Tango: The Tale of an Island Dog (17 page)

Above them, the furious wind ripped at the roof. Tango heard the sound of splitting wood and shattering glass.

Suddenly, a split-second vision of his mother’s face appeared—at that long-ago moment when Tango had dangled at the end of Mr. Bailey’s fingers. A tear was dripping from each of Sadie’s sad, brown eyes. She, too, seemed to be asking:
Is the silver charm worth killing for?

Was it? Panicked and uncertain, Tango searched for Beau—wanting, desperately needing—his friend.

Malachi’s tail smacked him in the legs and he toppled. The large rat sprang, pinning Tango’s squirming body to the floor.

Eager for the albino rat to finish the little dog off, the bloodthirsty cats whistled and cheered.

Later, this is what Tango would remember: he would remember the rat’s body transforming into an amorphous cloud of hazy white fur. He would remember four golden, glowing spikes inside Malachi’s smile. He would remember Malachi saying, “No, little dog, it is not,” as if answering an unasked question, before the rat slipped out of sight.

The seas heaved. The Pitiful Place moaned and groaned. With his strong hind legs, Nigel tried to stabilize himself on the fireplace mantle, while every force of nature wanted to hurl his crippled body into the chaos below.

Just when Nigel thought that Rat-Boy was about to finish Malachi off, the dog hesitated. Malachi pounced on his opponent. Grinning repugnantly, Malachi bared teeth capable of chewing through lead pipe—a feat that Nigel had witnessed.

But no, Nigel couldn’t watch. He
wouldn’t
watch. He could only close his eyes, waiting for the little dog’s death scream.

Unexpectedly, Malachi let out a hideous laugh. Nigel took a quick peek. In the blink of an eye, the rat slapped Briar in the face, and then slithered into the fireplace, up the flue, and out of sight.

Cat calls and insults spun around the room.

Quickly, Axel, Tate, Leftie, and Flint surrounded Rat-Boy, preventing the dazed dog’s escape. The four cats were wild and out of control, oblivious to danger. When Leftie and Flint leaped to the fireplace mantle, Nigel let out a sigh of relief. His two buddies must have sensed Nigel’s fear, and they were scrambling up to help him get down. Flint shimmied close to Nigel’s left side, Leftie to his right.

Nigel heard a vicious chuckle and felt the pressure of four cat paws on his back, and then a hard shove. Nigel flew off the mantle, too stunned to scream. His three legs spread like useless wings. He landed on his stomach with a
splat!

Nigel couldn’t comprehend what had just happened. When he looked up, he saw a halo of ten cat-eyes, a constellation of misguided stars.

Suddenly, the little dog’s body landed on top of him, and Leftie was shouting, “Go get him, Stumpy-Boy!”

“He’s all yours, Stump, sock it to him,” Flint whooped.

They were expecting
him
to fight Rat-Boy!

Lightning hit the roof. Window frames split. Shards of glass bulleted through the room. With a thunderous rumble, the southwest corner of the stilted structure began to give way. The next thing
Nigel knew, the dog was gone, and slimy seawater was soaking his skin.

Nigel didn’t care. He had no intention of getting up.

He’d wait for the waves to wash him away. He’d been cruelly betrayed—by his best friends, his only friends.

Just before he closed his eyes, for what he thought was the last time, Nigel saw a train of cats’ tails heading up the stairs to the second floor. Axel was in the rear. With a pity in his eyes that Nigel had come to despise, Axel looked back at Nigel. With his paw, Axel motioned Nigel to follow him.

But Nigel was done following. He’d rather die than go where Axel was leading.

The floor tipped. Rat-Boy’s body slammed into Nigel’s, feeling more like a boulder than a ball of dog. Entwined, their bodies slid across the fireplace hearth and rolled into the blackened firebox. With a resounding crash, the queen’s chair fell on its side in front of the opening, blocking any chance for escape.

Shaking with a common fright, the little dog and Nigel huddled together while the Pitiful Place rocked back and forth.

A sob rose up from someplace deep in Nigel’s gut, and his teeth unclenched. Just inches away, the little dog’s brown eyes lit up.

