The Library at Mount Char (25 page)

Steve stood and went back into the kitchen. The woman wasn't doing dishes anymore. Instead she stood at the wall, scraping away the dirt and the paint in lines shaped like a cave man's image of a dog. “Supper isn't quite ready, dear.”

“That's OK. I need to borrow your car.” He looked around. He was hoping for her purse, or a bowl. Then his eye happened upon a peg with spare keys dangling from it. One of them was a leather tab with the Ford logo on it. “Gotcha.”

He hadn't paid a lot of attention to the house when he was outdoors, but he vaguely remembered the garage being on the far end. There was a hall leading in that direction, but it was dark. He found a switch and flipped it, but no light followed. He wandered down the hall in darkness, feeling ahead with his fingers.

The first room he came to was a bedroom that had been converted into an artist's studio. Someone—the woman?—had once used it for painting still life in oils—flowers, fruit, a random jumble of costume jewelry. Most of them were rather good. Steve thought of the kindergarten scribbles lining the living-room wall. He shivered as he shut the door behind him.

The next room was indeed the garage, and the Ford was there, but it sat on four completely flat tires. The dust on the hood was so thick it was difficult to tell what color the car was. Steve tried the key anyway, but it didn't so much as click.

“Shit.” He pounded the steering wheel.
What, then?
He shut the door to the garage and made his way back to the relative brightness of the
living room. Dresden stood over Naga. The puddle of her blood was wider. Her sides heaved. Steve rattled the last suppository out of the little clay jug and crammed it up her butt next to the other one. He wiped his finger on the carpet and rinsed it off with half a bottle of Dasani, then drank the rest.

He limped back into the dim, windowless foyer. Then, from outside, he heard an engine.
Carolyn?
He ducked into the kitchen and looked out the window over the sink. Not Carolyn, but one of those little white jeeps that the Post Office uses. It was two houses away. Lawn-mower guy was nowhere in sight.

Uncounted dozens of dogs lay in the yard and nearby on the street. They watched the truck approach. Steve wondered what they would do.

The mailman was one house away now. He put the mail in the mailbox, but did not continue down the road, only sat there, engine idling.
He's seen them
. After a long moment, the mail guy rolled up his window. He turned into the driveway next door, then backed out of it pointing in the opposite direction. He drove off down the street.

“Shit.” He couldn't think what help the mailman might conceivably have offered, but he sure did hate to see him go.

The dogs watched the jeep depart but did not follow. After it turned onto the main road they seemed to lose interest. Also, instead of just sitting on the lawn and staring at the house, now some of them were doing dog stuff—humping each other, playing bite-tag or whatever that was, scratching at fleas. Over the next fifteen minutes or so, more than half of them wandered off.
That's progress
.

Not all, though. Thane and a couple dozen others kept vigil on the yard. As Steve watched, a big dog—Rottweiler, maybe?—trotted up to the porch and sat down. “Fuck.” He went to the door and looked out through the peephole. His ankle was starting to throb.
Well
, he thought,
I guess you could always call 911. They'd probably get you out of here
.

He snapped his fingers and turned Mrs. McGillicutty's phone back on. When he had a good signal he dialed 411. A computer asked him, “What city?” Steve answered it, careful to enunciate clearly.

“What listing?”

“Any taxi service.”

Behind him, from the porch, came a low deep growl. Steve moved away from the door.

The mechanical voice recited a nine-digit number, then asked if Steve would like to be connected for an additional charge of fifty cents. Steve said yes.

The phone rang once, twice, three times.
Come on, come on
, Steve thought. Four, five. He was just about to hang up and try a different service when someone answered the phone.

“Yucatan Taxi,” a man said. He spoke with an Indian accent, thick and musical.
“Se habla español.”

“How about English?” Steve asked.

“Of course,” the man said. He sounded slightly hurt that Steve would ask.

“Great,” Steve said. “I need a cab. A big one. You got a minivan, something like that?”

“I have two, but only one driver at the moment. She's just heading out on a call. Can you wait about an hour?”

Behind him the Rottweiler barked, scrabbled at the door. Naga's blood pooled at his feet.

