Dead Ringers by Christopher Golden

or the falling rain. It had eased up a little, but Belinski kept beneath his umbrella, making no attempt to shield the dog. He kept a towel by the front door to dry Kirby off so that they could both avoid provoking the ire of Belinski’s wife, LeeAnne.
    Kirby paused in front of the granite wall that hemmed in the yard of the second Otis Harrison House, the only freestanding mansion on Beacon Hill. The house had always been one of Belinski’s favorites and he had written about it more than once. After the latest restoration a few years back, the brick building looked more magnificent than ever. He’d always found the use of Corinthian pilasters more than a bit odd, but who was he to question the great Thomas Bulfinch, who had designed the whole thing, right up to the octagonal cupola on the roof?
    A low span of wrought iron separated the street from the tiny green yard. The leaves on the two oaks in front had turned a vivid red and orange, but in the rain and after dark they looked almost black.
    He gave Kirby’s leash a tug but the dog did not respond. Kirby had paused in his sniffing of the granite wall and as Belinski tried to pull him away, the dog began to growl. Belinski rolled his eyes—the dog had always indulged in this sort of drama—but he gave in when Kirby tried to drag him nearer to the house.
    â€œWhat do you smell, boy?” he asked. “That little French bulldog?”
    At the corner of the house, a curtain of rain spilling off the edge of the Federal’s roof onto Belinski’s umbrella, Kirby started barking. Just a few growling yaps at first, but they grew in ferocity. The dog backed up a step, hackles raised, barking wildly. Kirby had snapped at people before, but Belinski had never heard him like this.
    â€œHey, dummy, quit it!” he said, yanking on the leash.
    Kirby stood his ground, straining against his collar. The dog howled, paws scratching the rain-spattered sidewalk as he threw his weight into an effort to pull away from his master. Belinski wondered if he’d caught some animal scent that had whipped him up into this frenzy, but couldn’t imagine what it might have been. With his merely human nose, he couldn’t smell anything except the rain.
    â€œJesus, Kirby, come on!” Belinski said, holding firm. “What set you off?”
    The dog began to whine between snarls, digging in harder. Belinski gave up being gentle and tried to drag Kirby away from the house. Snarling, the dog refused to turn away, forcing Belinski to haul him backward, nails scraping the sidewalk. The wind gusted fiercely and blew up under the umbrella, which bent sideways and popped inside out. The rain swept down on him and suddenly Belinski had lost all patience.
    â€œThat’s enough,” he said, pulling his way along the leash like they were playing tug-of-war.
    He shouted the dog’s name as he dropped to one knee on the rain-slicked sidewalk and grabbed hold of Kirby’s collar, reaching around to force the German shepherd to look at him. Wild-eyed, slobber drooling over his black lips, the dog paused, huffing for breath. He whipped his head side to side to pull away from his master’s grip, but Belinski held the collar tightly.
    â€œLet’s go, boy,” he said. “There’s nothing for you here.”
    The dog sniffed the air. His upper lip curled back in a silent snarl, and then he lunged. Belinski shouted in alarm and anger, grabbed Kirby’s throat, and held him back for a few seconds until the dog twisted sideways and sank his teeth into his master’s left wrist. Bone crunched and blood sprayed as the dog clamped his jaws down and shook his head back and forth, digging in.
    Belinski screamed. His right hand slipped off the dog’s collar. Kirby felt it, released his wrist, and went for his face.
    And then his throat.
    And then the meat of his arms.
    And then the soft things inside his belly.

 
    SEVEN
    The cab ride