13

DI Adams’s cautionary words reverberated in my head—creeped me right out—so much so, as I loosed each dog into emptying yards before bedding them down for the night, my overactive imagination upped the terror and turned it into a horror movie. A Freddy Kruger movie on steroids—with me, the latest vulnerable victim, cowering on center stage, while the villain, his sharp silver axe dripping blood, crouched in every cupboard, lurked in every shadow, hid behind every tree.

His goal—to hack chunks from the body I loved—mine—and methodically pack the severed pieces in a parcel addressed to Mother.

After locking up, I grabbed a short sharp breath and trudged along the dirt path toward the house. Hunched inside myself. Fighting the urge to break into a mad ungainly sprint and bolt for the front door. Why had I planted so many trees and bushes on either side of this path? They created too many shadows. Too many gnarled twisted boughs that resembled a man’s arms reaching out for me. First thing in the morning, I’d pay Mr. Turner from next door to drive his tractor over and bulldoze the lot.

Was Adams right? Should I endanger my life to investigate Liz’s disappearance only to find she’d chained herself to some threatened hundred and fifty-year-old gum, marked with an x, due to tree rot? Liz probably wouldn’t even leave the damn tree to attend my funeral.

But she was my sister. And she was missing.

And so was Stanley.

Were Liz, Stanley and Jack’s killer all connected? My brain did a quick lap of the mental trail, banged into several insurmountable hurdles, burnt and crashed—still with no answers.

Surreptitiously checking over both shoulders for a shadowy boogey man sneaking up on me with a raised axe, I ducked inside the house, locked and secured the front door with a security chain and turned on several lights. But I still didn’t feel safe. Not until my two house-pets, plus Stella, had been let into the house and I’d turned the key in the back door.

Whew! After toeing off my old sneakers and tossing my battered yard parka onto the back of a kitchen chair, I regarded the dogs bouncing around my feet, threatening to upend me due to their one-track-minds.

“Right, guys, I know—it’s past your dinner time, but you’re not likely to collapse of hunger,” I told my tap dancing cheer squad while filling three doggy bowls with beef and kibble and then placing them on the colorful linoleum, several yards apart. “And Lucky,” I warned the tail wagging black greyhound whose drool was currently threatening to flood the kitchen, “keep out of the other dogs’ food—especially Tater’s bowl—or you’re likely to lose that cheeky black nose. You know that little guy’s not a sharer.”

Thank goodness there was no need to bring out the First Aid kit tonight. Within seconds Tater had licked his bowl clean and by the time Lucky slunk over to investigate his bowl, Tater was over helping Stella give her dish a final polish. I grinned. My lion-hearted Tater may be a teacup Chihuahua—but he’d always be King of the McKinley household.

Dogs fed, I rummaged in the freezer until I found a frozen turkey dinner to nuke in the microwave. The turkey dinner came complete with little roast potatoes, green peas and carrots and promised gourmet taste, no artificial colors or flavors and a full day’s quota of calories, protein and carbohydrates. I closed my eyes to the fat and sodium levels. Hey, I’d likely work those off next time Ben and I adjourned to the bedroom.

Twenty minutes later, when the phone trilled its annoying interruption, I was slumped on the couch with my feet on an ottoman, enjoying my white meat and veggies and completely absorbed as the chained magician submerged himself in a tank of water on the Grand Final of Australia’s Got Talent. Damn. Who could be ringing during my favorite show? So inconsiderate. Should be a law against it. I knew it wouldn’t be Tanya. She’d be barricaded in the house—glued to her lounge chair—Erin at a friend’s house—all phones switched off—and rooting for the sexy magician to win the final.

With my tray of food balanced on my lap—no way could I put it down with three oh-so-hungry canines eyeing my every mouthful—I picked up. If this was a cold caller wanting to sell me the Sydney Harbour Bridge, I’d slam the receiver down so hard their ears would be ringing for weeks.

“Yeah.”

“Good evening, Kat, you left a message for me to ring.”

Oh-uh! It was Gina Robertson, the coordinator of GAP. When Stanley went missing, I’d left Gina a message to ring me, but with the arrival of DI Adams, I’d forgotten to follow up with another call.

“I hope there’s no problem with either of the two GAP dogs in your care?” Gina’s voice was ultra-pleasant. Everything about Gina was ultra-pleasant and yet some days her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. I knew this was going to be one of those days.

