Aaron Elkins: Murder In The Queen's armes

Gideon thrust the thick branch at it again and stepped back, once more managing to deflect the hurtling body. Again, with unbelievable rapidity, it writhed to face him and sprang, fiercely snapping at the air-bites that could have taken off his entire hand and more. Somehow, he shoved it off to one side, this time with a forearm, but he smelled the stink of its breath, saw the dreadful teeth snap shut a few inches from his face, heard the agonized, strangled, clicking noises in its gullet.

He was shaking with strain. This animal, he thought with wonder, will eat me if it can. From the corner of his eye he saw Julie bending, searching for more rocks.

"Julie, run!" he managed to say as the dog came for him again, but she stood her ground and, sobbing, flung a handful of stones wildly at it.

This time, when it came, Gideon swung the branch like a club, aiming for the savage head. As if it were leaping for a Frisbee, it gyrated in midair and caught the wood between its jaws, wrenching Gideon to his knees as if he were a child. Gideon clung to the branch with both hands, but the massive neck muscles were too much; the branch was jerked from his grasp and tossed spinning to the grass.

The dog sprang immediately, bowling him over, so that he saw the moon beyond the tawny shoulders, and they rolled together in the grass, both of them snarling. Gideon felt the dog’s back legs digging convulsively for his vitals. He twisted, feeling the claws rip open a hip pocket, unsure whether or not his hip had been laid open as well. The animal’s snout, very near his own, was all teeth, snapping and clacking, and ropy threads of hot saliva dripped onto his cheeks. Punching, kicking with his knees, and trying to keep his body away from the dog's flailing claws, Gideon jerked his head away, and the dog strained after him, frantically seeking the man’s soft throat. Gideon managed to get hold of the slimy snout and tried to clamp the jaws closed and force the huge head backward, but the animal twitched and writhed, and he wound up underneath it on his back. He punched the throat, and the dog coughed hoarsely but pressed in. Gideon’s head was rammed sharply against a rock. The pain was blinding, bringing with it a rolling billow of nausea. He still held the fierce jaws closed, but his fingers slipped in the saliva, and he knew he couldn’t hold on much longer.

Again his head was smashed against the rock, and this time he saw stars and began to tip and fall slowly over a precipice into nothing. That’s it, he thought hazily, I can’t fight this thing off. I’m going to die. He was dimly aware of Julie above him, hammering on the dog’s back. "Get off, get off," she seemed to be saying.

"Julie," he said, or thought he said, "will you please get the hell out of here?" He was pleased to be speaking so calmly under the circumstances. If, that is, he was really speaking. It was hard to say.

"Bad show, Bowser!" she responded in a crisp English accent. "Get down, damn it! Down! Bad show!"

While he puzzled over this odd turn of events, he felt the great weight of the beast lift from his chest. He inhaled gratefully, closed his eyes, and continued to float peacefully down into the void.

"I can’t tell you how sorry I am," Colonel Conley said. "Of course you’ll let me reimburse you for your clothing, and if there are any medical costs-"

"No," Gideon said. "Thanks, but I’m fine." This was a notable overstatement; his head pounded, his stomach churned, his multitude of miraculously minor scratches and abrasions were beginning to sting, his clothes were ruined, and most of his joints felt as if they’d been pulled on by teams of stallions. But, all things considered, he was glad to be alive.

He and Julie were at the colonel’s kitchen table. His wounds had been ministered to by Julie, with the colonel’s supplies and competent assistance, and they had before them three cups of ferociously strong black tea sweetened almost to syrup. Bowser was somewhere behind the house, locked into a pen within a pen-and, Gideon hoped, bound with chain, bolt, and iron stake sunk into concrete.

"I simply can’t understand it," Colonel Conley said, and pulled angrily at his short mustache. "Simply can’t."

"Colonel," Gideon said without animosity, "you’re going to have to do something about Bowser. If it had been a child he’d come after…"

"A child?" the colonel repeated. "Oh, no, I don’t think so; certainly not. Here, I want to show you something." He left the room muttering, "Certainly not a child."

Julie moved closer to Gideon and put her hand on his arm. She was still wan and tousled, and her black eyes were very bright. "You’re really all right?"

"Sure, honestly. You are, aren’t you?"

"Uh-huh." She smiled tentatively. "You were…magnificent."

He laughed. "Told you I had him in the palm of my hand." But he had to close his eyes to fight down a wave of giddiness.

Conley returned and put two objects on the table. "That," he said, "is the chain that holds the back gate shut. It’s been cut through, as you can see. And that," he said, indicating the second object, "is a canvas shoe-yours, I should guess."

Gideon picked it up. "Where did you find it?"

"It was in the bushes, not far from the stile. I was lucky to see it. Obviously, someone used it to set the Beast on your scent."

"Is that possible? Can you just walk up to a dog and let it sniff someone’s shoes-and then it goes tearing off after him?"

"A hound like Bowser? Most certainly. And with the ground as damp as it is, the dog wouldn’t have a problem in the world. They do better in moist weather, you know."

"Someone wanted Bowser to kill you?" Julie asked incredulously. "But who? Why would anyone want you dead?"

The answers couldn’t have been more obvious. Gideon stood up-a little too suddenly; his vision blurred and a hundred places in his body twinged and burned, as if he’d been rubbed all over with heavy-grade sandpaper. But he was anxious to get going. There were still plenty of things he didn’t understand, but now he had a personal score to settle and he wanted to get on with it.

"Let’s go," he said to Julie. "It’s after eight."

Conley looked startled. "But…you can’t simply go like that… You must let me-here, let me write down my name and address." He pulled over a notepad that had been near the telephone and began scribbling. "I absolutely insist that all bills be sent to me. And-here-I’ll write a little statement that wholly accepts responsibility: "I, Grahame Baldwin Conley…"

Gideon stood there, swaying slightly, his mind still hazy.

"No, that isn’t necessary…" Standing up so suddenly had been a mistake. He was dizzy as well as muddled. He steadied himself with both hands on the table and made himself focus on the crisp, white pad of paper against the purple check of the plastic tablecloth. Conley’s square hand moved purposefully over it.

"You write like a left-hander," Gideon murmured.

"What?" Conley looked up. "I am left-handed. Look here, are you sure you’re all right? Would you like to stay the night? I can have a bed made up in no time."

Gideon shook his head, smiling. The motion actually seemed to clear his thoughts. "No, thanks." He gestured at Conley’s writing hand. "I just seem to have a one-track mind."

"Oh, I see," the colonel said, clearly failing to see.

"And, please, don’t worry about any bills. It wasn’t your fault."

"I’m afraid I must insist. And shouldn’t we call the police?"

"I’ll take care of it. Thanks for getting there when you did. You saved our lives."

"Well, of course, old fellow. I’m awfully sorry about all this. I hope you’re not too terribly angry."

"Not at you, Colonel." And then, as a rumbling woof from in back shook the house, "And not at Bowser, either."