Retribution (8 page)

He took his hand back, and busied himself picking up remnants. An icy barrier had dropped around her, and he was unsure if it was something he'd done, or something she always did.

She and Jagger started downhill as he finished clearing.

When he reached the lower tent, she'd already been pulled in front of a microphone, surrounded by easels of paintings, etchings, and other artwork, and had been introduced to an applauding crowd. She looked through the milling people, spotted him, and gave a slight nod, acknowledging him, and he had some hope that he hadn't ruined everything.

When she spoke to the tented audience, it was with an ease she had not shown with him, something he realized came from years of dealing with the public and from her own quiet confidence in herself in that particular forum.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I want to thank you for coming to the Peppermill tonight in support of the many projects this night is benefiting." Charlie smiled, and put a hand down to her dog's ruff, the only slight sign of disquiet in her.

He found a sturdy chair to lean upon as she began a spiel about the local arts programs, the festival, and other charities and opportunities. She introduced a handful of artists whose works had been in the auction, waiting for scattered applause for each, and then began to read off the pieces and the winning bidders. John found himself wishing he'd bought a painting, just to hear what she had to say about it. Jagger watched as people came onto the stage one by one to claim their artworks, his tail waving in slow acceptance and warning, leaning a little against her black-satin-covered leg protectively. Rubidoux watched him as the golden looked up once or twice, whined anxiously, but settled immediately at a low word.

John found himself a little uneasy at Jagger's distress, but he decided it was an outward show of what Charlie must be feeling, on the stage, in front of everyone, using the podium to steady her slight weakness of body, and whatever inner strength she carried to steady her inner self. He found himself watching her more and more, in spite of the fact his interest should be in the dog.

An older woman pushed her way from the back of the crowd, determined to get as close as she could. The wave of movement caught John's attention, his old training immediately surfacing, and he watched her carefully as she drew near his own spot in the audience. She did not have the same casual air of elegance as most of the onlookers, and lines creased a face that had never seen cosmetic surgery, giving her a somewhat careworn look. She wore a hand-painted blue silk dress that was somehow more monied and more comfortable than the formal wear of the other women.

Unconscious of his scrutiny, she gave a tiny sigh of relief as she stood next to John, unable to get any closer to the stage, yet obviously pleased at the progress she'd made. He watched her, wondering if she was a fan of Charlie's painting, for it was painfully clear that she had come to see Charlie.

His policeman's nerves twanged a bit, honed by his years on the force, and his years of working with guard dogs. There were those whose obsession often turned deadly, and he was never so aware of it as he was at that point in time. Who was this woman and why did her eyes fix so avidly on Charlie as she spoke? What did she want— and what was she capable of doing?

On the stage, Jagger paced a step or two and whined, loudly enough that the microphone picked it up, his ears flattening in worry. He glanced up at Charlie once or twice and shook his head uneasily.

Then, Charlie stumbled to a halt, her voice breaking. She put her hand to her temple and looked out, toward Rubidoux, blinking in confusion as though the brightly lit tent hid him from her eyes. "I'm sorry… I seem to have forgotten…" She swallowed. "I can't—" She put her free hand to her brow, shading her eyes. "I'm sorry," she repeated in bewilderment. "I can't seem to see…." She let go of the podium abruptly, both hands groping for the dog. "Jagger—" she forced out, and swayed.

Then she dropped in her tracks.

A woman screamed.

The woman in blue standing near John blurted in absolute horror, "Oh, God, not again."

Jagger immediately dropped into a guard stance, his ears back, and his lips skinned off his teeth. Rubidoux could not hear the low-toned growl he knew had begun to issue from deep in the dog's throat, but those standing nearest could. He knew what it would sound like, a rumbling, burbling growl. Rolling out slow and steady, increasing in fervor and pitch and loudness. A sound born from primitive instincts and vocal cords, provoking an equally primal reaction of fear and warning.

A balding gentleman tore off his tuxedo jacket and threw it over Jagger as his wife knelt over Charlie's form. The dog shot out from under the jacket. Canines shining, he bucked, snarling and snapping, forty-five pounds of animal fury, and swung his head, his nose to the enemy.

