through the thin, graying walls--Edith Bunker shouting at Archie.
Michael stopped beside his apartment door, listened, but heard nothing. Surprise was his only chance. Drawing back his foot, hand tightening around the bottle, he gave the door a vicious kick and rushed inside when it crashed open.
The apartment was in shadow. Heart racing, nerves wired, Michael stepped farther into the room, pushing past the sea of cardboard boxes, ready to fight. He called Rufus’ name once, twice, but there was no response. He turned toward the open window, moved past the basket of spoiled fruit and stepped over to his bed. There, he found his dog’s mangled body lying in a bloody heap.
Each of his legs were cleanly chopped off. One was stuffed in his mouth.
For a moment, Michael couldn’t move, couldn’t speak or react. His heart seemed to slow and then freeze. Lips parting, throat tightening, the bottle dropped from his hand and struck the hardwood floor, where it shattered in a dozen gleaming pieces.
Revulsion cut through him like a blade. Legs weak, mind whirling, he knelt beside his dog, touched his back and tentatively stroked Rufus’ tan, bloodied fur.
Already, the dog was beginning to stiffen. His coat was cool. The coppery scent of blood was everywhere. Behind Michael was a box filled with towels, sheets, an assortment of rags and clothes. Moving like an automaton, he reached inside the box, selected a thick, pale-blue towel and draped it over Rufus’ back. In numb horror, he watched as it turned dark crimson. It wasn’t until he turned to reach for another towel that he saw the envelope taped to the rust-spotted refrigerator.
Michael stared at the envelope. It bore his name in thick bold letters. It seemed to scream out at him, shouting his name across the room.
Again, he became aware of the tinny laughter drifting down the hallway. It was as though someone somewhere was laughing at him.
He covered Rufus with another towel, stood and opened the envelope. Inside was a white piece of paper. Typed on it were these words: “You weren’t here so we left an example of what happens when we’re ignored. Please have our money soon, Mr. Ryan, or this will be you.”
The shock of seeing his real name in print terrified him. How much did they know about him? How far were they willing to go?
Michael tore the note in half and telephoned his father. He needed that money, regardless of the stings that were attached to it. As he waited for someone to answer, he glimpsed the picture of his mother. It was lying askew on the floor, just a few feet away from Rufus’ body. Someone had slashed it with a knife.
“Yes?”
“It’s Michael. I’ve changed my mind. I need your help. Just tell me what I have to do and I’ll do it.”
Could he commit murder?
“What made you change your mind?”
Michael managed to speak only out of sheer will. “Santiago broke into my apartment and butchered my dog.”
“I’m sorry, Michael.”
“I’ll bet you are. Just tell me what you want me to do.”
He glanced at the blood-soaked towels that covered his dog and knew it could be him lying there, knew that if he didn’t do as his father asked, it would be him lying there. “I’ll do anything.”
Including murder?
“Why don’t you come to my office tomorrow morning? We’ll discuss everything in detail then.”
Michael said he’d be there and hung up the phone.
When he knelt beside Rufus, he ran a trembling hand over the dog’s back. If he waited, just a moment, it seemed he would understand. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “This is my fault and I’m sorry.”
They said they were giving him three weeks to come up with the money. So, why this? What was the point of killing a harmless dog? Michael covered Rufus with another towel. Then he glanced at the tattered remains of his mother’s picture.
Michael stopped beside his apartment door, listened, but heard nothing. Surprise was his only chance. Drawing back his foot, hand tightening around the bottle, he gave the door a vicious kick and rushed inside when it crashed open.
The apartment was in shadow. Heart racing, nerves wired, Michael stepped farther into the room, pushing past the sea of cardboard boxes, ready to fight. He called Rufus’ name once, twice, but there was no response. He turned toward the open window, moved past the basket of spoiled fruit and stepped over to his bed. There, he found his dog’s mangled body lying in a bloody heap.
Each of his legs were cleanly chopped off. One was stuffed in his mouth.
For a moment, Michael couldn’t move, couldn’t speak or react. His heart seemed to slow and then freeze. Lips parting, throat tightening, the bottle dropped from his hand and struck the hardwood floor, where it shattered in a dozen gleaming pieces.
Revulsion cut through him like a blade. Legs weak, mind whirling, he knelt beside his dog, touched his back and tentatively stroked Rufus’ tan, bloodied fur.
Already, the dog was beginning to stiffen. His coat was cool. The coppery scent of blood was everywhere. Behind Michael was a box filled with towels, sheets, an assortment of rags and clothes. Moving like an automaton, he reached inside the box, selected a thick, pale-blue towel and draped it over Rufus’ back. In numb horror, he watched as it turned dark crimson. It wasn’t until he turned to reach for another towel that he saw the envelope taped to the rust-spotted refrigerator.
Michael stared at the envelope. It bore his name in thick bold letters. It seemed to scream out at him, shouting his name across the room.
Again, he became aware of the tinny laughter drifting down the hallway. It was as though someone somewhere was laughing at him.
He covered Rufus with another towel, stood and opened the envelope. Inside was a white piece of paper. Typed on it were these words: “You weren’t here so we left an example of what happens when we’re ignored. Please have our money soon, Mr. Ryan, or this will be you.”
The shock of seeing his real name in print terrified him. How much did they know about him? How far were they willing to go?
Michael tore the note in half and telephoned his father. He needed that money, regardless of the stings that were attached to it. As he waited for someone to answer, he glimpsed the picture of his mother. It was lying askew on the floor, just a few feet away from Rufus’ body. Someone had slashed it with a knife.
“Yes?”
“It’s Michael. I’ve changed my mind. I need your help. Just tell me what I have to do and I’ll do it.”
Could he commit murder?
“What made you change your mind?”
Michael managed to speak only out of sheer will. “Santiago broke into my apartment and butchered my dog.”
“I’m sorry, Michael.”
“I’ll bet you are. Just tell me what you want me to do.”
He glanced at the blood-soaked towels that covered his dog and knew it could be him lying there, knew that if he didn’t do as his father asked, it would be him lying there. “I’ll do anything.”
Including murder?
“Why don’t you come to my office tomorrow morning? We’ll discuss everything in detail then.”
Michael said he’d be there and hung up the phone.
When he knelt beside Rufus, he ran a trembling hand over the dog’s back. If he waited, just a moment, it seemed he would understand. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “This is my fault and I’m sorry.”
They said they were giving him three weeks to come up with the money. So, why this? What was the point of killing a harmless dog? Michael covered Rufus with another towel. Then he glanced at the tattered remains of his mother’s picture.
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