23

I sat straight up in bed. Instantly awake.

What—or who—had set every one of the sixteen dogs outside in the kennel house barking?

I tried to take a deep breath—but between my heart hammering high in my throat, and the room, blacker than the inside of a killer’s mind—breathing didn’t come easily.

I turned my head toward the night-stand beside my bed. The numbers, glowing red on the digital alarm clock, told me it was 1am. Three hours since Tanya had gone home.

Why were the dogs barking?

I shivered and resisted the urge to pull the duvet over my head and pretend deafness. Perhaps if I let the dogs bark long enough someone would come over from next door and investigate the noise—and find my mutilated body cut up in a hundred bloody pieces and spoiling the sheets—all because I’d been too chicken to get out of bed?

Oh, God, don’t go there…

Stretched out across my feet, Lucky emitted a sleepy snuffle and turned over on her other side. Some guard dog. Not so Tater—hackles bristling, a warning growl deep in his tiny throat, he was on full alert and waiting for my order to: Attack! Kill! Destroy!

My hand resting on his head, I felt warmth creep into my chilled bones and spread into my chicken heart. If a dog weighing no more than half pound of butter could be fearless under fire—so could I.

“It’s probably only that ugly feral cat again,” I told my miniature stegosaurus, who agreed and promised to eat the cat in the morning—after he’d licked up his corn flakes.

Feeling braver, I tumbled out of bed, switched on the light and reached for my dressing gown.

Not that I planned to personally investigate whatever had set the dogs off. Oh no, no, no. I’d been cured of doing idiotic things in the middle of the night after being hit on the head by a man who I thought was my friend. My erstwhile client, Peter Manning, who thankfully was now spending the next twenty or thirty years at his Majesty’s pleasure.

With Tater hot on my heels, I pattered barefoot down the stairs to the landing and pressed a specially installed dog-switch, high on the wall. Although I couldn’t hear the result from inside the house, I knew a soothing classical CD would now be working its magic in the dog kennels. This week’s musical selection was Brahms. Hungarian dance music followed by the hauntingly beautiful ‘Wiegenlied, Op. 49, No 4’—better known to us mere mortals as ‘Brahms’s Lullaby’. So I knew it wouldn’t be long before the barking subsided to an occasional sleepy yap.

Tater and I were now wide awake and heading for the kitchen. “Yep! Definitely that feral cat,” I said, more to reassure myself than the dog. “Now, how about a hot chocolate for me and a bowl of warm milk for you?”

My trusty sidekick thought that would go down nicely, thank you very much.

Ten minutes later, with Tater snuggled up on my lap and fingers wrapped around a half-empty mug of hot chocolate topped with marshmallows, I lay my head back on the lounge chair and puffed out a sigh. Stanley’s altered ear brand niggled at me. He must have been the fast dog in his litter selected as a ring-in for a slower litter mate. But where was Stanley and his slower brother now? Were they even still alive? And what about the dog who raced and won at huge odds at Port Augusta yesterday? It wasn’t Go Rambo—it was one of his faster litter mates. The real Rambo couldn’t beat a two-legged centipede to the water bucket and back—even on a 40 degree day. No wonder the fake Rambo didn’t know me. And on reflection, there’d been something different about the dog’s ears. The genuine Rambo’s ears were longer, pointier, whereas his substitute’s ears were smaller and flatter.

If only I knew what the perpetrators of the scam did with the greyhounds after they’d raced? And then another thought crossed my mind. Maybe if I found the dogs’ secret hiding place—I’d find Liz and her team of protesters looking after them.

Craaaaaaash!

I froze. My heart, threatening cardiac arrest, stopped beating for at least 30 seconds before it burst into wild erratic flight again.

“Holy crap!” I lurched from the chair. Hot chocolate spewed in an arc. Tater erupted off my lap, his high pitched bark threatening to tear apart whoever or whatever lay on the other side of the front door.

Me? I couldn’t stop shaking. Where the hell was my alter-ego, Bombshell Chick, when I needed her? Evidently out getting her hair frosted. Finger nails half way down my throat, legs weaker than Grandma McKinley’s morning cup of tea, I inched across the room into the passageway and stood, holding my breath, ears on stalks, listening. Was someone on the other side of the front door waiting to do me in, or had they merely tried to scare me to death, and then left? I tiptoed toward the door—not to open it—hell, no—but to switch on the outside light and peer through the eye-hole.

By this time the greyhounds in the kennel house were barking again and Lucky had trotted down the stairs, a purple dinosaur dangling from her mouth. Not sure whether to growl or wag her tail in case we had a visitor, Lucky stood staring at the front door, pieces of purple felt peeping from around her teeth. Not so Tater. Tiny feet dancing on the spot, hair on the back of his neck standing up like pins on a pin cushion, he was geared up ready to chew on whoever’s ankles happened to walk through that door.

Eyes squinting, I leant against the door and scanned the limited view through the security hole. The light from the outside globe shone on the front verandah and then spread out like hot butter onto the driveway. But no-one was there. No alien monsters. No killers. Not even a noisy ghost. And the only movement I could see came from the wind bending a group of rose bushes at the top of the driveway.

I had to see more…

Hands inexplicably growing an extra set of thumbs, I fumbled to unlock the door, left the chain on the hook, and stuck my nose through the three inch opening. From the bottom of the door—a muddy red brick stared up at me. Okay. I could deal with that. I grabbed a quick breath and let it out slowly. One Oodnadatta. Two Oodnadatta. Three Oodnadatta…

Okay, I now had the solution to what had caused the crash—but not the who.

Did I really want to know the answer to that question?

Hell, no—but if I was going to get any more sleep tonight—

Ordering Tater to stay, I unhooked the latch, sent a message to the Universe to help find my elusive Bombshell Chick, and stepped outside the door.

And that’s when my poor battered heart went crashing downhill tumbling over and over until it splattered against the rocks.

For across my front door—in splashes of red—wet paint still dribbling from the letters, like blood—were the words that caused my heart’s demise.

YOU’RE NEXT!