with the paint worn thin, lots of shadows because of the dim bulbs, so
maybe the lower landing was just two steps below or maybe it was a
hundred, five hundred, or - maybe you went down and down and around and
around for ninety thousand steps, and when you reached the bottom you
were at the center of the earth with dinosaurs and lost cities. 'In
doggie hell,' he told Falstaff, 'the devil's a cat. You know that?
Big cat, really big, stands on his hind feet, has claws like razors
...' Down and around, slow step by slow step. '. . . this big devil
cat, he wears a cape made out of dog fur, necklace out of dog teeth .
. .' Down and around. '... and when he plays marbles ...' Wood
creaking underfoot. '... he uses dogs' eyes! Yeah, that's right
...'
Falstaff whimpered. '. . . he's one mean cat, big mean cat, mean as
shit.' They reached the bottom. The vestibule. The two doors.
'Kitchen,' Toby whispered, indicating one door. He turned to the
other. 'Back porch.' He could probably twist open the deadbolt, slip
onto the porch, scoop up a double handful of snow, even if he had to go
as far as the yard to get it, but still make it back inside and all the
way up to his room without his mom or dad ever knowing about it.
Make a real snowball, his first. Take a taste of it. When it started
to melt, he could just put it in a corner of his room, and in the
morning, there'd be no evidence. Just water. Which, if anyone noticed
it, he could blame on Falstaff.
Toby reached for the doorknob with his right hand and for the dead-bolt
turn with his left. The retriever jumped up, planted both paws on the
wall beside the door, and clamped his jaws around Toby's left wrist.
Toby stifled a squeal of surprise. -Falstaff held the wrist firmly,
but he didn't bite down, didn't really hurt, just held on and rolled
his eyes at Toby, as if what he would have said, if he could speak, was
something like, No, you can't open this door, it's nuts, forget it, no
way. 'What're you doing?' Toby whispered. 'Let go.' Falstaff would
not let go. 'You're drooling on me,' Toby said as a rivulet of thick
saliva trickled down his wrist and under the sleeve of his pajama
tops.
The retriever worked his teeth slightly, still not hurting his master
but making it clear that he could cause a little pain anytime he
wanted. 'What, is Mom paying you?' Toby let go of the doorknob with
his right hand. The dog rolled his eyes, relaxed his jaws, but didn't
entirely let go of the left wrist until Toby released the thumb-turn on
the lock and lowered his hand to his side. Falstaff dropped away from
the wall, onto all fours again.
Toby stared at the door, wondering if he would be able to move quickly
enough to open it before the dog could leap up and seize his wrist
again. The retriever watched him closely. Then he wondered why
Falstaff didn't want him to go outside. Dogs could sense danger.
Maybe a bear was prowling around outside, one of the bears that Dad
said lived in the woods. A bear could gut you and bite your head off
so quick you wouldn't have a chance to scream, crunch your skull up
like hard candy, pick its teeth with your armbone, and all they'd find
