Carl Hiaasen – Sick Puppy

Desie said, “I’ve got a question. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want.”

“OK.”

“Two questions, actually. Have you ever killed a person?”

Twilly thought of Vecker Darby’s house exploding in a chemical cloud with Vecker Darby, slow-footed toxic dumper, still inside.

“Have you?” Desie asked.

“Indirectly.”

“What kind of answer is that?”

“A careful one,” Twilly said.

“Would you do it again? Over toads? Honey, you arrest somebody for mushing toads. You don’t murder them.”

Twilly let her hand slip from his fingers. “Desie, it’s not just the toads, and you know it.”

“Then what—over condos? Two lousy high-rises? You act like they’re paving the whole coast.”

“And you’re beginning to sound like your husband.”

Desie stopped in her tracks, the tail of a wave washing over the tops of her feet. A gust of wind blew the hair away from her neck, her astonishingly lovely neck, and Twilly fought the impulse to kiss her there.

She said, “This is all my fault.”

“What is?”

“I should never have told you about this island, about what they’re planning to do.”

“Why not? It’s horrible what they’re planning.”

“Yes, but now you’re talking about killing people, which is also wrong,” said Desie, “not to mention a crime, and I don’t particularly want to see you go to jail. Jail would not be good for this relationship, Twilly.”

He said, “If it wasn’t Shearwater, it’d be something else. If it wasn’t this island, it would be another. That’s what you need to understand.”

“And if it wasn’t me with you here on this beach, it would be someone else. Right?”

“Please don’t.” Twilly reached for her waist but she spun away, heading back (he assumed) toward the car.

“Desie!”

“Not now,” she called over her shoulder.

From the other direction came an outburst of barking. At first Twilly thought it was another big dog, because he’d never heard McGuinn make such a racket.

But it was him. Twilly could see the familiar black hulk far down the beach, alternately crouching and dashing circles around somebody on the sand. The behavior looked anything but playful.

Twilly broke into a run. A nasty dog-bite episode was the last thing he needed to deal with—the ambulance, the cops, the wailing victim. Just my luck, Twilly thought glumly. How can you possibly piss off a Labrador retriever? Short of hammering them with a baseball bat, they’d put up with just about anything. Yet someone had managed to piss off ultra-mellow McGuinn. Probably some idiot tourist, Twilly fumed, or his idiot kids.

He jogged faster, kicking up water whenever a wave slid across his path. The run reminded him of his two dreams, without all the dead birds and the panic. Ahead on the beach, McGuinn continued to carry on. Twilly now could see what was upsetting the dog—a stocky, sawed-off guy in a suit. The man was lunging with both arms at the Labrador, which kept darting out of reach.

What now? Twilly wondered.

As he drew closer, he shouted for the dog to come. But McGuinn was in manic mode and scarcely turned his head to acknowledge Twilly’s voice. The stranger reacted, though. He stopped grabbing for the dog and arranged himself into a pose of calm and casual waitfulness.

Twilly prepared for trouble. He pulled up and walked the last twenty yards, to catch his breath and assess the situation. Immediately, McGuinn positioned himself between Twilly and the stranger, who clearly was no tourist. The man wore a rumpled houndstooth suit and ankle-high leather shoes with zippers. He had a blond dye job and a chopped haircut that belonged on somebody with pimples and a runny nose.

“Down!” Twilly said to McGuinn.

But the Lab kept snapping and snarling, his lush coat bristling like a boar’s. Twilly was impressed. Like Desie, he believed animals possessed an innate sense of danger—and he believed McGuinn’s intuition was correct about the out-of-place stranger.

“Obedience school,” the man said. “Or try one of those electrified collars. That’ll do the trick.”

“He bite you?” Twilly’s tone made it clear he was not stricken with concern for the stranger’s health.

“Naw. We’re just playing. What’s his name?”

“You might be playing,” Twilly said to the man, “but he’s not.”