by Jeff Strand
When he decided that the dog had squeaked the toy enough for one night, Charlie changed its bandages and refilled its food bowl. The dog was healing nicely--in a few days, it would probably be completely back to normal. Normal for a clown-faced idiot dog, anyway.
"I don't want you to run away and cost me my reward," he informed the dog as he showed it the cheap black collar he'd purchased, "so you're going to have to wear this, like it or not."
The dog most definitely did not like it, and it took a few minutes of struggle to get the collar over its head and fastened properly. Charlie considered hitting the dog to encourage it to keep still...but, no, there was no reason for that. He'd win this little dispute without resorting to violence.
He got the collar on the dog, attached the leash he'd also bought, and led it up the stairs. He let the dog run around the living room for a minute while he put on his heavy coat and gloves, and then took the dog outside for a traditional walk.
It finished its business almost immediately, but Charlie was pretty sure that walks were about exercise as much as defecation, so they began to walk along the sidewalk. Sometimes the dog walked right alongside of him, sometimes it tugged on its leash in a failed attempt to run ahead, sometimes it forced Charlie to tug on its leash because it got distracted by fascinating smells, and sometimes it ran in a circle and almost tripped him, but overall Charlie thought it was a relatively successful walk.
After they'd gone about six or seven blocks, they approached a driveway where a young blonde woman was taking groceries out of her car. Her eyes lit up as she saw the dog.
"Oh, look at you!" she said, placing a bag of groceries on the ground and crouching down so she could pet the dog. "What a sweetie!"
The dog licked her face, clearly loving the attention.
"What's his name?" the woman asked Charlie. She was absolutely beautiful. She looked as if she might have just come from the salon as well as the grocery store.
"He doesn't have one."
"Doesn't have a name?" The woman scratched both of the dog's ears. "How can a sweetie like you not have a name? You don't like that at all, do you? I bet you don't!"
"I mean, I don't know its name," said Charlie.
"Well, he's absolutely adorable," said the woman, picking up her grocery bag and standing up. She grinned at Charlie. "Both of you have a great evening, all right?"
The woman turned and retrieved a second grocery bag from her trunk. Charlie couldn't believe it. She was just standing there, totally unguarded, not even looking at him. He could shove her into the trunk, slam the lid, and have a gorgeous woman in his basement this very evening.
He wouldn't do it, of course. He'd broken the schedule once, and had vowed to never do it again. And though this idea sounded great as a flash of fantasy, it was far too risky. She could scream, or somebody could see (for all he knew, her husband was right inside), or she could be locked in the trunk with the only set of keys.
Still...he was amazed at how the dog had instantly created a level of trust.
He should have asked the woman if he could help her carry her groceries inside, just as a test.
"Maybe you could be useful," Charlie told the dog as they resumed their walk.
Yes, he was talking to an animal in public, but the woman had done the same thing without feeling humiliated. Clearly, you were allowed to talk to uncomprehending animals without looking like a candidate for the local asylum.
Perhaps he shouldn't be so quick to get rid of it. Charlie might have a creepy smile, but he had a cute dog.
* * *
"You need a name," Charlie told the dog as they sat on the couch.
The dog squeaked its bone.
What was a good name for a dog? Fido? Rover? Duke? Prince? Spike? Clowny-Face?
Killer?
Hmmmm. He liked Killer.
"Do you want to be named Killer?" he asked.
The dog squeaked its toy again, but it was a non-committal squeak.
Killer wasn't exactly subtle. He should probably brainstorm more options. Charlie went to get a pen and a notebook, then sat back down and started writing down ideas. He wrote down every dog name he could think of, the first names of everybody he knew, and other names that might be appropriate for a dog whose cuteness was going to lure women to their death.
After about an hour, he had a list of forty-seven names. He read them slowly, one at a time, to see if any elicited a reaction from the dog.
None of them did. The dog just kept chewing on its toy. Charlie had to admit to himself that he was taking his newfound willingness to communicate with the dog a bit too far.
