opening the door. Now, either you drive up that driveway, or I’m jumping out of this car, jogging up there, and checking if that garage door opens. If it does, meet me down the block in ten.”
I opened my door a few inches.
Muttering something about idiots intent on more jail time, she jammed her foot on the gas. The Durango jerked down the driveway, then stopped abruptly. After killing the engine, she began yanking on one of her leather gloves. “With two of us grabbing that stuff, this will go twice as fast.”
We got out of the car, careful to shut our doors quietly, and headed to the garage door. I lifted the handle. It rumbled and creaked as I lifted it three, four feet—enough for Laura and I to slip underneath.
Seconds later, we stood in the shadowy room, inhaling the stench of oil and mildew as our eyes adjusted to the bulky shadows.
“She’s a packrat,” Laura muttered.
The light from underneath the garage door cast bluish shadows on stacks of crates and boxes crammed against the walls, leaving barely enough room for a car to park.
“Trash cans at ten o’clock,” I said, pointing to several barrel-shaped containers.
We hustled over, set the lids on the ground, and were lifting out plastic bags when Laura stifled a gasp.
“What?”
“To our right,” she whispered.
I turned. My gut shriveled.
Four green eyes, about three feet high, stared at us in silence. From their bulk, the sheen off their short hair, and the massive heads, I guessed them to be mastiffs. Had to be pushing a hundred and fifty pounds each, a fact I knew from a case where my client had been attacked by one, resulting in fifty stitches and a funny gait. Of all the memories I’d lost, hell of a one to remember.
They must have entered from some gargantuan doggie door after hearing us in the garage, but why hadn’t they yapped at us like normal, over-zealous dogs protecting their property? Their silence was more foreboding than any crazed barking.
One pair of green eyes blinked.
The other set, followed by a bulky mass of bad, stepped forward.
“Don’t make eye contact,” I whispered in a scratchy voice, “and back slowly to the garage door.”
A low, curdling growl filled the room as the second dog moved forward.
“Hold your trash bag…in front of you…” That garage door felt a mile away.
The bulky beasts tracked our slow, laborious path, snarling and growling their displeasure at the unwanted visitors. It felt as though we were traveling a millimeter a minute, that we’d never get there, when, miraculously, we reached the garage door.
“Laura,” I whispered, “put down your bag, get out…”
“I think I wet my pants.”
“Go goddamit.”
She slipped under the door, leaving me alone with Darth and Vadar, my only protection the smelly, soggy plastic bag I shakily held in front of me. I inched one leg underneath the door. The seeping light highlighted the reddish-gray sheen their coats—and that one had a mouth of canines like a T-Rex. A crazy thought crashed through my mind—
could it bite right through the bag and me?
Bent over, my fingers digging into the bag, engulfed in the stench of rotting food and something icky sweet, my eyes locked with one of the green pairs.
“Good boy,” I murmured in an odd, high-pitched tone that sounded as though I’d been sucking laughing gas.
One of the beasts snapped at the air.
I bent over further, shifting my weight on my getaway-run-like-hell lead leg when… bang! I hit my head on the edge of the door.
All hell broke loose.
As the howling, barking beasts scrabbled and skittered toward me, I hurled myself and the bag underneath the door. I rolled down the driveway with the bag, screaming shut-the-fucking-door-shut-the-fucking-door, Laura screaming oh-my-god-we’re-going-to-die…
The door slammed shut with a resounding crash.
Nine
If only I could throw away the urge to trace my patterns in your heart, I could really see you.
—David Brandon,
Zen in
I opened my door a few inches.
Muttering something about idiots intent on more jail time, she jammed her foot on the gas. The Durango jerked down the driveway, then stopped abruptly. After killing the engine, she began yanking on one of her leather gloves. “With two of us grabbing that stuff, this will go twice as fast.”
We got out of the car, careful to shut our doors quietly, and headed to the garage door. I lifted the handle. It rumbled and creaked as I lifted it three, four feet—enough for Laura and I to slip underneath.
Seconds later, we stood in the shadowy room, inhaling the stench of oil and mildew as our eyes adjusted to the bulky shadows.
“She’s a packrat,” Laura muttered.
The light from underneath the garage door cast bluish shadows on stacks of crates and boxes crammed against the walls, leaving barely enough room for a car to park.
“Trash cans at ten o’clock,” I said, pointing to several barrel-shaped containers.
We hustled over, set the lids on the ground, and were lifting out plastic bags when Laura stifled a gasp.
“What?”
“To our right,” she whispered.
I turned. My gut shriveled.
Four green eyes, about three feet high, stared at us in silence. From their bulk, the sheen off their short hair, and the massive heads, I guessed them to be mastiffs. Had to be pushing a hundred and fifty pounds each, a fact I knew from a case where my client had been attacked by one, resulting in fifty stitches and a funny gait. Of all the memories I’d lost, hell of a one to remember.
They must have entered from some gargantuan doggie door after hearing us in the garage, but why hadn’t they yapped at us like normal, over-zealous dogs protecting their property? Their silence was more foreboding than any crazed barking.
One pair of green eyes blinked.
The other set, followed by a bulky mass of bad, stepped forward.
“Don’t make eye contact,” I whispered in a scratchy voice, “and back slowly to the garage door.”
A low, curdling growl filled the room as the second dog moved forward.
“Hold your trash bag…in front of you…” That garage door felt a mile away.
The bulky beasts tracked our slow, laborious path, snarling and growling their displeasure at the unwanted visitors. It felt as though we were traveling a millimeter a minute, that we’d never get there, when, miraculously, we reached the garage door.
“Laura,” I whispered, “put down your bag, get out…”
“I think I wet my pants.”
“Go goddamit.”
She slipped under the door, leaving me alone with Darth and Vadar, my only protection the smelly, soggy plastic bag I shakily held in front of me. I inched one leg underneath the door. The seeping light highlighted the reddish-gray sheen their coats—and that one had a mouth of canines like a T-Rex. A crazy thought crashed through my mind—
could it bite right through the bag and me?
Bent over, my fingers digging into the bag, engulfed in the stench of rotting food and something icky sweet, my eyes locked with one of the green pairs.
“Good boy,” I murmured in an odd, high-pitched tone that sounded as though I’d been sucking laughing gas.
One of the beasts snapped at the air.
I bent over further, shifting my weight on my getaway-run-like-hell lead leg when… bang! I hit my head on the edge of the door.
All hell broke loose.
As the howling, barking beasts scrabbled and skittered toward me, I hurled myself and the bag underneath the door. I rolled down the driveway with the bag, screaming shut-the-fucking-door-shut-the-fucking-door, Laura screaming oh-my-god-we’re-going-to-die…
The door slammed shut with a resounding crash.
Nine
If only I could throw away the urge to trace my patterns in your heart, I could really see you.
—David Brandon,
Zen in
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