The dog house, p.1
The Dog House, page 1
part #2 of Muttopia Series
The Dog House
A Muttopia Novel
By
Elizabeth Blake
These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not designed as a replacement for fact.
All rights reserved, 2014.
No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or otherwise, without permission in writing from Elizabeth Blake.
The Exalted Series
God Strain
Storm-Tossed Devils
Fate’s Gamble
Muttopia Series
Scratch Lines
The Dog House
Bait and Bleed
Dead Mutt Walking
Silver Maiden
Judas Wolf
“When virtue has slept, she will get up more refreshed.”
Nietzsche
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 1
Peter
Fresh off the boat.
The sailor in me always enjoyed that phrase. Ever since the Deutsche Marine, I loved the water. I may have tired of the crowded compartments, the stale food, and the endless drudgery, but I never tired of the ocean. I retained for her a feeling of love. Terror, marvel, and duty, yes...but mostly love.
Stepping onto dry (albeit cold) land, I thought: what a pity the world has lost its love of ships. Airplanes and trains are the way to travel now. Never could stand the things. The pressure, I think. Take off, set down, and that rapid change of pressure. Made me want to lie down on the floor in anticipation of a crushing freefall.
I'm supposed to stay in my cabin on these long sea voyages. Of all my queen’s commandments, this is the only one I disobey. Although if she asked, I wouldn't lie about it, and that is how I justify my insubordination. I wonder how she might punish me and decide the risk is worth it. I mingle with the crew so much that as I leave they pat me on the back, shake my hand, and wish me good journey.
At port, a man with a dogsled offers me a ride. It is hard not to laugh at the irony. The dogs, they love me. We want to run together, but the human would not appreciate that at all.
My duffel bag holds two shirts and a book on American slang. The jacket is for show; I am not cold. I give everything to a traveler who is ill-prepared for the arctic weather. I tell him to never visit Omsk. He doesn't know what I'm talking about and offers me his last Canadian dollar, a coin with a funny name. I decline. He warns me to beware of the forest.
Wolves run there, he says.
I walk to the end of the port town, thankful for the cloak of night and the incoming storm. I remove my clothes. My threads, as the slang goes. I discard my shoes, and the first touch of hard ice underfoot promises a long-awaited run. I stretch outward, push my chest toward the sky, curl back, and lay flat on the ground. Ice scraped my flanks. Tremors dance through me. When I rise, the beast consumes me. I become wolf.
The sound of sled dogs barking catches my ears.
I howl back at them, and then there is only silence and the great black stormy sprawl of country before me.
And I run.
Chapter 2
Kaidlyn
“God, that’s disgusting,” Sarakas said. He rolled down the window and spat half a pastry onto the sidewalk. “Bavarian cream tastes like equal parts glue and diabetes.”
“I happen to love adhesive sugar,” I said, confiscating the uneaten portion of the long john.
He swished his mouth with coffee and grabbed the next confection. I shoveled carbs into my face to keep from falling asleep. Last night had been nearly sleepless as I listened to my adopted roommate shuffle around the house and try not to wake me.
My partner, Andreas Sarakas, and I sat in his parked Tahoe and waited for dispatch to give us something to do. The dozen donuts propped on the console had been intended to last us all day, but we’d gone through half the box while patrolling the bleak city.
Phoenix was barren. Fallen businesses and burned houses cluttered the skyline. I expected a tumbleweed to roll through and perfect the picture of a desert wasteland. To the west, a demolition crew chipped away at a graffiti-covered storefront. The city’s beautification project tried to recover these slums, converting them into much-needed cemeteries.
To be fair, the cemeteries were always beautiful.
Andreas’ hand bumped mine as we reached for the chocolate glazed donut. Without comment, I opted for the raspberry crème instead.
His father was Greek, his mother Swedish, and their combined genetics made him a handsome man. He was the guy-next-door sweetheart that older women loved and younger women somehow overlooked.
Until he took his shirt off, then everyone paid attention.
I knew handsome when I saw it and we spent most of our time with each other, so why hadn’t we slept together? Maybe we knew each other too well. That, and it would really screw up the work dynamic.
“Finish that double shot espresso so we can get another one,” he said, pulling into traffic. “How much did you sleep last night? The zombie grunge look isn't the worst fashion statement you could make, but if you don't start getting more sleep you'll have a psychotic break.”
“You've picked up this nasty habit, something called nagging. Might look into that.”
“I'm serious. Remember on the Carter detail you didn't sleep for two days and put Keats in a stranglehold because he drank all the coffee without making a new pot?”
“Vaguely.” I examined my nails and avoided his gaze.
“Call it nagging if you want, but you've got horrible black circles under your eyes. I've seen crack addicts appear more rested.”
“I think I just figured out why we aren't screwing,” I mused.
