Maggie followed those smells into the bedroom again, and found the man’s gun. She smelled bullets and oil and gunpowder, but Pete’s scent was still absent. Pete was not here, and had never been here.
Maggie smelled water in the bathroom, and returned for a drink, but now the big white water bowl was covered, so she padded back to the kitchen. She drank, then returned to the sleeping man.
Maggie knew this was the man’s crate because his smell was part of this place. His smell was not a single smell, but many smells. Hair, ears, breath, underarms, hands, crotch, rectum, feet—each part of him had a different smell, and the scents of his many parts were as different and distinct to Maggie as the colors of a rainbow would be to the man. Together they made up this man’s smell, and were distinct from the scent of any other human. His smells were part of the walls, the floor, the paint, the rugs, the bed, the towels in his bathroom, the things in his closet, the gun, the furniture, his clothes and belt and watch and shoes. This was his place, but not her place, yet here she was.
Maggie’s crate was her home.
The people and places changed, but the crate remained the same. This place where the man brought her was strange and meaningless, but her crate was here, and she was here, so here was home.
Maggie was bred to guard and protect, so this was what she did. She stood in the still room near the sleeping man, and looked and listened and smelled. She drew in the world through her ears and her nose, and found no threat. All was good. All was safe.
She returned to her crate, but did not enter. She slipped beneath the table, instead. She turned three times until the space felt right, then lowered herself.
The world was quiet, peaceful, and safe. She closed her eyes, and slept.
Then Maggie began to dream.
8.
—the rifle swung toward him, a tiny thing so far away, but different now. Its barrel was gleaming chrome, as long and thin and sharp as a needle. Its glowing tip found him, looking at him as he looked at it, and then the needle exploded toward him, horribly sharp, dangerously sharp, this terrible sharp point reaching for his eyes—
Scott jerked awake as Stephanie’s fading voice echoed.
His heart pounded. His neck and chest were tacky with sweat. His body trembled.
Two-sixteen A.M. He was on the couch. The lights were still on in the kitchen and his bedroom, and the lamp above his head at the end of the couch still burned.
He took deep breaths, calming himself, and noticed the dog was not in her crate. Sometime while he slept, she had left the crate and crawled under the table. She was on her side, sleeping, but her paws twitched and moved as if she was running, and as she ran, she whimpered and whined.
Scott thought, that dog is having a nightmare.
Scott stood, cringing at the sharp pain in his side and the stiffness in his leg, and limped to her. He didn’t know if he should wake her.
He eased himself to the floor.
Still sleeping, she growled, and made a woofing sound like a bark, and then her entire body convulsed. She jolted awake, upright, snarling and snapping, but not at Scott. He lurched back anyway, but in that moment she realized where she was, and whatever she had been dreaming was gone. She looked at Scott. Her ears folded back, and she breathed as he had breathed. She lowered her head to the floor.
Scott slowly touched her. He ran his hand over her head. Her eyes closed.
Scott said, “You’re okay. We’re okay.”
She sighed so hard her body shivered.
Scott pulled on his shoes, and gathered together his wallet, and gun, and leash. When he picked up the leash, Maggie stood and shook herself. Maybe she could sleep again that night, but he couldn’t. He could never go back to sleep.
Scott clipped the lead to her collar, led her out to the Trans Am, and held the door so she could hop into the back seat. That time of night, almost two-thirty, the driving was easy. He hit the Ventura, slid down the Hollywood, and made it downtown in less than twenty minutes. He had made the same drive many times, at hours like this. When he woke hearing Stephanie call for him, he had no other choice.
He parked in the same place they had parked that night, at the little T-intersection where they had stopped to listen to the silence.
Scott said, “Turn off the engine.”
He said those same words every time he came, then turned off the engine.
Maggie stood, and leaned forward between the seats. She was so large she filled the car, her head now higher than his.
Scott stared at the empty street before them, but the street wasn’t empty. He saw the Kenworth. He saw the Bentley. He saw the men covered in black.
“Don’t worry. I’ll protect you.”
The same words he spoke that night, this time a whisper.
He glanced at Maggie, then back at the street, only now the street was empty. He listened to Maggie pant. He felt her warmth, and smelled her strong dog smell.
“I got my partner killed. It happened right here.”
His eyes filled, and the sob racked him so hard he doubled over. He could not stop. He did not try to stop. The pain came in a torrent of jolting sobs that filled his nose and blurred his eyes. He heaved and gasped, and clenched his eyes, and covered his face. Tears and snot and spit dripped in streamers from his chin, as he heard his own voice.
Then Stephanie’s voice echoed after his own, haunting him.
He finally pulled himself together. He rubbed the blur from his eyes, and found Maggie watching him.
He said, “I wasn’t running away. I swear to God I wasn’t, but she doesn’t—”
Maggie’s ears were back and her rich brown eyes were kind. She whimpered as if she felt his anxiety, then licked his face. Scott felt his tears return, and closed his eyes as Maggie licked the tears from his face.
Scott pulled the dog close, and buried his face in her fur.
“You did better than me, dog. You didn’t leave your partner. You didn’t fail.”
Maggie whimpered and tried to pull away, but Scott held on, and didn’t let go.
PART II
MAGGIE AND SCOTT
9.
Scott and Maggie were due at the training field at seven that morning, but Scott left early and returned to
