Evil Deeds (Bob Danforth 1) (2 page)

After Bob’s Greek driver picked him up in the usual dented blue, decrepit Chevy pickup, Liz carried Michael through the back door of the house, into the kitchen.

“Dam-nit Bob, I means it,” Michael suddenly exclaimed through a mischievous smile.

Oh boy, Liz thought. I’m going to have to watch what I say around little big ears here.

“You know what a workaholic is, Mikey?” Liz knew the best way to make her son forget something she wished he hadn’t heard was to talk to him as though he was an adult. In five or ten seconds, he’d be bored to death. Michael stared at her with a wide-eyed look that seemed to say, Oh no, Mommy’s at it again.

“It’s a person who lives to work, not works to live. Daddy’s one of those workaholics. He thinks he’s the only man out there who’s responsible for helping the Greeks defend themselves against the Communist hoards who are just waiting to attack Greece from the north. And, of course, there are the Turks to the east, who are going to swoop across Greece, raping and pillaging. But your daddy is the only thing that’s holding the enemy back.”

Michael wriggled out of her arms and slipped to a sitting position on the floor.

“Mission accomplished,” she whispered.

But then Michael looked up and stared at her. “What’s raping and pill–?”

“I’ll tell you later,” she said, then briskly walked back to the bedrooms.

Thirty minutes later, after making the beds and cleaning up the breakfast dishes, Liz picked Michael up off the kitchen floor, where he had entertained himself with pots and pans, an empty cereal container, and a collection of wooden spoons. She carried him back outside. This was their time together – for reading, playing, and talking – before the sun rose higher in the sky and the yard turned too hot. Michael didn’t want to be carried, so she lowered him to the terrace and held his pudgy, little hand while he toddled down the steps to the lawn. Then she let him run free.

He ran to the glider swing and climbed onto one of the seats. “Swing, Mommy,” he called.

Liz walked behind Michael to push the swing. She exulted in being a mother. Michael was her miracle.

Children’s voices carried over the stone wall separating one side of their backyard from the elementary school grounds beyond. Liz turned and stepped onto a cinder block retaining wall enclosing a small, raised flower bed and stretched to look over the top at the school’s blue and white Greek flag moving lazily in the slight morning breeze. She smiled at the trio of grade-school girls waving at her. Even on weekends, the school’s playground attracted the neighborhood kids. Then the girls ran off toward the far side of the school grounds and all became quiet.

“Swing, Mommy,” Michael said.

“Okay, sweetie,” Liz said when she turned back. “Mommy’s coming.”

Liz had just stepped over the sleeping White Dog and taken a stride toward the swing set, when a whining sound came from the dog. Liz turned to look at White Dog and was surprised to hear the animal now growling low in her throat. The dog was usually calm, but now her brown-tipped ears were erect. She stood up and bared her fangs.

“What is it, girl,” Liz said, “having a bad dream?”

The doorbell rang.

Amazing! Liz thought. Fast asleep and she hears someone at the front door before they ring the bell. Liz looked at Michael seated on the swing. “Come on, Mikey. Let’s go see who’s at the door.”

“No-o, Mommy. I want to swing.”

Liz glanced around the backyard. The five-foot-high, wrought iron street-side fences, along with the stone wall at the back and the school-side of the property, would keep her son safe inside the yard.

“Okay, Mikey. Mommy will be right back.” White Dog preceded her up the steps from the yard to the terrace and through the open back door into the house, barking all the way.

When Liz reached the hall leading to the front entrance, she looked out through the glass panel of the locked front door. A dark-complected, black-haired woman of about thirty, dressed in an ankle-length red dress and a yellow headscarf, stood on the porch. A Gypsy.

White Dog was now growling, her nose pressed against the door handle.

Gypsies often came through Kifissia in horsedrawn wagons, stopping at houses to trade for clothing, blankets, and small appliances. A month ago, Liz had traded an old winter coat for a longhaired, white
flokati
rug.

“It’s okay, girl,” Liz told the dog. “Sit!”

