by David Somerset

I was coming in from a long night when I was pulled up short by the ruckus around the house. The lights of the police cars were eerily beautiful in the mist of the early dawn and, after assuring myself that none of it was for me, I moved carefully along the sidewalk and stood by the old oak tree to wait and watch.

There were three police cars in all, each parked haphazardly at the curb in front of the house or, in one case, angled across the street to discourage passersby. There was an ambulance van at right angles to the sidewalk, its rear wheels touching the cement curb. With the exception of the ambulance, the interior of which was the only thing ablaze, all the vehicles had their roof lights switched on and the lights spun relentlessly, bathing the immediate area in a spookily undulating luminescence. I looked around and spotted the usual busybodies amongst the ranks of onlookers. Many of them hugged their threadbare robes about them as though they were freezing but, even in the early morning hours, the warmth of what was sure to be another scorching mid-summer day made it unlikely that they were so much cold as feeling a little fragile at the moment.

The two-way radios in the police cruisers droned endlessly on, engaged in conversation I couldn't always understand. The cops themselves paid little attention to them, using instead the miniature radios that were clipped on their belts opposite their guns. Occasionally one of them would cock an ear and pull the clipped microphone from the shoulder strap of his uniform shirt and issue a comment or command into it with a kind of bored manner which belied the situation. I didn't much like the guns and moved around the tree to get more into the shadows.

By the time I'd positioned myself again, the paramedics had been signaled by one of the policemen who'd been stationed near the door of to the house. With reluctance they pushed themselves away from leaning against the side of the van and pulled the stretcher out from inside the ambulance. Soon they were clattering up the short flight of steps that led up to the front porch and had disappeared through the open door, eventually reappearing with a small body strapped beneath the stark white sheet. At the top edge of the bed I could make out Cindy's tiny face sticking out from under the cloth. Her light hair was spread out in tangles across the fabric and her face was very still. Forgetting my fears I ran forward. The medics looked briefly at me but didn't stop. I knew the police would stop short of letting me get inside the van with her so I could do nothing but stop and stare like the people who now pressed forward against the police barricade, trying desperately to get a glimpse of what they really didn't want to have to see anyway. Human nature.

Movement near the house caught my eye and I looked back that way to find a man coming out of the front door. He was dressed in a suit jacket that didn't match his trousers and his shirt and tie were wrinkled and a bit stained in turn. His face hadn't had the luxury of a morning shave as yet, probably having been called out of a deep sleep a few long hours earlier, into the blackness of the then night. To confront the deeper darkness of the human soul.

"What's it look like, Jim?" the uniformed officer asked the man. Jim let pent up air out of his lungs and the expression on his face became even more disappointed as he looked at the younger man. He reached inside of his jacket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and shook one free. As he pulled his coat open to put the packet back I could see the gun holster strapped to his hip beneath the coat. He looked briefly at me as he dug inside a different pocket for his lighter but then concentrated instead on flipping the switch of the thing until a miniature flame popped up. He touched it to the cigarette and it flared brightly for a moment as he got it burning. Dropping the lighter back into his pocket, he took a long pull of smoke into his lungs and let it out in a hiss. The uniformed officer was still looking at him expectantly and Jim's lips turned slightly down at the corners. "Looks like hell," he said.

"Any ideas what happened?" asked the officer, his interest strong. Perhaps someday he'd like to be the man in charge, I supposed.

Jim looked at me again and then out toward the street. He smiled ruefully at the numbers of ghouls who had somehow managed to come from nowhere and congregate there. "The little girl says it was her mother's boyfriend," he said without looking back at the officer. "The mother's gone and so is he."

"Do you think she was involved? The mother?" said the officer, his eyes thoughtful. I tried to read the name on his badge but couldn't.

"No," said Jim, looking again at me and then at the officer. He seemed to decide all at once to confide in the man. Or perhaps he just wanted to hear his own theory out loud. "It's my guess that the mother caught her boyfriend molesting the kid." I flinched and the hair raised on my neck. "They argued and it looks like things got out of hand. Judging from the amount of blood in there, she's either badly hurt herself, or dead." I took a couple of involuntary steps backward at the sound of that and the detective looked at me again.

"You must be Mallory," he said, holding out a hand. I gave him a wary look. "I thought I recognized your picture inside. Terrible twist of fate that this should happen in your own home," he added.

I walked past him and into the house. "Mallory's something of a detective himself," Jim told the officer who'd stepped aside to let me pass. "We've used him on a few cases. Almost like a bloodhound when he gets the scent," he continued, though I wasn't really.

Inside was worse than I'd imagined. Lamps were overturned in the livingroom and several pictures had either been knocked from the walls or slung in fury across the room to be smashed against the opposite one. The blood didn't start until in the hallway and then there was only a few specks of it until I reached the master bedroom. There it was splattered on the walls in blotches that peppered the surface and ran downward in tiny rivulets that trickled almost to the floor. The comforter had been ripped off the bed and lay in a pile beside it. Underneath it I found a kitchen knife, its blade thick with gore. Jim called a technician in to snap some pictures of it where it lay before picking it carefully up by its edge and dropping it into a plastic bag. He scribbled something on a white label and slapped it on the bag.

I didn't much want to go in Cindy's room but knew I had to. Her smaller bed had been pushed sideways against the wall, probably by the force of the initial confrontation. The technician had gone back to taking pictures of it and I stayed out of his way while I edged around the small room in search of something that might be called a clue. There was nothing there and I was relatively happy to see that the blood was less at least.

What there was of it I followed back along the hall and into the kitchen. The dining table had been overturned and the chairs tossed aside. One of them had a broken leg.

