by Carrie Jones
"Mick?"
I sense something to my right, and turn, fists up, ready to kick, to punch, to pummel, to run. But it's not the psycho guy. There, coming from behind Nick's MINI, is the largest freaking dog I have ever seen.
It's leaner than a Saint Bernard, but taller and more muscled. Its brown fur looks like a wolfs, but wolves aren't that big. Are they? No. They are not.
Maybe tills is the dog who led me home, my rescue dog.
I reach out my hand and it turns to look at me head on. Its eyes are beautiful, shining deep and dark from its snow-plastered fur.
"Doggy?" I say. "Here, sweetie. Do you know where Nick is?"
That's when I see it, there in its shoulder: an arrow, lodged and stuck. Blood has seeped out and dripped down the dog's fur, clotting a bit where the arrow entered. Who the hell would shoot a dog with an arrow? Rage sweeps through me and I grit my teeth, trying to shove it down and away. Then the dog whimpers and all that rage turns into something else.
"Oh, honey," I say and rush toward him, not thinking about how big he is or that he is probably a wolf. I flop to my knees in the snow in front of him.
"Does it hurt?"
The dog/wolf sniffs my hand. I scratch his muzzle and peer into his eyes. I am totally in love with this doggy. He does the dog equivalent of a shrug with his front shoulders, but the pain of the arrow must be too great because then he lets out a long, hard groan. The poor tiling.
My cold fingers stroke beneath his chin. He's warm under there.
"We have to get you out of the cold," I say, standing up and hitting my leg, hoping he'll understand.
"Come."
I start walking slowly toward the house, checking over my shoulder to see if the dog/wolf has taken some obedience classes somewhere and is following me. It could happen. Right?
I hit my chest and say it again, "Come."
With a strong, graceful swoop of his head he stares up at me. His eyes meet my eyes. I am not sure what I see there. Something feral? Something strong? Something very intelligent? Oh God…
"I just want to take care of you," I say softly. I shelter my fingers inside my sleeves. The cold and the snow has numbed them. "Please, come with me in the house. I'll take out your arrow. Get you warm.
Please. Let me save you."
My eyes take in the dog, then stray to look at the rapidly falling snow, and Nick's car. My voice catches in my throat. Again.
"And then I can call my gram, and go out again and look for Nick, the guy who owns the MINI," I explain.
The dog cocks his head when I say Nick's name.
Hope foolishly crashes into my heart. "Did you see him? Did you see Nick?"
The dog doesn't go all Lassie, but his tail moves weakly, almost like he is trying to wag it but can't quite commit. Of course, the dog doesn't answer. I am really losing it. It's like I do believe in weres and pixies.
It's like something deep inside of me, something in that deep-down part has always believed in weres and pixies and that belief has finally struggled out even though I've tried to smash it down. Pointing at the door, I say, "Inside. Now." The dog flattens his ears against his head. His muscles twitch and then he jumps, straight past me and onto the porch in one bound. He whimpers when his front paws touch the porch floor. I cannot figure it out. The dog must have jumped at least thirty feet. How can that be possible? I struggle up the stairs and tentatively place my hand on the top of the dog's head.
"Okay, sweetie," I tell him, shouldering the front door open. "Let's get you fixed up."
The house is warm and inviting and the dog seems horribly out of place, standing by the front door, dripping in the cold. I yank off my wet shoes and grab a blanket off the couch, throwing it over him.
"Okay," I say, walking backward, hands out, trying to make a plan. "You warm up. Okay? I'm going to call a vet."
I grab the phone and the phone book in the other room and bring it back to where the dog has slumped down on the floor by the front door. I sit down next to him. He puts his head on my lap. I lean down and kiss his nose. It is black and dry. He shivers.
"Oh, doggy, it's going to be okay," I murmur as I flip through the phone book. There is only one veterinarian listed, but it has an emergency number. I dial it.
An annoying tone comes through my phone. "Your call cannot be completed as dialed."
I hang up. Actually, I smash the phone down because I take my anger out on inanimate objects. Which is better than taking it out on people, right?
