Sick Puppy (6 page)

But Desie couldn’t have been the one who had done it. Palmer Stoat knew by her reaction to the macabre pentagram on the desk and the wall of eyeless animal faces. Desie had paled and run from the room. Later she implored her husband to hire some security guards to watch the house; she didn’t feel safe there anymore. Stoat said, Don’t worry, it’s just some local weirdos. Kids from the neighborhood breaking in for kicks, he told her. But privately he suspected that both the glass eyeball episode and the desecration of the BMW were connected to his lobbying business; some disgruntled, semi-twisted shithead of a client . . . or possibly even a jealous competitor. So Stoat had the locks on the house changed, got all new phone numbers, and found an electronics dweeb who came through and swept the place for listening devices. For good measure, he also polygraphed the maid, the gardener and the part-time cook. Desie made her husband promise to set the alarm system every night from then on, and he had done so faithfully. . . .

With the exception of the previous night, when he’d gone to a Republican fund-raiser and gotten so plastered that a cab had to carry him home. The time was 3:00 a.m., an hour at which Stoat could barely identify his own house, much less fit the new key in the door; typing a nonsequential five-digit code on the alarm panel required infinitely too much dexterity.

Still, he couldn’t believe somebody had snuck in behind him and grabbed the Labrador. For one thing, Boodle was a hefty load—128 pounds. He had been trained at no small expense to sit, fetch, shake, lie down, heel, and not lope off with strangers. To forcibly abduct the dog, Stoat surmised, would have required more than one able-bodied man.

Then Desie reminded him that Boodle wasn’t functioning at full strength. Days earlier he had been rushed into emergency surgery after slurping five of the glass eyeballs from Stoat’s desktop. Stoat didn’t notice the eyes were missing until the taxidermy man came to repair the mounts. Soon afterward Boodle grew listless and stopped eating. An X ray at the veterinarian’s office revealed the glass orbs, lodged in a cluster at the anterior end of the Lab’s stomach. Four of them were removed easily during a laparotomy, but the fifth squirted into the intestinal tract, out of the surgeon’s reach. Another operation would be needed if Boodle didn’t pass the lost eyeball soon. In the meantime the dog remained lethargic, loaded up on heavy antibiotics.

“He’s gonna die if we don’t get him back,” Desie said morosely.

“We’ll find him, don’t worry.” Stoat promised to print up flyers and pass them around the neighborhood.

“And offer a reward,” Desie said.

“Of course.”

“I mean a
decent
reward, Palmer.”

“He’ll be fine, sweetie. The maid probably didn’t shut the door tight and he just nosed his way out. He’s done that before, remember? And he’ll be back when he’s feeling better and gets hungry, that’s my prediction.”

Desie said, “Thank you, Dr. Doolittle.” She was still annoyed because Palmer had asked the veterinarian to return the glass eyes Boodle had swallowed, so that they could be polished and re-glued into the dead animal heads.

“For God’s sake, get some new ones,” Desie had beseeched her husband.

“Hell no,” he’d said. “This way’ll make a better story, you gotta admit.”

Of the surgically retrieved eyeballs, one each belonged to the Canadian lynx, the striped marlin, the elk and the mule deer. The still-missing orb had come from the Cape buffalo, Stoat’s largest trophy head, so he was especially eager to get it back.

Her own eyes glistening, Desie stalked up to her husband and said: “If that poor dog dies somewhere out there, I’ll never forgive you.”

“I’m telling you, nobody stole Boodle—”

“Doesn’t matter, Palmer. It’s your dumb hobby, your dumb dead animals with their dumb fake eyeballs. So it’s your damn fault if something happens to that sweet puppy.”

As soon as Desie had left the den, Stoat phoned a commercial printer and ordered five hundred flyers bearing a photograph of Boodle, and an offer of $10,000 cash to anyone with information leading to his recovery. Stoat wasn’t worried, because he was reasonably sure that none of his enemies, no matter how callous, would go so far as to snatch his pet dog.

The world is a sick place, Stoat thought, but not
that
sick.

Twilly Spree had followed the litterbug’s taxi from the party to the house. He parked at the end of the block and watched Palmer Stoat stagger up the driveway. By the time Stoat had inserted the key, Twilly was waiting thirty feet away, behind the trunk of a Malaysian palm. Not only did Stoat neglect to lock the front door behind him, he didn’t even shut it halfway. He was still in the hall bathroom, fumbling with his zipper and teetering in front of the toilet, when Twilly walked into the house and removed the dog.

