be the one you’re looking for. I’m the one who found the body, but that’s all I did.” If Sammy got away? He could end up with knife wounds. Fatal wounds. Or deadly bullets in his perfect body. There was no reason to believe that the knife was Grant’s only weapon. “I looked in through the glass door of a house,” I said. “I called the police. End of story.”
“Beautiful puppy you got here. Too bad you don’t give a damn about him.”
Sammy knew that something was wrong. The sight of Pink Piggy had misled him into imagining that we were playing some kind of new game, one he didn’t understand, but one that might turn out to be fun. Now, he was catching on.
“Okay. Look, I’m just trying to stay out of whatever mess this is. Here’s what happened. A guy showed up here. Adam, his name was. And I gave him what I found. All of it. He had a Harley. A new-looking Harley. Top of the line. With a Maine plate. He was a big, tall guy with curly black hair. Does any of that ring any bells with you? Because that’s who has your stuff. Adam. And that’s all I know about him. I should’ve said so to begin with, but he was a big, scary biker. He scared me. All I want is to stay out of this.”
I wished that I were half as good at reading human beings as I am at reading dogs. Canine communication was my first language: facial expressions, body postures, vocalizations, all of it. Graham Grant was showing a response of some kind to what I’d said, but I couldn’t decipher exactly what he was making of my words. His eyes, in particular, were so flat and dead that they were hard to read. When I was describing Adam and the Harley, I thought that recognition flashed briefly across Grant’s face, but I just couldn’t be sure.
“This guy look like he came out of the Bible?” Grant asked. “One of those movies about the Bible?”
“Yes! That’s exactly what he looks like. Moses. He reminded me of Moses.”
“Son of a bitch,” Grant said.
The conviction in his voice sent waves of relief surging through me. My knees felt so weak that I sank into one of the kitchen chairs.
That’s when the phone rang. And wrecked everything.
“Don’t answer it,” Grant said.
I waited in silence as the phone rang again and again. Eight times? Yes, eight rings that felt like a hundred. Finally, I heard my own voice say, “You have reached Holly Winter, Dr. Steve Delaney, and Alaskan Malamute Rescue. Please leave a message.” The machine emitted its annoying tone. I heard the caller breathe loudly. “This is Mellie O’Leary.” She spoke with the anxiety and formality of someone unused to leaving recorded messages. “Father McArdle says I have to give you Strike’s toys.” She paused. “He says that not telling is lying, too.” Again she p
aused. “And it’s a sin,” she finished.
Grant laughed. “You hear that? It’s a sin, you lying bitch. We’re taking your car.” He grabbed a short leash from the rack on the back of the kitchen door. “Put this on your puppy.” I obeyed. Up close to Grant, I felt sickened by the stench of filth. “You first.”
Where were my keys? For a panicked second, I couldn’t remember. Then I spotted them on a counter, picked them up, and opened the door to the little back hallway. The murdered woman had, in fact, left some of Streak’s possessions with Mellie. Streak’s? The woman’s own possessions? Possessions that belonged to Graham Grant. Or so he thought. Dog toys. Toys like Pink Piggy used as Velcro-fastened hiding places for who knew what. I, at least, didn’t care. All I wanted was to get Mellie to give those toys to Grant. And after that? After that, would he go away and leave us alone? Or would he…damn it! I’d almost forgotten. He wanted his blue bitch. Streak was at Steve’s clinic. Panic rose again. I’d worry about Streak later, about Grant’s next demand, about whatever Grant might do to us once he had whatever he wanted.
Behind me, I heard Sammy’s tags jingle. Grant followed me through the little hallway, out the door, and down the stairs. A glance showed me that Kevin still wasn’t home; his spot in the Dennehys’ driveway was still empty. I thought about warning Grant that I had two dogs in the van, but why tell him that he could have three canine hostages instead of one? But if Rowdy or Kimi startled him, would he overreact? I thought not; it wouldn’t come as a surprise to Grant that I was surrounded by dogs. And who knew? Rowdy or Kimi might somehow prove useful, especially if Grant failed to realize that they were in the van. They’d had a busy evening, and they were used to riding contentedly in their crates. For once, I was glad that Steve’s rattletrap actually rattled. When it was moving, it would help to camouflage any low sounds that Rowdy and Kimi might make, and the jingle of their tags might be mistaken for the jingle of Sammy’s.
“You’re driving,” Grant said. “Get in. And don’t forget what’s right here at your puppy’s throat.”
The second I was in the driver’s seat, I started the noisy engine, and by the time Grant had opened the passenger door, I had the fan going at full clatter and had made sure that my purse was on the floor right next to me. There was no time to unzip my purse and get my cell phone, but the proximity of the phone increased my confidence, as did the knowledge that Rowdy was in the crate just behind my seat; and Kimi, in the crate beyond Rowdy’s. To prevent Grant’s attention from wandering to the crated dogs, I turned on the radio, changed the station from NPR to old rock, and started talking. “Mellie O’Leary lives near here. We’ll be there in five or ten minutes.”
Grant positioned Sammy between the front seats, settled himself in the passenger seat, and slammed the door. On the radio, Roy Orbison sang “Crying.” Damn it! I hoped that the dogs wouldn’t be inspired to accompany Orbison by howling along.
“Incredible,” I said over the soaring of that astonishing voice and the static of the radio. “Amazing range. You know, Bruce Springsteen said that he wished he could write like Bob Dylan and sing like Roy Orbison.”
Backing the van out into Appleton Street is always a challenge. The street is narrow to begin with, and both sides are always lined with parked cars. I tried to focus my attention on maneuvering the van while letting the chatter take care of itself.