He read the list of names again, to himself in a whisper.
Cutter sounded the best, but it didn't look right. He wrote it on a separate page. Cutter.
He wrote it again: Kutter.
"That's your new name," he said. "Kutter the dog."
Charlie took Kutter for another walk, tearing down the "Found Dog" signs as they went.
- 5 -
"Did the address help at all?" Alicia asked the next day.
"I'm keeping it."
"Seriously?"
"Yeah. Its name's Kutter."
"Well, that's great. Congratulations on the new addition to your household."
"Thanks."
Charlie looked at her more closely. He'd always liked freckles. Perhaps someday she'd let him take her out for coffee or--
--his basement. Perhaps someday he'd lock her in his basement. That's what he meant.
But maybe coffee to start.
Charlie wasn't even going to try to pretend to himself that he'd be even remotely close to capable of asking her out right now, so he ignored the thought and glanced back at his monitor.
"Do you have pictures?" asked Alicia.
Charlie shook his head.
"You need pictures."
"Okay." Charlie had no intention of buying a camera, even a cheap disposable one. Still, it couldn't hurt to pretend to go along with her idea.
"Well, I'm glad you kept the dog. Give it a great big hug for me." Alicia patted Charlie on the shoulder and then returned to her desk.
* * *
Alicia asked him about Kutter photos every day for the next three days. After the third day, Charlie realized that saying "I forgot again" just wasn't going to continue to work. It was really not her place to guilt him into photographing his dog, but finally Charlie decided to cave in to the pressure. He bought a surprisingly inexpensive disposable camera on the way home from work.
Taking the camera downstairs was not an option. Some clue about the basement activities, no matter how subtle, might appear in the photograph, and Charlie couldn't take the risk. He also refused to appear in the picture himself. He'd just get a couple of quick snapshots of Kutter and take them straight to the photo-developing lab at the grocery store.
He opened the door to the basement. Kutter happily bounded up the stairs. Charlie put on his leash, took him for a quick walk, then brought him back inside.
"On the couch," Charlie said, patting the cushion.
Kutter jumped up onto the couch.
"Good boy. Now smile." As Charlie peeked through the viewfinder, Kutter jumped off the couch and ran into the kitchen.
Stupid dog. "Hey, get back in here!" Charlie called out. He heard Kutter thundering around in the kitchen for a moment, and then the Boston terrier came running back into the living room. He patted the cushion again. "C'mon. Picture time."
Kutter woofed at him.
"I don't like it either. We don't have a choice."
Charlie patted the cushion a few more times, then decided that although the couch was the most aesthetically pleasing location for the photograph, it didn't much matter either way. He pointed the camera at where Kutter stood on the floor. The dog looked right at the camera. Perfect.
He pressed the button, and nothing happened.
"What the hell?" He pressed it again and the camera still didn't click or flash or do anything to
indicate that a photo had been taken. Was it broken?
No, he just hadn't wound it.
Cameras sucked.
He wound the dumb little dial. Kutter ran back into the kitchen.
"Hey!" Charlie followed Kutter into the kitchen and nearly tripped over the dog as it ran back into the living room. He pointed the camera at the dog, trying to follow it as it ran in a circle around the living room, and squeezed off one shot that he knew wasn't even close.
"Sit down, Kutter! Stay in one spot!"
Kutter jumped up onto the couch. Charlie quickly pointed the camera and pressed the button, but he hadn't wound it this time, either. Kutter jumped back down before he could finish.
"Do you want me to tranquilize you? Quit moving around!"
Charlie managed to take another twelve action shots of the hyperactive animal, and then, finally, a few pictures of Kutter relaxing on the couch. He decided to splurge on the one-hour developing, and discovered that his thumb was over the lens on all of the pictures.
* * *
Alicia laughed at his feeble attempts at photography, but it was a nice kind of laugh, not a mean one.