White Dog sat but continued her low growling.

Liz unlocked and opened the front door.

“Hello, Missy. You vant buy nice rug?” the Gypsy said in a thick Slavic accent, fingering a long string of beads around her neck with one hand and pointing with the other hand at a fluffy orange flokati she had spread out on the porch. The woman gave Liz a warm smile.

Liz smiled back. The woman had bright, penetrating eyes, sparkling-white teeth, and was taller than most Gypsies Liz had seen in Greece.

“No, thank you; we already have more than we need.” She felt bad about turning the woman down. She knew the Gypsies had a tough life, but she already had four of the rugs.

The Gypsy frowned. “I guess I get here too late,” she said.

“Maybe next time you’ll bring something other than rugs,” Liz said.

The woman showed a bright, toothy smile. “You vont find good rug like this no vere. Ve got many more to show in vagon. You sure you don’t vant?”

“I’m sure,” Liz answered. “But not – “

White Dog suddenly rose up, her ears erect, her growling increasing in pitch and volume.

Liz grabbed the dog’s collar, concerned that she might go after the Gypsy woman.

The Gypsy stared, stepped back, raised her hands as though to defend herself.

White Dog turned, twisting her collar in Liz’s hand. She lunged toward the back of the house, now barking ferociously.

“I’m sorry,” Liz said to the woman. “She never acts like this.”

The Gypsy smiled, then shrugged, bent down, and slowly folded the rug, while Liz stood in the doorway and watched, tightly gripping White Dog’s collar. With swaying skirts and a hand wave thrown over her shoulder at Liz, the woman walked down the stairs to the front gate and out to the street.

Liz shut the door and turned toward the rear of the house, releasing the dog.
She was shocked at White Dog’s
behavior
.
The dog rushed toward the back door, snarling in a way Liz had never heard. Vicious rather than just protective. White Dog raced ahead, careening into the high chair in the breakfast room, her paws sliding on the marble floor.

Liz trailed, more puzzled than alarmed. By the time she reached the open back door, White Dog had already crossed the terrace, jumped the four-foot drop onto the lawn, then ran to the empty swing set. Michael wasn’t on the glider. He was nowhere in sight.

“Michael! Michael!” Liz called.

No reply.

Liz watched White Dog, a speeding blur vault over the fence separating the yard from the side street. Liz dashed to the fence and looked down the street in the direction the dog had run. Nothing.

Panicked now, her heart racing and acid assaulting her stomach, Liz turned right at the back corner of the house and ran down the interior walk paralleling the street and leading around to the front porch. Where was Michael? She caught a glimpse of White Dog racing down the street in front of the house. Liz rushed to the front gate.

“Mommy!” she heard Michael cry. Liz could hear fear in his voice. “Mommy!” he screamed. But she couldn’t see him anywhere.

Blood pounding in her throat, Liz slammed into the front gate, snapping its metal latch. She looked down the street to the right. A horsedrawn wagon moved quickly away. A young woman wearing bright-colored Gypsy attire briefly looked back in Liz’s direction as she scurried after the wagon. The woman carried a squirming, screaming bundle – Michael. She looked back at the wagon and thrust Michael toward a man standing on a narrow platform at the back of the wagon.

“Michael!” Liz screamed.

The man passed Michael to another Gypsy woman standing at the wagon’s curtained doorway. She turned and disappeared with Michael inside the wagon. The woman looked like the one who had come to Liz’s door with the rug.

Liz chased after them, screeching, “Oh God, Michael!”

The man on the platform reached down and pulled the running Gypsy woman up by her arms into the wagon. White Dog leaped up after her.

Liz sprinted as fast as she could, but the wagon, gaining speed, pulled away from her. It turned a corner at the end of the street and disappeared with a receding clatter of horse’s hooves. She heard White Dog’s ferocious barking end with a yelp. By the time she reached the corner, the wagon had vanished and White Dog lay in the gutter, a knife handle protruding from her side, blood painting her snow-white hair a shockingly brilliant red.