IQ(70)

Isaiah went around to the long side of the barn and set the ladder against the wall. He already had on the climbing harness. It fit him like a diaper made of nylon straps. He climbed the ladder to the drip edge of the roof, set the backpack down in front of him, and took out a three-pronged grappling hook and a coil of climbing rope. With practiced ease, he lofted the hook over the top of the roof. He yanked, setting the hook against the roof cap. Then he tied the tail end of the rope to a metal loop on the climbing harness, put the backpack on, and rappelled up the roof to the skylight, holding himself there with an ascender clamp. He got out the circular saw and began cutting through the plexiglass, the sound huge in the desert quiet. He knew this was a desperate move, maybe a stupid move, but it was a stupid case. He never would have considered it if it wasn’t for Flaco—and now Bobby Grimes.


Skip had given a lot of thought to protecting his place. Dog theft was not uncommon, especially pit bulls. Some gangbangers had actually tried to rob him, driving up in a Honda Civic with blacked-out windows and blue kerchiefs over their faces. They were approaching the house and drawing their guns when Skip came out firing a fully automatic assault rifle with a North Korean helical magazine that held a hundred and fifty rounds. A water show of bullets sent the gangbangers running for their car and sent the car hobbling back down the road with three flat tires and smoke billowing out of the engine. What really worried Skip was being at a strip club or on a job somewhere, the dogs and his property left unprotected. He could leave Attila loose in the barn but what about the rest of the place? Skip was limping back to the house with the mountain bike when he had a flash of brilliance. Let Goliath roam free.


Goliath had tracked a coyote all the way to the bald hill when he sensed the intruders. He lifted his sledgehammer head and let the air collect in the chambers of his nose; holding it there, sorting through hundreds of different scents, his olfactory memory recognizing ones he’d smelled before. If someone had been there to see him they’d have sworn he was grinning as he turned and ran off toward the house.


Dodson was sitting on the gurney, taking deep breaths and fidgeting. The barking was relentless, the sound of the circular saw cutting off his nerve endings. He was about to smoke a joint when he saw a dark shape bounding over the moonscape. The big black pit bull was barreling toward him like a four-legged linebacker, snarling and slobbering, fangs glowing in the dark. “Ohhh SHIT!” Dodson said. Instinctively, he ran for the house and thank you Jesus the back door was open. He got inside and slammed it shut. He waited but didn’t hear the dog. “Where’d he go?” Dodson said. He went into the living room and looked out the different windows. The dog was nowhere in sight. “The f*ck happened?” he said.

The f*ck happened was Skip planning for this scenario, some * in the house with the doors closed thinking he was safe, not knowing Goliath was trained to jump through the window in the den that was always left open. Dodson turned just in time to see two yellow eyes and a mouth full of fangs leaping for his throat. He reacted like a boxer, jerking his head aside and leaning away, the dog bumping his shoulder and tumbling to the floor. Knowing he wouldn’t get far, Dodson ran to the hallway entry, pulling over Elsa Gunderson’s grandfather clock and arming himself with a chair. The dog came at him but couldn’t get around the clock, Dodson sticking the chair in its face so it couldn’t jump over. “Get back, get back, goddammit!” Dodson yelled. “Isaiah, where the f*ck are you?”

Suddenly, the dog ran off. Dodson stood still, puzzled. He could hear the dog moving, scrambling on the Mexican pavers, getting louder now. A jolt of terror hit Dodson like a stun gun. The beast was circling through the house and would come into the hallway from the other end. Dodson ran into a bedroom and reached for the door but there was no door. Skip had apparently removed them all. Dodson heard the dog coming. There was nowhere to go, the window painted shut. “Oh Lord have mercy,” he said.


Isaiah lowered himself into the hayloft on the climbing rope, the disassembled dart gun in the backpack. He looked over the edge of the loft and saw Attila at the bottom of the ladder, snarling, the laser-green eyes glaring up at him, the other dogs in a frenzy. It was like looking down on a dog insane asylum. Isaiah’s first move was to put a dart in Attila, then he’d go down there and put another one in the big dog. Isaiah’s eyes honed in on the oversize kennel and then pinballed around the barn. The big dog wasn’t there.


The truck vacuumed up the desert highway, the speedometer touching ninety, Fergus still a few miles away, Skip’s fury like a burning comet. “IF HE TOUCHED MY DOGS I’LL KILL HIM I’LL KILL HIM I’LL FUCKING KILL HIM.”


There were louvered doors on the bedroom closet, Dodson getting just enough grip to pull them shut from the inside. The big dog charged into the room, gluey slobber dripping off its fangs. Growling, it pawed at the doors and sniffed like it was trying to inhale Dodson through the wood. “NO!” Dodson screamed. “GET AWAY! GET AWAY! SIT! LIE DOWN! FETCH! ISAIAHHH!” The dog was getting frustrated, barking and whimpering, trying to claw its way in. Dodson saw a movie where the character gave commands to his attack dog in a foreign language. “?VáMONOS! ?HASTA LUEGO! ?VAYA CON DIOS!” The dog bit into the louvers, rattling the doors, Dodson keeping them closed with his fingertips. “ISAIAHHHH! WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?” The dog kept biting and gnawing, hooking a louver in its teeth and tearing it off. The dog got more excited, savaging the louvers, chomping and ripping, drool coming through the spaces where the louvers were missing. “SAYONARA! ACHTUNG! SIEG HEIL! GO THE FUCK AWAY! ISAIAHHH!” More louvers were torn off, the dog sticking its massive head into the closet, lips pulled back over its teeth like the alien in Alien, amber eyes fierce and murderous. “DON’T KILL ME DON’T KILL ME LET ME ALONE!” The dog pushed its whole body in, splintering louvers and roaring like a werewolf. Dodson fell to the floor, screaming, not believing it was Auntie May’s yard all over again—and now the dog was on top of him, its searing breath in his ear. He couldn’t die like this, he couldn’t—