Momentarily, Nigel took comfort, knowing that before his own life ended, he would return the silver heart to its rightful owner. Nigel dropped the charm. For a split second, the thin piece of silver spun on its rim, then Rat-Boy snapped the silver between his teeth.

The waves roared. The wind screeched. And above it all, Nigel heard Malachi laughing, laughing, laughing—the sound of the unforgiving rat’s revenge.

Blinded by rain, McKenna followed the fox across Water Street, past the wharf, to the stilted house once occupied by Old Ada Phillips and dozens—maybe hundreds—of mice and rats. The beam of Miss Gustie’s flashlight illuminated the entrance where the door was banging in the wind. Amazingly, through this doorway, down the ramp, out every window, small animals with wild eyes ran, jumped, hopped, and tumbled.

McKenna wiped her wet hair out of her face. “What the heck is going on?”

The fox darted into the grisly house.

McKenna crossed the threshold, steps behind the fox, only to be assaulted by a putrid stench. The house was swaying as the waves surged beneath the floorboards.

“Hurry, Fox!” she shouted. “Find Pup! We’ve got to find him!”

Lightning crackled. Glass shattered.

“Pup! Pup! Are you in here?” McKenna beamed the flashlight around the ghoulish room. “Pup! Pup! You’re in here. I know you are!”

Outside, a huge wave slammed against the Pitiful Place and splashed into the room. McKenna fell against a stack of cages, which toppled on others that had already fallen.

“Bark! Pup, do
something
! I can’t see you!” she screamed as she struggled to right herself.

“Yip-yip-yap-eee! Yip-yip-yap-eee!”

McKenna steadied the beam until the light found the yelping fox’s silvery tail. More waves surged below the boards where McKenna stood. Somewhere above her, timbers cracked as the structure lurched. “Fox, hurry! This place is going down!”

Finally, a high-pitched wail rose above the crashing, smashing, sliding sounds all around her. Near the fireplace, on top of an armchair that had tipped on its side, the fox screamed feverishly.

“Did you find him? Did you find him?”

Thunder rumbled like a fast-approaching train. Balancing herself with outstretched arms, McKenna moved toward the fireplace, crushing the trash in her path. Seawater streamed across the tips of her boots.

The fox jumped off the tipped chair. The wailing
continued. McKenna tried to drag the chair away from the fireplace, then lunged forward and draped her body over its broad arm. She shined the light into the hearth.

There, huddled in the corner, were Miss Gustie’s little dog, Pup, and the three-legged cat, just out of her reach. They were trembling, their faces stricken with terror. McKenna stretched her arm until her fingers could almost touch Pup, who stared at her with wide, pleading eyes.

“Come here, Pup. Easy now,” McKenna coaxed, trying to still the quake in her voice. “You, too, cat.”

Again, the structure shifted. The animals slid in her direction. McKenna dropped the flashlight to free her other hand.

She groped wildly, feeling for fur. She needed two legs: one dog’s and one cat’s. She grabbed, hoping for the best.

When each of her hands had gripped a limb, she took a deep breath, and with a grunt, pulled and straightened her back. She drew the animals—there were two!—close. The cat hissed and spit, but Pup’s body was limp.

The swift-running water was now ankle-deep, while a whooshing sound rose out of the sea, a deafening, dangerous moan.

Where was the door? She turned one way,
stopped, and then spun around in the opposite direction. Finally—it seemed like forever—she spotted the fox’s glowing eyes, beckoning her forward.

McKenna stumbled toward the fox, followed him out the door, down the slippery, water-sodden ramp just as the Pitiful Place broke free. Standing back from the rocky shore, McKenna watched in awe as unrelenting, angry waves pounded the structure until it collapsed into the sea.

Now there was loud shouting. A number of shadowy figures, some carrying lanterns, were running down Main Street.

McKenna wanted no part in explaining anything to anybody. Clutching the animals, she took off, back to her shed. At the doorstep, winded and dripping with cold sweat, she lowered the three-legged cat to the ground. She unlocked the door and dove into Enchanted Candles.