"Shit!" The balding man danced back a step. Not far enough to evade Jagger's anger.

He barked and snapped. His teeth grazed the air at the man's knee as he scrambled backward off the platform, gasping. Jagger swung around, targeting her, and his wife scampered after, shrieking.

Stiff-legged, lips curled and ivory teeth menacing, Jagger emptied the stage of anyone who might think of helping his mistress. His ears flattened as he retreated back to Charlie's body, his snarls amplified by the live microphone. At least two cell phones were whipped out of jackets and handbags, their owners shouting, "I'm calling 911."

And the woman beside Rubidoux, her face creased in worry, surged forward. John instinctively followed in her wake as she shouted, "Someone get that damn dog away from her!" She got out something else, words garbled by an emotional catch in her throat that John recognized. His mother had sounded like that rushing through the hospital parking lot the day his father had been shot and brought into ER, only to die. Suddenly he knew the woman in blue had to be Charlie's mother. He had never met her, dealing only with Quentin Saunders, never Mary.

He caught her by the elbow as she gained the edge of the platform. "I'll get the dog."

She blinked at him almost without seeing him. "Can you handle him?"

"That's what I do," he answered. Without waiting to explain further, John took the stage in one step, his long legs bringing him to Jagger in a second step. The wooden platform gave under his weight, almost like the springboard on a pool. The dog shifted uneasily, unnerved by the sudden sway and trembling of the boards under his paws, and by Ruby. Guilt flickered through his caramel eyes as if Jagger suddenly realized he was not doing the right thing. Snarling still, he cast his eyes on John as if looking for guidance in a world gone suddenly awry.

"Good boy," he said. "Down." He watched the dog calmly, levelly.

Jagger stopped growling, and his lips quivered a little, his brown gaze flicking to Charlie and back to Rubidoux. The tail came out, wagged very slowly and stiffly, showing his aggression, acknowledging the fact that he might no longer have domination here, warning of his intent to protect himself if threatened. Like a barometer, Ruby watched the tail and when it seemed to him that he'd relaxed even more, John moved his hand to catch the harness. Jagger erupted, teeth gnashing, and barking sharply in warning.

John did not withdraw, but froze until the golden quieted to take a breath. He snapped his fingers. "Jagger, down."

Charlie rolled slightly, letting out a faint moan, and the dog's ears went up and back, and he whined, in clear distress. John looked down at the dog, in almost as much distress, seeing what he had feared might happen, warring inside the animal. The companion or service training was in conflict with the guard training and without a conscious Charlie to give him commands, Jagger did not know what to do or how to react.

Someone just offstage, at Rubidoux's elbow, said, "I've got a stun gun. Use it on the dog if you have to."

A stun set to disable a human could kill a dog. Yet John knew that they might have to resort to that if he could not calm Jagger down. He stifled his protest. He had no time to waste persuading them otherwise, as Charlie's body twitched in the faint convulsions of the unconscious.

He looked into the caramel eyes, focusing, aware that Charlie lay just beyond, her fallen body framing the dog's, a background of beauty and distress.

"Jagger. Down." And he made two clicks at the back of his throat, similar to the little metal cricket he used in training.

Jagger shook. His tail tucked between his hindquarters in agonizing conflict. His lips curled back. The golden ruff at the back of his neck quivered as if to rise. His ears shifted. John looked into his torment steadily. Then the dog blinked, and, with a whimper, went down.

John let out the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. He put his hand to Jagger's head and patted him gently. "Good boy. Good dog."

Jagger whined miserably and dropped his head to his paws, no longer secure in his doggish estimation of himself and his world. Rubidoux reached for the harness. "It's okay, I've got him."

Mary Saunders moved past him in a swift rustle of silk and blue, crying, "Charlie!"

Not far behind her, he recognized Judge Laverman and his wife. Mrs. Laverman put a hand on Mary's shoulders. "The paramedics are on their way."

