Watchdog (24 page)

“Right. And nobody ever did. Why should they? The other three dogs were fine. Oh, not as good as their dam, maybe, but that's not unusual. Lots of old time breeders will tell you that quality often skips a generation.

“I finished all three of Winter's sons. That was easy, they were good dogs. All three have been used at stud plenty, too. No harm in that, either, their pedigrees were perfectly correct.”

“So what went wrong?”

“What?” John blinked his eyes and looked at me. He was so engrossed in his story, that for a moment I think he'd almost forgotten I was there.

“Ten years passed and everyone was happy. Then something must have gone wrong. What was it?”

“What was it?” John repeated. “It was Marcus Rattigan sticking his big fat nose back in where it didn't belong.”

“I thought the dogs were just a passing phase for him, that he'd lost interest and moved on.” I stopped abruptly, remembering what Gloria had said.

Even after Rattigan grew bored, he never gave up anything that he thought of as his. He'd kept his golf clubs and his antique cars. And maybe after all the money he'd spent on Winter's career, he'd felt entitled to keep an interest in her progeny.

“Marcus had a short attention span,” said John. “When he was into something, his intensity was fierce. When that interest dried up, it was like switching off a light. But according to the terms of our contract, he was supposed to get two puppies back from the first litter. So I let him take the bitch. I even offered him one of the dogs. It's not as though I needed all three.”

John smiled slyly. He was the dog man, not Rattigan. To the untrained eye, a litter of eight-week-old puppies all look remarkably alike. I'd have been willing to bet that the dog he'd offered Marcus was the least of the three. Not that he'd have told Rattigan that.

“He turned you down?”

“He sure did. That year we spent campaigning Winter was pretty intense. By the time it was over, Marcus was ready for a break. Ready to move on. He told me he didn't have any use for the puppy, that I should keep him with his blessing.”

John lifted his hands innocently. “I only did what he told me to do. That doesn't make it my fault when he comes back later and says he's changed his mind.”

“You mean recently?” I asked, wondering if another piece of the puzzle had just fallen into place. “Rattigan decided he wanted a puppy after all?”

“Wanted, hell!” John spat out. “He said he deserved a puppy. That after all he'd done for me, I owed it to him. And if you knew Marcus, you knew that only the best would do. He didn't want just any puppy.”

With a sinking feeling of inevitability, I knew what he was going to say. “He wanted Summer.”

“Of course he wanted Summer. I told him to go to hell. He had his chance. He had everything with Winter—the fame, the glory. Strutting around the show grounds like he owned the place, like he owned the dog, when all along he was just some poor schmuck who was fortunate enough to get his name on a lease.

“Do you know that Marcus's name was the only one listed on Winter when she was shown? He made that a condition of the contract. Whenever he ran an ad touting all she'd won, he listed himself as owner, but never said a word about me, the breeder, the person who'd done all the work. If he could have figured out a way to delete my name in the catalogue listing, I'm sure he'd have done that, too.”

I could understand why he was upset. Like any breeder who'd been lucky enough to produce a really good one, he'd felt justifiably proud of his dog. Sponsors aren't easy to find, however; and even though he'd agreed to Rattigan's conditions to finance Winter's career, it must have been hard to watch the dog go on to glory without him.

“Summer is my dog!” John said angrily. “My shot!”

I glanced around to see if anyone was listening. The Basenji man was gone; he must have finished loading while we'd been talking. The few other setups left at that end of the tent were empty, and I could guess why. Best in Show was being judged. Anyone who'd stayed this long wasn't going to miss the show's grand finale. Across the field, I could see the remaining exhibitors gathered around a far ring.

The judging was bound to finish soon. Then everyone would come trooping back to pack up for the day. In the meantime I hoped I could keep John talking.

“What did Rattigan do when you turned him down?”

John's face tightened into a snarl. “He told me that wasn't an option. Like he thought I'd just cave in and give him what he wanted. I told him to take a hike. At first he did, but he came back. Said if I was going to keep him out of dogs, then he'd do the same for me.”

“How?”

“Marcus was going to turn me in to the AKC. Tell them about Winter's breedings and let them take it from there. He would have ruined me and destroyed my whole life's work. He was going to fix it so I could never show dogs again.

“I tried to reason with him, but he didn't give a damn. That was the worst part. Tit for tat, he said. If I didn't give him what he wanted, he'd get his revenge. That's when I knew there was only one way I could fix things. Marcus Rattigan had to die.”

I should have said something quickly, but I didn't, and the words hung in the silent air between us. Their echo was loud and utterly damning.

“He was going to ruin me,” John repeated. He was still angry, and he wanted to make sure that I understood. “I didn't have any choice.”

I glanced toward the Best in Show ring. The judging was usually pretty quick—fifteen or twenty minutes, tops. How much more time did I have to kill?

