Big Three-Thriller Bundle Box Collection Page 75

  “Then it really isn’t rabies?” Simpson asked.

  Parker inspected the dog’s carcass in admiration. “Can’t be sure,” he said. “Sometimes the vaccination doesn’t take. But even if it doesn’t, only twenty-five percent of all rabies cases in dogs are the furious kind. Most are what’s called ‘dumb rabies.’ Usually, even with furious rabies, the dog only attacks briefly, just bites and runs. And it’ll rarely attack its master. Of course, with a dog this big, that bite is one damn big chomp.” He looked to the dead sergeant’s headless neck, then back to the Great Dane. “The dog looks in pretty good shape for rabies, too. A lot of times they’re noticeably injured from biting themselves. Not a lot of slobber, either. Usually, you would expect more than this. Still, you never know for sure about rabies.” He looked down the dark stairway. “What about down there?”

  “Nobody’s been down there yet,” Simpson said. “The light’s burned out.”

  Parker frowned.

  “Well, shit, Tony. You know I hate dogs. There might be another one down there.”

  “That’s it,” the coroner said, looking up from the bodies. “Simpson might be right.”

  “What do you mean?” Parker asked.

  “Well, look at the dog’s lower left canine,” the coroner said, pointing to its mouth with an ink pen. “It’s broken off. Been that way for a considerable amount of time. A year or better.” He stood up and walked over to MacGreggor’s body. “Now look at the deep grooves in the old man’s neck made by the canine teeth—all four of them.”

  “Are you saying there’s another one of these monsters around here?” Simpson asked, looking over his shoulder to the dark basement.

  “Well, that would explain the different bite pattern,” the coroner said.

  “The pattern is different, too?” Parker asked.

  “Yes. You see, it appears the animal that tore into the old man’s throat had a bigger mouth than the dog that took the head off the sergeant, the one that is lying dead at your feet,” he said, pointing back with his ink pen to the big, dead Great Dane.

  “What I figure happened is: late last night around midnight, the old man was sleeping in his chair. The larger animal attacked him with little or no warning. He died quickly, almost mercifully compared to the sergeant over there. The old man couldn’t have lasted more than a few seconds according to the way the carotid artery was torn open.

  “When the sergeant was killed this morning, there was a struggle. He probably lived for a full fifteen seconds after being gutted and before the dog we have here finally snapped his head off. It’d probably been hiding down in the basement. When it heard the sergeant break in, it came up quickly and attacked immediately without giving the sergeant any warning. Not even time to draw his gun, at first.

  “Sergeant Morowsky, standing here,” the coroner noted, standing in the middle of the living room sideways to the basement doorway, “saw the dog coming at him and had just enough time to block its head down, like this.” He motioned with his right arm. “The dog’s large fangs caught the sergeant’s over-extended stomach and dug in. It ripped into his intestines with the sergeant still standing erect. Then, it attacked again, without pause.

  “This time, the sergeant went for his gun, and the dog was free to go for his throat. Morowsky tried to push the dog off—remember the dog was standing on its hind legs, toe-to-toe and eye-to-eye with the sergeant—and couldn’t fire his revolver. He was probably nearly unconscious.

  “The dog dragged him over to the doorway, here. The sergeant dropped the gun. Then, after two, maybe three bites, and with a little more pressure, his head came rolling off. The gun the younger officer has in his hand is the sergeant’s. The neighbor said he’d kicked his under the patrol car and couldn’t find it. He came in unarmed to assist his partner.

  “Officer Cox came over to the sergeant’s body and got the gun. The smaller dog had gone into hiding again, down in the basement. As Cox knelt over the sergeant, the dog came up the stairs and grabbed him by the head. One of the two-inch-long fangs pierced his temple and entered his brain. He died immediately. Then, Lt. Simpson arrived.

  “This is all speculation, of course. We’ll know for sure, later, after running some tests. Why the bigger dog didn’t attack the officers, and where it is now, I can’t tell you.”

  All eyes in the room focused on the basement doorway.

  “‘Bigger,’ you keep saying,” Simpson said. “That can’t be, can it, Tony?”

