Programmed for Peril

blasted beach of his emotions. He groaned and heaved, his first violent thought always the same: Master Carson deserved better than having Queen of My Heart desert him. The second swell rose more swiftly than the first: Why had she taken their daughter away from him? Why? Other swells followed in rhythmic order, thoughts behind their origins growing vaguer, like islands seen through fog. Currents of rage and winds of sorrow for commanding Carson’s losses churned his emotions like Africa’s western waters spawning hurricanes. His heaves became spasms. Siege Restraint’s metal studs beat the floor like a dancer’s taps. He babbled. Ripped painfully from his chest, his words coarsened to grunting howls lengthening into one long keening sound: Awrrrrrooooooowwww!
    Siege Restraint’s right arm broke off, three-quarter inch oak splintered like a mast in a storm. He toppled. Howling the while, he thrust and withdrew his unanchored pelvis as though copulating with the air. His free arm with its wooden load flailed the floor.
    He quieted. His set jaw’s quivering told him Earthquake Anger possessed him fully now. From the depth of that state was flung a dismaying conclusion.
    Despite his having followed Carson’s instructions absolutely, the man had not been pleased with the results. Neither Dr. Charlotte Wigman nor her daughter had... measured up, as his master put it. He, Champ, thought the woman to be of more than adequate—even grand— potential. Not a bit of it, said Carson.
    Neither of the other two lady doctors had Carson’s right stuff either. Nor had their brats.
    Champ differed greatly with those judgments, too.
    He howled again, now in despair. Carson had given him another chance to prove Charlotte’s worthiness. He now waited for word of Champ’s success.
    As vile luck would have it, the woman had called to say the affair was over. Champ dreaded going to Carson with word of failure.
    He would be so terribly angry.
    Angrier even than Champ was at that moment. He howled and thrashed, rolling Siege Restraint over in clunking loops. He swung his right arm. Splintered oak drummed the floor.
    After a long while he wept, calmed, and freed himself. He knelt by damaged Siege Restraint. He clasped his hands together below his chin.
    He prayed to some nameless, shadowed entity that from - - . somewhere would come salvation.
    After a long while he picked up the phone and explained everything to Carson. Then he said, “Tell me what to do next, Master.”
     
    Dressed and groomed, he looked sharp, no mistake. He wore his straight black hair and beard long but tidy. A little comb work settled renegade strands. He admired himself in the full-length mirror—bright ascot at the neck, light linen jacket, ruffled shirt, loud print beach trousers, woven straw sandals. Fashions by Whim and Serendipity. Flash that smile—good teeth now. Bonding is beautiful.
    He picked up the paper bag and left his house, locking the door behind him. A twenty-minute plunge through deepening dusk in the ’vette was all it took to reach Dr. Charlotte’s block. Oh, no, he was not quite ready yet to swing bold and sassy into her drive, even though expected. Not when it had been suspiciously difficult to convince her that their final meeting would be nothing more trying than an easy, good time for the two of them and Suzi. He found a house with no cars in the driveway and pulled up. He got out and walked back across the lot, past the gazebo and pool. He angled over a long patch of dried lawn. Ahead he saw the redwood rail fence enclosing Dr. Charlotte’s property. Dusk was closing down to evening. He heard sounds of families at dinner doings but saw no one. And vice versa. How nice!
    Nice, too, were the acres of glass in the rear of Dr. Charlotte’s house. A little craning and peering allowed him to view the first-level rooms sunk into the side of the sloping lot. Now where would a beefy friend tuck himself away? In the least visible room. The one sunk most deeply into the earth. He edged an inquisitive eye around a foundation slab to peer through the TV room’s slit of window.
    Voilà! Mr. Shoulders, a refugee from Muscle Beach or Lenny’s Lat Laboratory who rented rooms from Charlotte. Hunched close to the flicker of a portable TV.
    The presence of hidden first-floor muscle had made Dr. Charlotte careless. The sliding door hadn’t been latched. Champ opened it. He stepped into cool AC drafts. He walked toward Mr. Shoulders’s room.