Mary sat down unceremoniously on the temporary stage, pulling her daughter's head and shoulders into her lap, smoothing stray tendrils of golden-brown hair from her forehead, crooning "Oh, Charlie, Charlie."

Mrs. Laverman traded looks with her husband. "She's been working hard, Mary," the woman said softly. "Perhaps she is just tired."

Mary Saunders rocked her daughter's unconscious form ever so slightly, her eyes brimming with tears still unshed. "Oh, God," she mumbled. "It can't have come back. It can't!"

Mrs. Laverman put her hand on Mary's shoulder and patted her comfortingly. "Don't even think it."

Frowning, Mary eyed Jagger. "That damned dog."

"It wasn't his fault, Mrs. Saunders. If you need to blame anybody, blame me."

"And who are you?"

"I'm the man your husband hired to retrain him."

Mary's face quivered with expression, as she soothed the hair from Charlie's face and crooned to her. Then she looked at John and nodded, as if to acknowledge him as one of the culprits. John stood in uncomfortable silence.

And no more words were exchanged between them as the EMTs came running up the driveway and sprinting across the lawn. Jagger lurched to his feet, growling anew. John corrected him, although the harness could not tighten on his throat as effectively as a choke chain, but he got the dog's attention. As John worked to keep Jagger calm, someone from the philanthropic organization came to the mike and announced free champagne in the buffet tent to disperse the crowd. They went, still looking back curiously, as the paramedic team straightened her body and began to take vitals.

Mary stood to one side, her hand to her mouth, as if she could smother unwanted thoughts the way she could words.

As a gurney was brought up the drive, one of the techs nodded to her, saying, "You can ride in the van with us if you want, ma'am."

"Thank you," Mary Saunders murmured. Her glance flickered to the dog.

John volunteered swiftly, "I'll take Jagger home with me, if you don't mind." He fumbled a card out of an unfamiliar tux pocket and pressed it into her hand.

She looked at him. "Thank you," she repeated, her voice sounding as if it were on automatic, but gratitude flickering in careworn eyes.

Mrs. Laverman slid an arm around Mary's shoulders and gave her a quick embrace. "Don't worry, dear," she said. "It can't be a tumor again. It simply can't be."

Charlie's mother shuddered, but whether it was because of the other's touch or her words, John could not say. "It's been ten years," she answered. "I thought— we'd both hoped— that it was all behind us finally. Now this."

Jagger whined and pressed close to John's legs, as the gurney carrying Charlie was taken back down the drive to be loaded in the paramedic van, and Mary followed slowly after.

He ruffled the dog's ears thoughtfully.

The strokelike weakness in her right side. The artist who used to paint brilliantly and now didn't… or couldn't….

What had been taken from her then, saving her life yet changing it irrevocably, and what more could be taken from her now?

John felt his throat grow tight, gripped by emotion, as he watched the van doors slam shut, and he could no longer see Charlie's still form on the gurney or the techs bending over her, or Mary Saunders standing stiffly afraid in the corner of the vehicle, looking down at her.

As the paramedics drove off, he found himself making a tiny sound from his throat, not unlike the whine which came from Jagger.

* * *

She had a headache. It was bad enough that sleep could not hide the pain from her, though she tried to stay adrift. Jagger lay on her legs heavily and she felt as though she could not move at all, suffocating under his weight and heat. He was not supposed to get up on the bed, and most nights he didn't. Still, there were some nights when he crept up, and she was just as grateful for his company as he seemed to be for hers.

Tonight was not one of them. The throb that ached through her skull also seemed to have brought an incredibly bad taste to her mouth, pasty and foul. Charlie shifted slightly, trying to get out from under Jagger's body, and wake. Cobwebs seemed to be all around her, thready remnants of a nightmare she could not quite remember, yet that still clung to that thin veil of awareness between dream and consciousness. It held a haunting similarity to the dreamworld that used to seize her before… to the Midnight that would cloud her entire mind and body….

Charlie shuddered uneasily, trying to throw off the darkness cloaking her.