Ten Little Bloodhounds (19 page)

I switched my vision back to the log that was now definitely not a log but a gator. He was moving slowly, parting the green scum cleanly to produce the same channel that I had recognized earlier as a sign of his passing. Now all I had to do was locate his eyes, which would be slightly above the dark sludgy water. It’s not as easy as it sounds. I threw up the rifle to my eye. Now I had to find the reptile eyes in my sights. When you’re looking at an object, then switch to the scope’s view, you sometimes waste precious seconds locating the target.

The sun wasn’t helping. The rays were reflected from the clear path. I focused on the path and tracked the opening until I found the two protuberances. When the gator’s knobs popped into place I was shocked at the magnification. It was a prehistoric nightmare moving slowly toward us. I decided to risk a shot. I had eighteen. Maybe the noise would unglue Evan’s feet and get him in motion.

I wanted him out of the damn water and up on dry land far enough to be safe. I had another problem. So far, Stanley had behaved admirably and followed my every move with just a short tug on the leash. I couldn’t drop the leash, he would bolt if the gator charged, and he would be dragging a trailing lead. He could be lost forever.

I didn’t have all day. I fired.

I
missed. Stanley didn’t budge an inch, but the explosion achieved one goal. It galvanized Evan into action. He came out of the water as if he’d been shot out of a cannon. He ran past me for a few feet before he could stop.

“Run!” he yelled. “It’s still coming!”

I didn’t have time to answer him. I wanted to tell him that I couldn’t outrun a gator if I didn’t have Stanley tethered to my waist, and didn’t have the backpack weighing me down, and had on track shoes. A gator can sprint from water to land and can achieve speeds up to thirty-five miles per hour for a short distance. I also wanted to inform him that gators preferred dogs over human flesh any day of the week. It would go for Stanley first. The gator would lock his jaws on Stanley’s leg, drag him back in the water, and drown him.

“Evan?”

“Hurry, Jo Beth! Run!” he screamed.

“Shut up! Can you unhook Stanley from my belt and then run?”

“Not without you.” His voice was closer.

“I have to kill the gator; just do it!”

I was thankful the gator hadn’t made up his mind to charge. He was still drifting toward us slowly. Evan grasped my arm, intending to take me with him. I sank my right elbow into his gut and frantically brought the rifle back in position.

“It’s Stanley he wants, you idiot! Move!”

I felt him fumbling at my belt to release the catch.

“Don’t turn him loose, don’t drop the lead,” I prayed as I repeated the litany, twice.

“Okay, okay, I’ve got him. I’ve got him!” Evan sounded just as scared as I did.

I had to place at least one, preferably two, of my seventeen remaining rounds into the killing spot to stop him. His brain was located just behind the knobs. I aimed between his eyes, drew in a breath, and let half of it out. I began pulling the trigger. It rose out of the water on the fifth shot, seemingly unhurt. I fired as fast as I could, as he loomed larger and larger in my scope. I brought down the rifle when I realized I was still trying to pull a useless trigger on an empty gun. I stared down at the alligator flipping and flopping in its death throes practically at my feet. Even while dying, Mr. Gator managed to avenge his death. His contorted body flipped over facing away from me. A savage swipe of the rigid tail caught me with a flat hard blow across my calf and knocked me off my feet. I went out like a light.

Fine drizzle just slightly more than a mist fell from dark low clouds, which threatened to dump heavy rainfall any second. Lightning lit up the drab scene momentarily and was followed immediately by a long jarring roll of thunder. I viewed the sad gathering with puzzlement and felt dismay creeping into my soul.

I recognized everyone, though most were bundled in rain gear and several were holding brightly colored umbrellas close to their bodies to keep the rising wind from whipping them away. This was wrong. They had no right to be standing here at this time and place without my knowledge and consent.

