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

sweat and blood were strong and he was so noisy it would have been harder for Max to have not found him.

The right hamstring offered the best target. He could be there and gone, hidden by the dark before the injury even registered pain. The femoral artery lay just under the skin beneath the thigh, with no bone or thick muscle to protect it from Max’s teeth.

Saliva filled his mouth at the prospect. And once the man fell to his knees, his throat would be exposed. Max knew from his previous battle with the man that he was strong and fast, so he would not take the chance of letting him grab hold of him.

In and out, back and forth, speed and concealment, until the prey bled out before him.

Max moved with the grace and silence of a cheetah on the prowl, not that it was needed. The man was clumsy and noisy. His gait staggered, his breathing ragged. Max could hear the man’s heart slamming beneath his ribs.

Up and around they went until they were less than a hundred yards from the house. Max slid around the base of a large pine and crouched as the man again stopped and bent over, trying for air.

Ten feet away, Max readied, his eyes taking in everything, seeing ten times better in the dark than the man. His nose smelled the blood in the veins, millimeters beneath flesh. His ears took in the rapid heartbeat, the labored lungs. His eyes locked on three different targets — hamstring — bowels — throat. His other senses catalogued and filtered the necessary inputs, expertly excluding extemporaneous data.

At this instant, Max was the perfect missile of destruction that both nature and nurture had honed him to be.

The man took a final breath and stood.

Max launched.

25

It had been a long day and I was dead tired, so as soon as I got home and fed Pilgrim, I slapped some ham on some bread, wolfed it down with a can of Dr Pepper, stripped down to my shorts and flopped into my bed. I closed my eyes and was just drifting off into that wonderful doze state when my cellphone vibrated and started playing the song Why Don’t You Do Right? by Jessica Rabbit from the movie Who Killed Roger Rabbit?

“Hi, Sarah,” I said, trying to keep the sleep out of my voice.

“Hi, Gil. Sounds like I woke you.”

“No, no, that’s okay. What time is it?”

“Nine-fifteen,” said Sarah. “So what does the world’s sexiest detective wear to bed?”

“You’d have to ask Ben Affleck. Me, I’m wearing shorts.”

“Boxers or skivvies?”

“Tighty-whities,” I said.

“Oh,” purred Sarah, “going for the Walter White look?”

“No, he’s got me beat by a mile.”

“Not hardly,” she said. “Stay there, big boy, I’ll be right over.”

“Ha, as if. What have you got for me?”

“Well, I did some digging on your Senator Marsh, like you asked, and although he came back pretty much clean. As good as I can tell, despite all the clearance muck I had to skirt so as not to end up on a Homeland Security Watch List, I did turn up some interesting stuff on his ‘supposed charity organization’ for wayward children.”

“Supposed charity organization?” I asked.

“Yes,” said Sarah. “The Marsh Foundation. As far as I can tell, it’s taken in hundreds of millions over the decades and shown very little in the way of results. Taking in huge amounts of donations and acting as a laundry, so as not to have to pay taxes on it, then siphoning off the funds for personal matters with no one the wiser.”

“Is that legal?” I asked.

“Legal, maybe, going by the letter of the law. But moral? Absolutely not. Certain political parties tend to get away with this sort of thing… a lot.”

“So, are you saying his organization doesn’t help troubled kids?”

“Oh, a few here and there. College grants and some money for foster kids, that sort of thing. But small potatoes in the grand scheme of things.”

“Scheme of things?” I echoed, my brain still not fully awake.”

“Money, of course. Lots and lots of money. Almost none of which goes to helping kids. Pretty stinky.”

“But legal?” I asked again.

“You say potato, I say slush fund.”

“Got it,” I said. “Thanks, Sarah. Anything else?”

“One more thing. I talked to a Secret Service friend who’s been on a couple of details with Marsh’s outfit. He says the word behind the scenes is that Marsh is getting ready to make a play for being the next President.”

I tried to get my head around what she was talking about. “Of the charity organization?”

“You must be tired,” she laughed. “No, silly, the President of the United States of America.”

“Really?”

“Really. You’re mixing with pretty powerful company these days. And to think, I knew you back when.”

“Uh, okay. Don’t know what to say to that. Thanks. I’m almost afraid to ask, but anything else?”

“Do you need a back rub?”

“I need sleep,” I said.

She sighed into the phone. “I knew I should have FaceTimed you.”

I laughed. “Next time,” I said and hung up. I rolled back over and tried to get my muddled brain to put what she told me into the picture. Marsh has a shell organization for helping kids that is marginally legal. He says his wife wants him to find this little girl who’s been missing for years. Why? Because he’s thinking of running for president. And what would help his image, not to mention legitimizing his ‘maybe, maybe not legal charity organization’, more than rescuing a little tyke like Keisha, all while using funds from said organization?

Hmm, could be I thought. In any case, it would wait for morning. I rolled back over and was just drifting off when I saw Keisha’s face as she looked at me from the car’s back window.

My eyes opened.

I blew air out past my lips.

Keisha was fine. Jared had her and he loved kids more than he loved police work. She was perfectly safe.

I closed my eyes, let my weight sink into the mattress.

Keisha’s face, and