See No Evil

by Gayle Roper

  I knelt and held out my hand. “Hello, boy. How are you?”

  The boxer, a young adult, leaned into the fence and looked at me with liquid brown eyes. I poked a finger through the links and scratched his back. The dog sighed in delight.

  I was a goner.

  When we came outside, it was raining, a hard summer storm, the kind that usually knocked the humidity down for a couple of days. We raced through the downpour, the dog galloping happily beside me on his new leash. When we stopped by the Caravan and climbed in, he was clearly disappointed. He wanted to run some more.

  Then my dog—boy, that sounded nice—shook all over us as he shed the rain. Not that it mattered since we were already wet, but we still ducked and yelped. Reflex. Then the animal refused to sit in the rear where I’d put him. He jumped the middle seat and squeezed between the front bucket seats. He climbed into my lap, not easy to do with the steering wheel in the way, and collapsed against me, his head lolling on my shoulder.

  I hugged him. “You are a big baby! You’re supposed to be a vicious watchdog.”

  He lifted his head and kissed me.

  “If you want him to stay in the back seat, you’re going to have to get him a seat restraint,” Lucy said.

  “A seat belt for dogs?” What would they think of next?

  “And maybe with all the trips to the shore you should get him a life jacket.”

  I tried to imagine stuffing the boxer into a bright orange life vest. “How do you know about all this stuff?”

  She grinned. “I watch Animal Planet.”

  “What are you going to call him?” Meg asked around her laughter.

  “I don’t know.” I scratched the dog’s ears. “It has to be just right.”

  “I know, I know!” Lucy raised her hand. “Rocky. He’s Rocky the boxer.”

  The dog lifted his head from my shoulder and looked at Lucy.

  She leaned over and kissed him. “See? He knows.”

  Rocky? I wasn’t certain. I couldn’t help wonder how many boxers there were in America named after the celluloid Philadelphian. “Rocky?”

  He turned and gave me another kiss.

  “It’s good, Anna,” Gray said, leaning in the still-open driver’s door to pet the animal. Crystal droplets sparkled in his hair, and his wet T-shirt clung to his chest. “Hey, Rocky, guy.”

  I gave up. “Rocky it is.”

  Tipsy took one look at Rocky when we brought him into the house and had a hissy fit. His back arched, his fur rose, his lips curled and he spat fury. Rocky bounded forward to greet his new housemate and was startled and highly offended when Tipsy slugged him in the snout. The dog stood, stunned, giving Tipsy time to swat again, which he did. This time Rocky turned tail and hid behind my legs.

  “My hero.” I reached back and scratched his ears.

  “The wars have begun,” Meg said through her laughter. “My only rule is that if they break anything fighting, whichever one does the breaking, his owner has to replace the broken item.”

  “Agreed,” both Lucy and I said.

  “Keep a running total, ladies. I want to know who wins.” Gray had followed us home to be certain everything was all right at the house. Now he dropped to his knees and rubbed his hands up and down Rocky’s back. If Rocky’d known how to purr, he’d have done so. “Okay, let’s check the basement.”

  I led him downstairs, making sure Rocky stayed upstairs behind the closed door. I didn’t think he’d be as gauche as Tipsy and sleep on my expensive fabrics, but I couldn’t take the chance.

  “You’ve got some workshop down here, Anna.” Gray sounded impressed as he surveyed the ordered chaos. Bolts of material leaned in one corner, with more in the closet under the stairs. Clear plastic tubs full of remnants were stacked in the closet too. Spools of thread of all colors were arranged in rainbow fashion on a long narrow shelf that Dad had hung for me shortly after I moved in. My ironing board and the special iron that glided on a mesh metal plate so the hot footplate never touched the fabrics sat in another corner.

  I wished madly that I’d known earlier in the day that Gray would be down here because I’d have swept. Lint, pieces of thread, snipped off pieces of material, straight pins, and more littered the floor. And of course there was my mosaic wave and all the quilting supplies and frames for that work heaped on a card table, overflowing to more plastic tubs stacked along the wall.