I pull in a breath and try to calm down and think. Okay, so I must have dialed the wrong number. I do that sometimes, flip the numbers around. I try again and get the same damn recording.
"Your call cannot be completed as dialed," the computerized voice tells me in a condescending way.
How can something that's not alive be condescending? I have no clue. But it is.
The dog whimpers as I hang up again. I forget about the phone and examine the arrow that's sticking out of his sweet doggy self. It's made of some sort of black wood and has green leaves etched on its thin shaft. It would be beautiful if it wasn't stuck into flesh and muscle.
"Who did this to you?" I whisper.
The dog snuffs out a breath of hot air almost like he's answering. He seems hurt. Really hurt. Anxiety starts to take over, hyping me up like I've had eight cups of espresso. I rub my head. Think, Zara. Think.
I sink my hands into his fur.
The answer comes.
"I'll call my grandmother," I tell him. "Betty will know what to do. She's really practical. You'd like her."
I punch in the numbers to her cell, which I'm not supposed to do. I'm supposed to call Josie. But this is really important, and the amazing thing is, she actually picks up.
"Gram, there's a dog here. He's hurt. Someone shot him with an arrow. I called the vet but it's not going through. And I can't find Nick but his MINI is here. You've got to come home," I rush out.
"Zara, slow down, honey," her voice comes through the phone all steady. "Tell me that again."
I tell her again. As I speak the dog snuggles his sweet doggy head on my lap. He shudders. Oh God.
"He's shuddering," I tell her.
His breath speeds up to something fast and shallow. His eyes turn up to gaze into mine, trusting. He trustsme to save him. For a second I blink back to when my dad's heart attacked him, to when he clutched his chest, crumpled on the floor. I hadn't been able to help him. Who am I fooling? I can't help anybody.
"Gram," I insist. "Youhave to come home."
"I am on my way, sweetie, but the roads are bad. It's going to take me a bit."
"But the dog? He's really really hurt, Gram. And Nick… Nick is missing."
"What?"
"Nick drove me home and we heard something in the woods and then he raced off and told me to stay inside and he hasn't come back."
"And he hasn't come back? But there's a dog there now?"
"Yeah. I went out and looked for him and I heard a man in the woods and he was saying my name."
"Zara!" she interrupts. "Are the doors locked?"
I check. "Yeah. But he's missing and the dog is so hurt and…"
"First, calm down. Take a deep breath. You aren't going to be any help to Nick if you're panicking.
Okay?"
Embarrassed, I take a deep breath and say, "Okay."
I stroke the dog's head. He opens his eyes. Something about his gaze makes me feel calmer and stronger. He trusts me. I can trust me.
"Good," Betty's voice takes a hard, calm official tone. "I have just had Josie dispatch a unit to the house, okay? And I am on my way."
"Tell me what to do."
"First you've got to go wash your hands with hot water and the antibacterial soap. You don't want to cause an infection."
I gently lift the dog's head off my lap and place it on the floor. Stepping around his great bulk, I rush back into the kitchen and scrub my hands.
"Done."
"Good. Get a towel and put some water o
n it and get the Neosporin. It's in the bathroom cabinet."
I race back into the kitchen and wet a towel and grab the Neosporin. The oven is still on. I don't turn it off. There's no time. "Okay."
"The first tiling you're going to have to do is pull the arrow out."
"Oh, Gram. I don't know-" "You have to. You can do this, Zara. Be strong and steady. I'll be right here."
I stare at the arrow and touch it with my finger. The dog moans softly but doesn't open his eyes.
"I have to put the phone down," I say.
"Go ahead and put it down, honey."
I put it on the oriental carpet on the stairs that are next to the front door. Then I wrap my hands around the arrow. It's thin and hard, cold against my hands. I give a tiny tug. It doesn't move. It doesn't move at all, but the dog shudders and makes a little moan. I swear, my heart is breaking.
Something acidic moves up into my throat.
"You can do this," I tell myself.