“I'm afraid that's not convenient,” Steve said, struggling to sound natural. “Tell you what. I'll make it worth your while. How about a hundred bucks? We're not going far.” He had no money, but there was the gun. He would apologize later. “You'll be a couple minutes late for your other call, that's all.”

“Sorry sir, but I cannot—”

“I'm really in a rush. Me and the kids are meeting my in-laws. My car won't start. There'll be hell to pay if I'm late. Tell you what—five hundred.”

“Five hundred dollars?” the man asked. “Ah. Now I understand. In my village we called people like yourself the ‘shepherds of the shit mountain.' Such men were often caned. Good-b—”

“No, wait!” Steve said. “Five hundred dollars, cash! Really. Solemn promise. Plus whatever the fare costs. It won't be even a five-minute ride, I swear.”

The man thought about it. “Possibly. What is the address, please?”

That was a tough one. Steve thought frantically. He limped to the kitchen window, peeked out at the mailbox. “Two-eleven Garrison Drive,” he said. “In the Garrison Oaks subdivision. Do you know it?”

“Garrison Oaks…” the man said. His voice sounded distant.

“Yeah,” Steve said. “Smallish neighborhood, just off Highway 78. Do you know it?”

“Oh, right,” he said vaguely. “You know, I do not think I've ever been in there before.”

“I'm not surprised,” Steve said.

On the other side of the door the dog gave off a low, throaty bark. Another joined in, then another. Soon they were all barking.

“What is that noise?” the cabbie asked.

“Nothing, just my dog.”

“He sounds like a very big dog indeed.”

“Yeah,” Steve said. “He's pretty big. He has separation anxiety. He hates it when I leave him alone.”

“You cannot bring this dog in my cab, you understand.”

“Wouldn't dream of it,” Steve said.

“All right,” the guy said. “For five hundred, I will come myself. I will be there in ten minutes.”

“Look, there's one other thing. My, ah, friend is coming with me. He's sort of agoraphobic and—”

“What? He's sick? I do not want a sick man in my taxi, sir.”

“No, no. He's not sick. Agoraphobic means he doesn't like being outside. When you get here, pull up as close as you can get, open the door, and honk. Can you do that?”

Long silence. “I do not think I like this, sir.”

“What's not to like?” Steve said, eyes squeezed shut, brow furrowed. “Five hundred dollars is a pretty good tip.” He forced himself to stop talking, gripped the phone with white knuckles.

The dispatcher thought about it for a while. “I'll be there in ten minutes,” he said. “Make sure you have the money.”

“It's a white-brick house.”

“I'm sure it is a very nice one. Make sure you have the money.”

The cab pulled up eleven minutes later, a white minivan with a photograph of the Mayan pyramid at Chichén Itzá on the side. The driver honked. He didn't pull around to the front door, though.
Of course not
, Steve thought.
That would have been too easy
. The dogs lounging in the yard watched all this, but they didn't bark, didn't growl.

Steve, desperate, scrabbled for an idea. Even with just six dogs on the lawn, the thirty feet or so might as well have been a thousand miles. He wouldn't have tried to run for it even if he had been
able
to run. Limping, carrying a half-grown lion, he would stand absolutely no chance whatsoever.

The cabdriver honked again. Dresden padded over to the front door, sniffed, rumbled. He looked at Steve.

“I'm thinking, dammit!” Seconds dragged out. He looked out the kitchen window.
Maybe we could go out through the garage. There was an electric door opener, and
—

The cabdriver knocked at the door.

Steve and Dresden looked at each other. Steve grinned. “Coming!”

“Sir, please can you hurry? I need to return to my office quickly.”

Steve hobbled to the front door and looked out the peephole. The Rottweiler was the only dog on the porch. Thane and five others stood on the lawn, watchful, under sunny blue autumn sky. Steve took the gun out of the holster, put his hand on the doorknob, did a mental count.
Three, two,…

Steve, bloody and bandaged, yanked the door open with his right hand and shot the Rottweiler. The dog's head exploded in a crash of blood and thunder. Steve grabbed the cabdriver by the shirt. “Get in!”

Out on the lawn Thane barked, furious.

