Tango: The Tale of an Island Dog (13 page)

Deep in his soul, Tango understood how desperately the jellyfish wanted to go back to the sea and be reunited with their own kind. How proud his good, generous sister Theresa would be of her brother. His mother, too, Tango thought.

Doing his daily good deed, Tango temporarily forgot about returning to Marcellina.

However, as July turned into August, Tango’s desire to go back home returned with full force. Tourists were descending on Victoria-by-the-Sea like flies on a restaurant Dumpster in Manhattan. Both McKenna and Augusta were working from earliest morning until late into the night.

One afternoon, Tango asked Beau if he’d come up with a plan to get Tango’s silver identification tag back from Nigel Stump.

“Nigel Stump is evil—at the very least, he’s Axel’s spineless pawn. Do not let your desire for the silver cloud your judgment.”

On this unusually hot, windy day, Tango’s loneliness was unbearable. His nose just inches from the sand, Tango wandered aimlessly up and down the narrow beach. Even the village children, diving off
the wharf at high tide, were too busy to take notice of him.

Lost in thought, Tango didn’t see that Nigel Stump was trailing him.

“Rat-Boy, my man, what’re you doing? Looking for something?”

Tango was in no mood to be called Rat-Boy, especially by a surly, three-legged cat.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe
I
could help you find what you’re looking for.
I’ve
got experience,” Nigel claimed arrogantly.

Beau’s strict warning—
do not, I repeat, do not
—echoed in Tango’s mind. But if Tango was smart about it, and Nigel just happened to tell him something, that wouldn’t be breaking his promise, would it?

“Maybe you could,” Tango replied. “I thought I saw something shiny in the sand just now, but I can’t find it.”

“A guy’s gotta be pretty sharp to find the good stuff out here. Lucky, too.”

“I bet you’ve got a real good eye, being so experienced and all.”

Soaking in the compliment, Nigel’s face softened. “It’s all a matter of timing. When you see something, you can’t hold back—you gotta take it and run.”

Nigel threw his head toward the bay, where
white-capped waves glistened in the sun. “Listen up, Rat-Boy.”

Tango flinched—he couldn’t stand being called Rat-Boy.

“A guy can get busy out there, lose track of time. Before you know it, the tide rolls back in. If you get trapped on a sandbar, you’re in BIG trouble.”

Tango inhaled a breath of cool, crisp air.
Play it smart
, he told himself.
Ignore the put-down—stroke the cat’s ego
.

“You know, the way you get around on three legs is pretty amazing—if you don’t mind me saying so.” Tango smiled.

“It takes practice, my boy.” Nigel nonchalantly circled Tango. “So, you said you saw something shiny out here?”

“I’m pretty sure I did,” Tango answered.

“Hmm, I’m pretty fond of the shiny stuff myself.”

“You are? Like what?” Tango asked. “What’s the best thing you’ve ever found?”

Nigel’s pea green eyes shifted—from Tango to the Pitiful Place and then back to Tango. The cat’s tail curled like a snake on the sand. “I probably shouldn’t be telling you this …”

Tango’s heart was pumping wildly. Hoping the cat wouldn’t notice, Tango feigned interest in a sailboat moored at the wharf.

“A while back,” Nigel whispered, “I found a silver heart.”

“Really? A silver heart?” Tango nodded with enthusiasm. Beau was right! Tango thought his body would burst!

“Shiny as a star. I’m quite fond of it.”

Slow down
, Tango cautioned himself.
Play it smart
. Flattery will get you everywhere, he remembered Diego once saying.

“A silver heart? Wow—you’re good!”

Nigel licked his left leg, stopping at the spot where his skin was hobbled and scarred.

“Like everyone says, Rat-Boy, Nigel Stump’s the best.”

Tango’s jaws were ready to snap. If they did, Nigel Stump wouldn’t be calling him Rat-Boy any longer. But again, Tango held back.

“I’d love to see that silver heart,” Tango murmured. Nigel flicked his tail. The white hairs on its tip brushed across Tango’s nose.

“No way. No dogs,” Nigel said. “Only cats allowed in the Pitiful Place.”

Tango was losing patience with this cat-and-dog dance. “That’s not what I hear.”