Bad question, under the circumstances.

“How did you do it?” I asked.

John folded a towel and threw it on a stack beside the crates. “It wasn't hard. I'd already been over to the coffee bar a couple of times so I knew my way around. With all the equipment the crew left hanging around, it was easy to climb up on the roof, saw through the frame of the skylight, and then loosen a few bolts. Once Marcus was standing where I wanted, one good shove was all it took.”

“How did you get him to come to the coffee bar? You didn't call him at his office.”

“Of course not. Do I look dumb to you? I had his cell phone number.”

Modern technology. Where would we be without it?

“Didn't Rattigan think it was odd that you wanted to meet him after hours?”

“Who knows what he thought?” John said, smirking. “The only thing that mattered was that he agreed readily enough. All I had to do was dangle Summer under his nose and he came running.”

John reached around behind him and got something out of the tackbox. I heard the faint sound of applause coming from the ring. Had the judge made his choice, or, were the spectators just having their say? There was no way to tell. When I looked back at John, he was staring at me with an odd expression on his face.

“So you told Rattigan you'd give him Summer,” I said, eager to distract him.

“I sure did. Marcus thought he'd won again. He was used to winning. He never even questioned it. I parked my car down the road where he wouldn't see it and I was waiting on the roof when he got there. Then I did what had to be done.”

“Marcus was your friend,” I said quietly.

“That was a long time ago. Before Winter, anyway. That year killed our friendship. We never should have done the deal over the dog.”

“You needed Rattigan's money. If you hadn't agreed to the lease, Winter wouldn't have been number one.”

“I guess you might say I danced with the devil. I sure as hell ended up getting burned.” John sounded bitter, so busy picturing himself as the victim that he'd almost forgotten that Rattigan was the one who'd ended up dead.

“Sometimes it's a shame how things turn out,” he said. “You make a decision that seems necessary, even logical, at the time. Then later it comes back to haunt you and there's not a damn thing you can do about it.”

His voice was so calm, his tone was so reasonable, that when John lifted his arm suddenly, he caught me by surprise. His hand was fisted, and I thought he meant to strike me. Instead, his fingers opened and a silver choke chain slithered down.

I jumped back but the grooming table blocked my path. Before I could get around it, John had grabbed the free end of the collar with his other hand and pressed it against my throat. His hands crossed swiftly behind my head, the chain wrapping with them.

I should have screamed while I still had the chance, but it all happened so fast. By the time the thought occurred to me, it was already too late. Reflexively I reached for the collar, my fingers scrambling for purchase that wasn't there. The chain tightened and I felt my windpipe constrict.

Breath vanished. Panicked, I struck out with hands and feet, flailing, kicking, trying anything. John sidestepped my blows and applied more pressure. If it wasn't for the bulky turtleneck and jacket I'd worn to ward off the cold, I'd already have been dead.

We moved together in an awkward dance. Briefly I saw his face. John's eyes were black, his pupils dilated. They registered nothing. I tried to scream and barely managed a croak. Stars were beginning to explode in my head. Darkness hovered just beyond them. In another minute it would be over.

John tightened his grip and slipped around behind me. I struck out blindly and my fingers rapped hard against wood. I'd struck the top of Summer's crate. The pain felt good, it let me know I was still alive. For a single moment of clarity, it helped me to think.

I couldn't be stronger than Monaghan, but I could be smarter. I reached out again and felt the crate. This time I raced my fingers down its front. I passed the opening at the top of the door and slipped down further until I came to the latch that held it shut.

Summer was still pressed up against the door. I could feel his hair pushing out through the open grill. Crate doors are usually double locked, but John and I had been talking when he'd put the Fox Terrier inside and he hadn't bothered.

All I had to do was turn the latch. The door would fall open and Summer would be free.

John saw what I was doing and tried to pull me back. The close quarters had trapped me earlier. Now they worked to my advantage. He couldn't get the leverage he needed. My fingers grasped the latch like a lifeline.

“Don't!” he cried.

I knew he was picturing Summer leaping out. After a day of confinement, the terrier would revel in the unexpected freedom. He'd run, and we both knew it.

Maybe it would be a game for him at first. Then he'd look around and realize everything he saw was unfamiliar. People, trying to help, would scream and chase him. He'd see them as the enemy. Pretty soon he'd be running for his life.

There were cars on the show ground and a thruway just beyond, a constricted web of heavily trafficked roads that led to New York's airports. If Summer made it that far, he'd never stand a chance.

I saw Summer's fate just as clearly as John did, and I hated what I was about to do. But John had said it all earlier. I didn't have a choice.

The latch turned in my fingers and I pulled the toggle free. Now my hand was the only thing holding the door closed. The weight of Summer's body pushed against it.

“No!” John roared, lunging for the door.