“Um… Stella will be ready to go in a couple of days,” I said hoping to prolong the discussion on Stanley. “She’s amazing inside the house and as soon as her stitches are out she’ll be ready to make someone a gorgeous pet.”

“That’s excellent news. I have a family with three children who can’t wait to adopt Stella. I’ve inspected their premises and the dog will have a loving home with the best of care. One of the children showed me what they’ve already bought for their new pet. Two new rugs—one for home and one for going out—new food bowls, chew toys, squeakers, a giant bag of kibble, a freezer full of beef…you name it…the Taylors have already thought of it.” Gina paused. “Now, what about Stanley?”

Yeah. What about Stanley?

“I’m sorry,” I said and licked my dry lips. “We have a problem with Stanley.”

There was a pause before Gina spoke and when she did her voice had changed from ultra-pleasant to what I’d call steely. And it sounded like she was forcing the words through gritted teeth. “A problem?”

“I’m afraid he’s gone missing.”

“Gone missing?”

If she was going to repeat everything I said this phone conversation would get old very quickly. “Gina,” I took a deep breath and let my confession burst out. A water tank overflowing after a rain storm. “I should have let you know earlier, but I thought the dog-napper was after my top racing dog, Big Mistake—not the GAP dogs. You see, over the last couple of days this man, who I’ve never seen before, has been trying to steal Stanley. He even dog-napped Stella by mistake then brought her back. It was so scary I kept both dogs locked inside my house. Anyway, that man was murdered last night and today Stanley’s gone missing. He was taken from Terry Blackburn’s vet surgery and—”

I let the gabbling run down, took a deep breath and waited for the yelling. Nothing. The nothing went on for a full minute. My hands were sweaty and I could feel bad vibes slithering up through the phone lines. Gina evidently wasn’t going to help me out here so I took the bull by the horns, as my Granny McKinley would say. “Gina, do you have any idea why or who would be interested in stealing Stanley?”

“Me? How would I know? I hope you’re not insinuating that I’m involved with Stanley’s disappearance?” There was definite steel in her voice now plus an itty bitty squeak.

“I’m not insinuating anything. Just asking if you know why Stanley is so important that someone stole him. And maybe even killed because of him.”

“Katrina, calm down. I think you are being overly dramatic. Dogs go missing all the time.” Gina’s voice was ultra-pleasant once again but there was something about her acceptance of the situation that made me think maybe she knew something after all. “Stanley is probably running the streets raiding rubbish bins as we speak. Did you ring the RSPCA to see if they’ve picked him up?”

“No, because the dog did not let himself out. The door of the vet surgery was closed. There’s no way even Stanley could turn that handle.”

“Well, maybe the receptionist—what’s her name, Val—accidently let Stanley out and is too afraid of losing her job to admit to it.”

“That’s ridiculous, and you know it. Val’s too responsible and conscientious to let a patient on her watch escape and…and if she did…there’s no way Val would put me through this agony. She’d confess. Job or no job.”

“Alright, Katrina, this is not your concern. Leave it with me. I’ll contact Animal Welfare in the morning and take it from there. It’s not your fault. No need for us to fall out. After all, Stanley is only a dog. And we have plenty more GAP dogs to care for and place in new homes without letting this situation cloud our main goal.”

With that she hung up.

I shook my head. Blinked down at the phone as though it was instrumental in fabricating that weird conversation. Stanley? Only a dog? That didn’t sound like the Gina Robertson who worked countless hours on a voluntary basis to run the State’s GAP program. The Gina Robertson whose tongue lashings could make even the biggest, strongest man quake if she caught him neglecting or being cruel to one of our precious greyhounds.

I slowly settled the receiver back on its base and eyed the television screen. Six lithe young men dressed in nothing from the waist up were twisting and gyrating their bodies in time to some disjointed rap-like music, but my mind barely registered the bare flesh and the tight six-packs. My mind couldn’t get past Gina’s uncharacteristic words.

A chill, deep and biting, infiltrated my chest and spread its tentacles into my limbs.

I shivered and reached for the fluffy dark blue blanket spread across the back of the sofa.

Gina Robertson knew something about Stanley’s disappearance and it had her running scared. Maybe she also knew something about my sister’s disappearance. Or how the geriatric guy ended up dead in his own refrigerator.

But what made me snuggle deeper under that fluffy blue blanket was the fact that I’d decided to visit GAP’s ultra-pleasant coordinator first thing in the morning and try to find out what that something was.