With the Labrador slung fireman-style across his shoulders, Twilly jogged all the way back to the car. The dog didn’t try to bite him, and never once even barked. That was encouraging; the big guy was getting the right vibrations. The smart ones’ll do that, Twilly thought.

Even after they got to the motel, the Lab stayed quiet. He drank some cold water from the bathtub faucet but ignored a perfectly scrumptious rawhide chew toy.

“What’s the matter, sport?” Twilly asked. It was true he often spoke to animals. He didn’t see why not. Even the bobcat with which he’d shared a tent in the swamp.
Don’t bite me, you little bastard
is what Twilly had advised.

The dog settled in at his feet. Twilly patted its glossy rump and said, “Everything’s going to be all right, buddy.” He couldn’t bring himself to address the animal by the name on its tag—Boodle. It was a quaint synonym for
bribe,
Palmer Stoat at his wittiest.

“From now on,” Twilly said to the dog, “you’re McGuinn.”

The Lab raised its head, which seemed as wide as an anvil.

“After a great guitar player,” Twilly explained. The dog uncurled and stretched out on his side. That’s when Twilly noticed the tape and bandage. He knelt beside the dog and gingerly peeled the dressing from a shaved patch of belly. Beneath the gauze was a fresh surgical incision, in which Twilly counted twelve steel staples. He pressed the tape back in place and lightly stroked the dog’s ribs. It let out one of those heavy sighs that Labs do, but didn’t appear to be in pain.

Twilly worried about the wound, wondered what could have gone haywire on such a strapping critter—the gallbladder? Do dogs even
have
gallbladders? I know they get arthritis and heart disease and autoimmune disorders and cancers—for sure, they get cancer. All this was going through Twilly’s mind; a juicer commercial on the television and Twilly hunched with his elbows on his knees, on the corner of the bed, with McGuinn snoozing on the burnt-orange shag.

That dog, it had the softest breathing for an animal that size. Twilly had to bend close to hear it, the breathing like a baby’s in a crib.

And Twilly thinking: This poor fella’s probably on some heavy-duty dope to get past the surgery. That would explain why he’d come along so meekly. And the longer Twilly thought about it, the more certain he became about what to do next: Return to Palmer Stoat’s house and find the dog’s medicine. Risky—insanely risky—but Twilly had no choice. He wanted nothing bad to happen to McGuinn, who was an innocent.

Master Palmer, though, was something else.

He got fooled. He went back the next night, arriving at the same moment Stoat was driving away, the silhouette of a woman visible beside him in the Range Rover. Twilly assumed it was the wife, assumed the two of them were going to a late dinner.

But it turned out to be one of the maids riding off with the litterbug; he was giving her a lift home. And so Twilly made a mistake that changed everything.

Ever since his previous incursion, the Stoats had been more scrupulous about setting the house alarm. But Twilly decided to hell with it—he’d bust in and grab the dog’s pills and run. He’d be in and out and on the road in a minute flat.

The kitchen door was a breeze; a screwdriver did the job and, surprisingly, no alarm sounded. Twilly flipped on the lights and began searching. The kitchen was spacious, newly refurbished in a desert-Southwest motif with earth-tone cabinets and all-stainless appliances. This is what guys like Palmer Stoat do for their new young wives, Twilly thought; kitchens and jewelry are pretty much the upper reach of their imaginations.

He found the dog’s medicines on the counter next to the coffee machine: two small prescription bottles and a tube of ointment, all antibiotics, which Twilly put in his pocket. The Lab’s leash hung from a hook near the door, so Twilly grabbed that, too. For the daring raid he awarded himself a cold Sam Adams from the refrigerator. When he turned around, there stood Desirata Stoat with the chrome-plated .38 from the bedroom.

“You’re the one who stole our dog,” she said.

“That’s correct.”

“Where is he?”

“Safe and sound.”

“I said
where.
” She cocked the hammer.

“Shoot me, you’ll never see McGuinn again.”

“Who?”

“That’s his new name.”

Twilly told Mrs. Stoat he hadn’t known about the dog’s surgery—not an apology but an explanation for why he was there. “I came back for his medicine. By the way, what happened to him?”

