Кроха - Dedication

26

Joe heard Tekla drag a suitcase across the entry, heard it clunk down a couple of steps into the garage and the door slam. He heard a click and then a thunk, as if the tailgate of a hatchback or SUV had been opened Skinning out from beneath the armoire, he slipped down the hall, leaving the gun hidden. Halfway down, he froze. The door to the garage opened and Arnold clumped in—but he turned away to the kitchen. Joe heard the refrigerator open. While the kid was occupied, Joe hit for the bench and under it.

Tekla’s purse stood on top. He longed to claw it open and drag out that narrow brown envelope. He pulled deeper into the shadows as Arnold came back munching, smelling of peanut butter. The boy, turning back into the garage, let the door slam behind him: one of those spring-hinged jobs as lethal as a spring-loaded rat trap. Before the door slammed shut Joe tried to see in, see what kind of car, but he got only a glimpse. The space was dim, the big garage door still closed. With Arnold blocking the view, he could see only a dull brown, dirt-encrusted rear fender and open tailgate where the car had been backed in, perhaps for faster loading. Now, with the inner door to the house shut again, he heard the faint sounds of suitcases thumping into the back and the mumble of their voices, could make out only a few scattered words. Behind him Sam was coming down the hall, sounded as if he were pushing his wheelchair, leaning on it in an uneven walk. The garage door opened again and Tekla came into the entry. “Leave the chair, Arnold will bring it. Arnold, help your father get in the car.”

Arnold appeared, shoving the last of his sandwich in his mouth. In that moment, as he clumsily handed his father down the two steps into the garage, Joe saw the SUV more clearly, but it didn’t help much. Faded brown in color and far from new, but he didn’t recognize the make, nor could he see a logo. Creeping out straining to see the license, he sucked back fast as Tekla turned.

Picking up her coat and purse from atop the bench above him, and Sam’s and Arnold’s jackets, she hauled them into the garage, letting the door slam closed. This time Joe heard the dead bolt turn. In a moment the car started, the garage door rumbled up, he heard them pull out and the door rattled down again.

He leaped at the knob, swinging and kicking—but the dead bolt held tight. They were gone, gone before he’d seen much of the car, and sure as hell they were headed for the freeway.

The van still stood in the narrow drive, the van the police would be watching. Paws sweating in his haste, he searched the house for a phone. He looked everywhere, every room, but found only empty jacks. They must have used only their cell phones. Half their belongings were still scattered about. In Arnold’s room, wrinkled clothes, school papers, empty drink cans strewn everywhere. By the front door, the three coats still hung abandoned. But they’d taken the front-door key.

They couldn’t have left it unlocked? Were they gone for good and didn’t care if someone came in? Maybe they had simply left what they didn’t want? Leaping, he swung on the knob until he’d turned it. Holding it, kicking hard against the molding, he fought until he was out of breath but he couldn’t force it open.

He wanted out of there, wanted to get to a phone. Turning, he surveyed the small crowded rooms.

He seldom saw a house he couldn’t break into or out of. Always he and Dulcie were able to jimmy a window or a lock somewhere. But as he made the rounds of the small cottage, leaping up to each sill, he found himself fighting uselessly. The metal bolt locks were driven down hard into the molding; all were so old they maybe wouldn’t slide at all. Didn’t these people ever open a window? The old house had settled, too, making everything even harder to operate. Maybe the bedroom slider would work better; he had seen a narrow patio beyond. Maybe in spite of the position of the bed, they might have used that opening on warm nights.

Slipping in behind the bedroom draperies, he peered at the slim crack where the moldings met. He could glimpse the engaged dead bolt, the door securely locked. When he leaped for the lever that would unlock it, it flipped right down. Scrambling up again he gripped the handle with both paws and kicked against the wall. Kicked again and again. The door remained solidly closed, stuck tight. Or was it screwed close? Yes, when he examined the bottom molding, there were four big screws embedded.

When he checked the bathroom window, it was frozen in place. They sure as hell didn’t believe in fresh air. Or the landlord didn’t. Doubling back through the house, he peered up at the ceiling-high heat vents, their grids secured with rusted screws. Even if he could climb on the bookcase in the boy’s room—which was crowded with junk and sports equipment, not books—even if he could somehow get into the vent, where would that lead him?

Inside the heater, that’s where.

By the time he reached the kitchen, one bruised paw was bleeding and he felt as mean as the Rottweiler. By this time the Bleaks would be well out of town on one of the freeways, headed who knew where? And the van still in the drive to keep Harper’s patrol complacent. Springing to the counter beside the sink, he peered out the kitchen window.

The main house was just to his left. Straight ahead across the narrow, scrubby yard and just inside the woven fence, the Rottweiler was demolishing the last of the oak branch. Joe envisioned a huge lump of splinters in the dog’s stomach. Despite his distaste for the mean-tempered animal, Joe didn’t envy him that misery.

A light was on in the yellow house, in what looked like the kitchen. Behind the thin curtains he could see a figure moving about, maybe fixing a bite of lunch. Stepping onto the sill Joe tried the window lock, but this, too, was totally stuck. One of those ancient curved jobs that would have to be turned with pliers. Maybe even pliers couldn’t budge it—the device was thick with coats of old paint. Watching through the window as the Rottweiler pursued his frenzied chewing, Joe reared up against the glass.

The moment the dog paused to get his breath Joe let out a bloodcurdling yowl and raked his claws down the pane. The scritching sound put even Joe’s teeth on edge. The Rottweiler paused, looking up. Joe stretched taller and gave another howl. The dog stared at him, roared, and charged the fence hard enough to break through—but the fence held. When Joe yowled and clawed again, the Rottweiler’s barking frenzy brought the back door crashing open. A broad-shouldered, bearded man stepped out clutching a leash in one hand, a cell phone in the other, holding the phone to his ear—talking, and watching the cottage.

Joe couldn’t hear a word with the dog roaring. Twice the man stopped talking to shout at the dog, but it kept on barking and lunging. Still talking on the phone, the guy came down off the porch and headed for the cottage. He paused once, looked back uncertainly at the dog, glanced down at the leash, and turned back toward the closed gate.

Don’t bring him. Leave him be, he’ll only complicate matters, don’t bring the damned dog.

The man opened the gate, shouting to quiet the animal. When he leashed the Rottweiler, the dog settled down. Together man and beast headed for the cottage.

Joe heard them walking around the yard, circling the house, the dog huffing and snarling. When Joe heard the man’s step on the porch and the click of doggy toenails he fled past the front door to the open alcove where the coats were left hanging. He leaped, hung with his paws on the shelf above the hooks. With his hind feet he kicked down the wrinkled jackets, dropped on top of them and pawed them into a heap. They smelled of the boy and of Tekla. Outside the glass, the man had paused, still talking on the phone. Yes, he was talking with the dispatcher. Joe waited, listening.