Rachel Alexander 05 - The Wrong Dog

what he’d done, that he’d killed her.”
    “He knew the amount to use? Clever, for a piano player, wouldn’t you say?”
    He stood.
    “I wouldn’t,” I said.
    “You wouldn’t what?”
    “Know the amount of Vacor to use, if I wanted to kill someone that way. But you would, Doctor. And I wouldn’t be standing if I were you.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “Of course,” I said, as much to myself as to him, “you wrote a prescription for the anticonvulsant Sophie used, emptied out all the capsules, filled them with Vacor, then left that vial near her bed, and after she was dead, you put her own undoctored pills next to her, so that it would seem the dog brought the pills too late to do any good.”
    “Have you lost your mind. I never—”
    “It wasn’t a matter of patience after all. Sophie was talking too much, way too much. She was going to blow your big secret if she kept it up. In fact, she already had, when she had the bullies’ DNA tested. No, you weren’t patient. Far from it. You wanted her dead yesterday, especially after you heard her call to me. You were so damn arrogant, all of you, assuming the police would be fooled, seeing an epileptic dead with her medicine vial at her side. You figured they might check out the pills, but you never thought they’d autopsy, did you?”
    “You’re being ridiculous. I was never in that woman’s apartment.”
    “Of course not. It was a joint effort. You’re a cooperative group, I have to give you that.”
    He exhaled through his nose, turned, and took a step toward the gate.
    “Uh, uh, uh. You’re upsetting me. You don’t want to do that.”
    “Aren’t you being a bit foolish now, Ms. Alexander? Why would I care that I was upsetting you? You’re a stranger to me. And I have much on my mind at this time.“
    “I bet you do. Now, sit down. I’m not finished.”
    I pointed my left hand at him and nodded, not to him, to Dashiell.
    Dashiell stood. But Dr. Philips only smiled that ice-cold smile of his.
    That’s when I felt it, cold and hard against the back of my neck.
    “Don’t turn around.” I smelled the stale tobacco on her clothing and in her blond hair. I didn’t have to turn to know who was there.
    “Is that your father’s gun?” I asked. “Or did you have one of your own, perhaps a Christmas or birthday present from the old man?”
    “Shut up,” she said. “I’ve had quite enough from you.“
    “Well, I haven’t had enough from you, Lizzie. You never even thanked me for the flowers.”
    I looked around the run. No one was paying the least bit of attention to us, Dr. Philips, who had cloned a dog, standing in front of me, Elizabeth Madison on the outside of the run, standing behind the bench I sat on holding a gun against the back of my neck. I wondered what she had over her arm. Surely, even here in Greenwich Village, someone would have noticed the gun if she hadn’t pulled it into the sleeve of her droopy sweater or tossed a jacket over her arm. After all, this wasn’t the Wild West.
    “Tell him it’s okay,” she said, “and then get up slowly, and hand Rudy the leash. We’re getting out of here and you’re coming with us.”
    “Hey, this is really interesting. You know the whole nature/nurture thing. For a while there, it seemed the nature people were way ahead, all those studies on twins who had been raised apart, ending up so similar anyway. But look at you, Elizabeth, a fucking paean to your adopted father, a walking advertisement for the power of nurturing to influence character.”
    She jammed the gun into my neck. I had the feeling she would have done more if there hadn’t been so many people around. And if Dashiell hadn’t been standing there. “Tell him it’s okay,” she said between her teeth.
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “Your dog. Tell him it’s okay. Call him off. You think I’m stupid. I saw you sic him on Rudy.”
    “Oh, yes. I nearly forgot.”
    “Do it now. And don’t try anything funny.”
    “Oh, I would never,” I told her. I looked hard at Dashiell. His eyes were on Elizabeth now. Whatever was hiding the gun didn’t fool him. He could smell the gunpowder, taste it on his big tongue.
    “Okay,” I told him in no uncertain terms. I’m nothing if not obedient.
    I let go of the leash and threw myself to the side, hitting the bench with my shoulder as Dashiell sailed over me, clearing the bench and the fence behind it, hitting Elizabeth square in the chest. I heard the rumble