Ruff Way to Go (25 page)

John rotated
in his seat to look at Carver. “Listen, Craig. It’s just not necessary for you
to use Allida like this.” John was making a second attempt at some measure of
chivalry that could never compensate for his having tricked me into getting
into his car in the first place. “I’ll just go into the shelter and tell them
that I’m taking Suds back up to Loveland with me. They won’t stop me. I have
all the necessary credentials in my wallet.”

“Yeah. That’d
work. Except for the slight problem that I don’t trust you out of my sight. And
that I’d feel a lot better walking in arm-in-arm with your little girlfriend
than with you.”

There had to
be an easy way out of this mess. Even if I elbowed him and got away, I didn’t
want to put anyone at the Humane Society in jeopardy. Carver would just grab
some other person to use as a hostage.

My mind was
blank. He was right in assuming that no one would stop us. Though Carver couldn’t
possibly know this, the staff had seen me there frequently in the past few
weeks working with the dogs. All I had to do was put on a volunteer’s vest,
walk straight in, locate Suds’s cage, and take him out.

Carver got
out and opened my door. He leaned in, his eyes roaming down the length of my body.
“You do realize, don’t you, John boy, that if you try anything, if the car isn’t
right here, engine running, no police in sight when we get back here with Suds,
this is the last you’ll see of little Allida. I’ll slit her throat on the spot.
You got that?”

“I
understand. I’ll be right here.” His face was pale and sweating profusely. He
gave me the quickest of glances, then averted his eyes, not willing to face the
part he’d played in dragging me into this mess.

Carver shut
the door and grabbed my upper arm firmly, pulling me out of the car. “Come on.”

“Listen, Mr.
Carver. I’m no heroine. You obviously love Suds and deserve to keep her. There’s
no reason for you to go in there with me. I’ll just tell the employees that I’ve
located Suds’s owner, pay the fine, and bring her to you.”

He laughed
and leaned down, putting his face inches from mine so that I got another whiff
of his foul breath. “Guess what, girlie? I don’t trust you out of my sight,
either. Now let’s go.”

With slow,
deliberate movements, Carver folded up his knife and stuck it in his back
pocket. “Just to let you know, Miss Allie, this is a switchblade. I can whip
the blade out before you can get to the letter h in the word ‘help.’“

I was
impressed that he knew how to spell the word, but held my tongue. As we turned
to head for the entrance, I caught a glimpse of John through the windshield. He
tried to give me an encouraging nod, but his face was pale and he looked
stricken.

Carver
opened the door for me. I’d deliberately chosen the door on the right side of
the lobby so that we’d have farther to walk. The warm air inside the building
was heavy with animal odors that normally didn’t bother me, but under these
circumstances made me gag.

There was
what looked to be a family of three engaging a male volunteer in an animated
conversation. A young woman named Skye was behind the counter. She looked up,
caught my eye, and said, “Hi, Allida.”

I indicated
Carver with my eyes and said, “Hi, anathema,” knowing that the word would be
beyond Carver’s vocabulary and hoping Skye would at least be alerted to keep an
eye on Carver.

Unfortunately,
it was apparently beyond Skye’s vocabulary as well, for she chuckled and said, “You
mean ‘Skye,’ don’t you?”

Though I
again tried to point with my eyeballs, she had already turned her attention
elsewhere.

“Keep going,”
Carver said into my ear.

Nobody gave
us a second glance as we pushed through the door into the hallway. Adult
customers don’t need supervision during the day to go back here, and given that
the vast majority of employees had seen me before, there was no chance that
anyone would stop us.

The hallway
was empty. The dog kennels were to the left, but the exit to the exercise pens
was straight ahead of us. I could run for it. Just as the thought hit me, a
young boy—seven or so—came bolting inside, followed by his parents.
I hesitated, imagining Carver pulling his knife out of his pocket in front of
the child, and the moment was lost. Carver laid a heavy hand on my shoulder.

“Let’s find
Suds. Right now.”

“They won’t let
us take her out without a leash,” I said, gesturing in the direction of the
dozens of leashes hanging on the wall.

To get to
the leashes, we would pass another area where there were always staff members
and volunteers. If only some burly man would come out. That might distract
Carver long enough for me to get away.

No one was
near this door, nor by the laundry room on the other side. I grabbed a sturdy
leash, torn between the hope that, if I went along with this quietly, Carver
might just let me get his dog, perhaps he’d steal John’s car, and take off, at
which point we could let the police handle him—and the realization that
Carver was acting so irrational now, there was no guarantee that I’d ever have
another chance to get away from him.

We went into
the kennel area. There were twenty large cages here, all chain-link. To my
surprise, only two men happened to be in the immediate area. They were
prospective customers, walking through ahead of us, checking out the dogs. They
were young and athletic-looking. If things came down to it, it was unlikely
Carver could handle both of them at once. This was going to be my one
opportunity.

Carver
sensed this, too, and grabbed my wrist, his other hand on my shoulder. “Find
the dog and get us out of here.”

The kennels
were in their typical state of chaos whenever anyone walks through. The majority
of dogs had rushed forward to bark at us, pleading with us in dog-speak to get
them out of here.

My first
thought was to throw open a batch of the cages to create a diversion, but
Carver would pull his knife by the time I got one cage open. We passed the
first couple of cages.
Carver had such a tight grip on me that I couldn’t even reach a gate
latch.

I finally
caught sight of Suds. She would not be up for adoption yet because of her short
time here. She was all the way at the end of the row. Even at this distance, I
could see the bandages on her injured muzzle where Carver must have beat her.
The sight filled me with rage.

Carver was
looking around, as if concerned he had not seen her yet. One of the men
checking out the dogs was coming our way.