I moved a little closer so I could view the expression on their faces. Why would they even attempt to keep this event from me? I scanned the first-row faces, searching for a clue. Jasmine had her head lowered with her eyes closed, but I still caught the glint of tears slowly sliding down her cheek. Wayne and Donnie Ray were dry-eyed and looked glum. Could they be the culprits?

My befuddled mind cleared and I gasped in pain.
Please God, not Bobby Lee, not Bobby Lee!
I lowered my eyes and spotted him immediately. He was harnessed and on his short lead, sitting quietly, and seemed wrapped in unnatural stillness. I drew in a ragged breath of relief.

I knew now that this crowd had gathered to attend the burial of one of my dogs. We were a hundred yards behind and slightly to the left of the kennel. This plot near the timberline was edged with Bradford pear trees. It was my pet cemetery. It was for the puppies
that died during or shortly after birth, and the dogs that died of old age. My sweet Bo was the only exception. He rested a few feet away, killed by a prison escapee during a search mission.

Just as I decided to call out to announce my presence, and the fact that it would be wise to get indoors when Mother Nature was displaying such a pyrotechnic warning of an approaching thunderstorm, the small group turned and began to leave the area. I watched them pass me without a flicker of eye contact. First came Jasmine holding Bobby Lee’s leash. He turned his head in my direction, stared beyond me, and with a soft whine padded after Jasmine. Next were Wayne and Donnie Ray. They were dressed in their best under their London Fog raingear that I gave them last Christmas.

Susan walked alone, the wind whipping her fashionable rain attire open to reveal a drop-dead red dress of soft wool. She was wearing her funeral face, impassive and aloof. She hated to show her emotions in public. Next came the six full-time trainers, several part-time employees, and two local deputy sheriffs. This left Hank standing alone over the mounded earth.

Wait. This didn’t add up. All these people would not have appeared to honor a dog. The only human who could be legally interred here was the property deed holder, and even with this distinction, it took some serious wrangling with the state to get permission.

I am the owner of record. I had expressed my desire to rest eternally with my dogs to my co-workers and heirs, Jasmine, Wayne, and Rosie. I suddenly realized whose burial they had attended and who they were mourning. It was me.

I licked my lips and gingerly cracked open my eyes to blinding brightness. Someone somewhere above me was voicing an indecipherable message. I mumbled a response in a raspy whisper.

“I didn’t hear you, Jo Beth. What did you say?”

I didn’t recognize the voice. His features were obscured by the bright halo of light behind him. I squinted and tried to bring him into focus.

“Why did you wake me up?” I grumbled. My mouth was dry and speech was difficult. I had no idea who he was, or what I was doing flat on my back. I fought to clear the cobwebs from my brain. I realized I had a horrendous headache. The implications of a stranger looming overhead and me in a supine position started my heart thudding in rhythm with my head. I struggled to sit up, but strong hands forced me to lie back.

“How are you feeling?” the voice inquired.

I wasn’t about to tell this joker I didn’t know him from Adam. I had to find out what was going on. A delayed thought reminded me that he had called me something, but I couldn’t recall the words.

“What did you call me?”

Christ! That was brilliant! You didn’t want him to know that you didn’t know who he was, but you’ve now informed him that you don’t know who you are!

I didn’t know who I was. Who am I? The question brought tears to my eyes. Everybody knows their own name. I’m … I whimpered and crouched inside my brain and decided to keep my mouth shut.

“I called you Jo Beth. How are you feeling?”

His voice attempted to soothe me, but I was hung up
on semantics. I silently rolled the two words around on my tongue and tried them out. Jo Beth. Jo Beth. Nope, neither of them rang a bell. I decided to ask the obvious question.

“Am I hurt?”

I knew I was hurting, but I didn’t know why. Maybe he could jog my memory.