  Gray stared at the narrow navy strips for the underside of the wave and frowned. He looked at all the little squares of satin.

  “It’ll be a wave,” I explained. “A fabric mosaic.”

  “Huh.” Clearly he had no idea what I was talking about, and I couldn’t blame him. At the moment it looked like nothing so much as scraps waiting to be tossed.

  “I’ll show it to you when I’m finished.” I wondered if he’d even remember who I was by the time the wave was finished several months down the pike.

  In the far corner by the sliding door to the backyard I had my easel and painting supplies, but there wasn’t a picture in process. The sewing for the model and the beginnings of my wave had taken all my time and energy recently. Sometimes I wondered why I kept the brightest area of the basement for the activity I did least, but deep inside I knew.

  “Never forget, Anna. You are an artist.”

  “You need some kind of an anti-theft bar in the track of this door.” Gray started looking about the room. “It’s too easy to break open a slider.”

  “Oh.” I’d always thought of the door as a source of light, a welcome conduit for sunshine, not an easy entry point for dangerous men.

  Gray pointed to the metal pole attached to the ironing board, the one that held the iron’s cord out of the way. “Let’s use that until you can get to the store to get something tomorrow.”

  I released the pole and handed it to Gray who slid it into the door’s track. He opened the door until it bumped the pole. He studied the width of the opening.

  “I think someone might still squeeze through here.” He started looking around again.

  “Wait! I know.” I grabbed my three-foot metal ruler. I had one six-foot one, too, but obviously that one was way too long.

  We took the iron’s pole out of the track and stuck the ruler in. It just fit, and the door wasn’t opening at all with it there. I felt amazingly secure as I stared down at it.

  We went back upstairs to delicious smells coming from the kitchen. Lucy usually cooked, and she was very good at it. Meg and I took turns with the clean up.

  “Want to stay for dinner, Ed?” she called. “I’m doing chicken basted in teriyaki sauce on the grill. Caesar salad and rolls, too.”

  His cell must have vibrated just then because he glanced down at it and frowned. At the same time his stomach growled.

  “You’ve got to eat.” I gestured to his truck. “Go get your laptop. You can work in the living room until dinner’s ready.”

  He barely hesitated. “Okay, I’d like that.” He raised his voice. “Thanks, Lucy. I’m taking you up on your offer.”

  I had been petting Rocky as Gray and I talked. He clung to my side like a nettle on knit, casting a fearful eye at Tipsy who glowered in the kitchen doorway. He lifted soulful eyes to me and whimpered.

  Gray and I looked at the cowering dog and laughed. Then we looked at each other. He reached out and ran a hand down my arm from shoulder to elbow. I hoped he couldn’t see the goose bumps his touch raised.

  “You doing okay?”

  I was at the moment. Big-time. “Sure. I’ve got Rocky here. What more does a girl need?”

  Gray looked at the dog. “I’ve been passed over for a canine pugilist.”

  As if Rocky would take priority over the most interesting man I’d met in years, if ever. As if he meant his comment as anything more than a little joke.

  While Lucy finished getting dinner, I e-mailed the photos of the man in black to both the Amhearst police and to the state police. I studied the second picture as it filled the screen of my PC. U
sing my photo program, I enlarged it several times and, presto!, the license number on his car—it was a Taurus—appeared, fuzzy but readable. Three cheers for Lucy!

  Rocky slept at my feet as we ate, and I decided that even if the dog was afraid of Tipsy, he was a great comfort. Besides, I understood; I was half afraid of Tipsy, too.

  After dinner we saw Gray off, and the three of us settled in the living room to watch Bringing Up Baby, the old Katharine Hepburn/Cary Grant comedy. The screwball humor was just what we needed, and seeing Cary Grant running around in a woman’s negligee with ostrich feathers at the neck, still dignified down to his toes, never failed to make me laugh.

  The movie was almost over when the doorbell rang.

  “Sergeant Poole.” I hoped. I hurried to answer.

  But it was Gray, freshly showered and wearing jeans and a royal blue T-shirt. He had his laptop in hand.

