'No. Not my fault.'
I stepped back. Otto followed me, stalking, one paw scraping the ground, the short hairs rising.
'I'll go,' I said. 'We don't have to talk. It's not that important. You deserve your privacy.' I was rambling, stalling for time, my eyes on the tools in the corner. Mentally, I measured the distance to the pitchfork, covertly rehearsing the move I might have to make.
'I gave you a chance. You didn't take it. Now it's too late.'
She clocked twice and the dog sprang, coming at me in a blur of snarling darkness. I saw the forepaws raised in the air, the wet, hungry, gnashing mouth, the orange eyes zeroed on their target, all in a fraction of a second. Still within that second, I feinted to the right, sank to my knees and lunged for the pitchfork. My fingers closed around wood and I snatched it and jabbed upward.
He came down on me, a ton of coiled monster, crushing the breath from my chest, the paws and teeth scraping and snapping. Something went through cloth, then leather, then skin. Pain took hold of my arm from elbow to shoulder, piercing and sickening. The handle of the pitchfork slipped from my grasp. I shielded my face with one sleeve, as Otto nuzzled at me with his wet nose, trying to get those buzz - saw jaws around my neck. I twisted away, reached out blindly for the pitchfork, got hold of it, lost it and found it again. I landed a knuckle punch on the crown of his skull. It was like pummeling armor plate. He reared up on his hind legs, roaring with rage and bore down. I turned the pitchfork prong - upwards. He lunged, throwing his full weight down on me. My legs bent and my back hit the dirt. The air went out of me and I fought for consciousness, swallowed up in churning fur and struggling to keep the fork between us.
Then he whinnied shrilly; at the same time I felt the pitchfork hit bone, scrape and slide as I twisted the handle, full of hate. The prongs went into him like warm knife into butter.
We embraced, the dog's tongue on my ear, his mouth slavering, open in agony, an inch from carving out a chunk of my face. I put all of my strength behind the pitchfork, pushing and twisting, vaguely aware of the sound of a woman screaming. He cried out like a puppy. The prongs went in a final inch and then could sink no deeper. His eyes opened wide with injured pride, blinked spasmodically, then closed. The huge body shuddered convulsively atop me. A tide of blood shot out of his mouth, splashing across my nose, lips and chin. I gagged on the warm, salty muck. Life passed out of him and I struggled to roll free.
The whole thing had taken less than half a minute.
Kim Hickle looked at the dead dog, then at me, and made a run for the door. I pulled myself to standing position, yanked the pitchfork out of the barrel chest and blocked her away.
'Get back,' I gasped. I moved the pitchfork and droplets of gore flew through the air. She froze.
The greenhouse was silent. The rain had stopped.
The silence was broken by a low, rumbling noise: bubbles of gas escaping from the big dog's corpse. A mound of feces followed, running down the limp legs and mingling with the mulch'.
She watched it and started to cry. Then she went limp and sat on the floor with the hopeless, stuporous look of a refugee.
I jammed the pitchfork into the ground and used it to lean on. It took me a full minute to catch my breath, another two or three to check for damages.
The raincoat was ruined, torn and blood - soaked. With some effort I got it off and let it fall to the ground. One arm of the leather jacket was shredded. I slipped out of it, too, and rolled up the sleeve of the turtleneck. I inspected my bicep. The layers of clothing had prevented it from being worse but it wasn't pretty: three puncture wounds that had already begun to swell, surrounded by a maze of abrasions. The arm felt stiff and sore. I bent it and nothing felt broken. The same went for my ribs and my other limbs, although my entire body floated just above agony. I stretched carefully, using a limbering routine I'd learned from Jaroslav. It made me feel a little better.
'Did Otto have his shots?' I asked.
She didn't answer. I repeated the question, punctuating it with a grasp of the pitchfork handle.
'Yes. I have the papers.'
'I want to see them.'
'It's true. You can believe me.' 'You just tried to get that monster to rip out my throat. Right now your credibility isn't high.'
She looked at the dead animal and went into a meditative sway. She seemed to be one who was used to waiting. I was in no mood for a battle of endurance.
'You've got two choices, Mrs. Hickle. One, cooperate and I'll leave you to your little Walden. Or, you can make it hard for me and I'll see that your story makes page one of the L.A. Times Metro section. Think of it: Molester's widow finds refuge in abandoned homesite. Poetic, isn't it? Ten to one the wire services pick it up.'
'What do you want from me?'
'Answers to questions. I've no reason - or desire - to hurt you.'
'You're really the one whose office Stuart - died in?'
'Yes. Who else were you expecting?'
'No one,' she said too quickly.
'Towle? Hayden? McCaffrey?'
At the mention of each name her face registered pain sequentially, as if her bones were being broken in stages.
'I'm not with them. But I want to know more about them.'
She raised herself to a squat, stood, and picked up the bloodied raincoat. Carefully she placed it over the dog's still form.
'I'll talk to you,' she said.
25
There was an entrance to the four - car garage that had eluded me: At ground level, hidden behind an untrimmed blue spruce, was a window covered with chicken - coop wire mesh. She kneeled, played with a couple of strategic strands and the mesh came loose. A push, a wriggle and she was inside. I followed. I was much larger and it wasn't easy. My injured arm brushed against the pane and I had to hold my breath to stop from crying out as I squeezed through.
A half - jump brought me to a narrow room that had originally been a root cellar. It was damp and dark, the walls lined with shallow wooden shelving, the floor of poured concrete painted red. There was a wooden shutter above the window, held in place by an eye and hook. She unfastened it and it slammed shut. There was a second of darkness during which I braced myself for something devious. Instead came the pleasing pungence of kerosene, reminiscent of teenage love by the light of the campfire, and smoky illumination. She tilted the slats of the shutter so that additional light came in but visibility from the outside was obscured.
My eyes adjusted to the light and the details came into focus: A thin pallet and bedroll lay on the floor. The kerosene lamp, a hot plate, a can of Sterno and a packet of plastic utensils shared space on a rickety wooden table that had been painted and repainted so many times it looked like soft sculpture. There was a utility sink in one corner and above it a rack holding an empty jam jar, a toothbrush, toothpowder, safety razor and a bar of laundry soap. Most of the remaining floor space was taken up by wooden milk cartons of a type I hadn't seen since childhood. The boxes had tube - shaped hand holes on two sides and bore the imprint of 'Farmer Del's Dairy, Tacoma, Wash - Our Butter Is Best, Put It to the Test.' Below the slogan was a picture of a bored - looking heifer and a phone number with a two - letter prefix. She'd stacked the cartons three - high in places. The contents of some of them were visible - packets of freeze - dried food, canned goods, paper towels, folded clothing. Three pairs of shoes, all rubber - soled and sturdy, were lined up neatly against the wall. There were metal hooks hammered into a raw wood support beam. She hung her slicker on one of them and sat down on a straight - backed chair of unfinished pine. I settled myself on an overturned milk carton.
We looked at each other.
In the absence of competing stimuli the pain in my arm took over. I winced, and she saw it.
She got up, soaked a paper towel in warm water, came over and swabbed the wound. She poked around in one of the boxes and found sterile gauze, adhesive tape and hydrogen peroxide. Tending to me like Florence
