Rachel Alexander 05 - The Wrong Dog

my breath, I listened for a moment, but it was another voice I heard.
    I walked into Sophie’s apartment and found him standing in the middle of the living room, all three dogs vying for his attention.
    “What are you doing here at this hour?”
    “I couldn’t reach you. I tried you at the cottage, then here. I got so worried I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking maybe something terrible had happened to you, too.”
    “But it’s four-thirty in the morning.” I checked my watch. “No, it’s five-ten. Why were you trying to call me in the middle of the night? What on earth is wrong?“
    “That’s what I wanted to know. I didn’t start calling you now. I’ve been calling since last evening. I got so scared, I couldn’t stand it anymore.”
    “I don’t understand. I was here.”
    We both turned to look at the telephone at the same time.
    I picked up the wire and gave it a tug.
    “Did it come out of the wall?”
    “Not exactly.”
    I held up the end of the wire so that he could see it had been cut.
    “The bedroom, too?”
    “I’ll go check,” I said, knowing what I would find. Had the bedroom phone been functioning, I would have heard it ring when Mel called.
    I took off my jacket and tossed it onto the bed, right next to where Mel had left his, then pulled out the desk and saw the phone wire dangling behind it, no big surprise there.
    “Is that one cut, too?”
    I nodded. “Time to blow this joint.”
    “Do you want me to take Bianca again?”
    I stood there looking at them, all three dogs sitting and looking from Mel to me and back again, as if they were watching a tennis match.
    “No,” I said. “I want to keep the dogs together.”
    He screwed up his face, then surprised me by nodding. “If that’s what you want,” he said. “But Judy wouldn’t mind. She likes Bianca.”
    He must have realized his mistake instantly, at the same moment I did. His pale face turned red and when he opened his mouth to speak, he began to sputter.
    “Take a deep breath,” I told him. He did. “Good boy,” I said. “Now, you want to explain that?”
    He nodded.
    “When I play with Bianca,” he said, “like, when I throw a ball for her to catch, you know?”
    Why was he telling me this stupid story? I headed for the kitchen and began to pack up food and supplements while he was talking. If he wasn’t going to address the fact that he’d just called his dog by a different name, the hell with him. I was taking the dogs and going home.
    Mel began to follow me, tripping on the edge of the carpet. He stopped and stood there, long skinny arms at his side, his face a tangle of concern.
    “When she catches it,” he continued from where he stood, “you know, in her mouth?” He nodded. “I always tell her, ‘Good hands.’ I don’t want her thinking she has two left feet.”
    I stopped what I was doing and stared. Mel just smiled his lopsided smile and continued. “I do,” he said. “And two left hands. I’ve never done anything right in my whole life. Including this.”
    “And what’s this?” I walked back to where he was standing, close enough to make him back up. He looked around Sophie’s apartment and made a choking sound in his throat. Then he lifted his hands and reached for me. This time I took a step back and he nearly fell, grabbing for me, then draping his long skinny arms around my shoulders and dipping his funny-looking face into the crook of my neck.
    “You can tell me everything when we’re on safer ground,” I said, trying to pull away. “Let’s just get out of here.”
    He nodded, but he didn’t let go. He only held on tighter. “You’re right. Let’s get out of here. Forget about the food,” he said into my neck. “It’s just fruit and vegetables. We can buy more as soon as it’s light out.”
    But we were already too late. When he stepped back, I saw Dashiell and Blanche heading for the open door, I saw the reflection in the garden window, one arm raised, and this time Joe wasn’t packing a wrench. Mel screamed, “No, don’t hurt her.”
    The hand with the gun swung down and hit Blanche, who was trying to block the way into the apartment not only with her own girth, but with her considerable grit as well, and who, in doing so, had so far kept Dashiell from the object of his disaffection. There was a dull thud and the sound of nails scrabbling as Blanche slid to the floor. Then time seemed to slow down as it does in a dream, and to my astonishment, I began to move