I tighten my grip and pull slowly, trying to apply even, smooth force. The arrow fights against me and the dog shivers again, moaning in such a horribly sad way that tears start to tumble down my face. It must hurt so much. I must be hurting him so much.
"Almost there," I say. "Almost done, doggy. You're a brave, brave doggy."
There's this horrible sucking nose and the arrow squinches out, bringing with it a burst of blood. The dog gives a massive shudder and stops moving.
"Doggy!"
He doesn't move. Blood pulses out of his wound.
I throw the arrow out of the way and grab the phone, shoving one hand against the hole.
"I did it but now he's bleeding. He's bleeding a lot. I'm so sorry, puppy."
"That's okay," Gram answers. "Is it squirting?"
"No," I stare at the horrible red blood. "It's slowing down."
"Good, you don't have to apply a tourniquet then. Just apply gentle pressure with a bandage. Do you have a bandage?"
'I think so," I rummage through the first-aid kit, smearing blood all over the tape and the aspirin and the scissors with the funky ends. "Yep. I found it."
"Okay, Zara. Don't worry. The worst is over. I'm going to tell you what to do. When the bleeding slows down, you have to clean the wound with water. If there's any dirt or anything left in there, you've got to dip those tweezers in alcohol. They are in the first-aid kit. Okay?"
She's talking super fast, but I think I'm following her.
"Okay."
"Then you cut away any fur that's near that wound so it doesn't mess with it. Shaving it is better, but that might be too much. Then you put on some Neosporin and bandage it. Okay?"
"Okay."
"You've done a good job, Zara. I'm on my way. The police might get there first, okay?"
"Okay," I swallow hard. I wish she could come home and help me. I wish I wasn't alone. "Thanks. Do you think Nick will be okay?"
"Don't you worry about him, Zara. He's a special breed, that one. And the police will be there soon."
"Thanks, Gram," I say, pushing on the dog's wound.
"You're welcome, honey. Good job. I like it when you call me Gram."
She hangs up and the world is suddenly way too quiet. Special breed? Is that what she said?
I lean down and kiss the dog's cheek, by his jowls. "Are you thinking she means what I'm thinking?"
He moans.
"Looks like it's you and me, guy," I tell him. "But you sleep it off, okay? Do you think you like mashed potatoes?"
The dog doesn't respond. Of course he doesn't. I snuggle against him.
The dog and I are alone. But the thing is, I saved him-with Grandma Betty's help, of course. But I saved him. Me.
Teratophobia fear of monsters or deformed people
I do everything I can for the dog. I clean his wound and heft sections of his heavy body up so I can wrap him in a blanket. I bandage him and stroke his head while he softly groans in his sleep.
"Poor puppy," I say, even though he obviously isn't a puppy. He may not even be a dog. "Do you think Nick's okay?"
The dog huffs out a sleepy breath. I shiver because there's a draft by the door and I ease the dog's head off my leg, placing it on a soft pillow I'd yanked off the couch. He's so huge.
"Are you a werewolf?" I whisper, ashamed to be even asking it.
He blinks open one eye and stares at me.
"I'm sorry I woke you." I lean down and kiss him on the top of his muzzle. "You feeling okay?"
Checking his bandage, I pull back the blanket a little.
"I think you've stopped bleeding. That's good. I'm going to go check outside. I'll be right back. I'm. really worried about this Nick guy. Don't get jealous, though. I'm also really worried about you."
The dog tries to lift his head but he's too tired, I guess, too worn out from his injury. I settle him with my hand. "You rest, sweetie."
He is so cute, with all that shaggy hair and those big canine shoulders and his jowly jowls. Maybe we can keep him. Betty's house would be a lot less lonely with a dog around all the time. And aren't all Maine people supposed to have dogs? I think that's in the stereotype book along with junked-out trucks in the front yard and a front porch held up with cinder blocks and lobster traps.
I lift up a jowl to check out his teeth. They're clean and white and huge. The dog opens his eye and stares at me reproachfully.
I let go of his jowl. "Sorry. Way too invasive, I know."
He wags his tail, just once.
