Sick Puppy by Carl Hiaasen Page A

Florida football jersey, purchased in haste at a campus bookstore; apologizing for not inquiring sooner if the deranged kidnapper had raped her or roughed her up; and, finally, apologizing for stacking dead doves on the kitchen table.
    Then Desie said: “Aren’t you even going to ask about Boodle?”
    So Stoat apologized again, this time for not being properly concerned about the abducted family pet.
    “Where is he, hon?”
    “The kidnapper’s still got him,” Desie announced.
    “Oh, this is crazy.”
    “You’re not going to like it.”
    “How much does he want?” Stoat asked.
    “He’s not after money.”
    “Then what?”
    Desie repeated what the strange young dognapper had instructed her to say. She omitted the fact that she was the one who’d tipped him off to the Shearwater project.
    When Stoat heard the kidnapper’s demand, he cackled.
    “Palmer, the man is
serious.
”
    “Really.”
    “You’d better do what he wants.”
    “Or what,” said Stoat. “He’s going to kill my dog? My
dog
?”
    “He says he will.”
    Again Stoat chuckled, and resumed cleaning the birds. “Come on, Des. The sickest bastard in the whole world isn’t going to hurt a Labrador retriever. Especially Boodle—everybody falls head over heels for Boodle.”
    Exhausted though she was, Desie couldn’t help but watch as her husband meticulously tugged out the gray feathers one by one and placed them in a soft velvety pile. Naked, the doves looked too scrawny to eat. The breasts were gaunt and the flesh was pocked unattractively with purple-tinged holes from the shotgun pellets.
    He said, “Oh, I almost forgot—the package from Panama City?”
    “On the porch,” Desie said. “What is it, anyway?”
    “Stationery.”
    “In Tupperware?”
    “Oh . . . well, yeah,” her husband stammered. “Keeps out the humidity. It’s good stuff. Embossed.”
    “Cut the crap, Palmer. It’s powder.”
    “You opened it!”
    “Yeah. My husband the smack dealer. No wonder you didn’t want it sent by regular mail.”
    Stoat threw back his head and laughed. “Heroin? Now you think I’m moving heroin! Oh, that’s priceless.”
    “Then what is it?” Desie demanded angrily. “What’s in the Tupperware? Tell me, Palmer.”
    So he did, adding: “But I wanted it to be a surprise.”
    She stared at him. “Rhino sex powder.”
    “Hon, they don’t always shoot the animals to get the horns. That’s a common myth.”
    “You’re unbelievable,” Desie said.
    “I just thought it might liven things up for you and me. Hey, can it hurt to try?”
    Wordlessly she stood up and went to the bedroom.
    “Aren’t you hungry?” Stoat called hopefully after her. “Marisa’s firing up the barbecue.”
    It took another forty-five minutes to finish with the heads and the skins of the birds. Not wishing to stink up his garbage can with the innards, he wrapped them in butcher paper and carried it across the backyard, through the hedge, to the well-manicured property of his neighbors, the Clarks, where he dumped the whole mess in the goldfish pond. Ned and Susan Clark, Stoat happened to know, were on a gambling cruise to Nassau.
    After Stoat returned to the house, he sent the cook home, stored the doves in the refrigerator, stood for a long time under a hot shower and pondered what to do about Desirata. He didn’t believe the kidnap story but took it as proof that something was seriously amiss, something was unraveling inside her mind. Maybe she’d run off with some guy on a whim, then changed her mind. Or maybe she’d simply freaked out and bolted. Manic depression, multiple-personality syndrome—Stoat had heard of these illnesses but was unclear about the symptoms. This much was true: Given the hinky events of the past twenty-four hours, he had come to suspect that his own unhappy spouse had conspired in the defacing of his prize taxidermy, the trashing of the red BMW, and even the infesting of his luxury sport-utility vehicle with