As suddenly as it had begun, the constriction around my throat was gone. Gasping for air, I fell to the ground and rolled beneath the grooming table. John rushed past me. He caught Summer just as the dog launched himself out into the air.

The Fox Terrier struggled briefly but I knew he wouldn't give me much time. On hands and knees, I crawled out from under the other side of the table. My throat felt raw. The air I craved burned even as I sucked it in.

I tried to stand, but my legs wouldn't hold me. Wobbling, I leaned against the table and pushed myself up. Blood pounded in my ears. If it weren't for that, I'd have heard the screaming sooner.

“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!” Kate chanted the words like a mantra. Being a teenager, she prayed at the top of her lungs.

She stared at me in horror and I couldn't manage the words it would take to reassure her. Instead I reached up gingerly to assess the damage. My jacket collar was ripped to pieces, the turtleneck beneath it, shredded. Thank goodness they'd been there. Even so, I could feel the bruises already beginning to form on my throat.

Kate continued to shriek and I was dimly aware that other people were running in our direction. It was about time, I thought. Best in Show was finally over.

 

It took me a good fifteen minutes to regain some semblance of speech and composure. By that time Summer had been safely double locked in his crate and we were surrounded by the members of the show committee, an AKC rep, my family, and an assortment of other judges and exhibitors. The local police had been called and were on their way.

The show chairman, a gruff, blustering man named Hank DiNardo, demanded an explanation. Immediately John took over, spinning a tale that had no basis in either fact or reality. Aunt Peg, who had a firm grip on Davey's hand and an even firmer grip on the truth, looked ready to interrupt.

I took a deep breath and beat her to the punch.

“She's lying,” John said firmly, cutting off my explanation. “It's all lies.”

Several people in the crowd nodded. Thanks to Winter and the rest of the Wirerock Fox Terriers, John was a well known and well respected figure in the dog show community. Everyone in the circle around us knew who he was.

Aunt Peg would have her supporters, but I was nobody. It didn't take a genius to see who they were going to believe. Then Kate stepped in.

“Ms. Travis is my teacher,” she said stoutly. “And she doesn't lie.”

“Stay out of this, Kate,” John snapped.

“I can't. I guess I'm already in the middle of it.” She reached around beside the stacked crates where John had left some equipment. There were a couple of towels piled on top.

Kate flipped back several layers of terry cloth and pulled out a tiny tape recorder. It was still running.

I closed my eyes and offered a silent prayer.

“It's voice activated,” said Kate, looking at me apologetically. “I picked it up at The Sharper Image. I know you told me not to get involved but when I saw it, I couldn't resist. I tried to tell you about it earlier. Don't be too mad.”

Mad? I was ready to kiss her. My very own teenage Nancy Drew to the rescue.

“Let's hear what you've got,” I said.

Kate hit the rewind button. Nobody said a thing as the spool rewound. Halfway back, she stopped and let it play. I couldn't have timed things better.

“Marcus was going to turn me into the AKC.” John's voice was tinny, but clear. “Tell them about Winter's breedings and let them take it from there. He would have ruined me—”

“Shut that off!” John's face was purple. He lunged at Kate and tried to snatch the little machine from her grasp. “You taped me without my consent. That's illegal!”

“Tell it to your lawyer,” said Hank DiNardo, stepping between John and Kate. “You make one more attempt to hurt someone on my show ground and I'll see to it that charges are pressed.”

The wail of an approaching siren announced that the police were near. The show committee, obviously accustomed to working as a team, surrounded John until they could decide what to do next.

Most of the crowd seemed eager to see what was going to happen. I just wanted to get out of there. Now that John's confession was on tape, my presence was no longer crucial. It was easy to fade back to the edge of the circle. Aunt Peg and Davey came around to meet me and I took my son's other hand.

I watched Kate entrust the little recorder to Hank DiNardo and was about to intervene when Aunt Peg stopped me. “Don't worry,” she said under her breath. “He's a judge.”

“Dog show?”

“Federal court. He'll know what to do with it.”

As we walked away, Kate hurried to catch up. “I came with John. I guess I'm going to need a ride home.”

“You're with me,” I told her. “What about Summer?”

We all looked back. Two officers had arrived. John was arguing vociferously. Others around him were chiming in with other opinions. With any luck, the police would have so many statements to take I'd be long gone before anyone thought to look for me.

“Someone on the show committee will watch out for the dog,” said Aunt Peg. “You can depend on it.”

“That was fun,” said Davey.

Three pairs of eyes turned to look in his direction. “It was?”

“Aunt Peg and I watched Best in Show. She bet me the Gordon Setter was going to win. I bet on the Afghan and won a dollar. Can we do this again next week?”

Out of the mouths of babes, I thought.

“Not if I can help it,” I said.