Nigel’s mood changed. He shoved his black-bearded face into Tango’s. “What, Rat-Boy? What do you hear?”

“Oh, what I mean—what I meant to say—is that the Pitiful Place is where all the village animals hang out at night, right?”

“Private. By invitation only. Very exclusive.” Nigel puffed out his chest. “But, listen, I’ll talk to the guys.” He twitched his whiskers. “I’ve got a little clout. Maybe I can get you in.”

Tired of flattering the arrogant cat, Tango could contain himself no longer. “The silver heart is mine,” Tango growled viciously.

Anger and frustration—a desire for what was rightfully his—overpowered him. Tango lunged at Nigel, closing his jaws just short of Nigel’s throat.

The fur on Nigel’s back exploded into a field of black needles. “Hey, hey, hey! Calm down.”

Tango bared his sharp teeth. “And I want it back. Now.”

“You say the silver heart is yours?” He pointed at one of Tango’s footprints in the sand. “A little charm about that big?”

Like a shot, Tango drove his muzzle into Nigel’s chest. Nigel stumbled backward over a flat sandstone rock.

“Back off, little buddy. Back off. There’s a peaceful solution here. Listen up,” Nigel said as he rolled out of his fall. “We’ve got a motto: All for one and one for all. Technically, the silver heart’s not mine.
But, hey, I’m a reasonable fellow. I’ll talk to the guys.”

“When?” Tango demanded.

“Soon. But I gotta warn you—the guys aren’t going to give up the heart just because you say it’s yours. They’re not fools. They’ll want something in exchange.”

He had the upper hand, and knew it.

Beau had been right—Tango’d been a fool. He’d opened his mouth and made things worse. Now Nigel was on to him.

“Something good—a fair trade.” Nigel gave Tango a sinister grin. “When you come up with something, let me know. I’ll arrange a little handoff. But you’d better hurry,” Nigel warned. “Things at the Pitiful Place have a way of disappearing, if you get my drift.…”

“I get it.”

Nigel turned and stuck his rear in Tango’s face. “Later, Rat-Boy.”

Dawn was breaking. Heavy clouds hung low in the sky, blocking the light of the rising sun. The second of the summer lobster fishing seasons had begun; McKenna awoke to the grumbling of engines as the boats set out to sea. Unlike the first season, in early May, the second season started in mid-August with neither fanfare nor blessing.

Deep in thought, McKenna rolled her fingers across her silver ankle bracelet. She’d been in Victoria-by-the-Sea for almost four months. It was time to plan her move.

In the first light, McKenna studied a map. As soon as it was dark, she’d follow the rarely used red roads to Charlottetown. From there, she’d catch a bus, and then take a train.

She fingered the envelope with Annie Pike’s address on it, hoping that Annie hadn’t moved.
McKenna intended to show up on Annie’s door-step without warning. Caught by surprise, Annie wouldn’t have the heart to turn her away—would she?

Her social worker had called Big Bart again to see if McKenna had contacted him. With a concerned look on his face, Big Bart handed McKenna a slip of paper. “Maybe it’s time you make the call.”

McKenna glanced at the Queens County phone number. “I will, Uncle Bart.”

“Promise?”

“I’ll call. I promise,” McKenna told him. And she would, she decided—from a pay phone in Toronto.

“I’m sorry, McKenna. You can stay until the first of September and not a day longer. There’s nothing I can do.”

McKenna put the map into her pouch and pulled out a wad of dollar bills. The last two days she’d sold out of enchanted candles. If this kept up, she’d have enough money to take off by the end of the month.

Suddenly, McKenna heard a series of raspy barks. She pulled the pouch strings tight. The high-pitched yapping sounded as if it came from Miss Gustie’s little dog.

McKenna shrugged. He was probably chasing a rabbit that had slipped through the fence. Or digging for a mole that dove into a hole.

The gritty barking continued, louder now, and more desperate.

McKenna pulled on a sweatshirt, shoved the pouch to the bottom of her sleeping bag, and jogged barefooted over stubbles of crab grass in the Cody backyard.

The barking intensified when Pup saw McKenna. As if knowing that he had her attention, Pup sprinted toward the steps in front of the mudroom door and then turned around, pawing at the ground.

