He drove the last half mile in the dark and parked on the shoulder of the road where he was screened from her house by the trees. In all of his visits he had never seen her dog indoors, and that was a problem because she appeared to be a vigilant animal. Ridley had always appreciated the vigilance and the fact that she was clearly a den dog, always burrowing, digging deeper, a creature who wanted to crawl beneath. Those were fine things and he would hate to see any harm come to the dog, but all the same he slipped his knife free from his pocket as he approached.
He was twenty feet from the house when the dog began to bark, and Ridley gritted his teeth and snapped the blade open and then closed it again when the animal retreated. In his past visits, she would cautiously advance toward him and the fact that she would not tonight made him curious as to what she smelled on him. How did she know? It was fascinating to consider. If dogs could talk, people would say, but they were always referring to the idea that the dogs would reveal something stupid or humorous; they failed to grasp just how much their worlds would change if dogs could talk. You were exposed in front of a dog in ways you never considered. The moment you hit the door, your dog knew whether you felt anger or fear, whether you’d wept recently, fought recently, had sex recently — and whether that sex had been with your spouse. If dogs could talk. Yes, wouldn’t that be something? Ridley wondered how many people would have pet dogs in that world.
He went up the steps as the dog circled the porch and he knocked on the door with his left hand and opened the knife again with his right and held it so that the edge of the blade was facing forward. When Julianne opened the door he showed her the knife and said, “Please do not make me kill the dog.”
She had the security chain fastened but they both understood that would not hold as long as she would need it to.
“Don’t do this,” she said. Her voice so soft, so familiar. “Please do not do this.”
“Open the door.”
She opened the door. She was an intelligent woman and he was grateful for that.
As she stepped away from the door, words poured from her.
“Please sit so that we may talk about the things that you are feeling. There is a chance of more snow again tonight, did you hear? I have not seen so much snow in a winter in a long time, and if you would like to sit on the couch, obviously there is negative emotion with you tonight, the emotion that you have, feeling very negative, and those feelings are very valid, so if you would like to sit, you may. If you would like to sit and leave the cold outside and we could—”
Ridley grabbed her hair with his right hand, the knife tangling in the strands, and put his left hand over her mouth. Her words had been streaming at him in those unusual rhythms and with unusual thoughts, thoughts that did not match the situation. Ridley had studied enough to understand that this was one area where Julianne Grossman excelled. While she had weaknesses as a hypnotist, her ability with what was called neurolinguistic programming was remarkable. She jarred your expectations with thoughts and cadences and word choices, and eventually her suggestions ceased to feel suggestive and became more directive and then your mind belonged to her.
Ridley no longer wanted it to.
“You will have an opportunity to talk,” he said. She was not struggling. She was aware of the knife just behind her brain stem. “But I can’t allow you to have that now, because you are so good with words. You are so good at what you do. I respect that. You know that I have always respected that, don’t you?”
Her eyes were locked on his and there was fear in them but there was something else also and he said, “Do not let the dog inside.”
He had not turned to see the dog and he had not heard the dog but he knew that it was there and when she lifted her hand, he allowed the motion because the hand was for the dog and not for Ridley. There was an anxious whine from behind him and Ridley realized how close things had come to going very bad.
“Thank you,” he said. “Use the same hand to close the door.”
He maneuvered her toward the door in an awkward waltz and she pushed it shut. The dog barked twice when the barrier was closed.
“Out of respect for your talents,” Ridley said, “I am going to need to tape your mouth shut.”
He removed a thin roll of duct tape from his jacket pocket, and though it required taking his hand from her mouth, she didn’t try to speak. He worked fast but he made certain to lift her hair high with his right hand so that it was not caught in the mess. He did not want her to be uncomfortable.
A phone began to ring in the house, but neither of them looked in the direction of the sound. He stepped back and removed his hooded jacket and held it out to her. She lifted her arms and allowed him to slip the jacket on her, as if it were a gallant gesture.
“Put the hood up so it covers your face, and we will walk to my truck. Please be mindful of your dog’s life when we step outside.”
He opened the door and nodded that she should go first. The dog was crouched with every muscle bunched, hackles lining her spine. She whined when she saw Julianne, a pleading sound, desperate for instruction. Or permission.
Julianne lowered herself to her knees and took the dog’s face in her hands and then stroked along the hackles, trying to soothe her. Some of the tension loosened, but only some. The dog’s eyes were on Ridley.
“Let’s go,” Ridley said.
Julianne pressed her tape-covered face to the dog’s, and the dog lapped at her eyelids. Julianne had begun to cry.
“Let’s go,” he repeated, but he was careful not to pull her up because he didn’t think the dog would allow that. He waited until Julianne rose and walked down the steps and then he followed. The dog walked close to her side all the way to the truck, and Ridley held the knife in a hand that was as tensed as the dog’s muscles. He opened the passenger door of the truck and Julianne climbed inside. Ridley had to walk back around the front of the truck to get in, and for a few steps the dog was alone with him, but she was still watching Julianne. Ridley got in the truck and closed the door and then closed the knife.
“Very noble choice,” he said. “The dog would have been willing to die for you, and you knew that and could have demanded it. But instead you chose to take your chances even if it means you die for the dog. That is a rare choice.”
She was no longer crying, and she didn’t look at him. He sighed, remembering all of the comfort he had taken in her once, and then he started the truck and turned on the lights and pulled away. The dog stood in the middle of the road behind them. When it became evident that they were leaving, the dog began to howl. Ridley winced at the mournful sound. He felt as if the dog knew that she had made a choice and that she now regretted the one she had made.
He hoped that the dog’s memory was not long.
49
Mark was told to wait in the sheriff’s office, and when Blankenship finally entered he was carrying two cups of coffee. He handed one to Mark without a word. The dynamic between them had shifted dramatically but Mark couldn’t say why. The discoveries in the trailer meant plenty to Mark, but he had expected an uphill battle to convince Blankenship of that.
“When we have anything from that scene, I’ll let you know,” Blankenship said. He drank his coffee for a few seconds. The door was closed and it was quiet in his office.
“Before you talk,” he said, “I probably should. I was pulled from Sarah’s case once, and if we went by the book, you shouldn’t be talking to me.”
“My time in Garrison hasn’t been very by-the-book so far.”