  “I guess anything’s possible,” Parker said. “If I remember right, the biggest, or should I say the tallest, dog on record was a Great Dane. I think he was supposed to be a little over forty-one inches at the shoulders.” He looked to the officer standing nearby. “Give me your flashlight.”

  The officer handed it to him, and Parker stepped over the two bodies and straddled the dog, whose hind legs hung over the top step. He descended the stairway slowly. Hill came behind with the tranquilizer gun, and Simpson cautiously brought up the rear with his .357 drawn and held head-high. The dark steps creaked as they proceeded.

  The basement reeked of dog, mixed with the usual damp, musty cellar smell. It was small, fifteen feet by fifteen, with an open crawlspace under the rest of the house.

  Parker’s light found a wicker dog bed in the corner as he neared the foot of the steps. A brass nameplate hung three feet above the huge, silk-cushioned bed.

  “Beelzebub,” he read aloud.

  A shiver clawed its way up his spine as his light searched the small basement for another dog. The light caught something in the adjacent corner, twelve feet away. Another dog bed. Another nameplate, this one smeared with blood.

  “Jezebel!” Parker said, stunned. “There is another one.”

  He froze in place on the bottom step, still searching the darkness. A noise could be heard over the slowly creaking steps from the cautious feet behind him. It sent another shiver up Parker’s backbone.

  “Shhh!” he said and held his hand behind him, touching Hill’s ankle.

  The other two stopped and stood motionless. As Parker listened, he wondered how he could run back up the steps without running over his two companions.

  A steady, low, rumbling growl.

  Parker directed the light around warily. A creaking, breaking noise came from under Parker’s feet.

  A loud crack.

  The step he stood on gave way with a crash.

  The flashlight banged against the handrail and went out.

  Parker slipped the eight inches to the floor and fell back against Hill. She dropped her gun and held onto him with both arms, trembling. Simpson had already reached the top of the steps and was poised with both hands on his revolver, aiming down while yelling out for backup.

  Parker and Hill sat statuesque for a long moment. Parker rapped the light on the wall twice and it blinked back on. He began searching the darkness once more.

  Still, a low, steady growl.

  His eyes were adjusting to the darkness. Another faint light came from the far corner. He shone the light there quickly.

  The sound wasn’t a growl. An old gas water heater, burner roaring, kept the old man’s bath water warm.

  After an analytical pause, Parker and Hill laughed in relief.

  Simpson sounded frantic. “You guys all right? What the hell’s going on down there?”

  Their laughter diminished until they looked up to respond to Simpson and burst out laughing again. Simpson’s concern seemed less sincere, standing safe at the top of the steps with his pistol aimed.

  “Well, shit, bust a gut, why don’t you?” Simpson said. He holstered the revolver. “I told you, I don’t like dogs.”

  “Nothing here,” Parker said, dusting himself off. “Nothing but two dog beds that’re worth more than most of the furniture in the house.”

  Parker glanced around and noticed the lid of a shoebox lying in the crawl space at the top of the wall between the two dog beds. He picked it up and noted streaks of dust on it as if it
had been wiped off recently.

  He tossed the lid back where he’d found it and followed Hill back up the stairs.

  Parker stepped over the bodies once more. “Let’s take a look at the rest of the house.”

  In the kitchen he found an electric clock on the floor. It was unplugged, the prongs bent, and the plastic outlet cover on the wall it leaned against was cracked, looking like it had been yanked out of the receptacle. A light spot in the shape of a square clock showed on the old, yellowed wallpaper six feet up. The plug-in was near the hall doorway. The clock pointed to twelve thirty.

  “What about the clock?” Parker asked, looking down at it.

  “Probably been that way for months. The one on the CD player wasn’t correct, either,” Simpson answered. “Look at all the dust on that thing.”

  Beside the clock sat two huge Tupperware bowls. One bowl contained a few pieces of dry dog food, the other, a half inch of water.

  Parker looked around the room. The back door had a three-foottall dog port in the middle of it.

  “That’s big enough for a Shetland pony to walk through,” he said. “I’ll bet it let in one hell of a draft in the winter. You might have someone check the back yard.” He opened the door gingerly and looked out to insure another dog wasn’t there. “Look for blood and dog hair on the privacy fence. That’s probably how the dog left. And you might put some strap iron on the inside of this dog-port door to keep it from opening out. If we’re not able to catch the dog by tonight, maybe the thing’ll come back and we can set a trap inside the house.”