  “I got thinking about you girls and Rocky and probably no cops until morning, and I decided to see if you’d mind if I slept on your couch.”

  Yowzers! A workaholic knight in royal-blue armor.

  “I even brought my toothbrush.” He pulled it out of the pocket on his T-shirt.

  I was much too touched by his thoughtfulness for my own good. “Come on in. Susan’s about to wreck the dinosaur.”

  “What?” But he followed me into the living room and watched the final scenes of Baby with us.

  It was eleven when I turned out my light, feeling very secure with Gray down the hall tapping on his laptop and Rocky sleeping on the floor beside my bed. I didn’t jump at every sound as I had the last two nights, and I didn’t mind the darkness. Besides, the rain had stopped and the moonglow shining through my window made the furniture familiar friends.

  I was almost asleep when Rocky decided he was sharing my bed. He jumped up and curled at the foot as if he’d done it every night of his life. I wondered about his former owners. They must have let him sleep on their bed too. So why had they given him up?

  When he sighed with contentment, I did too. He was worth every penny of his fees, food, leash, bowl and currently unused bed down there on the floor against the wall. I slid into sleep.

  I started awake when Rocky growled softly. I raised myself on one elbow and looked fearfully around the room. The moonlight had dimmed as the moon moved across the sky, but I could still see well. Everything looked normal.

  “Shh, baby. Everything’s all right.”

  He ignored me, his head cocked as he listened, a deep shadow against the lighter shadow of the wall. I listened too and heard nothing. I glanced at my bedside digital clock. Almost one. I lay down again.

  I was almost asleep again when Rocky lunged from the bed and streaked from the room, barking and snarling.

  “Rocky!” I scrambled out of bed and raced after him, my heart beating triple time. As I dashed down the hall, Meg’s and Lucy’s doors flew open, and they ran out, bleary-eyed and rumpled.

  I stopped and spun around. Doors! My bedroom door had been open. I was absolutely certain I had closed it when I went to bed. I closed it every night. But it had been open when Rocky tore out of the room, when I ran out of the room.

  I went cold. “It was closed. But it’s open.”

  Meg and Lucy looked at me, uncertain what I meant.

  “My door. Rocky ran out. He was growling and barking.”

  “He sure was. Still is.” Meg smothered a yawn. “Why?”

  Now his barking, though still snarly, was coming from a distance.

  “He’s outside!” I rushed into the front hall with Meg and Lucy right behind me. We stared in disbelief and growing discomfort at the wide-open front door. As we stared, a rumpled Gray stepped out of the night onto the porch and came inside.

  “You’re supposed to be sleeping on the sofa,” I said inanely.

  “Not with all the barking and yelling.” He ran a hand through his hair, and I noticed a sleep crease on his cheek. “How’d the front door get opened?”

  I rubbed my arms, but the chill was inside, unreachable. “You didn’t open it?”

  He shook his head.

  “I locked it.” Meg flicked the lock shut, open, shut. “I always check. I know I locked it.”

  “I know you did.” Gray pulled her hand from the door. “I checked before I went to sleep, and it was definitely locked. Don’t touch the knob, Meg. It might have a print.”

  Rocky was still barking, but now the sound seemed less furious. I stepped onto the porch. “Here, Rocky. Come here, boy.”

  “Anna!” Gray grabbed my arm and none too gently pulled me inside. “What are you doing, woman?”

  I stared at him in surprise.

  “You’re making yourself an easy target!” He pushed the door almost shut, making sure I was tucked out of sight behind it.

  My mouth went dry, and I felt weak all over, like I had a bad case of flu. I leaned against the wall for support. “But Rocky chased him.”

  “We hope, but we don’t know.”

  I nodded. He was right.

  The door moved, startling all of us, and Rocky sauntered in. His head was turned so he could bark over his shoulder, but the heat was gone from the sound. It was like he yelled, “And don’t come back again!”

  When he finally turned to us, he walked to me and wagged his tail. He sat and looked up expectantly, obviously knowing he’d done a good job.

  I leaned down, fondled his ears, and showered him with kisses. “You are a wonderful boy,” I assured him. “Now tell me. What happened, Rock?”

