Endings by Linda Richards (portable ebook reader .TXT) 📗

and am about to close the door with him entirely on the inside of his apartment when I hear a whimper. I cast my eyes heavenward, though I’m not sure why, then bring them back to focus beyond the door and into the apartment to the outline of a very small dog. At first, I think it is some sort of miniature canine—a bichon frise or a yorkie or something else permanently tiny—then I realize it is a puppy and he is wearing a collar attached to a leash. It is as though they had been just about to head out for a walk.

The creature is small and fair and I figure it is a golden retriever puppy—another blueblood, like his late master. He has a black nose that glistens wetly and earnest eyes of a color that harmonizes eerily with his coat. Those eyes regard me calmly, though I can tell he is afraid. The smell of the gun, I suppose. And also, the collapse of his master. To the dog I probably don’t look particularly scary, but scary things have happened and he’s smart enough to know that requires some caution.

I am about to close the door, leave them both behind, but as I move to do so, I realize that I simply cannot. It is one thing to leave a dog alone. Or to leave a corpse alone. But leaving a dog—especially a puppy—alone with the corpse of his master apparently is the line I cannot cross. Funny how there can be a line you don’t recognize until you’re standing right over it.

I grab the leash, hoping the dog will cooperate, grateful when he does. He moves forward with caution and then with more enthusiasm as he realizes we are on a mission that will take him outside.

He relieves himself as soon as we get out of the building, and I figure he’s been waiting for this all day, while his owner was at the office. He produces a fast number one a couple of times and then an epic number two. I feel guilty not picking it up, but push myself over the guilt. In the picture I have been painting this afternoon, not scooping is not my greatest crime.

With the dog in tow, I retrace my steps: a few blocks to the LRT. I worry for a minute about the status of dogs on trains, then realize I will just have to chance it and hope for the best. Human nature being what it is, people are more likely to “tut tut” than actually say anything, and I determine that, if they say anything directly, I will ask them to call a cop, the sort of passive-aggressive move it pleases me to even think about.

The dog and I take the LRT to the suburbs and back to the park-and-ride lot where I left my car. I worry for a second that the dog won’t cooperate, but he likes the car. He jumps right in and sits happily in the back, clearly not aware that I have killed his master, or not connecting this current turn of events—this miraculous and unexpected ride—with the scary, life-changing events of an hour before. As I drive, I wonder idly about the genetic mutation that has occurred to make dogs such big fans of rides in cars.

The dog and I take the car directly to the safety of my house. Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars. Except for the necessary purchase of a tank of gas, we don’t stop at all.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

BACK AT MY forest home, it is quiet. So quiet. Quiet beyond what I’ve ever noticed before, despite the company of the dog. I can barely move beyond the stillness. And it’s odd: I should be hungry. I should by now need food. But I have, for the moment, lost my appetite. Or something. I keep seeing the questioning look in the splendid eyes as he fell. The thick shock of dark chestnut hair. The blood spattering onto the walls of his hallway. I try to shake it off, but I can’t quite. That look. There was nothing particularly remarkable about this engagement, and there has been no change in me. And yet, somehow, I feel changed.

The dog is an easy addition. It is like he has always been here, a part of me. He is happy eating the food I offer him from my refrigerator and freezer. It appears he enjoys steak, lightly cooked. And steamed carrots. And chicken breasts, grilled. Thawed lamb stew. I determine I’ll have to find dog food someplace, but in the meantime, since I nibble around the edges of the food I prepare for the dog, I figure both of us are eating better than we might have done before. Though, in fairness, the young Ivy Leaguer—looking gentleman had appeared to be the sort that would have stocked his pantry with high-quality dog food for his baby best friend. I chastise myself for not checking what the dog was being fed before I took him out of the apartment, then realize the foolishness of the thought. After what I’d done, I couldn’t really hang around taking notes and grabbing supplies.

With the dog fed and resting, I try to move beyond the feeling of change. I try to get back to something more comfortable to me. Try to think what had so engaged me before the assignment. What had most pulled my concern and given me that feeling of complete and total immersion, to the exclusion of all else. William Atwater. At large. Back in the world. But even that can’t move me now. And it isn’t only me that has lost their fascination for Atwater, nor simply is it just my own ennui. Things have been quiet from the West. Even the endless nattering of the media has slowed to almost a complete stop. The news cycle hasn’t had any food in this direction for a while and