Блейз Клемент - Duplicity Dogged Тhe Dachshund

Downstairs in the carport, my Bronco was still the only one at home. Michael’s shift at the firehouse would end at 8 A.M., and nobody knew what Paco’s schedule was. A couple of egrets on the Bronco’s hood sullenly watched me get in the car and then took off with a great fluttering of white wings. On the twisting lane to Midnight Pass Road, heavy oaks were still dripping rain, and flocks of parakeets alarmed by my passing caused more drops to scatter when they flew away.

At Tom Hale’s condo, I parked in a visitor’s spot by the front door and went inside the deserted lobby to the elevator. Billy Elliot was waiting inside the door, snuffing and dancing on the tiled foyer. I hugged him hello and snapped his leash on, whispering so as not to wake Tom, and then we both trotted down the hall to the elevator and across the lobby to the front door.

As soon as he sniffed fresh air, Billy Elliot stretched his long body out ready to race. I heard a motor running and looked to the side of the lot. It was the same pickup on those ridiculous big tires, idling with its lights off. Maybe this lot was being used for a drug drop or something. I pulled Billy Elliot back until we got to the big open space and then let the leash play out.

Billy Elliot took off like a comet, and so did the truck. The difference was that Billy Elliot was running away from me and the truck was driving straight toward me. I swung my head to look toward the sound at the same moment he turned on his high beams, catching me in their glare like an unsporting hunter.

In seconds, the truck was on me, so close I could feel its heat, so close I could feel the vibration of its speed under my feet. Paralyzing fear shot through me like sick electricity, sheer animal panic like I’d never felt before. I had been afraid before, afraid of drunks with guns, afraid of wrecking when tires slewed on wet-slick streets, afraid of snakebite when I saw a rattler at my feet, but this went beyond fear. The death that is always there, always hovering, always ready to slam its foot on anything that moves, had arrived. Somebody in that truck intended me to die, and there wasn’t anything I could do about it.

There was nowhere to go: no ditch to fall into, no wall to climb over, no time to run away. Throwing the leash handle clear, I spun around to face my death. The giant tires were so close I could see the deep grooves in their tread. The noise was deafening, like a banshee’s scream.

Suddenly a man’s calm voice high on the right side of my head said, Hit the dirt, Dixie.

I dove for the pavement, sliding flat out between the tires, face turned to the side, mashing ribs and cheekbone and pelvis into the asphalt. Hot exhaust fumes swept over me, so close they ruffled my hair, and then a rush of cool air signaled that the truck had passed over. I couldn’t see it, but I heard it roar out of the parking lot onto Midnight Pass Road.

Mewling and gasping for breath, I clawed my way to my feet and crab-ran toward the side of the lot. I stumbled between two parked cars and dropped to the curb when my rubbery knees refused to hold me up anymore. Choking on bile and grit, I put a shaky hand to feel the wetness on my burning face, but it was tears, not blood. My nose was running and my blubbering mouth leaked saliva down my chin. Adrenaline poured through my veins in an overwhelming rush, shaking me so hard my teeth rattled. I hugged my thighs and rested my chin on my scraped knees, gulping air like an asthmatic, trying to quit crying, trying to quiet my galloping heart.

A scraping sound brought me to my feet, my hand digging into my pocket for the .38. I’d forgotten about it until now, but even if I’d remembered, it wouldn’t have been any good to me against that towering truck. But I could sure as hell use it now. I used both hands to hold it stiffly at arm’s length. The peculiar sound was coming closer. If that truck driver had left a friend to finish me off, I was going to blow the blue-eyed shit out of him. Whoever was coming, he was dragging something on the asphalt, something metallic, like a chain. Jesus, somebody planned to beat me with a chain. I whipped a look to both sides behind me to see if there was more than one of them. I didn’t see anybody, but the sound was coming closer.

Through the spaces between the cars, Billy Elliot streaked into view, oblivious to everything except the joy of running, still happily following his simulated race track, dragging his leash behind him and not missing me at all. I stuck the gun in the waistband of my shorts and walked unsteadily to the the end of the cars that hid me.

“Billy! Come!”

There must have been something in my quavering voice that told him this was no time to fool around, because he slowed to a trot, made a wide turn, and came at a gentle jog to sit in front of me. His tongue lolled out of his grinning mouth, and he seemed more satisfied than I’d ever seen him.

I got his leash and shakily reeled it to the handle.

“Don’t think running without me is going to be a regular thing.”

Billy Elliot fell in behind me, stoically enduring the shortened leash and my plodding steps back into the building. As we went into the lobby, we met a couple of plump middle-aged men and their plump middle-aged dogs. The men gave me startled looks and pulled their dogs close to their sides. Billy Elliot snorted, as if to say that I might not be much to look at, but he was still sleek and svelte.

In the elevator, I reacted like the men downstairs when I saw my reflection in the mirrored wall. My shorts and T were smeared with black road grease, and my right cheek looked like somebody had rubbed it with sandpaper. My nose was still streaming and my knees were oozing blood. I wiped my nose with a quivering hand, and realized my palms were scraped. So were my arms.

By the time we were off the elevator and at Billy Elliot’s floor, my heart had calmed, at least enough that it didn’t seem to be trying to leap out of my chest with every beat. But I was still shaky, and my legs still felt like silly putty. I had to use both hands to get the key in Tom’s door. When I got it open, the lights were on and I smelled coffee.

From the kitchen, Tom yelled, “Morning, Dixie! Want some coffee?”

After a couple of inaudible bleats, I managed to yell back that I didn’t have time, but thanks, and we both yelled good-byes and I left. If he had known what shape I was in, Tom would have ministered to me like a mother hen. But I didn’t want him to see me begrimed and shaking and snotsmeared. I felt ashamed, as if almost being run down by a maniac in a big truck was like getting caught with my hands in my own pants. Like a hurt animal, I wanted to crawl off in the bushes and lick my wounds.

I slunk down the hall to the elevator. On the way down I leaned against the wall, my body thrumming with pain. The lobby was clear, and I bolted through the doors and slammed into the Bronco. Like a homing pigeon, I turned south on Midnight Pass Road and drove to my apartment.

When I pulled under the carport, sunrise was just beginning to pink the milky horizon, and wavelets were gently sucking at the beach. I was glad Michael and Paco were still gone. I didn’t want them to see me bruised and scraped. I took the stairs two at a time, unlocked the French doors, and hurled down the hall to the bathroom, peeling off clothes as I went.

I stood in the shower and sobbed while water lifted asphalt grit from my pores. It wasn’t so much physical pain that made me cry, it was the shock of knowing somebody hated me enough to squash me like a cockroach. I hadn’t felt hated since my fourth-grade teacher had struck daily misery into my heart with her sighs and baleful looks. I had finally announced at the supper table that I wasn’t going to school ever again, and my grandmother called the teacher and asked her what I was doing that made her dislike me so much. The teacher was a little taken aback, but she admitted it was just plain annoying how I wasn’t Working Up to My Potential. My grandmother told her my dad had died over the summer, my mother had run off to start a new life, and I had plenty of time to Work Up to My Potential after I got my life in order. The teacher promised to be nicer to me and I went back to school, but for the rest of the year her disappointment was like little hooks of gravity pulling me down. I felt the same way now. I hated being hated.