* * *
Charlie bought a couple more squeak toys and a stuffed penguin, to give Kutter some variety. He also bought the forty-pound bag of dog food, which was the most cost effective, and a bag of pseudo-bacon treats. If all went well, Kutter would deserve the reward.
* * *
It wasn't as if walking Kutter opened up a whole new world for Charlie, where potential victims fell at his feet by the dozens. But there was no question that the dog was going to make things easier for him. Somebody fussed over his dog almost every other walk, and in two weeks there'd been at least three separate occasions where he'd felt completely confident that he could have safely gotten a woman home--and not homeless vagrants; attractive, desirable women who would be almost unbearably pleasurable to cut.
He altered his route often, sometimes taking Kutter out for as much as three hours at a time. Exactly one week after seeing the woman unloading groceries from her car, almost to the minute, he saw her again, doing the same thing. A creature of habit. Charlie liked that.
It was only about three weeks until his next hunt on January 24th. There was no question whatsoever in Charlie's mind that this was going to be the best one yet.
* * *
Charlie stood impatiently by the open basement door. "You know where to go."
Kutter never wanted to go down into the basement at bedtime. Not that Charlie blamed him--it was cold down there--but Charlie was the master and Kutter was the dog and house pets didn't have any say in the matter of where they slept. "Get down there."
Kutter whimpered.
"Do you really think that's going to work on me?" Charlie asked. "Seriously? If my heart melts, it's not going to be for you. So get your flat face down there."
Kutter just stared at him.
The dog's wounds had healed completely, so it wouldn't be ripping off its bandages and ruining his furniture. That was the primary reason Charlie kept him in the basement. As long as Kutter was quiet through the night, there was no real reason to keep him locked away.
Charlie narrowed his eyes and pointed his index finger at the dog. "All right, you're going to get your way, but let me make one thing perfectly clear: No barking. None. Unless somebody is breaking into this house--not a neighbor's house, this one--I don't want to hear a single peep out of you. Do you understand?"
Kutter continued to just stare at him, which Charlie took for a "yes."
"Good. Don't forget it."
Kutter ran into the living room, then ran back with one of his squeak toys. Charlie pulled it out of his mouth, a task made more difficult by the fact that Kutter assumed they were now playing tug-of-war. "I don't think you'll be keeping me awake with that thing," Charlie said, putting the toy on top of the refrigerator. He gathered up Kutter's other toys and placed them up there as well.
Kutter sneezed at him.
"Bless you. Good night."
Ten minutes after Charlie got under the covers, Kutter pushed open the bedroom door, jumped up onto the mattress, and curled up at the foot of the bed. Charlie carried Kutter back out to the living room and told him to knock it off. The second time Kutter pushed open the door, which never seemed to close properly, Charlie put him back down in the basement.
Charlie gave the dog another chance the next night, with the same result.
"This is your last chance," Charlie warned, tapping Kutter gently on the nose to emphasize his point. "If you try to break into my room tonight, you'll be sorry."
He was woken out of a sound sleep by the stupid dog jumping up onto the bed. Kutter curled up next to his right foot. Charlie was too tired to bother getting up to remove the disobedient animal, so he simply rolled over and went back to sleep.
It was surprisingly comforting. When he woke up the next morning, he decided that maybe the dog could sleep in the bedroom from now on.
* * *
Charlie looked at the calendar on his desk at work and realized that it was only a week until his next hunt could begin. He was surprised--for some reason he'd thought it was a couple more days than that. Great news.
Since he was going after a higher class of victim this time, he needed to change his cover story. He couldn't lure these kinds of women in with promises of a warm meal. Well, he could, but he'd have to sell the idea in a different way. Find out which unsuspecting women wanted to grab a quick cup of coffee with the trustworthy guy with the cute dog. Kutter would win their heart, Charlie would talk them into his car, and the chloroform would do the rest.
Charlie wondered if he should make some personal changes to assist with the success of his new plan. He'd always kept his hair neatly trimmed, but what if he added a bit of style? Nothing crazy and nothing unsuited to a guy in his forties--just something slightly more contemporary.
