The Black Marble (46 page)

Still, Valnikov had not spoken a word. He began crawling. He pushed a large feeding dish out of his way. He crawled past a mound of feces. A very
large
mound. He heard a low rumbling just beyond the doggie door leading to the gravel dog run outside.

Philo, standing in the doorway of the pen, didn't hear the rumble that Valnikov could hear at floor level. Philo couldn't hear anything in that howling, barking, growling, whining, yapping canine bedlam.

And then, Philo Skinner, who had been beaten up by every half-assed bully all through his miserable childhood, Philo Skinner, who had been punched around by half the redneck squirts in his army platoon before his medical discharge for asthma, Philo Skinner, who for the first time in his life had bested another human being in a physical encounter, couldn't resist a victorious howl or two. Like a wild dog standing over his helpless prey.

“Tell your boss,” Philo croaked triumphantly. “Tell that bloodsucker that Philo Skinner said adios! Tell him next time to try it himself, he wants to take Philo Skinner!”

Philo was enjoying himself so much he did not see the maniacal amber eye on the other side of the slit in the rubber doggie door. Valnikov saw that frightful eye. Valnikov heard the rumbling, which at floor level sounded like an earthquake beginning, or a cyclone on the horizon.

Walter, the German shepherd, didn't like being away from his adopted family. Walter didn't like the pen they had put him in, the first time he had been caged since those bad old days as an attack dog. Walter didn't even like the delicious horsemeat and liver that Mavis had tried to feed him yesterday. But most of all Walter didn't like
guns
.

In fact, Walter had been trained by his former owner to hate guns. And to rip into tiny pieces of hamburger any human being who
dared
to point a gun at him. Walter's former owner taught all his doggies very special tricks with his lead-filled rubber hose. The tricks made his guard dogs very popular with his clients. Walter's former owner, who loved his work as much as his animals hated theirs, wore special equipment for his demonstrations. The special equipment included a steel-mesh apron. Strapped outside the apron was a Little League groin cup, covered with sponge rubber. Something a crazed animal could get his teeth into.

The potential clients invariably laughed like hell when they saw that
these
dogs weren't so stupid as to let someone “feed them the arm” like most attack dogs. Walter and his thirteen wretched pals were taught to feint for their master's padded forearm and then dive straight for the Little League cup and tear it off the apron. One of Walter's chums was so crazed by the “training” that he once tried to
eat
the groin cup. The clients laughed like hell at the demonstration. These dogs would attack a burglar right where he
lived
.

Philo Skinner was enjoying this moment of triumph too much to see anything. He was so busy gloating over the fallen assassin, he didn't notice the huge mound of feces in the “empty” pen. He didn't see the amber eye of the cyclone. He never heard the roar.

The roar.

Valnikov covered his face when the cyclone roared over him. The black-and-tan cyclone bashed Philo into the steel post holding the seven-foot gate of the pen. Philo's head striking the post hardly bothered him. What did bother him was that this cyclone had him pinned up against the chain-link wall trying to chew his groin into hamburger.

Valnikov struggled to his knees and crawled away from the snarling slashing frenzied beast, while every dog in the kennel increased the roar by several decibels, totally drowning out Philo Skinner's screaming. The dog lost his first grip and settled on the extremely sensitive flesh on the very top of the inner thigh of Philo Skinner. The dog plunged his teeth into this tender meat just as the first two explosions erupted his flanks. The dog jerked his head around and snapped at his own flesh like a shark, amber eyes wide with the same surprise Valnikov had shown, the shock of unbelievable pain. Philo was backed against one side of the pen and Valnikov the other. Both watched the shepherd thrashing and then Philo pointed the gun and an explosion splattered through the shoulder of the dog and he fell on his back kicking his feet.

Philo Skinner looked down at the blood spreading over his crotch and he screamed like a woman. Valnikov at last felt the full effects of the concussion and started to get dizzy and very sick. Valnikov was crawling on his stomach getting sicker and sicker when he saw in amazement that the dog had gotten his feet under him and was coiled again. The last thing Valnikov saw of the dog in life was the look on his face. The look of consummate hate and outrage as he made his last pain-wracked leap at the terror-filled face of Philo Skinner.