“Your leg has a nasty bruise and is swollen, but I don’t think it’s broken. The tail struck you a glancing blow,” he said, sounding concerned. He released a nervous giggle. “Frankly, I expected to find your leg lopped off at the knee when I pulled off your suit. That monster really gave you a whack with his tail! You fell on your side and hit your head behind your right ear. There’s a lump, but the skin wasn’t broken. I unrolled a sleeping bag and carried you over here, underneath this tree. I washed your face with a cloth from your backpack.” He glanced at his watch. “You’ve been out twenty minutes. I’ve tried to raise your assistant on the radio at least three times, and didn’t hear a thing.” He let out his breath with a grateful sigh. “I’m really glad you’re awake. I’ve had a survival course in case I ditched, but it didn’t tell me what to do with an unconscious female.”

I lay there quietly and digested his news. He seemed worried about me, and didn’t look threatening. I had peeked at him through a narrow opening of my eyes, his face partially obstructed by my eyelashes. I decided he meant me no harm. I breathed easier knowing that I wasn’t in immediate danger. The rest of the message could have been spoken in Swahili for all it told me. I remembered the key words and tried to string
them together for a rational explanation. Monster’s tail, sleeping bag, radio, assistant, and backpack.

As soon as he mentioned my bruised, swollen leg, I became aware of the pain pulsing in my lower left limb. I hadn’t really focused on it until this moment. I had a more pressing pain in my head, which had taken my knowledge of past events and hidden all of it out of my reach. I still didn’t want to admit how helpless I felt knowing nothing about a trip, which accounted for the sleeping bag and backpack. Had the two of us gone camping? Were he and I friends, lovers, or, oh God, married? What kind of monster was he talking about? I fought down my panic and decided if I could ease the pain, I might be able to remember.

“Is there anything in the backpack for pain?” I asked, trying not to sound too desperate.

“Good question! I’ll check. I’ve been busy with getting you over here and checking your injuries. I’m glad you reminded me. I should have thought about it myself.”

I heard rustling noises and waited impatiently.

“Let’s see. We have a small bottle of aspirin and three tablets labeled Percodan, sterile syringes, and two vials of liquid. One vial is marked SERUM.”

“That’s for the dogs,” I said. How did I know that? “What dogs?”

“Ah,” he said with relief, “does that mean you remember Stanley?”

“Stanley who?” I blurted, giving an audible gasp from the pain. It was intensifying with every breath.

“Jo Beth, I have been aware since you woke up that you don’t know who I am, and who you are, and what
we are doing out here. I’ve been trying to give you time to remember on your own, but we’ve run out of time and we are now approaching a crisis. This vial is labeled
MORPHINE.
I’m no medical expert, but I do remember something from my survival course that you shouldn’t be sedated if you have a head injury, and not to let you go to sleep. Am I correct?”

I gritted my teeth. “Give me the damn shot. Left hip. Roll me over on my side, and I’ll point out the spot for you to inject. Do it now before I shoot you!” I yelled.

“When I removed your suit, I took the gun and holster off because I wanted you to be comfortable. Now I’m glad I did. I’m sorry, Jo Beth; I’m not going to give you morphine, or anything else. I believe it would be dangerous.”

I cursed him as I writhed with pain. After what seemed like hours, I felt a soothing warmth spread over my skin, and most of the pain disappeared. In my growing stupor, I felt languid and lightheaded. I smiled with morbid satisfaction when I sensed the darkness enveloping me. I had beaten Mr. Smarty-Pants Medic. I was sliding down a slippery slope into blessed unconsciousness, and there wasn’t one damn thing he could do to stop me.

W
hen I opened my eyes, I was between white sheets and still had the lousy headache. The light was subdued somewhat by the blinds, but I could tell from the sun leaking around the edges that it was afternoon. I was one of the lucky ones who had a built-in sense of direction. Even in an unknown location I knew north from south, and could recognize that the brightness was coming from the west.

Jasmine was sitting in a straight-backed chair reading a magazine. I felt a surge of elation when I knew who she was. I was Jo Beth Sidden, and the future was looking brighter with each tick of the clock on the metal bedside table on my right.