Miss Gustie’s kitchen light was not on. The familiar tail of smoke was not rising from the chimney. The teakettle wasn’t whistling.

Something was wrong.

McKenna dashed to the door and rapped loudly. There was no response. She paused, not wanting to enter without permission. She peeked through the windowpane, but saw nothing but shadows.

“Miss Gustie! Miss Gustie?”

McKenna twisted the doorknob, opening the door a few inches. Pup darted inside.

Everything in the mudroom looked in order, but in the alcove off the kitchen, Pup started scratching viciously at a door in the floor, which McKenna had never noticed before.

“Darn it, dog. Stop barking, will you?”

A moan rose from beneath the floor.

“Pup, move! Quick!” McKenna shouted.

Pushing Pup aside, she pulled on the brass ring. The heavy door angled up and open. McKenna’s fingers shook as she fumbled with the hook.

“I’m here,” Miss Gustie cried weakly.

The slim daylight from the mudroom’s single window barely illuminated the dark cavern below. A dank odor rose out of the darkness.

“Hang on, Miss Gustie, we’re coming!”

McKenna looked for a light switch—somewhere, anywhere—but found none.

Suddenly Miss Gustie let out a scream. Pup scampered into the cellar, disappearing from sight.

Miss Gustie screamed again. “Get it off of me! Get it off of me!”

McKenna heard Pup yelping. Then a snap—a scuffle—a short, shrill whistling sound.

She grabbed hold of the handrail. “The light! The light! Where is it?”

Now Miss Gustie’s voice was quiet but controlled. “Go down backward. Be careful. The bottom stair broke. Light chain’s right above you.” She paused, groaned, and then all but whispered, “Don’t step on me.”

Once she planted her feet on firm ground, McKenna pulled the light chain. A cone of light
illuminated Miss Gustie’s splayed body. Next to Miss Gustie’s body was a smashed glass jar. Whatever had been in it was dark red and gooey and had splattered all over her bathrobe.

McKenna bent down and laid her hands on Miss Gustie’s shoulders. “Geez, Miss Gustie, what did you go and do to yourself? It’s practically the middle of the night.”

Her face a chalky gray, Miss Gustie winced. Her breathing was labored.

“What hurts? Tell me where?”

“Couldn’t sleep. Wanted jam.” Miss Gustie gasped and rolled onto her side. “For my toast.” Her teeth chattered. Her body trembled. “I’m so cold. So-so-so-cold.”

McKenna scanned the cellar for something she could use to cover Miss Gustie. Pup whined loudly. McKenna looked in his direction.

“Gross!” McKenna cried out.

A brown wharf rat was laying at Pup’s feet near Miss Gustie’s outstretched hand. A tiny stream of blood trickled from the rat’s mouth.

McKenna grimaced. She stood up, and with her bare foot, kicked the dead rat into the corner. Pup was about to go after it, but McKenna yelled, “No, Pup, NO!” and he backed off.

“Get help,” whimpered Miss Gustie.

McKenna hoisted herself up to the second step. “Pup, STAY!”

McKenna scaled the remaining stairs. Something warm, something warm, she needed something warm. She ran to Miss Gustie’s shop, grabbed an armful of sweaters, and sprinted back to the hole in the floor. She dropped the sweaters down onto Miss Gustie’s body.

“Here, cover yourself up!” McKenna shouted. “I’ll be right back.”

Thoughts of how to get help scrambled in McKenna’s mind. Big Bart was fishing. Doc Tucker lived in another town. With a shaking finger, she hurriedly dialed what she believed was the island’s emergency number. “What city are you calling, please?”

Information! McKenna slammed down the receiver and redialed “0.” When no one picked up after three rings, she left the receiver hanging on its cord and bolted out the door.

Priscilla! The postmistress would know what to do!

It took only seconds to rouse Priscilla, who responded to McKenna’s strong-fisted pounding on her door in a bathrobe and pin-curled hair.

“I’ll get help,” Priscilla said. “Go back and wait in the front yard. Flag down the rescue squad when
it comes. I’ll tend to Augusta. Show them where we are.”

To McKenna, it seemed like forever before the ambulance arrived. It took three men to hoist the stretcher up the steep stairs. Miss Gustie moaned and struggled against the pain.