Johnithan Kellerman – Bad Love

Not enough force to knock him over, but I got my hands on the ends of the iron and slammed it hard into his rib cage. Something cracked.

He said, “Ohh,” sounding curiously girlish. Buckled. Bent.

The dog was on him now, fixing his teeth on denim leg, shaking his head from side to side, growling and spraying spit.

The man’s back was pushing against me. I pressed up on the iron, sharply, forcing it under his chin. Got it against his Adam’s apple and pulled in steadily until he made gagging noises and started to loosen his grip.

I held on. Finally, he dropped his arms and let his full weight fall against me. Struggling to remain on my feet, I let him sink to the ground, hoping I hadn’t destroyed his larynx but not torturing myself over it.

The dog stayed on him, grunting and eating denim.

The man sank to the dirt. I felt for a pulse. Nice and steady, and he was already starting to move and groan.

I looked for something to bind him. The polyethylene bags. Telling the dog, “Stay,” I ran to get them. I tied them together, managed to fashion two thick, plastic ropes and used one to secure his hands behind his back, the other his legs.

The dog had stepped back to watch me, head cocked. I said, “You did great, Spike, but you don’t get to eat this one. How about sirloin instead–it’s higher grade.”

The man opened his eyes. Tried to speak but produced only a retching cough.

The front of his neck was swollen, and a deep blue bruise that matched his tattooes was starting to blossom.

The dog padded over to him.

17U JlNAl hAN lkLLl:KMAN The man’s eyes sparked. He turned his head away and grimaced in pain.

I said, “Stay, Spike. No blood.”

The dog looked up at me with soft eyes that I hoped wouldn’t betray him.

The man coughed and choked.

The dog’s nostrils opened and shut. Saliva dripped from his maw and he growled.

“Good boy, Spike,” I said. “Watch him for a sec, and if he gives you any problems, you’re allowed to rip out his throat for an appetizer.”

“What an idiot,” said Milo, putting his notepad away. “His name’s Hurley Keffler and he’s got a sheet, but not much of one. More of a bad guy wannabee.

We found his bike parked down the road. He claims he wasn’t stalking you, got here just as the pond people drove away and decided to have a talk.”

“Just one of those impulsive weekend jaunts, huh?”

“Yeah.”

We were up on the landing, watching the police cars drive away. The dog watched, too, sticking his flat face through the slats of the railing, ears pricked.

“I found a letter from the Wallaces’ lawyer in my mailbox,” I said.

“He wanted to know where the girls were and threatened me with legal action if I didn’t tell him. Looks like the Priests decided not to wait.”

“It might not be an official Priest mission,” he said. “Just Keffler having a few too many and deciding to improvise. His dinky record, he’s probably low man in the gang, trying to impress the hairy brothers.”

“What are you booking him on?”

“ADW, trespassing, DUI if his blood alcohol’s high enough to prove he drove over here soused. If the Priests go his bail, he’ll probably be out within a few days. I’ll have a talk with them, tell them to lock him in the house. What a clown.”

He chuckled. “Bet your little choke-hold didn’t do much for his powers of comprehension, either. What’d you use, one of those karate things I’m always ribbing you about?”

“Actually,” I said, bending and patting the dog’s muscular neck, “he gets the credit. Pulled a sneak attack from the back that allowed me to jump Keffler.

Plus he overcame his water phobia– ran right up to the pond.”

“No kidding?” Smile. “Okay, I’ll put him up for sainthood.” He bent, too, and rubbed the dog behind the ears. “Congrats, St. Doggus, you’re a K-9 hero.”

The driver of one of the black-and-whites looked up at us and Milo waved him on.

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