'Nothing seems broken.' I wrinkled my nose. 'What is that smell? Oh God, I didn't mess myself, did I?'
Morelli turned me around. 'Whoa!' he said. 'Someone in this building has a big dog. A big, sick dog. And it looks like you hit ground zero.'
I shrugged out of the jacket, and held it at arm's length. 'Am I okay now?'
'Some of it's splattered down the back of your jeans.'
'Anyplace else?'
'Your hair.'
This sent me into instant hysteria. 'GET IT OUT! GET IT OUT!' Morelli clapped a hand over my mouth. 'Quiet!'
'Get it out of my hair!'
'I can't get it out of your hair. You're going to have to wash it out.' He pulled me toward the street. 'Can you walk?'
I staggered forward.
'That's good,' Morelli said. 'Keep doing that. Before you know it you'll be to the van. And then we'll get you to a shower. After an hour or two of scrubbing you'll be good as new.'
'Good as new.' My ears were ringing, and my voice sounded far away . . . like a voice in a jar. 'Good as new,' I repeated.
When we got to the van Morelli opened the rear door. 'You don't mind riding in back, do you?'
I stared at him blank-minded.
Morelli shone my flashlight in my eyes. 'You sure you're okay?'
'What kind of dog do you think it was?'
'A big dog.'
'What kind?'
'Rottweiler. Male. Old and overweight. Bad teeth. Ate a lot of tuna fish.' I started to cry.
'Oh jeez,' Morelli said. 'Don't cry. I hate when you cry.'
'I've got rottweiler shit in my hair.'
He used his thumb to wipe the tears from my cheeks. 'It's okay, honey. It's really not so bad. I was kidding about the tuna.' He gave me a boost into the van. 'Hold tight back here. I'll have you home before you know it.'
He brought me to my apartment.
'I thought this was best,' he said. 'Didn't think you'd want your mother to see you in this condition.' He searched through my pocketbook for the key and opened the door. The apartment felt cool and neglected. Too quiet. No Rex spinning in his wheel. No light left burning to welcome me home.
The kitchen beckoned to my left. 'I need a beer,' I said to Morelli. I was in no rush for the shower. I'd lost my ability to smell. I'd accepted the condition of my hair. I shuffled into the kitchen and tugged at the refrigerator door. The door swung wide, the fridge light went on, and I stared in dumb silence at a foot . . . a large, filthy, bloody foot, separated from the leg just above the ankle, placed next to a tub of margarine and a three-quarters-filled bottle of cranberry cocktail.
'There's a foot in my refrigerator,' I said to Morelli. Bells clanged, lights flashed, my mouth went numb, and I crashed to the floor.
I struggled up from unconscious muck and opened my eyes. 'Mom?'
'Not exactly,' Morelli said.
