Who Let the Dog Out? by David Rosenfelt Page B

straight home now?”
    She hesitates, and then says, “Yes.”
    Willie looks unhappy throughout this whole process, and I realize that we haven’t had a chance to tell him what is going on. Once Stephanie leaves, I bring him up to date, but it doesn’t seem to go over that well. “You’re using Zoe as bait?” he asks.
    In a way I am, and that has bothered me, but I truly don’t think she is in any danger, and I tell him so. “I’ll tell Marcus to make Zoe his top priority.”
    That seems to pacify him some, but I don’t have time to discuss it. Marcus is in a car out front, waiting for me to join him. If all goes according to plan, Marcus and I are going to be driving to Maine.
    It’s fair to say that I am not relishing the idea of seven hours of “alone time” with Marcus.

 
    Eric Brantley didn’t know much about being a fugitive. But he did sense that one of the first things they would teach in fugitive school would be not to fall into a pattern, or become predictable. Yet Eric had, in fact, fallen into a pattern. It was a way to keep himself sane and thinking clearly.
    Every morning he walked from his house off Route 129 in Walpole, Maine, down to Hanley’s Market. He bought whatever supplies he needed there, and even though it was one of those small combination gas station/markets, the food was surprisingly good. They even had pizza that was halfway up to New York standards.
    On the way back he always stopped at the Walpole Barn, which sells oysters from the local river, wine, and an assortment of unique gift items that their slogan says are “products for a good life.” Eric knew all too well that no one had invented a product that could turn his life around.
    Eric frequently bought wine and oysters, and he planned to buy a lot more of them once Stephanie replenished his dwindling money supply. The irony was that he had access to a fortune in diamonds, but no way to turn them into cash he could use. It was frustrating, but not nearly the worst part of his predicament.
    The owner of the Walpole Barn was a man named Warren Storch, who seemed to be a friend of everyone in the community. Eric enjoyed his company; it was pretty much the only human contact he had. But of course he could not tell him anything about who he was or why he was there, so it made the conversations fairly one-sided.
    Eric took a chance the first time he met Warren. Warren was renting storage space in a second barn he had in the back, and Eric took the space. He brought the materials under cover of darkness and locked them up; Warren could have absolutely no idea how incredibly valuable the items in his barn were.
    The round-trip walk, including stops, was about an hour and a half, and it was the highlight of Eric’s day. He spent the rest of each day watching television and surfing the web, looking for news stories that might relate to the police search for him, or the major incident that was going to happen miles down the road.
    But today was the day Stephanie would arrive with Zoe, so this day was going to be different.
    And in fact it was very, very different.
    Eric got home and put the groceries and wine on the kitchen table. He was about to unload it when the voice behind him said, “Hello, Eric.”
    Eric turned, but not to find out who the speaker was. That voice was indelibly planted in his brain. It was the voice of the man who had killed Michael Caruso, and was now going to kill him.
    He was surprised to see that Healy was not holding a gun, and had simply pulled up a kitchen chair and sat down. “It’s been a while,” Healy said.
    Even in his fear, Eric sneered. “Yeah, I haven’t seen you since you shot Michael in the head.”
    Healy shrugged. “Had to be done to show we’re serious. He wasn’t anxious to cooperate.”
    “And you think I am?”
    “I think you want to live. And I think you want your girlfriend to live.” Then Healy smiled. “And your dog as well.”
    “What exactly do you want?” Eric