But it stopped as the front door opened. It turned, the daylight out there strong, painful, staring at the man who stood within the open doorway. This man had just left. He'd walked until he'd disappeared along the gravel driveway. That was why there hadn't been a warning, why there hadn't been a car sound to alarm it, and it hissed now as the man came forward.
"Yeah, that's just what I expected. Leave the door unlocked, she says. God damn it, kid, get out of here."
It hissed again.
"What's your name? I'm mad enough to call the cops."
It growled then, and the man hesitated, frowning.
"None of that damned stuff. You get your ass on down here."
One more step. The man was at the bottom of the stairs. He reached, and it was leaping, body arcing down the stairs to jolt the man and send him sprawling.
"Hey, God damn it." But the man apparently expected that it next would try to scramble past him toward the open door. The man lunged to the side to block it, his neck uncovered, and it dove in straight below the chin.
"Jesus."
They struggled. It could feel the blood spurt into its mouth. It gagged again. The taste was not unpleasant, even in a way compelling, although the choking was an agony. It chewed and swallowed, gagging.
Abruptly it couldn't breathe.
The man was squeezing at its throat. It felt the pressure in its chest. It squirmed. It twisted.
"God-damned kid."
Then teeth free, it was snarling at the hands around its throat. It tried to bite the hands but only nipped the acrid, cigarette-vile, suit-coat sleeves, and suddenly one leg was underneath it, pushing, as it flew high to one side, its body slamming on the wooden floor and rolling hard against a table.
Even so, its instinct was automatic. Turning, it scrambled on all fours and braced to spring again. The man rolled, coming to his feet. They stared at one another.
Then the man looked at the blood across his clothes. He touched his neck. "My God!" He understood now, his hands up, stumbling backward.
It leaped, but not strongly enough to drop the man, just knock him farther backward. "Oh, my God!" the man kept saying. And the open door was suddenly behind the man. The man was out there, kicking as it leapt again. Its shoulder took the kick. The jolt spread through its body. Falling, it landed on that shoulder. It crawled back and snarled.
Snarled not just toward the man but toward the carsound coming up the lane now. It could see beyond the man toward where the car was coming into view. A different car. A different woman driving. It was staring, crawling farther toward the stairs. Its shoulder wasn't working. It snarled and stumbled up the stairs. Then as it heard the car door out there squeak open, as the man glanced quickly out there, it mustered the little strength it retained and scuttled farther up the stairs. The stairs kept winding. It reached the second floor, and out of sight from down there, it huddled, tensing.
"Mr. Cody!" It heard the woman's voice outside, the rushing footsteps on the porch. "Good Lord! Your throat! The… Mr. Cody!"
It heard the heavy body slump to the floor.
"Never mind me. Get in there and use the phone," the man rasped. "Call the cops, an ambulance. Watch for some kid, something, on the stairs."
Panicked, much less certain now of what it should be doing, it swung to face the hallway up here, looking for a place to hide. It scurried. But at least the place was dark up here. At least its eyes no longer hurt.
SIX
"You've got to help me."
The medical examiner blinked at the shirtless man. The television news was droning.
"I don't-"
"Hey, you didn't give me any choice. I didn't mean to hit you that hard."
The afternoon came back to him. His head hurt when he moved it, and his lips and nose felt like they belonged to someone else. When he touched them, they were senseless, swollen, but he felt the blood, and he was groaning.
"Look. My dog. You've got to help me," the man said.
"What's the matter?"
"She's not moving. She just lies there, staring at me."
"Jesus, stay away from her."
"I am. My Christ, if only I had listened. Can I get it if she licked me?"
The medical examiner struggled to sit up. "When?"
"This morning. She was acting fine then."
"Wash your hands! I hope you didn't touch your mouth. You don't have any cuts she might have licked?"
"I can't remember."
"What?"
"I don't have any cuts. I can't remember if I touched my mouth."
"I told you, wash your hands." The effort of the conversation made him dizzy. He slumped back. "Use disinfectant. Mouthwash. Gargle. Change your clothes." He gripped the sofa to brace himself and stand. He fell back. Then he took a breath and made it to his feet. The blood was all across his tie and shirt. He started feeling angry, and that helped him. "Hurry up. Wash your hands." Then suddenly he thought about the hand that had split his lip and smashed his nose. He bolted down the hallway, shoving past the man who was going into the bathroom. "Get away. I've got to wash my face."
The medical examiner soaped his hands and scrubbed his face, scrubbed it until it hurt, and still he continued scrubbing. He peered at the blood that mingled with the soap upon his hands and dripped down toward the swirling water in the sink. He continued scrubbing. Then he grabbed a towel and scoured his face until the porous cloth was bloody.
"Rubbing alcohol!" he ordered, fumbling in the cabinet behind the mirror, but he couldn't find it. "Alcohol!" he shouted, and the man jerked open the door below the sink. They saw the bottle at the same time, and the medical examiner grabbed it, twisting off the cap, and splashing his nose, his lips. But he needed more. He leaned his face down sideways toward the sink. He poured. The hot sweet alcohol was flooding, burning. He snorted. Then the effort took its toll, and he sank onto his knees.
"My God, you're just as crazy as that dog out there," the man said.
"You don't know the half of it. Just wash your hands and face and gargle like I told you."
He slowly came to his feet. The man was at the sink, swabbing soap around his hands. The medical examiner cringed. Lord, I might need shots. Then he stumbled from the bathroom, down the hallway toward the kitchen. Out there, through the window, he saw the dog stretched out, the blood and foam around her mouth, slack-jawed, staring off at nothing.
That was all he needed. He groped from the kitchen toward the phone.
He had to concentrate to dial. The phone kept ringing on the other end. At last, an answering machine told him to leave a message. What's the matter with them? Saturday. He peered down at his watch. Of course. They're only open in the morning. They won't be there this late. He was flipping through the phone book. Vets. Vets. And then he had it, dialing.
This time someone answered. A woman.
"Dr. Owens," he blurted.
"Who's calling, please?"
"The medical examiner."
"I'm sorry. He's not in right now. Give me your number. He'll call you back."
The medical examiner felt his heartbeat stop.
"No, wait a second," she said. "He's just coming in the door."
Muffled voices. Bumps and echoes as the phone was being transferred.
"Dr. Owens here."
The medical examiner identified himself. "There's a dog I think has rabies."
The vet didn't speak for a moment. "Rabies? You're certain."
"No. I told you I just think that's what it is. The dog has got some kind of collar that sends shocks to stop her from barking. Hell, this could be heat exhaustion or distemper. I don't know. You'd better get over here."
"Don't touch her."
"Hey, don't worry."
"Slaughter called and said this might turn up. I hope it hasn't."
"Well, we'll know damn sure in a little while." The medical examiner saw the man come down the hallway. He asked for the address. Then he quickly told Owens, and he hung up, and the two men tried to keep their eyes away from one another. "Turn that television off."