McKenna spilled Pup onto the floor. She held the door open, giving the frightened cat a moment to decide whether he was coming in, or staying out. A few feet away, the fox watched as the black-and-white cat slunk into the shed, and then slipped away. McKenna pulled the door shut.

She felt her way to a shelf, searching for a glass jar that held books of dry matches. She struck a match and moved to the bench where a row of
enchanted candles were waiting to be named. Fingers shaking, she lit one.

McKenna dropped to the floor, exhausted. She’d pull herself together, she decided, and take a few minutes to catch her breath. Then she’d head over to Miss Gustie’s. McKenna closed her eyes, already beginning to doubt whether what had just happened was real.

The sopping-wet dog climbed over her left side and curled himself into the curve of her body. The three-legged cat crouched in the corner and yowled.

Pup nuzzled his wet snout against McKenna’s chest. Suddenly, she heard something small, like a coin, drop to the floor. Pup wiggled out of her arms.

McKenna took the burning candle from the bench and held it close to Pup. The enchanted candle’s flame illuminated a small, silver heart on the whitewashed floor. With cold, stiff fingers, McKenna picked up the charm. Holding it close to the flame, McKenna read the word printed on one side:
TANGO.

Engraved on the other side were four tiny lines of print: a name, an address, and a telephone number. It was an identification tag, a silver identification tag for an animal named Tango.

With the little dog watching her every move, McKenna stripped off her boots, rolled up her jeans,
and turned down the cuffs of her wet socks. She untied the strip of leather that tied the two ends of her silver ankle bracelet together and held the silver heart up to the small ring that hung on the last link.

The little dog nosed the charm and barked excitedly.

“Tango,” McKenna murmured incredulously. “Your name is Tango.”

Propped up by pillows in her bed, Augusta waited, unable to fathom why it was taking so long to find Pup. The worst of the thunderstorm had passed and Augusta still had a roof over her head. But where was McKenna? Where could she—where could they—be?

The flame of the enchanted candle was the only light. Fervently, Augusta prayed for McKenna and Pup’s safe return. Then, for good measure, she held the enchanted candle and made a wish.

Bang! The side door burst open.

“Thank goodness.” Augusta sighed, pressing her hands to her cheeks. McKenna! Who else could it be?

Augusta held the candle up. McKenna stood, silent, in the doorway. The rain outside was soft and steady now, gentle-sounding. In the dim light,
Augusta still could not tell whether Pup had been found.

“Well?”

Water ran down the rain slicker and leather boots squished as McKenna walked toward Augusta’s bedside, unfolded her arms, and handed Augusta a wet, ratty-looking Pup.

The fishy-smelling dog squirmed up Augusta’s chest and licked her face. He snuggled against her neck, settling himself into Augusta’s hug. She was so relieved that the little dog had been returned, Augusta temporarily forgot his rescuer, until McKenna’s chattering teeth finally caught her attention.

“My heavens, girl, you are soaked to the bone. Take off those wet things, quickly, and get yourself dry.”

As Augusta commanded, McKenna dropped the slicker in a heap on the wood floor, then pulled off her rain-soaked boots, and peeled away water-logged socks.

They would leave a puddle, but Augusta had no heart to scold the girl. McKenna’s wet hair hung in black strings, like the licorice Augusta loved as a child. Funny, Augusta pondered, the things that come to mind at a time like this.

“On second thought,” Augusta said, “go upstairs, and take a hot bath. There’s a robe on the hook. Hurry—or you’ll catch your death.”

The clock chimed twelve times, a new day.

“Take the candle. It’s all the light we have.”

Augusta paused, searching for words that could express the deep gratitude she felt. Only the most simple came to mind.

“And McKenna—”

McKenna glanced over her shoulder. “Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“Uh, sure thing, Miss Gustie.”

Augusta sat in the dark fingering Pup’s damp fur. McKenna’s footsteps were slow and steady as she trudged up the staircase. Augusta heard the creaky hinges of her bathroom door as McKenna opened it, the turn of the brass handles on her bathtub, the running of water. These common house sounds, made by someone other than herself, were foreign to Augusta’s ear, and at the same time, completely familiar.