Hair of the Dog by Gordon Carroll (reading strategies book TXT) 📗

There, sitting in a car across the street from the Alpha and the man he was speaking to, sat the enemy.

The Alpha stopped speaking to the fat man and began to walk toward Max.

Max ignored the Alpha, staring at the bad man.

The bad man watched the Alpha cross the parking lot, oblivious of Max.

The Alpha opened the SUV’s car door and got in.

Max did not move, he did not blink. Max stared at the bad man.

The bad man’s head turned toward Max.

They locked eyes.

Max’s hackles did not rise, he did not bark or growl or whine.

Their eyes told each the other’s intentions.

Max continued to watch the man as the Alpha drove away.

Max never lost sight of the bad man until they turned up the driveway leading to the house. But he knew the man was not gone. He would be waiting… hunting.

Good.

Max exited the car as soon as the Alpha opened the door. He put his nose to the wind and scented long and hard.

Nothing.

The man was not close.

But Max knew he would be coming.

Max followed the Alpha into the house to make sure it was clear… that the man had not somehow beaten them here and hidden inside. But his scent was not here either. Max nuzzled Pilgrim, making sure he was okay, and then slipped out the pet door, ignoring the food the Alpha put in the bowl.

Moving past the driveway and the short stretch of grass to the west, he went over the crest and started down the sloping hill, into the scrub and the dark. Taking in all the smells of the looming night, he still did not detect the man. But that was okay, the hunt was on. Max caught the scent of a raccoon, a small herd of antelope, over a dozen rabbits, and even a group of three coyotes not far away. The rabbits, antelope and raccoon meant nothing, but usually the coyotes would stir Max’s blood, a pale substitute for the Great Gray Wolf he longed to wreak revenge on. Not tonight. Tonight Max wasn’t hunting coyotes or even wolves.

Tonight Max hunted man.

Jerome followed the thin road that wound up and around the steep hogback. He wasn’t about to waste the strength it would take to try and go straight up the mini-mountain. Instinctively, he understood he would need his energy. The white man was not weak and the dog wanted to kill him. Jerome saw it in the beast’s eyes. Jerome had never really been afraid of anything in his life, but something about the dog terrified him. It wasn’t the wounds, or the animal’s strength. He’d had worse wounds, fought far stronger opponents. No, the monster-dog triggered something primal that affected Jerome on a subconscious level that his simple brain could never hope to understand.

It didn’t matter. Jerome would kill the dog and the man. He would kill everyone on the planet to get Clair back.

The altitude and the slope took its toll and he found himself breathing hard and leaning forward as he continued up into the dark. He had no way of knowing how far the road went or who all would be there, but this also was unimportant to Jerome. Only Clair mattered. The man would tell him how to get her back before he died. Jerome wasn’t smart. But the white man at the top of the hill was smart and he would know. Clair was smart…so smart. She was only a little girl, but she was already smarter than Jerome in so many ways. And she was good. Her heart was good. Jerome was not good, he had never been good. His own mother had told him…many times…his mother and the men that stayed with her.

Jerome’s dead sister’s face floated behind his eyes; at least he thought it was hers. So often now, his sister’s face mixed with Clair’s so that he couldn’t be sure who was who. It didn’t matter. They were both good. Jerome had not been there to save his sister, but he would be there for Clair.

When the white man had run away from the car with her he had almost shot him, but the distance was too far and he was afraid he might hit Clair, so he had stayed and fought the Bloods until the police came and then he ran. He tried to follow the white man and Clair and the dog, but they were gone. He knew he had to keep himself from being found or he would never see Clair again and they would kill her.

Because that was the one fact that Jerome knew for certain. The Bloods wanted her dead. Jerome didn’t know why the Bloods wanted her dead, but he knew it to be true. They had come for her twice in Chicago. They hadn’t cared about Jerome. One of the men he let live for questioning (until he was done with him) had told him so. He said they were sent to kill the little girl and that if Jerome got away, to let him go. So long as they got the girl.

His side hurt and he had to stop for a second and hitch over with his hands on his knees. He felt dizzy and shook his head. He took deep breaths, in and out, until the dizziness passed. Then he stood straight and started again. His heart beat so hard and fast in his chest, he thought it might explode through his ribs. He wanted to stop again, but he didn’t know how long he would have before they would move Clair. The white man was waiting for him at the top of the hill. So he forced himself on, completely oblivious to the silent death that had been stalking him for the past ten minutes.

Max came up behind the man about fifty yards up the road from the mailbox. He hadn’t tracked him, there had been no need. The smell of