At Bolsa Chica State Beach, he stood for a while with the surf pounding against his thighs, staring out at the great dark masses of surging water. He felt as powerful as the sea. He was filled with scores of lives. He would not have been surprised if electricity had suddenly leaped from his fingertips the way thunderbolts flashed from the hands of the gods in mythology.
Finally, he threw himself forward, into the water, and swam against the powerful incoming waves. He went far out before turning parallel to the shore, swimming first south and then north, keeping at it until, exhausted, he at last allowed the tide to carry him back to shore.
He dozed for a while in the hot afternoon sun. He dreamed of a pregnant woman, her stomach large and round, and in the dream he strangled her to death.
He often dreamed of killing children or, even better, the unborn children of pregnant women because it was something he longed to do in real life. Child murder was, of course, much too dangerous; it was a pleasure he had to deny himself, though a child’s life energy would be the richest, the purest, the most worthy of absorption. Too dangerous by far. He couldn’t indulge in infanticide until he was certain he had achieved immortality, whereupon he would no longer need to fear the police or anyone else.
Although he often had such dreams, the one he woke from on Bolsa Chica Beach struck him as more meaningful than others of its type. It felt… different. Prophetic. He sat yawning and blinking in the westering sun, pretending not to notice the bikinied girls who were giving him the eye, and he told himself that this dream was a glimpse of pleasure to come. One day he would actually feel his hands around the throat of a pregnant woman like the one in the dream, and he would know the ultimate thrill, receive the ultimate gift, not only her life energy but the pure, untapped energy of the unborn in her womb.
Feeling like a million bucks, he returned to his van, drove home, showered, and went out to dinner at the nearest Stuart Anderson steak house, where he treated himself to filet mignon.
6
Einstein bolted past Travis, out of the kitchen, across the small dining room, disappearing into the living room. Carrying the leash, Travis went after him. Einstein was hiding behind the sofa.
Travis said, “Listen, it’s not going to hurt.”
The dog watched him warily.
“We’ve got to take care of this before we go off to Vegas. The vet will give you a couple of shots, vaccinate you against distemper and rabies. It’s for your own good, and it really won’t hurt. Really. Then we’ll get you a license, which we should’ve done weeks ago.
One bark. No.
“Yes, we will.”
No.
Crouching, holding the leash by the clip with which he would attach it to the collar, Travis took a step toward Einstein.
The retriever scrambled away. He ran to the armchair, leaped up, and stood on that observation platform, watching Travis intently.
Coming slowly out from behind the sofa, Travis said, “Now, you listen up, fur face. I’m your master-”
One bark.
Frowning, Travis said, “Oh, yes, I am your master. You may be one damn smart dog-but you’re still the dog, and I’m the man, and I’m telling you that we’re going to the vet.”
One bark.
Leaning against the dining-room archway, arms folded, smiling, Nora said, “I think he’s trying to give you a taste of what children are like, in case we ever decide to have any.”
Travis lunged toward the dog.
Einstein flew off his perch and was already out of the room when Travis, unable to halt, fell over the armchair.
Laughing, Nora said, “This is vastly entertaining.”
“Where’d he go?” Travis demanded.
She pointed to the hallway that led to the two bedrooms and bath.
He found the retriever in the master bedroom, standing on the bed, facing the doorway. “You can’t win,” Travis said. “This is for your own good, damn it, and you’re going to have those shots whether you like it or not.”
Einstein lifted one hind leg and peed on the bed.
Astonished, Travis said, “What in the hell are you doing?”
Einstein stopped peeing, stepped away from the puddle that was soaking into the quilted bedspread, and stared defiantly at Travis.
Travis had heard stories of dogs and cats expressing extreme displeasure by stunts like this. When he had owned the real-estate agency, one of his saleswomen had boarded her miniature collie in a kennel for two weeks while away on vacation. When she returned and bailed out the dog, it punished her by urinating on both her favorite chair and her bed.
But Einstein was not an ordinary dog. Considering his remarkable intellect, the soiling of the bed was even more of an outrage than it would have been if he had been ordinary.
Getting angry now, moving toward the dog, Travis said, “This is inexcusable.”
Einstein scrambled off the mattress. Realizing the dog would try to slip around him and out of the room, Travis scuttled backward and slammed the door. Cut off from the exit, Einstein swiftly changed directions and dashed to the far end of the bedroom, where he stood in front of the dresser.
“No more fooling around,” Travis said sternly, brandishing the leash.
Einstein retreated into a corner.
Closing in at a crouch, spreading his arms to prevent the dog from bolting around either side of him, Travis finally made contact and clipped the leash to the collar. “Ha!”
Huddled defeatedly in the corner, Einstein hung his head and began to shudder.
Travis’s sense of triumph was short-lived. He stared in dismay at the dog’s bowed and trembling head, at the visible shivers that shook the animal’s flanks. Einstein issued low, almost inaudible, pathetic whines of fear.
Stroking the dog, trying to calm and reassure him, Travis said, “This really is for your own good, you know. Distemper, rabies-the sort of stuff you don’t want to mess with. And it will be painless, my friend. I swear it will.”
The dog would not look at him and refused to take heart from his assurances.
Under Travis’s hand, the dog felt as if he were shaking himself to pieces. He stared hard at the retriever, thinking, then said, “In that lab… did they put a lot of needles in you? Did they hurt you with needles? Is that why you’re afraid of getting vaccinations?”
Einstein only whimpered.
Travis pulled the reluctant dog out of the corner, freeing his tail for a session. Dropping the leash, he took Einstein’s head in both hands and forced his face up, so they were eye-to-eye.
“Did they hurt you with needles in the lab?”
Yes.
“Is that why you’re afraid of the vet?”
Though he did not stop shuddering, the dog barked once: No.
“You were hurt by needles, but you’re not afraid of them?”
No.
‘Then why are you like this?”
Einstein just stared at him and made those terrible sounds of distress.
Nora opened the bedroom door a crack and peeked in. “Did you get the leash on him yet, Einstein?” Then she said, “Phew! What happened in here?”
Still holding the dog’s head, staring into his eyes, Travis said, “He made a bold statement of displeasure.”
“Bold,” she agreed, moving to the bed and beginning to strip off the soiled spread, blanket, and sheets.
Trying to puzzle out the reason for the dog’s behavior, Travis said, “Einstein, if it’s not needles you’re afraid of-is it the vet?”
One bark. No.
Frustrated, Travis brooded on his next question while Nora pulled the mattress cover from the bed.
Einstein trembled.
Suddenly, Travis had a flash of understanding that illuminated the dog’s contrariness and fear. He cursed his own thickheadedness. “Hell, of course! You’re not afraid of the vet-but of who the vet might report you to.”