  “Will do, Tony. That’s it except for the old man’s bedroom,” Simpson said. “The door was closed tight, and nothing looked disturbed when we got here.”

  Parker looked in anyway. Nothing seemed disturbed, just like Simpson had said. The bed had been made, and everything seemed clean and neatly arranged.

  “Are all the window screens in place and locked?”

  “Yeah, I think so,” Simpson said. “Check it out, Smith. Hey, what is this anyway? You Sherlock Holmes or something? This is a dog attack we’re talking about—isn’t it?”

  “Uh-huh, it’s just odd. I’ve got a funny feeling about it.”

  “Me, too,” Hill said.

  “I don’t get it,” Parker said. “Why would a dog—even a rabid dog— attack its master, especially a harmless old man sleeping in a recliner? And did you notice the blood on the nameplate on the basement wall downstairs? It looks as if the bigger dog beat its own head against the wall, like it was trying to make itself stop or even kill itself.”

  “Bullshit, Tony! Now you’re going to tell me this crazy, murdering dog was sorry for what it did and became suicidal?” Simpson asked.

  “Just the same, have them check it out. I want to know what time the blood was put there, and whose it was.”

  As they stepped out of the room, the body bags and gurneys were being brought in.

  Two emergency medical technicians lifted the old man from his recliner to place him in a heavy, rubberized canvas bag on a gurney. A piece of paper tumbled over the arm of the chair and fell lightly to the floor.

  “What’s that?” Parker asked, pointing.

  Simpson walked over and picked it up carefully by its corner with the tips of his thumb and forefinger.

  “A page from a Bible. There’s a passage highlighted. Do not give dogs what is sacred: do not throw your pearls to pigs. If you do, they may trample them under their feet, and then turn and tear you to pieces.” Simpson’s eyes shifted to Parker. “I think he should have followed Jesus’ advice.”

  “Maybe it’s from his pastor,” Parker said.

  “No pastor would tear a page from the Good Book. That’d be sacrilegious,” Simpson answered. “There’re initials printed up at the top. TP. Hmm, TP, TP. . . . ” Simpson’s eyes lit up as if he had made a remarkable discovery. “Tony Parker,” Simpson speculated. “Maybe it’s for you.”

  “Yeah, right,” Parker said with a half-smile.

  “Well, TP are your initials, and it’s about dogs, and you’re the head dog catcher.”

  “Yeah, and it’s also about pigs and you’re a pig,” Parker came back.

  Sarah Hill had been quiet. “Maybe someone else left it after his death. Maybe someone is trying to tell you something.”

  “Oh, come on, Sarah,” Simpson said, “or should I call you Dr. Watson—now you’re going back to Parker’s conspiracy theory? The damned dog killed the old man on his own.”

  Parker turned and looked at Hill, unintentionally staring, thinking, wondering if it were possible. The Bible verse could be a clue, a hint to what was going on, why the dogs attacked. Perhaps it was a piece to a puzzle not yet assembled. All the meaningful pieces not found, it represented only blank blue sky to a very frightening picture.

  Simpson looked to one of the uniformed officers. “Smith, check to see if the old man has a Bible and if it’s missing page 991.”

  The cop nodded and started searching the shelves.

  Simpson looked through the living room window. “It’s that asshole reporter from Channel Two, Haskins.”

  Parker looked to see the reporter streak across the lawn with his cameraman tailing him.

  Simpson slipped the Bible page inside his jacket.

  Before Parker had time to prepare himself, Haskins stood in the front door with the bright camera lights blazing through from behind. Parker, Simpson and Hill blocked the reporter’s view of the bodies. He was a slim man with sharp features and sandy blond hair.

  “Well, Officer Parker, another one of your beloved pit bulls attack a harmless citizen again?” he asked into the microphone and then shoved it into Parker’s face for his comment.

  Haskins had obviously not yet been informed of the gravity of the incident, only that it was an animal attack.

  “Not this time, Asskiss—I mean Haskins.”