He sat back even straighter, blinking at me. My big mouth had surprised us both. He flipped his hands palm up.
“What are we talking about?”
“Nothing,” I said.
He frowned. I finished my cooling coffee. He pulled into a drive-through coffee joint and placed an order. A quagmire churned in my gut as I watched him in profile. Something was wrong. I felt it, but was clueless to its nature.
“What did you do last night?” he said.
Committed treason and smuggled a revolutionary new drug.
“Sparred at the gym.”
I broke laws on a regular basis, ignored protocols, consorted with the enemy, and did things that were downright traitorous. And those were the good days. Yet here I was, riding with a fellow FBHS agent who was perceptive enough to put me in a terrorist cell or a work camp for the rest of my life.
I had to give him some credit. Certainly, he knew I was up to no good, but he didn't have me on surveillance (I'd checked), he didn't put me on a Deviant Registry, and he didn't ask too many questions. I could trust him.
Theoretically.
The barista grinned at Sarakas and set her hand on her waist, simultaneously emphasizing her hip and breasts. Then she draped herself through the window to give him an excessive show of cleavage. Sheesh. Poor thing didn’t realize her efforts were pointless.
Sarakas was currently involved with the most marvelous girlfriend on the planet. A five-star classy, wealthy, smart, beautiful, kind-hearted sort of perfect. She wasn't even the unlikeable brand of perfection that made people jealous. Vanessa didn't even annoy me, and I hated all sorts of people with her same qualities. Sarakas thought she was a bit too perfect, probably why he hasn't married her. Maybe he's right, but it's not my business.
I almost had a girlfriend recently. Her name was Precious, and she was a nurse. We had fantastic bouts of energetic sex until one night when I fell asleep in her arms. “You look angry when you sleep,” she had reported. I had jokingly responded, “I thought slumbering people were supposed to look peaceful and innocent.” She’d given me a poignant look, and that was the end of us.
I wished Sarakas would tell the waitress to get off it so she'd stop making doe eyes and fill our order.
“Santi called me last night,” Sarakas said. “PR whispered sweet nothings into his ear until he came up with a brilliant idea. And by brilliant, I mean brace yourself because you're going to hate it. The networks want to give us a feature length special.”
“Us?”
“Our te
“How about not.”
“You might want to get used to the idea.”
“Or I could shoot myself in the foot.”
“Naw. They'd just spin it.”
“I've had enough cameras in my face.”
“Just warning you. They’re worried someone will leak a story about their star femme agent adopting a victim of L-strain exposure. The bureau doesn’t want it to look like we’re sympathizing with the disease.”
“Whatever. It was their decision to withhold.”
He finished with the flirty barista and off we drove.
“Something else bothering you, Durant? How’s Davey?”
Davey was my adopted…whatever. Too old to fill a child’s role, he was more like a little brother. He’d lost his family in a massacre and landed on the bureau’s potential list. Potential what? Fill in the blank: threat, monster, terrorist, catastrophe. Any and all could apply.
“CPS notified me that Davey is overdue for a psyche eval. Tried pulling the New Freedom card. He doesn’t want the obligatory mind scramble, so I’m thinking of homeschooling him.”
“The law—”
“Doesn't matter. It's bullshit.”
“It's the law.”
“It's a bullshit law, a violation of constitutional right to privacy,” I insisted. “I won’t subject Davey to the drug-pushing docs and their cathartic crusade. If the patient doesn't spend forty minutes crying through a session, they consider it a failure. Nothing short of sadistic, and that's a fact. He doesn’t deserve to be treated by someone who hadn’t lived trauma.”
“Is he still having nightmares?”
“Sometimes I hear him moving around at night, but he doesn't have the louder dreams anymore. Progress, right?” I watched Andreas carefully. “Do you think I should make him visit a psychologist even if he doesn’t want to?”
“What am I, a doctor?”
“Don't suppose you want to talk to him? Man to man, you know?”
“Man to man? What can I say that you can't?”
“Man stuff,” I said.
He laughed.
“I worry about him, Andreas. Males have a way of communicating delicate things without saying awkward stuff, a talent that remains beyond my grasp. Dad always knew how to straighten out my brother. Sometimes he didn't even have to say a word. I was hoping you could work similar male-bonding voodoo. Plus, you’re dating a shrink, so you’re practically an expert.”
Andreas reached for his coffee cup. He sipped, swallowed.
“Make you a deal: I'll come over and hang out with Davey if you take a nap while I'm there. I'll even dig deep into my kind heart—and benevolent pockets—to buy pizza.”
“A nap? Do I get storytime too?”
“C'mon, Durant. Last thing we need is you strangling a reporter on film.”
“Fine.”
If Andreas talked with Davey, I'd give in a little. Even if I had a shit-load of stuff to do and absolutely no time for a nap. Bribing me with pizza made the offer irresistible. Sarakas knew how to deal with me.
