All Shots

face, but I just couldn’t be sure.
    “This guy look like he came out of the Bible?” Grant asked. “One of those movies about the Bible?”
    “Yes! That’s exactly what he looks like. Moses. He reminded me of Moses.”
    “Son of a bitch,” Grant said.
    The conviction in his voice sent waves of relief surging through me. My knees felt so weak that I sank into one of the kitchen chairs.
    That’s when the phone rang. And wrecked everything.
    “Don’t answer it,” Grant said.
    I waited in silence as the phone rang again and again. Eight times? Yes, eight rings that felt like a hundred. Finally, I heard my own voice say, “You have reached Holly Winter, Dr. Steve Delaney, and Alaskan Malamute Rescue. Please leave a message.” The machine emitted its annoying tone. I heard the caller breathe loudly. “This is Mellie O’Leary.” She spoke with the anxiety and formality of someone unused to leaving recorded messages. “Father McArdle says I have to give you Strike’s toys.” She paused. “He says that not telling is lying, too.” Again she paused. “And it’s a sin,” she finished.
    Grant laughed. “You hear that? It’s a sin, you lying bitch. We’re taking your car.” He grabbed a short leash from the rack on the back of the kitchen door. “Put this on your puppy.” I obeyed. Up close to Grant, I felt sickened by the stench of filth. “You first.”
    Where were my keys? For a panicked second, I couldn’t remember. Then I spotted them on a counter, picked them up, and opened the door to the little back hallway. The murdered woman had, in fact, left some of Streak’s possessions with Mellie. Streak’s? The woman’s own possessions? Possessions that belonged to Graham Grant. Or so he thought. Dog toys. Toys like Pink Piggy used as Velcro-fastened hiding places for who knew what. I, at least, didn’t care. All I wanted was to get Mellie to give those toys to Grant. And after that? After that, would he go away and leave us alone? Or would he... damn it! I’d almost forgotten. He wanted his blue bitch. Streak was at Steve’s clinic. Panic rose again. I’d worry about Streak later, about Grant’s next demand, about whatever Grant might do to us once he had whatever he wanted.
    Behind me, I heard Sammy’s tags jingle. Grant followed me through the little hallway, out the door, and down the stairs. A glance showed me that Kevin still wasn’t home; his spot in the Dennehys’ driveway was still empty. I thought about warning Grant that I had two dogs in the van, but why tell him that he could have three canine hostages instead of one? But if Rowdy or Kimi startled him, would he overreact? I thought not; it wouldn’t come as a surprise to Grant that I was surrounded by dogs. And who knew? Rowdy or Kimi might somehow prove useful, especially if Grant failed to realize that they were in the van. They’d had a busy evening, and they were used to riding contentedly in their crates. For once, I was glad that Steve’s rattletrap actually rattled. When it was moving, it would help to camouflage any low sounds that Rowdy and Kimi might make, and the jingle of their tags might be mistaken for the jingle of Sammy’s.
    “You’re driving,” Grant said. “Get in. And don’t forget what’s right here at your puppy’s throat.”
    The second I was in the driver’s seat, I started the noisy engine, and by the time Grant had opened the passenger door, I had the fan going at full clatter and had made sure that my purse was on the floor right next to me. There was no time to unzip my purse and get my cell phone, but the proximity of the phone increased my confidence, as did the knowledge that Rowdy was in the crate just behind my seat; and Kimi, in the crate beyond Rowdy’s. To prevent Grant’s attention from wandering to the crated dogs, I turned on the radio, changed the station from NPR to old rock, and started talking. “Mellie O’Leary lives near here. We’ll be there in five or ten minutes.”
    Grant positioned Sammy between the front seats, settled himself in the passenger seat, and slammed the door. On the radio, Roy Orbison sang “Crying.” Damn it! I hoped that the dogs wouldn’t be inspired to accompany Orbison by howling along.
    “Incredible,” I said over the soaring of that astonishing voice and the static of the radio. “Amazing range. You know, Bruce Springsteen said that he wished he could write like Bob Dylan and sing like Roy Orbison.”
    Backing the van out into