Oasis TribuneWednesday, July 16GUARD DOG SLAINThe dismembered body of Rusty, bartender Red Peterson’s German shepherd, was found yesterday morning inside Hoffman’s Market where the dog had been left, overnight, to guard the store against recurrent vandalism and grocery thefts.Says proprietor Elsie Hoffman, who found the slain canine, “I’m just sick about it, just sick. We shouldn’t have left that poor dog in here. I just knew he’d come to no good.” In tears, she added, “That dog was the world to Red.”Red Peterson, owner of the dog and bartender at the Golden Oasis, was unavailable for comment.
CHAPTER THREE
Lacey climbed onto a bar stool. She tapped a cigarette out of its pack, and pressed it between her lips.George O’Toole swiveled toward her. His ruddy, broad face crinkled with a smile, and he struck a match.“Thank you.”“And what’ll it be you’re drinking to night?” he asked, with a lilt Lacey assumed he had picked up from Barry Fitzgerald movies.“A little red wine.”“A dainty drink for a dainty lady,” he said. He raised a thick, weathered hand and caught the bartender’s eye.The bartender was Will Glencoe.“A spot of red for the lady, Will. And another Guinness for himself.” The bartender turned away. “You did Red a fine turn, writing up your story the way you did. He was almighty ashamed of the way he carried on about Rusty. I can understand a grown man weeping over the loss of a good dog—done it myself more than once. But it’s a private thing, and a man doesn’t want it blatted about. You did him a fine turn.”“He’s right, there,” said Will, setting down the drinks. “Take your average reporter, he’d have a field day. Bunch of blood suckers, that’s what they are.”“But not our Lacey. You did yourself proud, young lady.”She reached into her purse.“You put that away.”“Thank you, George.”He paid, and Will stepped away to take an order down the bar.“Where is Red to night?” Lacey asked.George narrowed one eye. “Now where would you be, if a heartless soandso had done your dog that way?”“Elsie’s?”He turned his wrist over, and peered at his watch. “She’ll be closing up in ten minutes. Red’s there with his twelve gauge. He’ll be camping there to night, hoping the filthy beggar shows up again. I offered my services—two guns are twice one—but he’s after doing it alone, and I can’t say I blame the man.” George lifted his stein. “ To your health,” he toasted.“And yours, George.”He winked at her, and drank.Lacey sipped her wine. “What’s Red planning to do, shoot the man?”“The beggar cut down his dog, Lacey.”“I know, I saw it.”“And was it as bad as they say?”“My God, George. I’ve never seen anything like…” She gagged. Tears filled her eyes.“Now, now.” George patted her shoulder.She wiped the tears away, and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry.” She managed a smile. “I don’t normally go around gagging in public. Just thinking about that…” She did it again.“Careful there. Say now, do you know how to tell the groom at a Kerryman’s wedding?”She shook her head.“He’s the one in the pinstriped Wellingtons.”She wiped her eyes, and sighed.“Feeling better, now? Have another wine, and we’ll talk of other things. I’ve a raft of Kerryman jokes. They’re sure to gladden your heart.”“Thanks, George. I really should be going, though.”
Outside in the warm night air, she felt better. She climbed into her car and rolled down the window. Her hand paused on the ignition. She wanted to go home, take a long bath, and get to bed. But she couldn’t. Maybe it was none of her business. Knowing Red’s plan, though, she wouldn’t feel right if she didn’t at least talk to him, warn him of the possible consequences.You don’t blow a man apart with a shotgun because he killed your dog. Not unless you want a prison stretch. Even shooting an intruder, unless the man is armed, could mean more trouble than Red probably bargained for.She started her car and drove the three blocks to Hoffman’s Market. Its sign was brightly lighted; it hadn’t closed yet. She pulled into the parking lot, and stopped beside Red’s pickup truck. In the past, she’d rarely seen the pickup without Rusty pacing its bed, tail wagging, fur ruffled by the wind. She used to fear for the dog’s safety. Suppose it leapt over the low panel as the truck sped along? Once, she’d voiced her fear to Red. “Would you jump off a moving truck?” he’d asked. “No, but I’m not a dog.” Red grinned at that. “You can say that again.”Lacey ran her hand along the tailgate and looked into the empty truck bed, then hurried away.The door of the market wasn’t locked. She pushed it open, and stepped inside. Nobody at the counter.“Hello,” she called.Swinging the door shut, she glanced at the pale gash left by the meat cleaver.“Elsie? Red?”She looked down a bright aisle. At the far end, just in front of the meat counter, a shotgun lay on the floor. An icy chill washed over Lacey, raising goose bumps. Even the skin of her forehead felt stiff and prickly. She rubbed it as she walked between the grocery shelves, eyes fixed on the shotgun.The air, she noticed, had the faint but pungent odor she knew from shooting skeet with her father.Only when she was standing over the shotgun did she lift her gaze to the meat counter and see Elsie’s head wrapped in cellophane.Lacey’s mouth jerked open. Her scream came out voiceless, a quiet explosion of breath.She dropped to a crouch, grabbed the shotgun, and pivoted. Nobody coming up behind her. She worked the pump action. It made a loud metallic snicksnack, and a blue shell tumbled to the floor.Keeping her eyes averted from Elsie, she walked along the meat counter. Just ahead, a display of Diet Rite had been blasted apart. Cans lay in all directions, half of them pierced by shot. The floor was slippery with a thin layer of cola.Beyond the display, barely hidden by the shelves of the next aisle, she found Red. He lay on his back, alive, reaching across his chest, trying to fit his severed left arm into place.“Oh boy,” he whispered. “Oh boy.”“Red?”He glanced up at Lacey, then looked back at his arm. “Oh boy,” he mumbled.“I’ll get help,” she said. Keeping the shotgun ready, she ran for the front. Elsie, she knew, kept a phone on a shelf behind the cash register. Should she go for that, or…She was tackled from behind. She hit the floor flat-out and hard. The wind burst from her lungs. She tried to push herself up, but a weight on her rump and legs held her down. Her collar jerked back, choking her. Then something struck the side of her head.
She opened her eyes and saw the ceiling. On either side were shelves of groceries: cans of soup and chili on the left, cookies and crackers on the right.Even without moving, she knew what had been done to her. She could feel the gritty, cool wood under her bare skin. She could feel hot areas where her skin had been mauled. Her nipples burned and itched. So did her vagina. She felt stretched and battered inside. Her eyes filled with tears.Raising her head, she looked down at herself. Her breasts were red as if they had been wrung. She saw teethmarks on both nipples. Fingernail scratches trailed down her belly. Propping herself up with stiff arms, she felt a slow trickle inside her.At the end of the aisle lay Red. His severed arm lay across his chest. He was motionless.With tissues from her handbag, she cleaned herself. She wasn’t afraid. She felt dirty and sick and ashamed. When she used her last tissue, she picked all of them up off the floor and stuffed them into her bag.She started to dress, watching the door, worried that someone might enter before she could finish. Her pan ties were torn apart; she put them in her bag. Both straps of her bra were broken, the catches in back ripped loose. She pushed it into her bag, and stepped into her jeans. She struggled to pull them up. They encased her, snug and protective. She wished her blouse were as sturdy and tight as her jeans, but she felt bare even after putting it on.The walk to the checkout counter seemed to take a long time. She moved slowly, carefully, feeling that the slightest jostle might shake something loose inside her body.Finally, she reached the counter. She picked up the phone.