The drawer that held the carving and steak knives had been pulled almost out of its socket and some of its contents were strewn about the tile floor. There was blood but not a lot of it. The most revealing of it was a smear that led to the back door. Beyond it was the carport and I could see the car there. But not the truck.

I was wondering if Jim knew there even was a truck when another of the uniformed cops came in and looked around. I recognized him and he smiled briefly at me before approaching Jim. I moved closer to listen and heard enough to know that the truck had been spotted on the road between Wiltonville and Kelsey Township. Somebody had seen something and the Chief figured Jim would want to get out there right away. Jim looked at me and raised his eyebrows. "Want to go with me?" I did, and it was apparent, and I followed him out through the front of the house, past the police cars and onlookers, and we jumped into a battered, green Plymouth coupe. Siren blaring, we parted the crowds.

I didn't much like the sirens and was glad when Jim turned it off when we'd turned the corner and were away from all the hubbub. A couple cars tried to follow us, "Probably press," said Jim, but we soon lost them and were heading out of town and onto Route J-4, which is the back way toward Wiltonville. The road is mostly lined with pasture and forest. Usually I enjoyed going there.

I sat quietly during the ride, realizing all at once that I was feeling a bit hungry. I hadn't eaten since early the night before when I'd stopped at old man Cleary's for a bite. Amos Cleary was one of those ancient senior citizens who lived from hand to mouth on what had turned out to be an inadequate pension from an even more inadequate career. Though a little bitter in general, he was a nice enough guy though and enjoyed having me come over. I enjoyed hanging out with him. And the food was good.

Still, it had been quite a few hours since then and my stomach felt pretty empty. Ordinarily I'd have wolfed down some kind of breakfast when I got home and caught a few winks before time to go to school with Cindy. I yawned unexpectedly and Jim looked over at me. "Not much fun, is it?" he said, but I just looked out the window and silently watched the countryside go by.

We saw the police cruiser parked a car length behind the boyfriend's truck and Jim pulled past both before angling his own car into the grassy field that ran along beside the two lane road. We got out and the patrolman walked over and told Jim what he'd found out thus far. It wasn't much and I got the feeling that the man had been a bit afraid to go into the field to find out anything else. Jim told him to call for backup and then wait by the radio until they got there.

We walked slowly across the field, carefully examining the ground for signs of someone going before us. They weren't hard to find. The grass had been matted down as though something had been dragged across it and we walked along beside the trail. Occasionally I spotted a speck of blood or something else of interest and I let Jim know. I needn't have bothered most of the time since Jim didn't miss much.

As we reached the line of trees Jim gave me an apprehensive look. I took the lead and circled around carefully before marking a few things that seemed significant. Jim watched me but didn't approach until I'd decided it was time to move on and then he unholstered his gun and followed me inside.

We found her about twenty feet beyond the first tree. He hadn't taken time to dig a grave, possibly because he'd been distracted or frightened by the good samaritan who'd had the foresight to wonder about the truck parked alongside such a secluded stretch of road. Perhaps if the killer had had the sense to reclose the passenger door of his truck no one would have wondered about the truck until later. When it was too late. As it was now, the suspect was stuck on foot. And I knew from Jim's conversation with the patrolman that men were even now setting up a perimeter around the area.

As I pushed around the brush that had been tossed over her I realized that Aggie wasn't dead and I'd been premature in terming the man a killer. I could tell right away that she was still breathing, however minimally, and I called Jim over. He crouched down and carefully lifted the branches from her face before pressing his fingers against the nape of her neck. He smiled slightly. "Thank God." he muttered, looking at me. But my mind was elsewhere.

The man was not far off. I could feel it. There was something there that triggered a reaction in me and I finally realized it was a stronger whiff of the noxious aftershave the man insisted on using. The smell had been faint throughout the house but stronger around Aggie. I knew it hadn't been long since he'd been here.

Cautiously I sniffed the air and began moving toward a thicker section of trees that surrounded a cluster of granite boulders. Beyond them I could hear the sound of men coming slowly closer and I knew the boyfriend's escape had been cut off and he was hiding amongst the rocks. As I let Jim know, I hoped the man hadn't switched from kitchen knife to loaded pistol.

We moved slowly forward, Jim carefully avoiding making noise from stepping too hard on the dry underbrush. He held his own gun ready in his hand. As we reached the outcropping of boulders I moved silently off toward the left and Jim crept along around the right side. As I came around the far side, I spotted our prey. But he'd spotted us too, or at least Jim, and had him in his sights. I saw his finger begin to tighten against the trigger of his gun and I hurled myself at him. We fell together in a boiling heap and he struggled to bring his gun up to kill me. I sank my teeth into his wrist and he screamed and Jim was upon him, twisting the gun from his fingers and telling him to shut the hell up, or he'd kill him.

I backed away, panting with fear and a gamut of other emotions released. Jim gave me an approving look and flipped the man roughly onto his stomach and savagely applied handcuffs to his wrists. "You have the right to remain silent," he said through clenched teeth.

Less than an hour later, the preliminary investigation of the area had been completed and Jim and I were walking back to his car. "Well," he said, as he held the passenger door open for me, "looks like that's that."

I climbed inside and watched him walk around the front of the car. "Guess you'll be needing a place to stay," he said as he climbed in himself and stuck his key in the car's ignition. I guessed I would. "The foot of my bed is pretty warm," he told me, reaching over to open the glove compartment and pulling a Milkbone biscuit out of a small box of them he had inside. I took it gratefully, wishing only that he'd gotten me one sooner. As I anchored it between my front paws and began gnawing on it he told me about Annie, his Chihuahua. I hated Chihuahuas, especially those with sissy names, but figured what the hell, it'd only be until Cindy and Aggie were well again.