Then he wondered if that was the first sign of a mid-life crisis.
He'd do it. What could it hurt? He wasn't quite ready to depart from his usual barber, but when he went in on Friday he'd ask the guy to do something a little different.
* * *
It had been difficult to convince his barber that "different" did not include coloring, spikes, or any sort of hair product, but he'd eventually gotten the message across. Charlie walked out with hair that was a little wavier on the sides and a little mussed in the front. Though he wasn't sure if he liked it or not, he'd promised his barber that he'd stick with it through the weekend and give it a chance to grow on him.
They'd both laughed at the "grow on him" comment, although the barber laughed a little harder than Charlie.
Charlie knew that Kutter didn't care about his hairstyle, and indeed the dog didn't treat him any differently, but for the first time in his life Charlie found himself sort of looking forward to returning to work on the following Monday.
* * *
"Nice! I like it!" said Alicia, giving him a thumbs-up sign as she quickly walked past his desk on her way to a meeting. Charlie was a bit disappointed that she hadn't stopped to talk longer. The hair was staying for sure, though.
- 6 -
January 24th. The first night of the first hunt of the year. Charlie put on his nicest shirt--a dark blue, long-sleeved dress shirt that he hadn't worn since his job interview. It was sort of a wasted effort, since he'd be wearing a winter jacket over the shirt, but dressing well might subconsciously cause him to behave in a more charismatic manner.
He looked at himself in the mirror. Not bad.
He took down a bottle of unopened cologne that he'd received from somebody one year for Christmas--he thought it might have been a work gift exchange from somebody who didn't realize that he wasn't participating--and unscrewed the cap. He sniffed it. Awful. However, women liked this sort of thing, so he splashed some on his neck.
Charlie took a piece of folded paper out of his pocket. Couldn't hurt to practice a few more times. He unfolded the paper and tried
to sound natural as he read the handwritten words aloud.
"Hey, I know a great little coffee place, maybe a two-minute drive from here. I can't promise you won't get dog hair on you, but I'd be more than happy to drive us there and treat you to a cup."
Maybe he should cut the part about the dog hair. If somebody was genuinely fussy about getting dog hair on their clothes, they might decline his offer based just on that. But he liked the way it sounded--it acknowledged concern that Kutter might have gotten dog hair on the front seat. Maybe he'd use it the first time, and drop it if the comment seemed to be the deciding element in somebody refusing to come with him.
He read it out loud a few more times, making his voice as friendly as possible, then moved on to another prepared line: "He's a handful, but I love him." This was to be used when somebody was cooing over Kutter, and he'd already tested it out a few times. Responses were evenly divided between an amused "I can imagine!" and the mock disbelief of "Nooooo, not this sweetie!" Either way, the line worked.
The story of how he'd found Kutter worked perfectly fine when he told the truth, and he was surprisingly comfortable sharing it, so he didn't write it down. He practiced the "handful" line a few more times, then refolded the paper and put it back in his pocket.
"Okay, time to earn your keep," he told Kutter, fastening the leash to his collar. "If you help me out tonight, I'll give you as many bacon treats as you want." That wasn't entirely true--he wasn't going to rush out to the pet store to buy another bag if the first one ran out, but still, Kutter would be entitled to a hell of a lot of bacon treats.
He'd considered putting Kutter in a doggie sweater, but that seemed too far over the top. He wasn't looking for bimbos, just women more attractive than his usual prey.
He put on his jacket, checked his appearance in the mirror one more time, and then he began his first-ever hunt with a partner.
Normally Charlie was content to hunt within half an hour or so of his home. But since he had a Boston terrier along for the ride, which might make him more memorable to possible witnesses, and was planning to take home a victim more likely to be missed, he decided to play it safe and drove for nearly two hours before pulling into a movie theatre parking lot just after dark. It was one of those enormous multiplex theatres, twenty-four screens, and he figured that a place like this would be busy enough that he could wander around and be relatively anonymous.