"Thanks for leading me home," I say. I wish he could understand me.
He wags his tail again.
"I'll be right back."
Standing up for real, I check that the front door is locked in case any serial killers want to stop by and then I peek out the window. The snow covers everything, absolutely everything. Nick's car still sits there.
The wheels are buried under. I swallow and pick up the phone book, bring it back into the kitchen, tiptoeing by the now-snoring dog. His jowls shake when he blows out the air.
"You'll be okay."
I find Nick's number in the phone book under "Anna and Mark Colt" and call. There's no answer.
I call Gram back but I can't get through. I just go right to her voice mail I call the dispatcher, who says she's on her way home.
"Good," I say and then remember to be polite.
"Busy night?"
"You're telling me," she says hurriedly as another line rings in the background.
"Any sign of Jay?" I ask.
"The Dahlberg boy?" Josie sighs. "Nope. You sit tight, Zara honey. The deputy was all the way out on Deer Isle but he's coming your way and Betty is too."
"Can they hurry?"
"They are, sweetheart. The roads are bad."
"Okay."
"You keep your chin up, girl. And don't worry too much. Nick Colt is a resourceful young man. A real keeper, that boy. You hear me?"
I bite my lip.
"You hear me?" she asks again.
"Yep."
"Damn. I have another call. You sit tight, Zara."
What else am I suppose to do? "Yep."
Useless and sighing, I hang up the phone, stare at the dirty white thread I'd knotted around my finger.
My dad would tell me to calm down, that it was my overactive imagination making mountains out of molehills, or some other silly dad cliche.
I miss silly dad cliches.
"Everything will be fine," I tell the kitchen. A huge gust of wind slams against the house, howling. The lights flicker, turn off for about three seconds, and then come back on again.
The digital display on the microwave flashes the green neon time as 00:00, which seems appropriate. A tree branch scrapes across the window. I jump and grit my teeth.
That is it.
I am going to have to go back out there and look for Nick, but this time I am going to be prepared.
Watch out, potential psycho freaks, competent Zara is ready.
I haul open the door to the basement
so I can grab some of Grandma Betty's old boots and a good winter parka, and maybe some wood in case the power goes out for good and I have to start a fire. In my crazed rush, I stub my toe on one of the trillion railroad ties that Betty's got stored down there, and then I slam on one boot, then another, and shove a hat on my head. I pound back up the stairs again, boots making me sound heavy and big against the pale wooden stairs. I bite my lip and put the parka on inside out. I have to reach inside and down to zip it up. The thread on my finger catches on the zipper and pulls a little, loosening it. It's starting to fray.
"I should not be worrying about a string," I announce to the house.
The house creaks with the wind, which probably means it agrees.
I haul up three logs and balance them in one arm against my side. Wood scrapes stick to the parka.
With my other hand I grab the flashlight just as the lights flicker again and go off.
With my luck it wouldn't be all that surprising if the batteries don't work, but the light clicks on with a powerful beam.
"Thanks, Betty," I whisper.
Grandma Betty is the type of prepared lady who would always have fresh batteries in her flashlight.
I stomp up the rest of the stairs and dump the wood on the kitchen counter. The air smells of mashed potatoes and something else, something raw and woodsy.
Fear shivers against my skin, like spiders crawling. Heart racing, I swing the flashlight around the kitchen, terrified of what I might find. The microwave's digital display doesn't flash anything now. It's dark and silent and dead.
I back up and open the silverware drawer, pulling out the biggest knife I can find, the one you cut big vegetables with. It has a large sharp silver blade and a black heavy handle.
A sound comes from the living room. My fingers tightens around the handle. Maybe it's just the dog.
Or maybe it isn't.
I slide my feet across the wood floor trying to make as little noise as possible, but it's hard in Gram's clodhopper boots. One hand clutches the knife, ready to stab. The other hand holds the flashlight, which is long and heavy and could probably be a good weapon.
Right?
One step forward, another, and then I swing the light around the room and right into the eyes of a large naked guy wrapped in a blanket.
