"Boom, boom, boom," he said. "Chickie-chick."
"C'mon, stupid," I said.
His face puffed up and reddened. Two-handing the iron, he made a sudden swing for my knees.
I jumped back, stumbled, pitched forward onto the pond rim, breaking my fall with my palms.
The iron landed on rock and clanged. He raised it high over his head.
The next sounds came from behind him.
Deep bark.
Angry snorts.
He wheeled toward them, holding the iron in front of his own chest in instinctive defense. Just in time to see the bulldog racing toward him, a little black bullet, its teeth bared in a pearly grimace.
Just in time for me to spring to my feet and throw my arms around his front.
Not enough force to knock him over, but I got my hands on the ends of the iron and slammed it hard into his rib cage. Something cracked.
He said, "Ohh," sounding curiously girlish. Buckled. Bent.
The dog was on him now, fixing his teeth on denim leg, shaking his head from side to side, growling and spraying spit.
The man's back was pushing against me. I pressed up on the iron, sharply, forcing it under his chin. Got it against his Adam's apple and pulled in steadily until he made gagging noises and started to loosen his grip.
I held on. Finally, he dropped his arms and let his full weight fall against me. Struggling to remain on my feet, I let him sink to the ground, hoping I hadn't destroyed his larynx but not torturing myself over it.
The dog stayed on him, grunting and eating denim.
The man sank to the dirt. I felt for a pulse. Nice and steady, and he was already starting to move and groan.
I looked for something to bind him. The polyethylene bags. Telling the dog, "Stay," I ran to get them. I tied them together, managed to fashion two thick, plastic ropes and used one to secure his hands behind his back, the other his legs.
The dog had stepped back to watch me, head cocked. I said, "You did great, Spike, but you don't get to eat this one. How about sirloin instead- it's higher grade."
The man opened his eyes. Tried to speak but produced only a retching cough. The front of his neck was swollen, and a deep blue bruise that matched his tattooes was starting to blossom.
The dog padded over to him.
The man's eyes sparked. He turned his head away and grimaced in pain.
I said, "Stay, Spike. No blood."
The dog looked up at me with soft eyes that I hoped wouldn't betray him.
The man coughed and choked.
The dog's nostrils opened and shut. Saliva dripped from his maw and he growled.
"Good boy, Spike," I said. "Watch him for a sec, and if he gives you any problems, you're allowed to rip out his throat for an appetizer."
17
"What an idiot," said Milo, putting his notepad away. "His name's Hurley Keffler and he's got a sheet, but not much of one. More of a bad guy wannabee. We found his bike parked down the road. He claims he wasn't stalking you, got here just as the pond people drove away and decided to have a talk."
"Just one of those impulsive weekend jaunts, huh?"
"Yeah."
We were up on the landing, watching the police cars drive away. The dog watched, too, sticking his flat face through the slats of the railing, ears pricked.
"I found a letter from the Wallaces' lawyer in my mailbox," I said. "He wanted to know where the girls were and threatened me with legal action if I didn't tell him. Looks like the Priests decided not to wait."
"It might not be an official Priest mission," he said. "Just Keffler having a few too many and deciding to improvise. His dinky record, he's probably low man in the gang, trying to impress the hairy brothers."
"What are you booking him on?"
"ADW, trespassing, DUI if his blood alcohol's high enough to prove he drove over here soused. If the Priests go his bail, he'll probably be out within a few days. I'll have a talk with them, tell them to lock him in the house. What a clown."
He chuckled. "Bet your little chokehold didn't do much for his powers of comprehension, either. What'd you use, one of those karate things I'm always ribbing you about?"
"Actually," I said, bending and patting the dog's muscular neck, "he gets the credit. Pulled a sneak attack from the back that allowed me to jump Keffler. Plus he overcame his water phobia- ran right up to the pond."
"No kidding?" Smile. "Okay, I'll put him up for sainthood." He bent, too, and rubbed the dog behind the ears. "Congrats, St. Doggus, you're a K-9 hero."
The driver of one of the black-and-whites looked up at us and Milo waved him on.
"Good boy," I said to the dog.
"Seeing as he's saved your kneecaps, Alex, don't you think he deserves a real name? My vote's still for Rover."
"When I was trying to intimidate Keffler, I called him Spike."
"Very manly."
"Only problem is," I said, "he's already got a name- someone's bound to come get him. What a drag. I'm getting kind of attached to him."
"What?" He elbowed my ribs, gently. "We're afraid of getting hurt, so we don't reach out for intimacy? Give him a goddamn name, Alex. Empower him so he can fulfill his dogly potential."
I laughed and rubbed the dog some more. He panted and put his head against my leg.
"Keffler's not the one who killed the koi," I said. "When I mentioned it, he fuzzed over completely."
"Probably," he said. "That tree branch was too subtle for the Priests. They would have taken out all the fish and mashed 'em up, maybe eaten them and left the bones."
"Back to our "bad love' fiend," I said. "Anything new on Lyle Gritz?"
"Not yet."
"I was over at the library this morning, checking out the professional directories. No current listings on Rosenblatt or Katarina de Bosch. Harrison moved to Ojai and has no phone number, which sounds like retirement- and the social worker, Lerner, was suspended from the social work organization for an ethics violation."
"What kind of violation?"
"The directory didn't say."
"What's it usually mean? Sleeping with a patient?"
"That's the most common, but it could also be financial shenanigans, betrayal of confidentiality, or a personal problem, like drug or alcohol addiction."
He rested his arms on the top of the railing. The squad cars were gone now. My pond was a dry hole and the sump pump was sucking air. I went down to the garden, dog at my heels, and turned it off.
When I got back, Milo said, "If Lerner was a bad boy, he could have done something that pissed off a patient."
"Sure," I said. "I looked up de Bosch's writings on "bad love.' Specifically, it refers to abuse of parental authority leading to alienation, cynicism, and, in extreme cases, violence. De Bosch actually used the term "retribution.' But, pardon the whining, I still don't know what the hell I could have done."
"Why don't you try to get in touch with Harrison in Ojai, see if he has any idea what's going on? If his number's unlisted, I can get it for you."
"Okay," I said. "And Harrison may be a good source for another reason. When therapists are suspended, they're usually required to get therapy. One of Harrison's specialties was treating impaired therapists. Wouldn't it be interesting if he treated Lerner? It's not that farfetched- Lerner turning to someone he knew. Get me that number right now and I'll call."
He went to his car and got on the radio. Returned ten minutes later and said, "No listing at all, even though the address is still on the tax roles. Can you spare the time for a little drive? Ojai's nice this time of year. Cute little shops, antiques, whatever. Take the lovely Miss C for a cruise up the coast, combine business with pleasure."
"Get out of town for a while?"
He shrugged.
"Okay," I said. "And Ojai's close to Santa Barbara- I can extend my trip. De Bosch's school is defunct, but it might be interesting to see if any of the neighbors remember it. Maybe there was some kind of scandal, something that closed it down and left someone with a long-term grudge."