The litterbug’s wife said, “You wouldn’t believe it if I told you. Put your hands on top of your head.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Stoat, but that’s not how it goes in real life.” Twilly took a minute to polish off the beer. “You recycle?” he asked.

Desie motioned toward a closet. Inside was a plastic crate, where Twilly deposited the empty bottle. Then he turned around and calmly snatched the revolver away from the litterbug’s wife. He shook out the bullets and put them in the same pocket as the dog’s medicine. The gun he placed in a silverware drawer.

Mrs. Stoat lowered her chin and muttered something inaudible. She wore no shoes and a long white T-shirt and pearl earrings, and that was about it. Her arms were as tanned as her legs.

“You’re the sicko who put the bugs in my husband’s truck?”

“Beetles. Yes.”

“And left those nasty notes? And pulled the eyes out of all the animal heads?”

“Correct.” Twilly saw no point in mentioning the attack on her red Beemer.

Desie said, “Those were terrible things to do.”

“Pretty childish,” Twilly conceded.

“What’s the matter with you anyway?”

“Evidently I’m working through some anger. How’s Palmer holding up?”

“Just fine. He took the maid home and went over to Swain’s for a cocktail.”

“Ah, the cigar bar.” That had been Twilly Spree’s original target for the insect infestation, until he’d hit a technical snag in the ventilation system. Also, he had received conflicting scientific opinions about whether dung beetles would actually eat a cured leaf of Cuban tobacco.

“What’s your name?” Desie asked.

Twilly laughed and rolled his eyes.

“OK,” she said, “you’re kidnapping our dog?”

“Your husband’s dog.”

“I want to come.”

Of course Twilly chuckled. She couldn’t be serious.

“I need to know what this is all about,” she said, “because I don’t believe it’s money.”

“Please.”

“I believe it’s about Palmer.”

“Nice meeting you, Mrs. Stoat.”

“It’s Desie.” She followed Twilly out to the rental car and hopped in. He told her to get out but she refused, pulling her knees to her chin and wrapping both arms around her legs.

“I’ll scream bloody murder.
Worse
than bloody murder,” she warned.

Twilly sat down heavily behind the wheel. What a twist of rancid luck that Stoat’s wife would turn out to be a head case. A light flicked on in the house across the street. Desie saw it, too, and Twilly expected her to start hollering.

Instead she said: “Here’s the situation. Lately I’ve been having doubts about everything. I need to get away.”

“Take a cruise.”

“You don’t understand.”

“The dog’ll be fine. You’ve got my word.”

“I’m talking about Palmer,” she said. “Me and Palmer.”

Twilly was stumped. He couldn’t think of anything else to do but drive.

“I’m not very proud of myself,” she was saying, “but I married the man, basically, for security. Which is a nice way of saying I married him for the dough. Maybe I didn’t realize that at the time, or maybe I did.”

“Desie?”

“What.”

“Do I look like Montel Williams?”

“I’m sorry—God, you’re right. Listen to me go on.”

Twilly found his way to the interstate. He was worried about McGuinn. He wondered how often the dog needed the pills, wondering if it was time for a walk.

“I’ll let you see the dog, Mrs. Stoat, just so you know he’s all right. Then I’m taking you back home.”

“Don’t,” Desie said. “Please.”

“And here’s what I want you to tell your husband—”

“There’s a cop.”

“Yes, I see him.”

“You’re doing seventy.”

“Sixty-six. Now here’s what you tell Palmer: ‘A dangerous drug-crazed outlaw has kidnapped your beloved pet, and he won’t give him back until you do exactly what he says.’ Can you handle that?”

Desie stared in a distracted way out the window.

Twilly said: “Are you listening? I want you to tell your husband I’m a violent bipolar sociopathic lunatic. Tell him I’m capable of anything.”

“But you’re not.”

He was tempted to recite a complete list of personal felonies, but he thought it might freak her into jumping from the car. “I blew up my uncle’s bank,” he volunteered.

“What for?”

“Does it matter? A bombing is a bombing.”

Desie said, “You’ll have to do better than that. I still don’t believe you’re nuts.”

Twilly sighed. “What do you and Palmer talk about—politics? Television? Repression in Tibet?”

“Shopping.” Desie spoke with no trace of shame or irony. “He’s got a keen interest in automobiles and fine clothes. Though I suppose that doesn’t count for much in your social circle.”

“I have no social circle.”