65 Proof (23 page)

I bolted to my El Dorado, my mind racing. Al saved my life, he’d been there through some of my toughest times. I couldn’t deal with someone mistreating him. It happened once before. Nightmares of the incident still woke me in the middle of the night.

The wallet told me the guy lived in Wilmette, Illinois. But it also held a key card for the Crawford Holiday Inn.

Picturing Polchev, with his thousand dollar suit, he wasn’t the type to take Al to his fancy house. The hotel sounded like a better bet. I adjusted my course.

The V-8 moaned and I didn’t stop for lights or slow down through Jefferson Park or worry about
one way
signs. Thankfully, the Eastern Block scumbag whose blood covered my shirt kept the key card in the original cardboard holder. Room 116 awaited, as did a merciless beat down for anyone unlucky enough to be in it.

I turned on to Washington Ave at the end of the park and a patrol car’s flashing lights fired up behind me.

“Get in line,” I mumbled to myself, pinning the gas pedal.

A glance into the rearview confirmed two cars fell in behind the police cruiser. Fuck ‘em. Take it minute by minute. Just like I told me AA clients.

I hit the brakes near the entrance to the motel. I had six blocks on my pursuers and wasted no time exiting the car and sliding the room key into the lobby door. I looked at the arrows that pointed rooms 101-125 and sprinted as fast as I could. My heart pounded in time with my head, and my nerves had almost caught up with my rage.

Almost.

In front of 116 I paused just for a second, hearing a television tuned to CNN coming from inside. No dog sounds. Was he even in there?

My neck twitched, a telltale sign of a looming battle. I slid the card into the electronic lock, took a deep breath, and burst into the room, ready for anything.

The room was empty.

An unmade bed, a leash, a rawhide bone, an open suitcase. A teddy bear sat on the floor in front of me. I realized sweat had soaked my shirt and I began to hyperventilate. The next thing I saw kicked all that up a notch.

The sheets of the bed were soaked in dark crimson. Blood drenched the carpet. I also noticed that the leash—Al’s leash—was caked with gore.

I threw up on the floor in front of me.

This cop Kelley could drive.

I sat up front and Herb took the back, sticking his head through the space between the front seats so he could be in the conversation.

“So, your pal Duffy, he’s a little nuts?” Herb said. As he spoke he dug the nail of his index finger deep into his mouth to release some ground beef from a molar.

“More than a little,” Kelley said.

“Would you say he’s a danger to himself and others?”

“Depends on the day.”

I raised my eyebrows, ready to launch into an argument about civilians screwing up investigations. But I was close to one thousand miles from home, and had no authority here, so I held my tongue. The siren of the cruiser helped mask the awkward silence. That is, until Herb spoke up.

“So if he’s committing a crime, are you willing to use force to stop him?” Herb looked hard at Kelley, adding, “Lethal force?”

Kelley took us around a curve, pinning me against the passenger door.

“He may be nuts, but he’s a good man. You need to cut him some slack.”

I glanced back at Herb, who seemed to be thinking the same thing I was. Kelley’s personal relationship with Dombrowski might result in a bad ending for all concerned.

In the distance, a Holiday Inn appeared. I noticed Dombrowski’s Cadillac double-parked in front.

As we screeched into the motel lot a call came over the radio. The dispatcher announced,
”All units we have a missing girl, probable abduction. Four years old, light brown hair, in red striped pajamas. The girl has Down Syndrome and has the facial features associated with that condition. She was last seen in the vicinity of the Crawford Holiday Inn.”

Kelley sighed through his teeth, then radioed Dispatch to say he was on the scene. When he pushed open this door I grabbed his shoulder.

“Kelley, this changes things. Your friend isn’t the priority anymore.”

“I know.”

“If the girl is here, and he gets in the way…”

Kelley hooded his eyes and shook out of my grasp. “I know how to do my job, Lieutenant. Duff won’t interfere.” Kelley swallowed. “Or else he’s collateral damage.”

The blood trailed down the hallway, a few drips and dribbles hard to make out on the dark carpet. I followed after it best I could.

Through the windows on the wall that bordered the rooms I saw flashing red lights fill the parking lot. At least three patrol cars pulled in. Kelley got out of one, followed by the two cops from AJ’s. The fat guy spotted me through the window and the three of them ran toward the entrance.

