protecting his side and belly. I knelt down and lightly touched him.
“Roooo-ooo!”
It was a scream instead of a moan. He worked his jaws weakly at my hand, mustering up whatever energy he had to try and bite me, trying to protect himself. And then he saw it was me, and the old hatred in his eyes was replaced by something that was, if not happiness, at least relief. Lifting his head, I saw blood streaming from his nose and muzzle, covering his neck and darkening his normally white chest. I looked closely at shadows covering his side, thinking it was dirt until I realized it was boot prints.
Someone had tried to stomp Harry to death.
I felt his ribs and, thankfully, nothing was broken on the inside.
The blood was superficial, from kicks and cuts on his mouth and face, and maybe from whoever had tried to kill him, too.
I never petted Harry before, but now I gently stroked his neck until he lowered his head. When he did, his body shifted and I noticed that he was lying on Lou’s old Etch A Sketch. When my brother was seven, he taught himself to make wavy lines, then circles, and then, twisting the knobs in perfect harmony, tiny, gracefully crafted cursive letters. One afternoon he left it on the couch and I picked it up. Lou was obviously studying the Constitution in school at the time, because it read, “We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defense. .” I hadn’t seen the toy in years; my mom must’ve stored it in the basement. Carefully, I eased it from under Harry and he nosed my hand, letting me take it. The basement was so dark that I had to hold it inches from my face. When I did, I saw Lou’s writing, which was not graceful or crafted but scrawled and mostly illegible. Trying to make it out, I realized that Lou had been here, in the basement, and that he had written it in a hurry.
Squinting, I made out, “. . we are not. . beware. . the house. .”
I read, “. . ski mask. . tried to kill. . high-pitched. .”
The air moved with a whiff of foul meat, followed by a noise so faint it could have been my own breath, like a mouse moving inside the wall, or a footstep trying not to be heard.
I glanced at the Etch A Sketch and my skin froze, seeing the words, “If you hear. . then run, Sara Jane. . Run!”
And then Harry was on his feet, growling low in his belly with blood dripping between his bared teeth, and lunged past me into the blackness. I heard a muffled curse, Harry’s jaw snapping at his target, and then something fell and a shelf went over, smashing to the ground. There was a violent, kicking struggle with Harry grunting and his opponent making no noise at all. I squeezed the bust under one arm like a football and was about to sprint up the stairs when everything stopped, all sound and motion sucked out of the basement as a pair of large, rough hands locked around my neck. Two powerful thumbs dug into my larynx-I could feel my throat being crushed-and all I could do was struggle like a rag doll. Within seconds, flashbulbs of orange and purple popped in the darkness as oxygen left my brain. And then there was a jarring impact, a split second where the hands loosened followed by a growling-ripping noise. I was free, on my knees, gasping and hacking up blood.
Harry had done something in the dark and was now being punished for it.
I got to my feet and swung Frank Sinatra’s head at the head of the person who was kicking Harry.
There was a crack of plaster against skull, the bust fell to pieces, and Harry’s attacker fell to the floor.
I scrambled for the mini camera, cutting my hands on sharp shards until I found it. Overhead, thunder boomed like a Fourth of July finale followed by a flash of lightning against glass-block windows. The unmoving lump of body lay between me and the stairs, and I turned from it, groping toward the cellar doors instead. They had been locked from the outside since forever, but I was running on adrenaline and threw a shoulder like a linebacker, cracking apart the old wood. Cold bursts of rain hit my face, taking my breath away, and I was about to run across the yard when I remembered Harry. He’d saved my life and had taken a deadly beating to protect the Etch A Sketch because Lou commanded him to-because he loved my brother as much as I did. I listened, hearing only my labored breath, and then heard it-a faint whimpering and scratching at the floor.
Out of nowhere, I remembered Max counting backward on the train.
Ten seconds to zero. . nine, eight, seven. .
I scrambled back into blackness.
Harry’s whimper was my guide and I felt through the air like I was blindfolded until my foot bumped a body. My hands were shaking as I touched tight smooth fur over bruised bones. I lifted the small dog and took a step toward the door when the impact of a fist on my face put me on my back, with Harry rolling like a bloody wheel right out the cellar door.
There’s nothing worse than a sucker punch-the gasping explosion of red pain that rearranges reality and your face.
You get lost in its violation of decent human behavior, and then, if you’re a boxer, you get pissed. One of Willy’s rules is that a fighter who’s knocked down should always get right up and right back into the fight-give the other pug what he just gave you, times two. Trying to stand, I was assaulted by a hammering of double fists on my shoulders. I hit the floor again, this time face-first, feeling like my back was broken, but I ignored the pain and rolled as a boot crushed the empty place where I had been. I hooked an arm around an ankle and yanked as hard as I could. There was a bleat of surprise, legs in the air, and I leaped to my feet as the body hit the floor.
Then it was time to give him back what he had given to Harry.
He was trying to lift himself on a shoulder when I teed off on his face.
I couldn’t see quite who I was aiming at, but it didn’t matter, I drop-kicked his chin like I was going for an extra point.
He grunted and rolled over, and I saw the ski mask clinging to his lumpish head-nightmarish black with red eyeholes-which gave me a chilly pause before I went to work on him, using my foot like a jackhammer. I was bristling with the same sensation that I’d felt when I saw Max dancing with Mandi, a cold, calm fury that burned deep in my gut. Each blow was accounted for-that one for Harry, that for Lou, for my mom, my dad-and it seemed righteous, like a debt being paid. The best way to define it is that, as I kicked Ski Mask Guy into unconsciousness, I felt more like myself than I ever had in my life. Even as I came back to the moment-panting and sweating, my leg aching and the body not moving-it wasn’t fear that spiked my gut but caution. My chances of escape were lessening by the second, I knew instinctively, and I sprinted into the rain, scooped up Harry, and ran for the garage. My dad kept an extra set of keys to the Lincoln in an old coffee can. I fished them out and gingerly laid Harry on the backseat. He blinked up at me with something like gratitude, even comradeship-two furious souls who had saved each other’s lives, bound by love for my brother. He licked my hand, and it was covered in his own blood.
I jumped inside, clicked the seat belt, and pushed the remote control.
The garage door lifted slowly to rapids rushing down the brick alley.
The back tires spit smoke as I flew out of the garage.
And then I was speeding away without knowing where I was going, desperate to get away. My neck was raw and bruised, my forehead bore knuckle prints, and Harry was making a noise that sounded like his lungs were full of motor oil. The mini camera was on the seat next to me, sliding on leather, while my mind raced with the realization that
There was a pause and then a woman said, “Sara Jane Rispoli.” Not a query, but stating my name as a fact.
“Who is this?”
“Detective Dorothy Smelt,” she said. “Chicago Police Department. Are you all right, Miss Rispoli?” Her words were muffled and hard to understand, riddled with the static of a bad connection, which only added to the creepiness of the call.
“How did you know?” I asked cautiously.
“Someone called in a disturbance. Where are you?”
I was quiet because I was rattled and because the phone call confused me-how had she gotten my number?
