Scott ejected the disc.
Beloit and Pahlasian were no more real now than before—two middle-aged men about to get whacked for reasons unknown. Scott hated them. He wished he had a video of them being shot to death. He wished he had shot them as they left the club, stopped the bastards cold right there before they got Stephanie killed and him shot to pieces, and put Scott James on a path that led to him, here, now, crying.
Thump thump thump.
Maggie was beside him, watching. With her folded ears and caring eyes, she looked as soft and sleek as a seal. He stroked her head.
“I’m okay.”
Scott drank some water, took a pee, and loaded the Tyler’s disc. The high angle included the reception station, an incomplete view of the bar, and three blurry tables. When Pahlasian and Beloit entered from the bottom left corner of the frame, their faces were hidden by the bad angle.
A host and hostess in dark suits greeted them. After a brief conversation, the woman showed them to their table. This was the last Scott saw of Pahlasian and Beloit until they departed.
Scott ejected the disc.
The Club Red disc was by far the superior, which left Scott wondering what the missing disc showed. He dug out Melon’s interview with Richard Levin to make sure he had it right, and reread the handwritten note:
Scott decided to phone Cowly.
“Joyce? Hey, it’s Scott James. Hope you don’t mind. I have a question about these discs.”
“Sure. What’s up?”
“I was wondering why you gave me only one of the Club Red discs and not both.”
Cowly was silent for a moment.
“I gave you two discs.”
“Yeah, you did. One from Tyler’s and one from Club Red, but there are supposed to be two from Club Red. Melon has a note here saying two discs were logged.”
Cowly was silent some more.
“I don’t know what to tell you. There was only the one disc from Club Red. We have the LAX stuff, the disc from Tyler’s, and the disc from Club Red.”
“Melon’s note says there were two.”
“I hear you. Those things were screened, you know? All we got was a confirmation of arrival and departure times. Nobody saw anything unusual.”
“Why is it missing?”
She sounded exasperated.
“Shit happens. Things get lost, misplaced, people take stuff and forget they have it. I’ll check, okay? These things happen, Scott. Is there anything else?”
“No. Thanks.”
Scott felt miserable. He hung up, put away the discs, and stretched out on the couch.
Maggie came over, sniffed for a spot, and lay down beside the couch. He rested his hand on her back.
“You’re the only good part of this.”
Thump thump.
27.
Maggie roamed a drowsy green field, content and at peace. Belly full. Thirst quenched. Scott’s hand a warm comfort. The man was Scott. She was Maggie. This place was their crate, and their crate was safe.
Dogs notice everything. Maggie knew Scott was Scott because he looked at other humans when they used the word. This was how she learned Pete was Pete, and she was Maggie. People looked at her when they said it. Maggie understood come, stay, out, crate, walk, ball, pee, bunk, seek, rat, MRE, chow, good girl, drink, sit, down, fucker, roll over, treat, sit up, guard’m, eat up, find’m, get’m, and many other words. She learned words easily if she associated them with food, joy, play, or pleasing her alpha. This was important. Pleasing her alpha made the pack strong.
Maggie opened her eyes when Scott moved his hand. Their crate was quiet and safe, so Maggie did not rise. She listened to Scott move through the crate. She heard him urinating a few seconds before she smelled his urine, which was followed by the familiar rush of water. A moment later, she smelled the sweet green foam Scott made in his mouth. When the water stopped, Scott returned, smelling brightly of the green foam, water, and soap.
He squatted beside her, stroked her, and made words she did not understand. This did not matter. She understood the love and kindness in his tone.
Maggie lifted her hind leg to expose her belly.
Alpha happy, pack happy.
I am yours.
Scott lay down on the couch in the darkness. Maggie smelled the growing cool of his body, and knew when he slept. When Scott slept, she sighed, and let herself drift into sleep.
A sound new to their crate roused her.
Their crate was defined by its scents and sounds—the carpet; the paint; Scott; the scent of the mice in the walls, and the squeak when they mated; the elderly female who lived with only her voice for pack; the rats clawing their way up the orange trees for fruit; the scent of the two cats who hunted them. Maggie began learning their crate when Scott brought her home, and learned more with each breath, like a computer downloading a never- ending file. As the information compiled in her memory, the pattern of scents and sounds grew familiar.
Familiar was good. Unfamiliar was bad.
A soft scuffing came from beyond the old female’s crate.
Maggie instantly lifted her head, and cocked her ears toward the sound. She recognized human footsteps, and understood two people were coming up the drive.
Maggie hurried to the French doors and pushed her nose under the curtain. She heard a twig snap, brittle leaves being crushed, and the scuffing grow louder. Tree rats stopped moving to hide in their stillness.
Maggie walked quickly to the side of the curtains, stuck her head under, and sampled more air. The footsteps stopped.
She cocked her head, listening. She sniffed. She heard the soft metal-to-metal clack of the gate latch, caught their scent, and recognized the intruders. The strangers who had entered their crate had returned.
Maggie erupted in a thunder of barking. She lunged against the glass, the fur on her back bristling from her tail to her shoulders.
Crate in danger.
Pack threatened.
Her fury was a warning. She would drive off or kill whatever threatened her pack.
She heard them running.
“Maggie! Mags!”
Scott came off the couch behind her, but she paid him no mind. She drove them harder, warning them.
“What are you barking at?”
The scuffing faded. Car doors slammed. An engine grew softer until it was gone.
Scott pushed aside the curtains, and joined her.
The threat was gone.
Crate safe.
Pack safe.
Alpha safe.
Her job was done.
“Is someone out there?”