“Has Davey been painting?” he said.
“Mostly sketching. I haven’t been nosy about the painting. I let him have the room to himself. It’s his space, you know?”
Daisy from dispatch chimed in our earpieces. “Agent Durant, Sarakas, PD requests your presence for an onsite consultation.” She gave us the address.
“Apache Junction?” he said. “Isn’t someone closer?”
“Detective Contrell asked for Agent Durant specifically.”
Sarakas passed me a look. I shrugged. “We’re on our way.”
“Any idea why he’d want you?” Andreas said.
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“Care to be less vague?”
“Maybe, maybe not—”
“Kaid!”
“If Contrell finds something really weird, he likes to hear my opinion.”
“Does he have a crush on you or something? Isn’t he married?”
“It’s not like that. We correlated data a few times on odd crimes, and I’ve become his go-to fed for lykos issues. And yes, he’s married.”
“Hope it’s worth the drive,” he grumbled.
He cruised onto the freeway heading out of town. Debris piled alongside the road, reducing four lanes to two. Squatters and vagrants scavenged the wreckage, looking for value among the long-dead.
Warm sun streamed through the windows. My heavy eyelids sank. Despite the coffee, I fell asleep and jerked awake when the vehicle slowed, feeling as if only an instant had passed. Sweat moistened the back of my spine, and I stretched to ease my cricked neck. Sarakas didn’t say a word.
The crime scene occupied an area of brush a hundred yards back from the highway. Sarakas went off-road and parked beside some troopers. LEOs surrounded the area to safeguard evidence and deter nosy reporters. Contrell walked out to meet us.
When my boots hit the ground, I yawned.
“Jeez, woman, you look awful,” Contrell said, handing me gloves.
“Nice to see you, too. Why are we here?”
“Can you to check out the scene? Snoop around, you know, and tell me if it reminds you of anything. Anything at all.”
Contrell passed me a meaningful look. His peppy demeanor telegraphed excitement, which chilled me. He wasn’t the type who liked murder scenes, but he enjoyed conspiracies. The last time he appeared energetic about dead bodies, we received death threats regarding the investigation.
Contrell popped out his hand. “Agent Sarakas.” They shook and exchanged chatter while I approached the scene, stuffing my hands into the gloves.
Blood started in the dirt, thick and brown, getting old, stinking. The trail led me over some rock and along a pathway of evidence cones. I caught first glimpse of the body tucked in a crevice. Naked. Male. Scalp torn nearly off. Strands of long blond hair caught in cholla cactus. Bloodied limbs and feet. Defensive wounds along his shoulders and forearms. Chest cavity torn open. Yellow bone of the clavicle and ribs snapped back. Heart…MIA.
“Watch it,” forensics warned, pointing.
A section of rib rested in the dirt by my toe. I stepped back. The edge was splintered and frayed, indicating it had been snapped apart instead of severed by a tool or fang. Sarakas came to my side.
Contrell folded his arms, watching.
The smell of meat in summertime sun…
I swallowed rapidly a few times and focused on the problem. Tried to see it as a puzzle. Severe bruising around the neck, but no bite or claw marks. Blunt bruises all over the body. Excessive blood spray.
“He was alive when his heart was removed, I wager.”
“We think so,” Contrell said.
I reluctantly knelt, swatting at flies and ignoring creepy crawlies. Meat sat ragged around the wound, looking like a wet, torn sweater, clotted with ugly stains, marred by stray piping. I expected bite marks and didn’t see any. Gingerly, I touched the edge of the wound.
The meat was warm.
I jumped up with a start, heart pattering in my chest. Forgot it was a hundred degrees out and rocks could bake bodies. The men ignored my skittish response because they were nice. I inhaled and exhaled slowly, subduing my heartbeat so calm would follow.
Oh, God, I’ve seen this before. I think I know who did this.
My stomach rolled boisterously. I felt green. Coffee surged up my throat. I tried to pull myself together. The victim’s hands and feet were ravaged, bone laid bare and broken, fingernails torn off.
“He fought,” Sarakas said.
“First he ran.” I pointed to the ruined feet. “Then he fought when the killer caught him.”
“Any presumptions on what our killer might be?” Contrell said.
I shrugged, but he expected more.
“Werewolves and vampires both love using their teeth,” I said. “This body has no bite marks. None. No large claw marks. The wound was made by mundane means, like by tools. This isn’t my kind of monster.”
Sarakas sounded grim. “What has the strength to pull open a chest and rip out a heart with its bare hands?”
I crossed my arms. “I’d say a vamp or a lykos, but both enjoy using their teeth. This is abnormal on many levels. Where’s the heart?”
“We’ll find it tacked up somewhere in the city, near some rundown section of gang territory,” Contrell said. “This is the fifth victim, one a day all week.”
