Dogs (22 page)

“
Marhaba
, Ruzbihan.”

“One more thing,” he said. “Do not visit Tunisia anytime soon. Maybe anytime ever.”

That was unexpected. She peered at him, but his face gave away nothing. After a moment she nodded.

The rain had stopped. London had produced a rarity, a sparklingly clear winter day. Children ran and shouted in several languages. The cab pulled away without asking her destination.

She let it get several blocks away before she said, “Victoria Station, please.”

“Not Heathrow?”

“No. Victoria Station.”

Once there, she immediately got into another cab. The first cabbie might very well have reported back to Ruzbihan. She said, “One six nine Ogilvie Road, please.”

She had promised Ruzbihan to get out of London. She had not agreed to his statement that she would go directly to Heathrow.

Les Frères de l'Espoir céleste occupied a crumbling brick building in a bad neighborhood. Tessa said to the man who opened the door, “Hello. My name is Jane Caldwell and I need to see your abbé on a matter of great importance. Will you please tell him it's about a man named Richard Ebenfield?"

The man studied her. He wore jeans and a black T-shirt, not at all monk-like, but les Frères de l'Espoir céleste, Tessa had discovered on the Internet, was an order devoted to helping the very poor. They cared for the dying, ran orphanages, dug wells in the poorest countries on Earth. Finally the monk said, “I may see identification, please?” His accent was German.

Tessa produced her brand-new passport and he studied it. “Wait here.”

The man who eventually came to the foyer did wear a rough brown robe. Seniority, or PR? But then she was ashamed of her cynicism.

“Madame Caldwell, I am Abbé Guillaume LeFort. You wish to ask about Richard Ebenfield? And who are you?”

“I'm an American who knew Richard a long time ago, at the Sorbonne. I've heard through mutual friends that he's in trouble. They've been getting strange emails from him. But the last address any of them had for him was here. I was in London on business and I volunteered to see if he can be located. It's a matter of some urgency, but I can't tell you the details, I'm afraid.”

“In London on business,” LeFort repeated. His French accent was very strong, and he had a remote, austere air. He studied Tessa's expensive jacket and men's boots. “What business is this?”

She smiled slightly. “I'm with the World Bank. But later today I'm driving north to hike the Dales.”

He shrugged, a very Gallic gesture, and Tessa could almost hear him think:
Americans
. “I do not know the present address for Richard Ebenfield. The last time I saw him was in Africa, in Mbandaka, six years ago."

“In Congo? What was he doing there?”

Again the abbé shrugged. “You must understand, madame, that a missionary order like ours attracts many kinds of people. There are the brothers, of course, committed to helping the suffering poor. So, also, are many others who have not a vocation but who are filled with the grace of compassion. But we also have…
les partisans temporaires
…
”

“Hangers-on?” Tessa suggested.

“You speak French, madame?”

“No. Only a little.”

“Ah.
Dis donc
, Richard Ebenfield was such a one. They come and go, helping a little at one mission for some time, going into the bush, coming sometimes years later to another mission, drifting again down the river. Many are lost souls. Many drink. Eventually most die of diseases or are killed in civil fighting or robberies. Your friend may have drifted down the river to almost anywhere. In the jungle, borders disappear. Others of our order may have seen him since, or not. I cannot say.”

“When he was with you, did he ever mention Salah Mahjoub?”

For the first time, the abbé's remoteness disappeared. “Yes, he did. Very often. Salah Mahjoub was Richard's besetting sin.”

Startled, Tessa said, “His sin?”

“Yes. We all have our besetting sin, and his was envy. He envied this man, talked about him with much bitterness. You are a friend of M'sieu Mahjoub?”

“Yes,” Tessa said, her chest tightening. “Can you tell me anything more about what Ebenfield did in Africa?”

“I cannot.”

“Can anyone else here?”

The remoteness was back. “Mademoiselle, we are an order charged by God to relieve suffering. We are not an information bureau.”

“I understand. But here, this is my email address.” She thrust toward him a paper torn from the envelope Ruzbihan had given her, written on with a pencil borrowed from the cabbie. “If you or anyone else thinks of anything more about Ebenfield, would you please email me?”

Reluctantly he took the paper. Tessa said, without knowing she was going to, “My late husband was a Catholic. Not very practicing, I'm afraid, but when he died… He was killed in a car crash and there was about twenty minutes before he… I've always hoped his religion was some comfort to him at the end.”

“You were there with him, madame?”

“No. I didn't…I didn't get there in time. No, please don't…I'm all right. But I would appreciate it if you would email me anything you learn about Ebenfield.” Tessa moved quickly to the door, and the abbé didn't try to stop her.

The cab had, per instructions, waited for her. Moving toward it, Tessa was ashamed of herself. What had moved her to tell LeFort about Salah's death? She had been
using
that monstrous tragedy. Or maybe not, the words had just seemed to well up out of her, as tears were doing now, fuck it—

She didn't even see the men in the racing black car until the first shot rang out.

The black car sped past Tessa and the shot pierced the gray London afternoon. She heard the bullet ricochet off the stucco wall surrounding the monestery.
Close, very close
. She dropped to the ground but there was no place to hide, nothing…down the street a child was screaming, a witness, she must make sure the child wasn't hit…nowhere to hide, nowhere to run and the wall was too high to scale quickly…

The car had stopped and was backing up fast.

Tessa scrambled to her feet. But she really had no chance. The thick walls that privacy-loving Londoners so favored lined both sides of the street, which was too narrow to permit parked cars that she might have used as cover. The iron gate of les Frères de l'Espoir céleste had locked behind her. There was only the hope of reaching the corner but it was no hope at all, it was too far away…

The car slowed more and she glimpsed the interior: driver and shooter, both in masks, the shooter's semi-automatic aimed out the window. At her.