Philo was coughing and spitting when he fed his arm to Walter and fired three rounds into the chest of the monster, and this time the echoing explosions drowned out the animal din.

Then Valnikov was swallowing back the vomit and kneeling on all fours watching the shrieking dog handler try to throw the body off himself. Valnikov didn't know that Philo had fired all six rounds, and made a lunge for the gun while Philo fought with the dead animal.

Philo didn't know that he had fired all six rounds and the gun clicked impotently three times in the face of Valnikov as he lunged forward. Then the three of them rolled on the floor, through blood and feces. Two wounded, weak, desperate men with a dead dog between. Two bodies thrashed and punched and kicked and rolled in slow motion. Walter lay dead, pressed between them, a shepherd sandwich.

Philo hacked at Valnikov with the gun, hitting him once on the shoulder, but Valnikov slid free and Philo only hit the dead dog with the next blow. Philo whimpered and sobbed and threw the gun at Valnikov, striking him in the chest. Then Philo got to his knees and crawled for the open gate. He grabbed the metal post, pulled himself upright and was one step out of the cage when Valnikov grabbed his legs in a bear hug and held on.

“You bastard!” Philo shrieked. “Let me go!”

The dogs answered with ear-splitting howls.

Valnikov gradually pulled himself to his knees, trying not to vomit, holding Philo around the legs.

Philo held on to the gate post and yelled “YOU BASTARD!” as Valnikov, with nearly a hundred pounds more weight, locked around Philo's bloody hips and pulled him back into the pen.

“BAST—” Philo sobbed and grabbed the cage gate while falling, and it clanged shut as the two sick and wounded men fell on their backs next to Walter.

Philo looked at the locked gate and started crying. Valnikov looked at the locked gate and started throwing up. Walter looked at the locked gate with dead eyes.

When Valnikov stopped vomiting, the concussion played a trick on him. His head started falling on one shoulder, then the other. It felt like his head had ballast attached, or that his thick neck had lost its strength. He couldn't keep his head straight.

Philo Skinner looked at him and got to his feet. The gate in front of him went clear to the ceiling. He thought about crawling through the doggie door but the outside dog run was completely fenced up to eight feet, and then the chain link had been stretched over the top. Skinner Kennels has the best of security for your pet. Thanks, Mavis.

There was only one thing to do. The side walls of chain-link fence in each dog run stopped one foot short of the ten-foot ceiling. But there were eleven dog pens between Philo and the aisle to freedom. Eleven dog pens full of terriers. There were seven dog pens the other way. Full of huge beasts like Walter. Philo Skinner, Terrier King, started the climb the long way.

He was wheezing and gasping and slippery with sweat and blood when he reached the top of the first chain-link wall. He took as large a breath as possible without coughing, and heaved his lanky frame up on the top bar and hung scrambling down the side. He fell to his knees when he dropped. He looked at his crotch. It was throbbing but the spreading stain had stopped. Oh, please, God, let me have a cock when I look, Philo prayed. I'll
need
it in Puerto Vallarta. Please God!

While Philo scrambled up the next wall of fencing, Valnikov concentrated on staying conscious. He lay face to face with the shepherd and tried to think of other things. He was clammy over his whole body and knew he had to lie still for a moment if there was any possibility of avoiding unconsciousness. He stared into the dead eyes of Walter. Courage had not been enough. Three bullets weren't enough to overcome that bravery and rage, but six had done the trick. Walter's death mask was frozen in a look of … what was it? The snarl had been replaced and he looked lonely and hopeless. He had probably sensed it was futile at the end. Valnikov found that look of despair truly unbearable.

Walter took with him to eternity the lonely hopeless face of Charlie Lightfoot
.

Then Valnikov tried to sit up. He was careful and tentative. He used the chain link to support him. He looked up at the burglar, moaning and scrambling over the second bar of steel. The burglar dropped down heavily into the next animal pen and fell on top of a whining Kerry blue terrier. Now there were two dog pens separating them.

Three minutes later, both men were trying the wall of chain-link fencing. Valnikov was not so dizzy now, but still feared falling unconscious from a height of nine feet.