  Parker had known Haskins since returning from Vietnam, years ago, when Julie was in college. Julie had been dating Haskins, but upon his arrival, Parker found it easy to talk Julie into coming back to him and breaking up with Haskins. Now, after all those years and a couple of recent serious pit-bull attacks, Haskins finally found a way to get back at Parker by making him sound like he was defending the dogs and not doing his job properly.

  “But it was a dog attack, wasn’t it, Parker?” Haskins asked, sarcastically. Spying a red rubber dog bone on the floor, he picked it up and pointed it into Parker’s face. “So, did the attacker use a bone to beat its victim?”

  Parker didn’t answer. He knew what Haskins was trying to do. He’d get Parker riled up on camera and edit out his own idiotic comments. Parker stepped to the side and squeezed between the cameraman and the doorway. Hill followed him out. Sheer horror showed on Haskins’ face as the camera light shone across the scene of torn up bodies being placed into body bags. His chin dropped, and his tongue snaked around inside his open mouth. He was obviously trying to suppress the urge to vomit.

  Parker stuck his head back in the doorway and, seeing the dog bone still in Haskins’ hand, said with a wink, “Oh, and Jack, make sure that everybody without gloves that’s touched anything the dogs might have come in contact with gets rabies shots. Poor bastards!” He turned and walked away, shaking his head. “Twenty-one hellacious shots in the stomach.” When he reached the porch steps, he looked back and watched Haskins.

  The reporter stood aghast as Simpson squeezed past, taking care not to brush against him. The coroner was next to walk by. He had a black plastic bag hanging heavily from one hand.

  There was a sound like plastic wrap being ripped from the roll and a thump on the floor. Sergeant Morowsky’s head had slipped from a tear in the bag and rolled up against the reporter’s left foot.

  “Damn!” the coroner said, “I keep telling ‘em we need Hefty bags, but the bastards just go on giving us these shitty, no frills, generic ones.” He scooped the head up and wrapped it with the plastic. “Next time, I guess I should just put all the par
ts together inside the body bag.”

  Haskins choked and dropped the bone. He ran outside and lost his breakfast while leaning over the porch railing. The cameraman followed him out and got some nice footage of the entire event while Haskins, between regurgitations, tried to wave him off. Parker, Simpson and Hill all watched, grinning morbidly.

  Officer Smith came out the door and was careful to avoid the spewing reporter. He stepped up to Simpson, holding a small white Bible.

  “This was the only one I found,” Smith said. “Too small. That page isn’t missing, anyway.”

  Simpson grunted and gave a nod.

  “Did anyone see anything?” Parker asked.

  “Just the neighbor, Mrs. Crane,” Simpson said, looking to the old woman standing at her screen next door.

  CHAPTER 8

  Mrs. Crane wavered in her doorway. With one hand on the inside handle of the screen door and one over her forehead, Tony Parker knew it would only be seconds before she was on the floor. He sprinted across her yard and onto her porch with Jack Simpson following. Reaching through the doorway, Parker caught the old woman by the upper arm just in time.

  “I think you’d better sit down, Mrs. Crane,” Parker said, leading her to a large overstuffed chair in her living room.

  “Yes—yes, I think you’re right,” she said frailly. “But who are you?”

  “Tony Parker, Animal Control Director.”

  “Who?”

  “I’m the dog catcher, ma’am.”

  “Oh.”

  “Are you okay, Mrs. Crane?” Simpson asked, coming into the room from her kitchen with a glass of water.

  “Oh, yes. I’ll be fine now, I think,” she said, taking the glass.

  “Can you answer a few questions for us, Mrs. Crane?” Parker asked and patted her hand gently.

  She nodded and set the glass down on a lamp table after a sip.

  “Did you see any of what happened this morning?”

  “Yes, I called the police when Mr. MacGreggor wouldn’t come to the door, at about eight. I always check on him first thing in the morning when I go on my walk. Then I go over every afternoon and help him read his mail, make his bed, do some light housekeeping and feed the dogs. His eyesight isn’t, or wasn’t . . . ” She choked and twisted a handkerchief she had pulled out of a pocket in her skirt. “ . . . very good.”