Randy White - Deceived

No… two dogs. Their silhouettes trotted across the lighted doorway. Both pit bulls, their heads the size of concrete blocks, stubby horns for ears, on dwarfed bodies of brindle-yellow fur and muscle, drifted past unaware of my presence. I pressed my back against a wall and didn’t move, didn’t breathe. It didn’t save me. The odor of my skin, my clothing, the odor of my fear, was in the air, and one dog stopped, lifted his nose to taste my scent, then returned to the doorway and looked inside. Soon, he was joined by the other dog, both animals alert, intense, their tiny eyes now so focused on me that the flooring vibrated when they began to growl in unison.

I have been charged by dogs while jogging and know it’s best to take the offensive. I’ve backed down collies and retrievers and even a pit bull, who was so instantly sweet that he had begged me to scratch his ears, then followed me home.

It was a strategy worth trying. “Get out of here!” I yelled, and banged the shovel hard on the floor. I took a step toward the door and did it again. “Get!”

These dogs, however, were not sweet-natured. They looked half starved, all jaws and instinct, and they came at me when I moved. The lead dog-there’s always an alpha dog-came first, trotting toward me, then lunged, stiff-legged, and roared when I jabbed the shovel at it. She was female, judging from the absence of the testicles that hung so prominently from the second dog, who was larger and also slyer. He slunk into the room without barking, teeth bared, and disappeared behind the overturned recliner. When he reappeared, he was to my left, and moving toward the hall, an attempt to corner me, I realized-two dogs who hunted as a pack. I began to sidestep toward the bigger male because the hallway was my only escape.

When the female charged again, I swung the shovel too hard and the thing almost flew out of my hands. The near loss frightened me so badly, I felt an electric sensation between the ears. With it bloomed a horrible certainty that these animals, if they got me on the ground, would not just maul me, they would feed on me. I could not lose the shovel. I could not lose my footing. Turn my back on either pit bull, even for an instant, and that would be the beginning of an assault so horrible I couldn’t allow myself to contemplate it-nor would I tolerate the indignity these animals were forcing on me!

I was terrified, but I was also getting mad.

“Get the hell away!” I hollered, jabbing. The alpha dog grabbed at the shovel when I thrust it, teeth striking the blade with the metallic sound of flint striking sparks. At the same instant, the larger dog snaked his head at me, teeth clacking near my calf, then retreated to a safe distance. Twice that happened, which gave me an idea. I feinted at the female again to lure the male closer, then swung the shovel blindly to my left, hoping the larger dog would attack. He did. The shovel blade glanced off the animal’s head and spun him sideways, yelping. The alpha dog was in such a frenzy that a yelp of weakness invited attack and she did attack him, slashing her teeth at the larger dog’s flank before returning her attention to me.

Too late. I had jumped into the hallway and was already backing away, holding the shovel in both hands like a spear. The female stalked me but kept her distance. Behind me, the garish green door I had dreaded was now my rescuer-if I could get the thing open and closed before I was bitten. That was key. Once a pit bull locks its jaws into flesh, there is no breaking free. It could still happen. No matter how I used the shovel for protection, there would be a moment when I had to turn and leave my legs unprotected. If the dog buried her teeth in me, no matter how hard I fought, I would be dragged to the floor, and they would both have me.

The alpha dog seemed to sense her chance would soon come and was biding her time as the male rejoined her. She paused to award him with a quick sniff, then continued to follow, her throat rumbling, as I backed past the stairway where the floor lamp cast its milky light. I was within reach of the doorknob now. But I had to invent something to distract the dogs to allow me the free second needed to slip into the next room and slam the door.

What?

I risked a glance over my shoulder at the porcelain knob. It was threaded through a metal plate that had a keyhole. A terrifying thought flashed into my mind: What if the door was locked? If it was locked, the diversion I was considering would hinder me more than help. It fact, the decision would leave me disfigured for life, or worse.

Can’t be locked, I told myself. No one in their right mind would lock a door in a stairwell.

Well, I would soon find out.

I had been edging toward the staircase, an angle that gave me more protection but also put me in a corner next to the lamp. These pit bulls were hunters and instinctively saw their advantage, which they secured by separating a few feet to trap me. They were barking again, trying to back me against the wall with mock charges, working themselves into the frenzy that I knew prefaced a full-on attack. I had to do something-and did. The floor lamp was made of pot metal and heavier than expected when I grabbed it and slammed it toward the dogs. The twin glass globes shattered, but the pop of incandescent bulbs wasn’t as loud as I’d hoped.

Even so, both dogs yelped and jumped away. It gave me time to yank the door open and back into the next room, but I did it in such a rush I dropped the shovel after banging my wrist on something.

BOOM!… BOOM! The pit bulls had recovered quickly and were already throwing themselves at the door, their barking a slathered garble that made it impossible to think. I put my shoulder against the wood, breathing hard, my heart pounding. To add to the chaos, the room I’d entered was a mystery of shadows and dark shapes, only two westward windows allowing light. I felt around until I found the dead bolt and latched the door tight but still kept my weight against it.

BOOM!… BOOM!… BOOM! With each assault, the wood vibrated like a drum. The dogs weren’t giving up.

I was in the kitchen, I realized. I could tell from the odor of linoleum and Lysol and garbage that had begun to rot. Also, I could see the glint of pans hanging, the shape of a refrigerator. A sink, too, with twin faucets set beneath a window too small for the room. A lancet of light came through the glass, though not much. It was hot in here; a space built to fend off tropical summers but, instead, only denied sunlight.

Get to the truck, I told myself. Do it now before the dogs circle around back! Mrs. Helms, if she’s here, if she’s alive, will have to wait for the police.

I hadn’t given the woman a thought, of course, since the pit bulls had attacked. She came into my mind now, however, because my eyes were adjusting to the shadows and I recognized the shape and gleam of something near the sink, although it took me a second.

A wig?

Yes, a woman’s wig; silver hair cropped short and combed to a sheen, a style for business luncheons. Loretta had mentioned that a wig would be delivered today, which proved Mrs. Helms had been here, and probably still was.

No… I might be mistaken about that. Since her chemotherapy, the woman had bought several wigs, usually inexpensive brands made of nylon. This one, even from a distance, looked expensive, like natural human hair, and why would a woman as fussy as Pinky Helms leave a new wig by the sink? Someone else could have put it there. So it proved nothing, and I wasn’t sticking around even if it did.