Tegg ignored the error-not his, but the saw's, he tried to convince himself-and removed the heart properly. He cradled it in his hands and sank slowly to the floor, exhausted. Could he never get it right? he wondered. Only one more try, and if he failed at that what would Wong Kei do to him? He'd have his heart, that's what! The police, Wong Kei, the heart he held in his hands, Pamela's refusal to help him. It felt like some kind of conspiracy! He had to rise above this, to overcome. "Practice makes perfect," he mumbled, looking down at the heart still cradled in his hands. "Practice makes perfect."
Sharon Shaffer trembled in the center of her cage, wrought with fear. There was nothing to measure this fear against, nothing to compare it to. At first, the pain had distracted her. Pain was a matter of tolerance, tolerance a matter of attitude, attitude a matter of choice. She chose to be strong, calling on her higher power to see her through. Thus far it had. Her wounds were both terrifying and painful. She could only see out of her left eye now, but maybe that was a blessing, for all she saw were the vicious, angry eyes of the restless pit bulls boring down onto her. She concentrated not on her losses but her strengths. In order to regain the confidence required to escape, she would need every available faculty.
Her central focus had been, and continued to be, gaining her freedom. People made mistakes, even people like him, and she was ready to seize the moment.
Fifteen minutes after The Keeper had left the building, she went to work with a determination she had not allowed him to see. She hoped that his impression of her was that she was weakened to the point of total exhaustion-a necessary ruse if she was to have any hope of taking him by surprise. In fact, quite the opposite was true: She was much stronger than she looked.
That morning she had spotted a hypodermic needle covered in dust, pushed into the corner of the adjacent cage where the building's corrugated metal met the chain link of the kennel wall. She saw it not as a needle but as a potential weapon.
Given the right moment, she could take an eye out with it. Blind him. jump him. When he returned with Michael, he would be distracted. If she could only get that needle, it might be the perfect time for an attack. Lure him into the cage by moaning and gripping her side ...
The problem was how to reach clear across the adjacent cage, snag the needle, and drag it all the way back. She had decided to craft a fishing line out of the only two materials available: the plastic I.V. tube hooked up to her arm and string from the burlap sack. Having spent the last twenty minutes unweaving a portion of the burlap sack and knotting pieces of it together, she now had an eight-foot length to use as a fishing line.
As she disconnected the I.V. tube from both the needle in her forearm and the overhead I.V. bag, she considered using the needle in her own arm as a weapon-a needle was a needle, after all-but she feared he was too observant for that. He always stood there examining her prior to opening her cage. If he noticed the needle missing, if he sensed her intentions, all hope was lost. He would shock her into semiconsciousness, and her "weapon" would be lost. She would have only one chance to use the needle. She couldn't risk his catching on.
She prevented the I.V. from leaking by inverting it and reclamping it to the top of the chain-link cage. She fashioned a "fishing pole" from the tubing by doubling it on itself. She knotted her burlap line to the end of it.
Her blind eye gave her unexpected problems. She felt time slipping away. How much longer until he returned Michael to his cage? The more she tried to hurry, the more awkward her motions. She quickly realized that above all she had to remain calm. Steady.
The door banged. She glanced toward it in terror. Him-or just wind rattling its hinges as it often did? If he came in on her now ... She studied the dogs, for their pacing and silence had become warning signs of The Keeper's approach. They showed no such signs at the moment. Sweat trickling down from her temples, she went back to work. She tied a few pieces of dry dog food onto her line to act as weights. They kept breaking apart and falling off. Her frustration grew to the point where she could hardly use her fingers. She had to stop, take a deep breath, and try again. Finally, she formed a small loop-a lassoon the end of her line, with enough weights to do the trick.
The door banged again, but the dogs remained complacent, dozing for the most part. The sweat now trickled down her jaw. She fed the tubing and line through the chain link, careful not to touch it. Any contact with the cage would trigger the shock collar. She jerked the tubing back and forth, driving her wighted line toward the far corner and the needle. e She couldn't judge distance well. She kept casting toward the needle but the end of her line didn't even come close. It took some practice. The tubing sagged if she tended it too far. The line hit the cement floor if she didn't keep it high enough. With each new attempt, her lasso inched toward the target.
The door, the wind, her imagination, all worked against her concentration. The harder her heart pounded, the more pain she felt in her wounds.
The loop hooked the needle! Slowly, she pulled it toward her.
Suddenly, the dogs sat up in unison, their ears perked, eyes alert. Him!
Himn Her bad eye screamed with pain as she squinted. Her good eye blurred with tears from over use. The needle was only halfway toward her. Come on! She pulled the line more quickly. The dogs paced anxiously-he was close.
Her hands shook. Panic overtook her. She tugged on the tubing and lost the needle, stranding it in the middle of the adjacent cage. To her, it looked as big as a Coke bottle, lying there. It called out: "Here I am! Look, she's trying to escape!"
Her hand brushed against the chain link. Her collar sounded a quick warning and then delivered a devastating jolt of electricity. She fell back, letting go of the tubing. It slid through the chain link, threatening to fall into the next pen. She snatched it back quickly, but in doing so made contact with the fence once again.
The dogs circled their cages frantically. He was coming! He was certain to see the needle!
She stuffed everything under the burlap and sat down on top of it and looked up, only to see the IN. bag still clipped to the top of her cage. This, of all things, would give her away.
Then she saw that the IN. needle in her had leaked blood onto her forearm. What to do? Think!! With the door coming open, with far too many loose ends to tie up, with no clear idea what she was doing, she pulled the I.V. bag down, its contents leaking out onto the floor. She grabbed the plastic tubing from beneath her and slipped the string off its end, leaving a knotted tangle-a mess-on the floor. Now it might look like an accident-it had tangled in her sleep.
With all these thoughts swirling inside her, she dared not look at the needle. Don't draw his attention to it. She looked away.
As the door opened fully and he stepped inside, she vomited.
Drenched in blood, he held a human heart in his outstretched hands. The heart looked so small. So pitiful.
"Nothing to worry about," he said strongly. The door banged shut behind him. The barking stopped. With the scent of blood in the air, all the dogs hurried to the front of their cages. Tegg moved down the center aisle. "Practice makes perfect," he stated. Sharon caught herself pulling at the shock collar-a forbidden action-not because she wanted out of it, which she did, but because she found it hard to breathe. Her teeth chattered uncontrollably; her hands went numb. "Who's been good?" he asked the dogs.