"Now, are you sure you don't have any ideas about where else your uncle might have hidden something?"
The little dog saw something move near the fireplace-a roach, a rat, a shadow-and gave chase, yapping excitedly. Tess felt a strange burning sensation against her palm as Esskay's metal chain jerked through her fingers before she could grab it. The greyhound had joined the hunt. But Esskay didn't want the small dog's prey. She wanted the small dog, whom she quickly trapped in the corner.
"Charlton!" Morris Chair screamed, rising from his chair. Too late. Esskay sank her teeth into the dog's soft belly, shaking it ferociously from side to side. The race was won! And Esskay had caught the rabbit, something no other dog at the track had ever done. She was almost delirious with joy, prancing around the room like a majorette.
Morris Chair made a horrible keening sound. The three other men rushed into the fray, then backed away, unsure what to do. Esskay kept her jaws clamped on the smaller dog, shaking it as if it were a small dust mop. Tess began edging toward the door, but stopped when she saw one of the men, the tall one who had first grabbed her, reach into his jacket and pull out a gun.
"Are you crazy?" she screamed, pushing past him and seizing Esskay by the snout, forcing her jaws open easily. After all, this wasn't a pit bull, or a Rottweiler. There was no strength here, no danger, nothing to fear except halitosis. The smaller dog writhed on the floor, possibly in shock, but the only visible damage were two small puncture wounds to its abdomen.
"Charlton," Morris Chair whimpered, when she picked up the little dog and handed it to him.
"There's a twenty-four-hour vet not far from here," Tess offered, surprised that she could feel some empathy for the man and his hideous little dog. "Out Route 40." Her three captors just stared blankly at her, as Morris Chair cradled Charlton in his arms.
"It's probably the road you brought me here on," she explained. "At least, I think that's the route, unless we came out Frederick Road. Route 40 runs off the Beltway, parallel to Frederick, you can't miss it. The vet is opposite the Toys R Us."
"You stay here with her," Morris Chair told Leather Jacket number 1, the tall one who had grabbed Tess in her parents' garage, as he rushed out, followed by Gravel Voice and Leather Jacket number 2.
"He loves that dog," her remaining captor said, putting his gun on the mantel, as if to remind Tess it was still at hand. "Anything happens to it, your dog's dead. Probably oughta be put down anyway, vicious as it is."
He spoke without irony, this thug who had kidnapped her, beaten her her uncle, and tried to shoot Esskay.
"I think Charlton'll be okay. It was only a puncture wound." She sank into the vacated Morris chair, her knees a little wobbly. Esskay tucked her nose under her elbow, looking for the treat she was sure she deserved.
"Wish we had a TV here," he said. "NCAA basketball is on."
Not a Baltimore accent, but close. Obviously not familiar with the city at all, if they needed directions to Route 40. Philadelphia? Wilmington? Spike had claimed to be coming from the Delaware racetracks when he'd left the mulch for her mother. And Spike didn't go in for elaborate lies, preferring simple sins of omission when he couldn't tell the truth. What was the other thing they wanted? How could she find out?
"I know a good way to pass the time. Do you know how to play Botticelli?"
"Is that Italian for ‘Spin the Bottle'?"
"No, it's like twenty questions. You see, you pick a letter-say, S-and I ask you a question about a person whose name begins with S. For example, say your person was Mike Schmidt-"
"Greatest third baseman to ever play the game."
Definitely from Philadelphia, Tess decided. A local would pick Brooks Robinson every time. "Whatever. Anyway, if your letter is S, I might ask, ‘Are you a classical composer?' If you can't think of an answer-say, Stravin-sky-I get to ask a yes-no question about your person, until I have enough clues to finally guess the identity. Get it?"
Long pause. "Yeah."
"Good. Now to make it really interesting, why don't you tell me the letter of what you're looking for, and we can play for that."
"I dunno-"
"Oh, c'mon. What are the odds I'll actually guess?"
Another round of deep thought, as if he were actually calculating her chances. "You got a point."
"Good. Now what's your letter?"
"I guess it's V. Could be C-no, it's V, definitely V."
"Okay. Are you a twentieth-century writer with a cult following?"
"You gotta be fucking kidding me."
Tess imitated the sound of a game show buzzer's rude call. "You're not Kurt Vonnegut. Now I get to ask a yes-no. Are you-the item you're looking for-related to betting?"
"Can I say kinda?"
"Usually not."
"Well, I'm gonna say kinda. It's kinda about betting, but not really. Tangential, you might say."
"Fair enough. Next question. Are you Lolita's creator?" The real rules were clear that only last names could be used, but Tess had been deliberately vague in explaining the rules.
"I am not…I am not…I am not Valentine? Volare? Some Greek god, right?"
"Good try. Vladimir Nabokov. Do you have a monetary value?"
"No, I mean, it could, but only to a few people. You couldn't sell it from the back of a truck, but some people might pay you big money for it."
"Okay. Are you the Pope's residence?"
Her competitor looked insulted. "I'm not the Vatican." He crossed himself.
"Good. Very good." A right answer would soften him up, she decided, although she hadn't intended to ask him anything he knew. "Are you a UN official with Nazi past?"
A blank look.
"Kurt Waldheim," she said, giving it the German pronunciation. He wouldn't know how it was spelled. "Was this thing ever alive? Or part of something alive?"
"That's two questions. But no to both of them."
"Well, I guess that's a good sign." Esskay stuck her snout in her lap, insistent on affection. Tess rubbed the dog under the neck, trying to think of her next question. Botticelli was harder with an it than with a person. Esskay's fur was matted and chafed beneath her collar. She could ask him a question about Voltaire, or Venus. The greyhound books said you were suppose to use a nylon leash, but there had never been time to replace this length of chain, Spike's improvisation. Sid Vicious? Dick Van Dyke? She played with the catch, clicking it open and closed, holding the dog close to her all the while.
"C'mon, ask me another question. This is kind of fun."
"Are you a moron?" Tess asked.
"Wait, I know this one. Some comedian, right? The guy who plays retards in all his movies. I am not…I am not…"
Tess leaped from the chair and lashed out at him with the chain, catching him across the face. He wasn't quick enough to grab the lethal leash, and he wasn't close enough to grab her. Tess backed away from him, moving toward the door and away from the fireplace, where his gun still sat on the mantel. He kept advancing, so intent on taking the chain away from her that he didn't think to retreat and grab his gun.
"Stupid bitch," he panted. "I am going to" -another futile grab-"make you so sorry." He caught her left wrist just then, but Esskay interceded, sinking her teeth into his hand. Not much of a grip, but she could do some damage. He yelled and fell back, then scrambled for the other side of the room, where his gun waited. But Tess and Esskay were at the door by then and Tess wrenched it open, letting Esskay go first and set the pace, praying the dog would have the good sense to run toward the streetlights, not into the alleys, where they were less likely to be seen. Her keeper might have enough power to overcome her in a sprint, but she was sure she could outlast him over anything more than a few blocks. And she was pretty sure he wouldn't want to fire his gun on this quiet suburban street.