“There was a TV special on a while ago about Roy Orbison,” I blathered. “With Bruce Springsteen and lots of other people. Bonnie Raitt. And Roy Orbison himself. We’re going to take Concord Avenue, this street, to the Fresh Pond rotary and then get on Route 2 and then turn onto Rindge Avenue. I have to warn you about Mellie. She’s, uh, I guess the easiest way to say it is that she’s simpleminded.” Was I quoting Francie? Who cared? “Very sweet. But you ought to know what to expect, not that I know exactly…” I went on.
Eventually, as I was taking a breath, Grant said, “Do you ever shut up?”
“Seldom,” I said in a tone intended to praise the dogs for the silence they were maintaining. Roy had stopped wailing, and the radio was now playing a song I didn’t recognize sung by a man with a range of about five notes. Sammy, unaccustomed to riding loose, leaned against me. “Good boy, pup,” I said. “Almost there.” We actually were almost there. There’d been almost no traffic. I turned onto Rindge and soon turned left, followed the route to Mellie’s, and pulled into her driveway. “This is it,” I said unnecessarily.
I tried to make a plan. Grant, with Sammy’s lead in one hand and the knife in the other, would get out on the passenger side. I’d be unobserved for a few seconds before I had to follow him. My cell phone was in my purse. But if I turned it on, it would play a little tune that Grant wouldn’t miss. With almost no time at all, certainly no time to think, I reached in back of my seat. My fingers found the upper latch on Rowdy’s crate. I undid the top latch and quickly undid the bottom one. Then I got out of the van and reluctantly shut the door. Loose in the van, Rowdy just might attract attention. If he heard sirens, he might deliver ear-shattering howls that would prompt the neighbors to investigate or, with luck, to call the police. If I’d left the passenger door open, Rowdy would’ve been free, of course, but he could’ve used his freedom to end up on Rindge Avenue or even on Route 2, where he could so easily have been hit and killed by a car. I simply could not bring myself to take the chance.
CHAPTER 31
Grant snarled at me to hurry up. His voice was rough and mean, and I felt terrified for Sammy. As I rushed past Grant and Sammy, and up the steps to Mellie’s porch, I said, “There’s nothing to be gained by frightening Mellie. She’s no threat to anyone.”
“Always the do-gooder,” he said. “Me first. Get out of the way.” Instead of ringing the bell, he banged on the door, and when Mellie opened it, he shoved his way in. Stupid of him, really. He should’ve made sure that he was the one who shut the door. For no specific reason, I didn’t quite close the door; it remained unlocked. Leaving the door ever so slightly open was, I guess, an effort to fool myself into thinking that I was leaving something else open, too: my options.
Although Mellie was…well, Mellie was herself. She took in this strange man and the knife he held to Sammy’s throat, and by the time I actually saw her face, she was in tears.
I struggled to sound calm. “Mellie, we need to do everything this man says.”
She replied in that uncontrolled, too-loud voice she sometimes used. “A bad man wants to hurt Strike.” Once again, she sounded to me as if she were repeating someone else’s words. This time, I knew whose: the words of the woman who’d left Streak in Mellie’s care.
Mellie’s voice drew Sammy’s attention. He tried to move toward me. The most trusting and least protective of dogs, the puppy of our family, the dog we’d babied, Sammy nonetheless felt the urge to position himself between me and any possible harm. I cursed myself for having turned Sammy over to those damned handlers, Teller and that foolish Omar. Sammy knew all too well that I’d transferred responsibility for him to a pair of jerks. With his leash in Grant’s hand, he probably viewed Grant as one more Teller or one more Omar; and instead of reacting to the real source of danger, he was responding to the peculiarities of Mellie’s speech. Grant yanked Sammy’s collar, and the dog looked at me wide-eyed. Sammy wore only a plain rolled-leather buckle collar, not a choke collar, but he was totally unused to leash corrections of any kind. His expression was hurt and baffled.
Enraged and powerless, I met Sammy’s eyes and tried to convey a sense of comfort that I didn’t feel. Preoccupied with Sammy, I was stunned to hear a new voice, a woman’s voice, saying, “What the hell is going on here?” In the doorway to the kitchen and dining area stood Holly Winter. “Take your dirty business elsewhere,” she said.
My dirty business? Dog writing? While it was true that articles about canine personal hygiene and, in particular, parasitic diseases occasionally touched on unaesthetic topics, I, at least, always labored to present potentially revolting
material in as tasteful a manner as possible. Unfortunately, the desire for clarity and accuracy often conflicted with the laudable desire not to sicken readers. For example, when fresh tapeworm segments cling to an infected dog’s perianal area, they honestly do look like grains of rice, whereas once they dry, they resemble sesame seeds, and if you want your readers to be able to check their dogs for tapeworms, you’d better come right out and say so. And if your readers permanently lose their appetites for paella and risotto? If they forever after stick with plain, unadorned hamburger buns? Well, a slightly restricted human diet is a small price to pay for a parasite-free dog, isn’t it? Still, aesthetics counts. There’s absolutely no need to dwell on such stomach-turning facts as the true nature of the segments—they are sacs of eggs—and their utterly disgusting habit of crawling around. Dog writing as a dirty business? Well, maybe it was.
“This woman has nothing to do with anything,” I told Grant. “I have no idea what she’s doing here.”
“Bringing food for Zachie,” Mellie said with great softness and warmth. “Zachie’s coming home.” Her face was flushed, and her eyes shone.
As if Mellie needed a translator, Holly Winter said, “Zach Ho is on a flight from Heathrow to Logan. The police told me so. I picked up some food for him.” Her eyes, too, were shining, and her face, like Mellie’s, glowed a rosy red. “And this neighbor of Zach’s”—the name intoned with warmth bordering on heat—“saw me and said she had his key. There’s ice in the bags, but she offered to let me in.” A key on a short chain dangled from her hand.