I had no intention of waiting for them to haul me away so I picked up the pace on the blood trail. It stopped at an unmarked door. A faint hand print, tiny fingers outlined in blood, was near the knob.

I opened it and found myself in an unlit corridor. I went in running, my hands on the wall, feeling my way. After four steps I bumped into something waist high. It rocked on contact and as it did I felt a string run across my face. I grabbed the string and pulled. I sixty watt bulb went on and I realized I was in the laundry room. I’d bumped into a cart full of dirty towels and sheets.

My shoes squeaked on the tile floor. I looked down.

A pool of blood was at my feet.

Noise from behind. I spun, fists clenched, and saw three figures appear.

“Duff, its Kel, Hold up.”

I was all out of time.

Dombrowski’s shirt was soaked through with blood and sweat, and he looked somewhere between panic and determination.

“They got Al. I gotta find ‘em.”

“Let us take it from here, Dombrowski.” I put a hand on his chest arm, not rough, but not gentle either.

He slapped my hand away, his neck twitching.

“Just settle down,” I said. “We’re going to find the dog. We got guns, we’re cops, let us do it.”

He went to push past me. I grabbed his right arm, leveraged my hip into his groin and flipped him to the ground. I heard the breath whoosh out of his lungs.

Kelley backed me away, reached down for his friend. “Duff, please, let us take care of this.”

Duffy nodded, seeming to calm down. Kelley helped him up. He looked down at his shoes, wiped his hands on his pants, and then the son of a bitch shoved me aside and ran for the hallway.

He was fast. Real fast.

But I’m fast, too.

I stretched out, hooking my foot around his ankle, tripping him forward. Duffy caught himself against the wall, whipping around to face me. Herb blocked his side of the hallway. My partner was reaching for his gun, but I gave him a stern head shake.

“I know you’re upset, Mr. Dombrowski. But this is a police matter. You have to let us handle it.”

He pretended to go left, then went right, not telegraphing the move at all. I threw a roundhouse after him, aiming for his ear, but he anticipated the punch and bunched up his shoulder. It was like hitting a side of beef, but it staggered him enough to bounce him into the opposite wall.

Duffy shook his head and looked at me.

“I don’t fight women. I’m just trying to find my dog.”

I unconsciously widened my stance, kicking off my heels and planting my feet on the carpet, my left slightly ahead of my right.

“I sympathize. But there’s more at stake here than just your dog. And if you try to run away again, I’ll take you down.”

Something flashed in his eyes, something that looked vaguely like amusement. And though he said he didn’t fight women, I noticed he’d adopted a stance similar to mine, feet wide, hands in front of him.

Then he threw a very fast uppercut.

I flinched back, but his punch was just a feint, and he again tried to take off. I whipped my foot around, snapping my leg back in a spin kick, catching him on the side of his head.

He staggered but didn’t go down.

“Duff…” I heard Kelley say.

I didn’t pay attention to the local cop, following up my kick with a one-two combination to the body. Duffy braced his stomach muscles, dancing away from my blows, and then threw a combination of his own, each one stopping short of its mark.

He had pulled the punches. Dombrowski didn’t want to hurt me, but he was showing me he could.

But I’d beaten faster, stronger guys before, and the fact that he wasn’t willing to hit me made my job a lot easier. I faked a lunge kick, got in close, and clipped him under the chin with an elbow. Then I reared back my knee, ready to punt his balls up into his neck.

Duffy grabbed my leg, blocking the blow, and held it while he looked into my eyes.

“Not on the first date,” he said.

I smiled, batted my eyelashes, and gave him all I had, right in his kidney.

Duffy doubled over.

I reared back, ready to break his nose, when Herb cried out.

“Jack!”

Before Kelley or I could react, a flash of darkness bolted up the hallway.

A man. A sprinting man, covered in blood. Coming right at us.

I heard a
thwak
, and then Herb went down.

My partner had a knife in his chest.

The tough broad from Chicago got off me to tend to the fat guy. He had a throwing knife sticking out of his chest.

I paused, wondering if I could do anything to help, but realized she’d take care of him, and I needed to find Al, so I ran down the hallway after the dark figure.

