“Yeah,” said Twilly.
“But I’ll shoot this one, you try and get cute.”
“Well, he’s not mine.”
“What’re you saying?” The rain was flattening the spikes in the man’s hair. He held his right arm straight, the gun trained on the Labrador’s brow. “You don’t care if I pop this mutt?”
Twilly said, “I didn’t say that. I said he doesn’t belong to me. He belongs to the guy who sent you here.”
“Wrong!” The man made a noise like the buzzer on a TV game show. “He belongs to a major asshole named Palmer Stoat.”
“Didn’t he hire you?”
The man cackled and made the sarcastic buzzer noise again. “Would I work for a fuck-head like that? Ha!”
“What was I thinking,” Twilly said.
“Mr. Clapley’s the one that hired me.”
“Ah.”
“To clean out the troublemakers. Now, how about you get a move on. Call the damn dog and let’s go,” the man said, “before we get soaked. Where’s your car?”
“That way.” Twilly nodded down the beach.
“Your lady friend?”
“Gone.” Twilly thinking: God, I hope so. “We had a fight. She split.”
“Too bad. I had some plans.”
Twilly changed the subject. “Can I ask you something?”
“My name is Mr. Gash.”
That’s when Twilly became aware that the man in the brown zippered shoes intended to kill him. The man would not have offered his name unless he knew Twilly wouldn’t be alive to repeat it.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Long as your feet keep moving,” said the man.
They were walking along the windswept shoreline, Twilly with McGuinn at his heels. Mr. Gash followed a few feet behind. He was taking care not to get his shoes wet in the surf.
“Why are you pointing the gun at the dog,” Twilly said, “and not at me?”
“Because I saw how you hauled ass up here when you thought Fido was in trouble. You care more about that dumb hound than you do about yourself,” Mr. Gash said. “So I figure you won’t try any crazy shit long as I keep the piece aimed at Fido’s brain, which I’m sure is no bigger than a stick of Dentyne.”
Twilly reached down and scratched the crown of McGuinn’s head. The Lab wagged his tail appreciatively. He seemed to have lost interest in the strange-smelling human with the gun.
“Also,” said Mr. Gash, “it’ll be cool to watch you watch the dog die. Because that’s what has to happen. I gotta do Fido first.”
“How come?”
“Think about it, man. I shoot you first, the dog goes batshit. I shoot the dog first, what the hell’re you going to do—bite me in the balls? I seriously doubt it.”
Twilly said, “Good point.”
His legs felt leaden and his arms were cold; the temperature was dropping rapidly ahead of the weather front. The salt spray stung, so Twilly kept his eyes lowered as he walked. He could see Desie’s footprints in the sand, pointing in the same direction.
Mr. Gash was saying: “I got tape of a hellacious dog attack. Chow named Brutus. The owner’s on the phone yelling for help and Brutus gets him by the nuts and will not let go. The 911 operator tells the guy to, quick, try and distract the dog. So the poor fucker, he dumps a pot of Folger’s decaf on Brutus and the last thing on the tape is this scream that goes on forever. Damn dog took everything! I mean the whole package.”
“Ouch,” said Twilly.
“You should hear it.”
“How’d you get a tape of something like that?” Twilly thinking: The more pertinent question is: Why?
Mr. Gash said, “I got my sources. Where’s your goddamned car, anyway? I’m getting drenched.”
“Not far.”
Twilly was crestfallen to spy the Road-master behind a scrub-covered sand dune, where he had parked it. He had hoped Desie would see the keys in the ignition and drive back to the bed-and-breakfast, to sulk or pack her bag or whatever.
Maybe she decided to walk, thought Twilly. The important thing was that she was somewhere else, somewhere safe…
But she wasn’t. She was lying down in the backseat. Mr. Gash tapped the gun barrel against the rain-streaked window. Desie sat up quizzically and put her face near the glass. Mr. Gash showed her the semiautomatic and told her to unlock the door. When she hesitated, he grabbed McGuinn’s collar, jerked the dog off the ground and jammed the gun to its neck.