She rolled toward the car, making his shot more difficult, a downward trajectory. If she could scramble behind the car, dodge it that way… It wasn't going to work. The car came to a full stop, the door opened, and the shooter leaned out into the street. He knew she wasn't armed! He had a clear shot, Tessa couldn't dodge fast enough…

The shooter's head exploded.

He collapsed back onto the passenger seat, bits of blood and brain spattering Tessa below. The driver accelerated abruptly and the car's forward motion slammed shut the passenger-side door, bearing away its grisly burden. Tessa looked around, dazed; a man stood lowering his gun from between the iron gate bars,
inside
les Frères de l'Espoir céleste. He wore a ski mask. Armed and deadly
monks?

The child down the street was still screaming, and now a woman ran outside, snatched it up, and disappeared behind another of the ubiquitous walls. Another car pulled up. The shooter disappeared from the gate and a moment later leapt lightly down from the wall. A ladder, there had to be a ladder on the other side or something to…it didn't matter, she wasn't thinking clearly…

The shooter took her arm and shoved her into the car. Tessa resisted, grabbing the car's frame and preparing to kick, but the man said, “I come from Ruzbihan. This time you're bloody well going to the airport.”

“From Ruzbihan? Who—”

He shoved her again, and she got into the car. All at once it seemed safer than being on the street. The car sped away.

“Who are you?”

“I told you,” he said impatiently. His eyes through the slits of the mask were bright blue. His speech sounded like Manchester, or Liverpool…She wasn't good at British accents. “Ruzbihan sent me. You were supposed to go directly to Heathrow. You didn't. Now you will.”

“How did Ruzbihan know I would—”

He made a rude noise and pulled a bandana from his pocket. Tessa let him blindfold her, understanding the necessity. Nor did she resist when soon the car pulled into a structure of some sort and she was led, stumbling, to a different vehicle. If these men were going to kill her, she would already be dead.

So who had tried to kill her? And was this car really going to Heathrow?

Out of sight of her captors, she clenched her fist tightly, hoping to stop her hands from shaking.

An interminable time later, the car stopped. Tessa heard honking, vehicles starting and stopping. A moment later the blindfold was pulled from her eyes and she was pushed out the door at International Departures, Heathrow.

“It's 3:28,” the blue-eyed Brit said. “Your flight is at 6:10, isn't it. Be on it. You'll be watched.” The car pulled away. Tessa memorized the license number, knowing it would do her no good whatsoever.

Then she was inside the airport, walking to the counter, claiming her ticket, acting as if this was all normal and she was actually “Jane Caldwell,” a weary American whose luggage had been lost. An American returning from an emergency trip to London for her mother-in-law's funeral.

Normal
.

Yeah, right.

Tessa closed her eyes until her stomach had calmed. Then she turned back to the counter attendant, a pretty redhead with warm brown eyes. “Can you please tell me if Heathrow has a cyber café, or data center, or some such equivalent where people without their own laptops can send and receive email?”

Ellie heard the dog before she saw him. Twilight had fallen and the backyard was wrapped in deep shadow, but she would recognize that bark anywhere. Song!

She grabbed a package of deli roast beef from the fridge, yanked on her coat, and ran through the backyard. There he was, just beyond the fence, a slim gray shape lighter than the dark field and woods behind him.

“Song! Oh, I'm so glad to see you!”

But where were Music and Chimes and Butterfly? The four always stayed together—
always
. Ellie's heart clutched. Could the other three greyhounds have been captured, or even shot?

“You came home, I knew you would, I have a treat for you…
treat—
” She stopped abruptly.

Song drew back his lips, showing all his long teeth, and snarled.

Oh, God, no—

Ellie took a step backward. This couldn't be happening. Not her dog, her baby, that she'd rescued and nurtured and loved so much, not…

Out of the darkness, Butterfly came running toward her at full speed. The swiftest and most muscular of Elli's dogs, Butterfly covered the frozen ground so fast that he seemed to be flying.
Yes, that's why I named
… She had no time to finish the thought.

In complete silence, and all the more terrible for that, Butterfly launched himself off the ground toward the fence. Ellie saw the graceful light shape, ears back and teeth bared, hurtle toward her through the gloom. She felt paralyzed, unable to turn or run, and so she had to witness it all.

Butterfly didn't make it. His body fell onto the top of the fence, where the chain link rose to sharp metal points to keep out intruders. The dog screamed—that was the only word for it—a sound so human and horrifying that Ellie cried out, too. Then somehow she was moving, trying to tug the dog's impaled body off the fence, trying to avoid the snapping jaws, while a foot away Song leapt and barked.

Butterfly bit her coat, his teeth sinking into the thick fabric just short of her arm.

Ellie shrugged out of the coat just as Butterfly freed himself and fell, with a sickening thud, into the yard. Blood flew off his body. Ellie ran. She could hear Butterfly behind her, but the greyhound was badly enough injured to slow him dramatically. Ellie reached the house, ran inside, and slammed the door. She began to cry.

Her dogs, her pets, her babies
…

Somewhere outside a siren sounded, neared, stopped.

She had to help Butterfly, had to…had to
…

Sobbing, Ellie nonetheless heard the men shouting outside, heard the single rifle shot. Her sobs increased until she was crying hysterically, ignoring the doorbell, wailing for Butterfly, for Song, for the missing Chimes and Music, for a world where nothing any longer made sense.