Still, the boy clutched the fence and faced the monster inside. He spoke with the effortless authority of innocence and youth.
“It’s
Brutus turned away and closed his eyes with an equally firm conviction.
The boy was wrong.
Brutus slept on the back porch. Three months had passed and his sutures and staples were gone. The medicines in his food had faded away. Over the months, he and the family had come to an uneasy truce, a cold stalemate.
Each night, they tried to coax him into the house, especially as the leaves were turning brown and drifting up into piles beneath the hardwoods and the lawn turned frosty in the early morning. But Brutus kept to his porch, even avoiding the old sofa covered in a ragged thick comforter. He kept his distance from all things. He still flinched from a touch and growled when he ate, unable to stop himself.
But they no longer used the muzzle.
Perhaps they sensed the defeat that had turned his heart to stone. So he spent his days staring across the yard, only stirring occasionally, pricking up an ear if a stray squirrel should dare bound along the fencerow, its tail fluffed and fearless.
The back door opened, and the boy stepped out onto the porch. Brutus gained his feet and backed away.
“Benny, are you sure you don’t want to come inside? I made a bed for you in the kitchen.” He pointed toward the open door. “It’s warm. And look, I have a treat for you.”
The boy held out a hand, but Brutus already smelled the bacon, still smoking with crisply burned fat. He turned away. Back at the training yard, the others had tried to use bait on him, too. But after his sister, Brutus had always refused, no matter how hungry.
The dog crossed to the top step of the porch and lay down.
The boy came and sat with him, keeping his distance.
Brutus let him.
They sat for a long time. The bacon still in his fingers. The boy finally nibbled it away himself. “Okay, Benny, I have some homework.”
The boy began to get up, paused, then carefully reached out to touch him on the head. Brutus didn’t growl, but his fur bristled. Noting the warning, the boy sagged, pulled back his hand, and stood up.
“Okay. See ya in the morning, Benny boy.”
He didn’t watch the boy leave, but he listened for the door to clap shut. Satisfied that he was alone, he settled his head to his paws. He stared out into the yard.
The moon was already up, full-faced and bright. Lights twinkled. Distantly, he listened as the household settled in for the night. A television whispered from the front room. He heard the boy call down from the upstairs. His mother answered.
Then suddenly Brutus was on his feet, standing stiff, unsure what had drawn him up. He kept dead still. Only his ears swiveled.
A knock sounded on the front door.
In the night.
“I’ll get it,” the mother called out.
Brutus twisted, bolted for the old sofa on the porch, and climbed half into it, enough to see through the picture window. The view offered a straight shot down the central dark hallway to the lighted front room.
Brutus watched the woman step to the door and pull it open.
Before she’d gotten it more than a foot wide, the door slammed open. It struck her and knocked her down. Two men charged inside, wearing dark clothes and masks pulled over their heads. Another kept watch by the open door. The first man backed into the hallway and kept a large pistol pointed toward the woman on the floor. The other intruder sidled to the left and aimed a gun toward someone in the dining room.
“don’t move!” the second gunman shouted.
Brutus tensed. He knew that voice, graveled and merciless. In an instant, his heart hammered in his chest, and his fur flushed up all over his body, quivering with fury.
“Mom? Dad?” The boy called from the top of the stairs.
“Jason!” the father answered from the dining room. “Stay up there!”
The leader stepped farther into the room. He shoved his gun out, holding it crooked. “Old man, sit your ass down!”
“What do you want?”
The gun poked again. “Yo! Where’s my dog?”
“Your dog?” the mother asked on the floor, her voice trembling with fear.
“Brutus!” the man hollered. He lifted his other arm and bared the stump of a wrist. “I owe that bitch some payback…and that includes anyone taking care of his ass! In fact, we’re going to have ourselves an old-fashioned barbecue.” He turned to the man in the doorway. “What are you waiting for? Go get the gasoline?”
The man vanished into the night.
Brutus dropped back to the porch and retreated to the railing. He bunched his back legs.
“Yo! Where you keeping my damn dog? I know you got him!”
Brutus sprang forward, shoving out with all the strength in his body. He hit the sofa and vaulted over it. Glass shattered as he struck the window with the crown of his skull. He flew headlong into the room and landed in the kitchen. His front paws struck the floor before the first piece of glass. He bounded away as shards crashed and skittered across the checkerboard linoleum.
Down the hall, the first gunman began to turn, drawn by the noise. But he was too late. Brutus flew down the hall and dived low. He snatched the gunman by the ankle and ripped the tendon, flipping the man as he ran under him. The man’s head hit the corner of a walnut hall table, and he went down hard.
Brutus spotted a man out on the front porch, frozen in midstep, hauling two large red jugs. The man saw Brutus barreling toward him. His eyes got huge. He dropped the jugs, spun around, and fled away.
A pistol fired, deafening in the closed space. Brutus felt a kick in his front leg. It shattered under him, but he was already in midleap toward the one-handed gunman, his old trainer and handler. Brutus hit him like a sack of cement. He head-butted the man in the chest. Weight and momentum knocked the legs out from under the man. They fell backwards together.
The pistol blasted a second time.
Something burned past Brutus’s ear, and plaster rained down from the ceiling.
Then they both hit the hardwood floor. The man landed flat on his back, Brutus on top. The gun flew from his fingers and skittered under the dining room chair.
His trainer tried to kick Brutus away, but he’d taught the dog too well. Brutus dodged the knee. With a roar, he lunged for the man’s throat. The man grabbed one-handed for an ear, but Brutus had lost most of the flap in an old fight. The ear slipped from the man’s grip, and Brutus snapped for the tender neck. Fangs sank for the sure kill.
Then a shout barked behind him. “Benny! No!”
From out the corner of an eye, he saw the father crouched by the dining room table. He had recovered the pistol and pointed it at Brutus.
“Benny! Down! Let him go!”
From the darkness of the pit, Brutus growled back at the father. Blood flowed as Brutus clamped harder on his prey. He refused to release. Under him, the trainer screamed and gurgled. One fist punched blindly, but Brutus ground his jaws tighter. Blood flowed more heavily.
“Benny, let him go now!”
Another sharper voice squeaked in fear. It came from the stairs. “No, Dad!”
“Jason, I can’t let him kill someone.”
“Benny!” the boy screamed. “Please, Benny!”
Brutus ignored them. He wasn’t Benny. He knew the pit was where he truly belonged, where he’d always end up. As his vision narrowed and darkness closed over him, he let himself fall deeper into that black, bottomless well,