  He opened his mouth, torn between smiling at the praise and panting from his exertions. I saw a dark color against the white of his teeth and the pink of his gums and tongue. I knelt and grabbed the dog’s lower jaw. There, snagged on his lower left fang, was a piece of material. I pulled it free.

  In my palm sat a piece of black denim.

  TEN

  Dar had just opened the door to her bedroom when he heard what he first thought was a deep snore. Then, startled, he recognized it for what it was: a growl. He paused, frowning. He took a step backwards, then another and another, every nerve hyper-alert. His immutable rule of engagement was that if there was ever an unknown, he pulled back to reconnoiter, regroup, reconsider. Risk only got you in trouble.

  Still, when the dog launched himself from the bed, growling and snarling, Dar had never been so shocked in his life!

  As he fled through the house, out the front door that he had unlocked before venturing down the bedroom hall, and through the woods at the side of the house, the dog had been right behind him, snapping at his heels. One time he felt sharp teeth sink into his left calf, but he had kicked furiously with his right leg, catching the dog in the ribs several times. It had finally let go, but it hadn’t stopped chasing him, though it kept its distance.

  Where had that animal come from?

  Sure, he knew there was a cat, a big, black, lazy thing. But a dog? He’d cased the place carefully after that near-disastrous encounter at the development. No dog, big or little. None. He was sure of it.

  So he’d broken the lock on a basement window, climbed in, then made the window look as if it were still securely locked. He’d hidden in the closet under the stairs, behind all her sewing stuff in the little corner where the stairs turned. If there had been a dog, it would have heard him and raised a ruckus. He hadn’t made any effort to be quiet since no one was home.

  There was no dog!

  He’d listened to a book on tape to pass the time while he waited for the chance to get the girl, and he hadn’t heard barking. Of course he hadn’t been listening either. He wasn’t even sure he’d have been able to hear over the voice in his ears.

  He hated dogs. Hated them! When he was a kid, old man Horton next door had a skinny gray dog, a Weimaraner named Adolph. The old man’d thought it so funny to name a German breed after the most famous German of all times. In tenth grade Dar—still Alex Kemper, his real name—had learned the joke was on Horton. Hitler wasn’t even Germa
n; he was Austrian. Of course by then Adolph-the-dog was as dead as Adolph-the-non-German. Dar had taken care of that with a piece of meat laced with rat poison.

  But when he was little Alex, Adolph scared the pants off him. It was a high-strung, nasty thing. Never stopped barking. Dar still had the scar on his thigh from the time it bit him. He was six, and all he did was lob stones at it. Sure, he tossed a couple pretty hard, but it was all in the spirit of fun. Who knew the snarling demon would break his lead and attack him?

  The horror of that time came rushing back when the dog leaped from Anna’s bed and went for him. When Dar reached the Taurus a quarter mile away, he threw himself behind the wheel and slammed the door shut.

  He’d screamed like a girl when the boxer threw itself against his window, barking and snarling, raking its claws down the glass. He reached for his SIG Sauer P239. He loved this pistol. Small, concealable, deadly, and its 9 mm parabellum round was common as dirt, which made its user just about faceless, unidentifiable. He didn’t care if someone heard the shot. Even if a do-good citizen called the cops, he’d be gone long before they got here.

  He slapped at the small of his back. He slapped again. In desperation he searched all across the waistband of his jeans, felt down over his back pockets, patted his hips. He blanched.

  The P239 was gone.

  What was it with this job?

  Well, he had to go find it. Granted the serial number was filed, but he’d heard that dilute nitric acid could etch the surface where the numbers had been and their shadow reappeared. That didn’t worry him too much. Even if they traced the pistol, he’d bought it back when he was James Garnet. But his prints would be on it. He didn’t think they had any on file to compare those on the pistol to, but he didn’t want any to ever be on file. Anonymity was and always had been his watchword.

  He simply had to beat the cops to the pistol, or, even worse, some kid. As if they weren’t looking for him hard enough as it was. Let some kid shoot himself, and there wouldn’t be a safe place in the whole world.