“She’s right
over mere,” I said to Carver, pointing with my free hand. The moment he
loosened his grip on me to follow my gaze, I whipped my wrist around and threw
my shoulder into his midsection.

My sudden
motion surprised him enough that he fell back against the cages. With the
racket this caused, both men looked our way.

“Help! He’s
got a knife!” I yelled, hoping the man nearest the exit would go to get outside
help.

Carver was
struggling to regain his balance. I dove at him before he could get his knife
out. His head banged against the white-painted cinder block partial wall that
separates the two rows of kennels.

I was too
slow. Carver shoved me down as if I were a child and grabbed the knife out of
his pocket.

The man just
a few feet away from us took off running for the exit, saying, “I’ll get help,”
as he scrambled out the door.

Shit! The
second man had left as well, and now I was on my own with this creep and his
knife!

I kicked Carver
blindly, men sprang to my feet, but I knew there would be no way for me to
outrun Carver to the exit. I threw open the cage of a rambunctious mixed breed
I’d been working with—part dalmation, part springer spaniel. She rushed
out of the cage, distracting Carver for the half second it took for me to whip
the leash at Carver’s face, the metal clasp catching him right in the eye.

Carver cried
out in pain and brought his free hand up to his
injured eye. I kneed aim in
the groin, and he dropped the knife.

I kicked the
knife away, just as Carver managed to get his hands around my neck.

“You little
bitch! I’ll teach you!”

Just then,
three men charged through the doors toward us. Carver loosened his grip on me
at the sight, and I managed to elbow him in the Adam’s apple and break free.

While the
men nearly barreled into me in their effort to grab Carver, I ducked down and
snatched up Carver’s knife. One man tackled Carver and another bent his arm
back.

Carver
growled and struggled to free himself, but the men had him firmly pinned.
Meanwhile, the dog I’d freed was in a frenzy, scared by the men’s struggle, and
tried to jump up on me. I turned my back on her, which, as with almost any dog,
immediately made her get down, then I grabbed her collar and pulled her back
into the cage.

I tried to
thank my rescuers, but my voice came out in a croak. I put a hand on my throat.
My throat and voice box were in horrible pain. The memory of Carver choking me
with his strong hands was not going to leave me anytime soon. “Police,” I
managed to utter.

“Skye’s
already called them,” one of the men said.

The Boulder
police arrived and took Carver away. Another officer drove me to the station
house to make a report and later drove me home. My day’s schedule had been shot
to hell, but I was just glad to be alive and rescheduled everything for next
week.

Ironically,
Mom was feeling guilty for not having worried about me. When she found I’d left
without saying goodbye— and without taking my car—she assumed
Russell had picked me up to make my rounds with me, and had taken off herself shortly
afterward. I changed into a turtleneck so that she’d stop staring at the red
marks on my neck. She kept asking me if there was anything she could get for
me, and, more to get her to stop than anything else, I sent her out for ice
cream, claiming that would soothe my throat.
Moments after she’d pulled
out of the driveway, the doorbell rang. The full menagerie of dogs, puppies
included, accompanied me to the door, where I looked out the peephole. It was Trevor’s
sister, Luellen. I considered simply calling out to her to go away, but my
voice wasn’t fully restored and I didn’t want to strain my vocal chords. I
opened the door, but said nothing in greeting.

Luellen was
wearing splashy-looking, predominantly blue pants augmented with gold lines and
a scoop-necked T-shirt “Hello, Allida. I was in the neighborhood and wanted to
check on Shogun.” She turned her attention to Shogun, who’d worked his way to
the forefront “There’s my baby,” she cooed. “How’s my little man? Huh? How’s my
little man?”

Her “little
man” promptly got overexcited and piddled on the floor. We were getting
accustomed to accidents with the proliferation of puppies anyway. Shogun began
scratching at the wooden frame on the screen door. I opened it a crack. He
squeezed out, and while he and Luellen greeted each other, I slid a newspaper
on top of the newest puddle. She picked up Shogun, and we locked eyes.

“Trevor
called me this morning. He told me you still have Shogun. You know just as well
as I do that that dog would be best off with my brother. What’s the holdup?”

With a hand
on my throat to soothe the pain, I answered, “If you or Trevor had told me that
the dog was at your house the night after my neighbor’s murder, this would have
been resolved back then.”

“We didn’t
take
him, Allida. I went looking for him when he was first missing, and I found
him.”

“I’m
supposed to believe you? After you tried to make me look like an idiot? After
you lied to the police about your having Shogun?”

“Allida, I
did some underhanded things, I realize. But they were all done in an effort to
protect Shogun.”

“Protect him
from what?”

She glanced
over her shoulder. “Can I come in?”

I herded the
dogs back and shoved open the door, still too
exhausted and cranky to be
the least bit hospitable. Luellen stepped inside, but neither of us moved
toward a seat. She ruffled his fur then set him down with the other dogs.

“When I
found Shogun, Allida, he was frightened out of his wits. He didn’t even
recognize me, and he bit my hand when I first tried to pick him up. It was as
if he were running for his life.”

Only then
did I notice that she wasn’t wearing the wrist braces she’d had on the previous
times we’d met. “That’s what you were wearing the wrist supports for? To cover
up your dog bite?”

“Right. I
put them on to hide this.” She showed me the characteristic puncture wounds
across the fleshy part of her hand between the thumb and fingers. The bite
marks could only have been made by a very small dog, such as Shogun. “I’m not
exactly a walking advertisement for my dogs while sporting bandages from a bite
wound.”

“I can
imagine.”

“None of my
dogs has ever bit me before. And Shogun’s never bit anyone. This dog is as
gentle as a bunny. He only bit me because he was in such a state of terror. I
just couldn’t let him go back there to Edith. I believe she killed that woman.
That’s why Shogun was so frightened.”