He staggered and wobbled a bit, and by the time he reached the doorway for the stairwell I was within ten feet of him. He made it through the stairway door before me and tried to slam it shut. I blocked it with my foot and got in behind him. He sprinted up four or five steps but fell hard, rolled over and then slid down toward me.

I slammed my knee into his chest, and then punched him square in the nose. The familiar crack let me know I broke it.

He didn’t move. Dead or passed out, I didn’t care. His shirt was covered with blood. Al’s blood?

“Duff!”

Kelley, coming up behind me. I didn’t have time for him right now.

Above where the guy collapsed the blood trail continued. I took off after it. At the second floor I found another bloody hand print on the wall. I got to the hallway, turned and headed to my left.

Then the trail died. No more blood. No more hand prints.

I cupped my hands around my mouth. “Al! Boy, where are you? Al!”

I listened for an answer. None came.

If that son of a bitch had hurt my dog, and I’d killed him on the stairs, I’d go back, revive him, and kill him again. Images of Al flashed, unbidden, through my head, and I felt my knees begin to give out, like someone had just socked me in the temple.

“Al,” I whispered.

That’s when I heard it. A muffled bark.

I felt my heart rate kick up again, hope spurring me toward the sound.

But the bark tapered off, followed by a terrifying, gagging wheeze.

The same sound Al made when he almost choked to death eating the foam rubber off my sofa.

“Al!”

I ran to the cubby with the soda and ice machines. There was Al, drenched in blood, lying next to a curled-up little girl.

As Kelley cuffed the guy on the stairs, I ran to the second floor and saw Dombrowski turn in by the ice machine. My gun was drawn, just in case. From ahead came a choking noise. I reached the corner and spun fast, clutching my .38 in a two-handed Weaver stance.

There were all three of them. Dombrowski, the dog, and the missing little girl. All were spattered with blood.

The dog, a portly basset hound, was coughing and retching. Dombrowski sat next to the mutt, its head on his lap. I knelt down and felt the girl’s neck.

“She’s just asleep,” Duffy mumbled. He stroked the dog’s nose. “C’mon, Al. C’mon and be okay. Be okay.”

Dombrowski had tears running down his face. The fat pooch opened its mouth as wide as an alligator’s and dry-heaved with an awful, disgusting sound. He seemed to be in a really bad way.

“I’m sorry,” I told Duffy. “Can we move him? Get him to a vet?”

I heard wheezing from behind me. Herb had finally caught up.

“Aw, jeez,” he said, staring at the bloody dog. To Duffy he said, “Ambulance on the way. What the hell did you do to that guy on the stairs, man? Did you see his hand?”

The boxer’s face went grim. “Whatever it was, he deserved that and more.”

“What the hell did you do? Bite him?”

Duffy looked up at us, confused. “What?”

Then Al made the most revolting sound yet, sort of a cross between a wet-vac sucking up water and the world’s loudest belch. Something long and covered in mucus shot from the dog’s mouth, plopping onto the floor.

“Oh, there it is,” Herb said. “One of the scumbag’s fingers. The guy on the stairs was missing a few.”

“How many?” I asked, both fascinated and repulsed.

“Three.”

Herb nudged the digit with his toe, and then the dog gagged again and threw up the other two on Herb’s shoe.

“And there they are. I think he’s giving you the finger, Duffy.”

“You okay, boy?” Duffy said, cradling the dog’s head in his hands.

Al licked him, wagging his tail.

“All that blood in his fur must be from the perp,” Herb laughed. “Your dog’s a hero.”

I now had the sleeping little girl in my arms. She wasn’t bleeding either. The hound had gone to town on the bad guy, and all of the blood seemed to be from him.

Al bayed, howling like the wolfman, and the girl opened her eyes.

“Nice doggy,” she said, yawning.

Dombrowski had lifted the dog and kissed him on the back of the head. Kelley came down the hall.

“The guy’s alive but he’s lost a lot of blood. He…” He didn’t finish, staring at Herb. “Hold it, didn’t you take a knife to the chest?” Kelley’s face blanched like he was standing in front of a big fat ghost.

Herb reached in to his jacket and pulled out a paperback.
Afraid by Jack Kilborn
was written across the cover in bright red.