The cabdriver instinctively raised his hands and went into a little half crouch. “Do not shoot!” He tried to back away. Steve leaned backward with all his weight, yanking the two of them into the foyer. His ankle gave out and he fell over backward. The cabdriver almost fell with him, but recovered.

The dogs were charging the door. Thane's ice-blue eye bore down on him. When his feet touched the sidewalk, Thane leaped and—

Steve kicked the door shut with his good foot, as hard as he was able. It slammed shut. A tiny fraction of a second later there was a meaty thud as Thane impacted the door.

Still on his back, Steve spun around on the linoleum to deal with the driver. “Don't move!”

But the man
wasn't
moving. Dresden, all four hundred pounds of him, stood inches away. The cabdriver was a short, slight Indian man with caramel-colored skin. His eyes stretched wide in terror. His hands hovered near his face in a gesture of surrender, or perhaps self-defense. He was trembling.

“Don't worry,” Steve said, striving for a comforting tone. “He doesn't bite.”

The cabdriver looked at Steve. “That is a lion.”

“Yes. Yes, it is.”

“You have a gun.”

“That's true too.”

“Well,” the cabdriver said, speaking as if to a very dull child, “why don't you shoot the lion?”

Steve laughed. “Are you kidding? Dresden's my buddy.” Then it came to him.
YouTube. Christian the lion
. “Don't you watch the Internet?”

“What?”

“Never mind. I need your keys.”

“What?”

“The keys. To your cab. Give them to me.” Steve waggled the gun.

The driver's face fell. “What about my five hundred dollars?”

“Yeah, it turns out I was lying about that. Sorry.” He thought for a moment. “Look, I actually
am
kind of sorry.” He gestured at Naga with the gun. “If I don't get her out of here soon, then—never mind. Long story. But supposedly there's a duffel bag full of cash waiting for me back at the other place. How about I mail it to you? I'll make it a thousand.”

“I think that you are lying again.”

“No, I will. Soon as I can, promise.” He would, too. “But right now, I'm going to need your keys. Sorry.”

“You will not shoot me?”

“Absolutely not.”

The driver glanced down at Dresden. “What about him?”

“He's coming with me. Both of them are.”

“Oh. Then, by all fucking means…” The cabdriver fished around in his pocket for his keys and handed them over. They jingled like the bells of heaven in Steve's hand.

“Thanks, man,” Steve said. “Really sorry about all this.” Something else occurred to him. “You got a cell phone?” He didn't want the guy to call 911.

“In the cab.”

The key was the old-fashioned kind, just a metal key, no Lock or Unlock buttons. “Is the cab locked?”

“No.”

Steve gestured with the gun. “You better not be lying to me.”

“Why would I lock it? I was just going to the front door.”

“Yeah, OK.” Steve squeezed his eyes shut, thought for a moment. “OK, there's a bathroom right around that corner there. Go inside and shut the door.” He saw that the guy's knees were literally trembling. “Look, man…for what it's worth, I'm really sorry about all this. I'm in sort of a situation, and—”

“Yes, I am quite sure. Please go fuck yourself.” The guy backed up a single cautious step. Dresden rumbled a warning.

“No, it's OK, big guy,” Steve said. The lion looked at him, confused. Steve put his arm around the smaller man's shoulders, gave him a little man-hug. “It's OK. He's a friend, see?” Then, to the cabdriver. “Go on. Shoo.”

The cabbie took one cautious step away, then another, his eyes never leaving Dresden. When he was close enough, he jumped inside the bathroom and slammed the door shut. Steve heard it lock.

Naga was conscious, but she didn't look like she could stand. Steve checked her capillary response again—it was just OK. She had lost some ground. He checked the magazine on the gun—eight rounds, plus one in the chamber. There were seven dogs left. He went back into the living room and sat on the floor next to Naga. He slipped his hands under her, testing her weight. She was very heavy, two hundred pounds or so, but Steve thought he could probably lift her.

“OK,” he said to Dresden, “you ready?”

Dresden looked at him quizzically.

Steve jingled the keys, the way he had done when he was going to take Petey for a ride in the car. For a moment his heart ached. He wondered if he would ever see his dog again.