Philo Skinner was so exhausted he wasn't thinking of anything but breathing. One breath at a time, Phil. One breath at a time through raw crusty lips.

The pursuit through the dog pens lasted one hour. Panting, moaning, crying out. Up nine feet of fence, balancing precariously on the top until the feet were over the side, scrambling for toeholds, flesh tearing, sliding down into the next pen, falling in little piles of terrier feces.

The sick and wounded pursuer was never able to gain on the sick and wounded quarry during the funereal chase. They watched each other wordlessly through two walls of steel mesh and by unspoken agreement took their rests together. Usually it was Valnikov who signaled the rest break was over, by heaving his heavy bulk upright, and stretching his broad bleeding fingers over the steel mesh and hoisting himself up. Sweat scorched their eyeballs and flowed painfully into the numerous wounds on their tortured bodies.

When Philo was two cages from the aisle he had a horrible siege of giddiness. He had to sit down, right in a puddle of yellow diarrhetic Dandie Dinmont dog shit, brought about by the hysterical hour the animals had endured. But dog shit was the least of Philo's worries. He stared in disbelief as the bullish assassin didn't seize the opportunity to rest himself. Philo watched in horror as the assassin went up the next wall of steel, like a giant crab, two inches at a time. Philo watched in terror as the bloody assassin, his clothes in rags, hung for a second on the bar nine feet over the concrete floor.

“Fall, you bastard. Break your fucking neck!” Philo croaked, but the giant crab gripped the side of the chain link and scuttled down the other side. Now there was only one wall of fencing between them.

The assassin staggered over to that fence and stared Philo straight in the eyes. Then he tried to climb. But he couldn't. He fell to his knees and groaned almost as painfully as Philo Skinner. Then an astonishing thing happened while a terrified Yorkshire terrier crawled over to the assassin and curled up in a gesture of total submission. The astonishing thing was that when the assassin tried to nudge the terrier out of his way his tattered coat sleeve caught on something on his belt. The assassin reached back to pull the coat free and a pair of handcuffs clattered to the floor.

Handcuffs? On a hired thug? Philo Skinner wiped the sweat from his face with what was left of his turtleneck sweater. His imitation gold chain hung clear to his bloody crotch and he jerked it off his neck and tossed it aside. A hired killer with handcuffs?

“Who … who are you?” Philo croaked.

“Who … who are
you?
” Valnikov gasped.

“I … I asked you first,” Philo croaked.

“I … I'm … Valnikov, Los … Los Angeles Police Department. And you … you're under arrest!” Valnikov gasped.

“You … you … you aren't gonna
kill
me?” Philo wheezed.

“I'm … I'm going to …
arrest
you!” Valnikov panted.

And then Philo realized. A cop! Somehow they'd solved it already. Somehow he'd left a clue for them. They'd traced that last call he was dumb enough to make from the kennel when he was desperate. When he'd cut the bitch's ear off and wasn't thinking clearly anymore.

“I never hurt an animal in my life!” Philo whined. “That cunt made me do it!”

“Made … made you do what?” Valnikov panted.

“Cut … cut the ear off!” Philo cried. “I'll give the money back! I never hurt an animal in my life!”

Then Valnikov wiped his sweaty face with his sleeve and stood up, holding on to the chain link. He tried to get his head clear. He followed Philo's eyes to the last pen, the one beyond Philo Skinner. To the little schnauzer curled up in a corner, trembling and whining softly. A little schnauzer with her head wrapped in gauze bandage.

“You!
You
stole the dog!” Valnikov cried.

“Well, what … what did you think?” Philo said.

“That you were a … a burglar!” Valnikov said.

“You what?” Philo got even more pale and pulled himself painfully to his feet “Why … why'd you come here?”

“To ask … to ask about Mrs. Gharoujian's Tutu. I … I hoped you might be able to tell me if someone … if one of her boyfriends could have …”

“How did you
know
the dead schnauzer was Millie's Tutu?” Philo cried.

“I
didn't
know for sure,” Valnikov panted. “I was here to ask you to look at it.”

“NOOOOOOOO!” Philo howled, and some of the dogs who had been quieting down started howling again with Philo Skinner.