Slipping in behind the bedroom draperies, he peered at the slim crack where the moldings met. He could glimpse the engaged dead bolt, the door securely locked. When he leaped for the lever that would unlock it, it flipped right down. Scrambling up again he gripped the handle with both paws and kicked against the wall. Kicked again and again. The door remained solidly closed, stuck tight. Or was it screwed close? Yes, when he examined the bottom molding, there were four big screws embedded.
When he checked the bathroom window, it was frozen in place. They sure as hell didn’t believe in fresh air. Or the landlord didn’t. Doubling back through the house, he peered up at the ceiling-high heat vents, their grids secured with rusted screws. Even if he could climb on the bookcase in the boy’s room—which was crowded with junk and sports equipment, not books—even if he could somehow get into the vent, where would that lead him?
Inside the heater, that’s where.
By the time he reached the kitchen, one bruised paw was bleeding and he felt as mean as the Rottweiler. By this time the Bleaks would be well out of town on one of the freeways, headed who knew where? And the van still in the drive to keep Harper’s patrol complacent. Springing to the counter beside the sink, he peered out the kitchen window.
The main house was just to his left. Straight ahead across the narrow, scrubby yard and just inside the woven fence, the Rottweiler was demolishing the last of the oak branch. Joe envisioned a huge lump of splinters in the dog’s stomach. Despite his distaste for the mean-tempered animal, Joe didn’t envy him that misery.
A light was on in the yellow house, in what looked like the kitchen. Behind the thin curtains he could see a figure moving about, maybe fixing a bite of lunch. Stepping onto the sill Joe tried the window lock, but this, too, was totally stuck. One of those ancient curved jobs that would have to be turned with pliers. Maybe even pliers couldn’t budge it—the device was thick with coats of old paint. Watching through the window as the Rottweiler pursued his frenzied chewing, Joe reared up against the glass.
The moment the dog paused to get his breath Joe let out a bloodcurdling yowl and raked his claws down the pane. The scritching sound put even Joe’s teeth on edge. The Rottweiler paused, looking up. Joe stretched taller and gave another howl. The dog stared at him, roared, and charged the fence hard enough to break through—but the fence held. When Joe yowled and clawed again, the Rottweiler’s barking frenzy brought the back door crashing open. A broad-shouldered, bearded man stepped out clutching a leash in one hand, a cell phone in the other, holding the phone to his ear—talking, and watching the cottage.
Joe couldn’t hear a word with the dog roaring. Twice the man stopped talking to shout at the dog, but it kept on barking and lunging. Still talking on the phone, the guy came down off the porch and headed for the cottage. He paused once, looked back uncertainly at the dog, glanced down at the leash, and turned back toward the closed gate.
Don’t bring him. Leave him be, he’ll only complicate matters, don’t bring the damned dog.
The man opened the gate, shouting to quiet the animal. When he leashed the Rottweiler, the dog settled down. Together man and beast headed for the cottage.
Joe heard them walking around the yard, circling the house, the dog huffing and snarling. When Joe heard the man’s step on the porch and the click of doggy toenails he fled past the front door to the open alcove where the coats were left hanging. He leaped, hung with his paws on the shelf above the hooks. With his hind feet he kicked down the wrinkled jackets, dropped on top of them and pawed them into a heap. They smelled of the boy and of Tekla. Outside the glass, the man had paused, still talking on the phone. Yes, he was talking with the dispatcher. Joe waited, listening.
“No, I’ll stay on the line,” the man said irritably. He spoke again to the dog, to quiet him, then he knocked and called out to Tekla. His shadow shone through the obscure glass, waiting, listening, the dog a dark mass moving restlessly against his knee.
When no one answered, he knocked harder and called out again. He waited, then, “They’re not home,” he told the dispatcher. “But my dog don’t bark for nothing. Yes, send the patrol. My dog don’t bark for no reason.” When Joe heard keys jingle, he raced halfway down the hall. There, Joe Grey did the unthinkable.
He backed up against the wall and sprayed.
Streaking to the bedroom, he did the same on the bedroom door and then hastily sprayed the bed. Storming back to the entry, he heard the key turn in the lock. Diving beneath the jackets, Joe was out of sight when the door edged open. The Rottweiler, pressing his face at the crack, got a good whiff of tomcat and let out an echoing roar. Joe was peering out, ready to leap up for the closet shelf, when the Rottweiler lunged through, exploded into the entry as black and huge as a rodeo bull, jerking the leash so hard the big man could barely hold him. Charging toward the hall, he bolted for the smell of Joe’s markings, the man double-timing behind him, leaving the door wide.
And Joe was out of there.
Leaping from beneath the jackets, he flew out through the open door as two cops answered the landlord’s call, pulling in behind the van.
Parking their police unit, Officers Brennan and Crowley got out and approached the open door, their hands poised near their holstered weapons. Joe watched from the bushes for only a moment and then he was off, scrambling up the oak to the roofs, streaking away home. Racing for a phone, to get the message to Brennan and Crowley before they cleared the house and left again. He wanted them to find the gun, not leave it there unguarded. He wanted them, in proper police procedure, to bag it at once, fresh with Tekla’s prints.
27
Dulcie, having been chauffeured home by Charlie—like an invalid, she thought irritably—woke much later warm and cozy curled in Wilma’s lap. It was late afternoon, the westering sun slanting in through the living room windows across Wilma’s cherry desk. How hard she had slept. She woke filled with strange dreams, though already they were fading. She tried to bring them back, but they had flown apart, vanishing into fragments. Why did dreams do that?
All that remained was the sense of danger, of Joe Grey’s fear. But now even that was fading—and as fear vanished, she was filled with Joe’s wild amusement. She could hear faintly from the dream the roar of a barking dog. She sat up, puzzled, kneading Wilma’s leg, pushing Wilma’s book aside.
Wilma stroked her, watching her. “What?” she said softly.
“A dog, a huge dog threatening Joe. A gun. And . . . Tekla. Tekla Bleak,” she said, hissing. “But now . . . Joe’s all right, it’s all right. He’s all right,” she said, purring. She looked into the fire that burned on the hearth, trying to sort out what she’d seen, what exactly had happened. As she reached for the dream again, trying to slip back into its shadows, faces and action overlapped into softer visions, and soon she dozed once more and Wilma returned to her book.
But then as she fell into sleep a brighter vision touched Dulcie, not a dream at all but something more alive and urgent shaking her awake, her heart pounding.
“It’s time,” she said, leaping down from Wilma’s lap. “Something’s happening, it’s time.”
“The kittens!” Wilma said, shoving her book aside and getting up.
“No,” Dulcie said, “not the kittens. It’s Misto.” She shivered, staring at Wilma. “It’s time to go to Misto.”