He sensed that every screwball statement she made was not, in fact, half as screwball as it seemed. Even in her most air headed statements, an elusive truth was lurking. If he could just step back from her, put aside the conception of her that he had already formed, he would see her entirely differently from the way that he saw her now. He thought of those drawings by M.C. Escher, which played with perspective and with the viewer’s expectations, so a scene might appear to be only a drift of lazily falling leaves until, suddenly, one saw it anew as a school of fast-swimming fish. Within the first picture was hidden another. Within Del Payne was hidden a different person – someone with a secret – who was cloaked by the ditsy image that she projected.
The satori, tidal wave of revelation, loomed, loomed, loomed – and then began to recede without bringing him understanding. He had strained too hard. Some-times enlightenment came only when it wasn’t sought or welcomed.
Del stood in the doorway between the study and the living room, a gun in each hand, meeting Tommy’s gaze so directly that he half suspected she knew what he was thinking.
Frowning, he said, ‘Who are you, Del Payne?’
‘Who is any of us?’ she countered.
‘Don’t start that again.’
‘Don’t start what?’
‘That inscrutable crap.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. What’re you doing with Scootie’s rubber hotdog?’
Tommy glared at the Labrador on the desk. ‘He took my shoe.’
In an admonishing tone, she said to the dog, ‘Scootie?’
The mutt met her eyes almost defiantly, but then he lowered his head and whined.
‘Bad Scootie,’ she said. ‘Give Tommy his shoe.’ Scootie studied Tommy, then chuffed dismissively. ‘Give Tommy his shoe,’ Del repeated firmly. Finally the dog jumped down from the desk, padded to a potted palm in one corner of the room, poked its head behind the celadon pot, and returned with the athletic shoe in his mouth. He dropped it on the floor at Tommy’s feet.
When Tommy bent down to pick up his shoe, the dog put one paw on it – and stared at the rubber hotdog.
Tommy put the hotdog on the floor.
The dog looked at the hotdog and then at Tommy’s hand, which was only a few inches away from the toy.
Tommy withdrew his hand.
The Labrador picked up the hotdog with his mouth -and only then lifted his paw off the shoe. He padded into the living room, biting on the toy to produce the farting sound.
Staring thoughtfully after Scootie, Tommy said, ‘Where did you get that mutt?’
‘At the pound.’
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘What’s not to believe?’
From the living room came a veritable symphony of rubber-hotdog flatulence.
‘I think you got him from a circus.’
‘He’s clever,’ she agreed.
‘Where did you really get him?’
‘At a pet store.’
‘I don’t believe that, either.’
‘Put on your shoe,’ she said, ‘and let’s get out of here.’
He hobbled to a chair. ‘Something’s strange about that dog.’
‘Well, if you must know,’ Del said flippantly, ‘I’m a witch, and he’s my familiar, an ancient supernatural entity who helps me make magic.’
Untying the knot in his shoelace, Tommy said, ‘I’d believe that before I’d believe you found him at the pound. He’s got a demonic side to him.’
‘Oh, he’s just a little jealous,’ Del said. ‘When he gets to know you better, he’ll like you. The two of you are going to get along famously.’
Slipping his foot into the shoe, Tommy said, ‘What about the house? How can you afford this place?’
‘I’m an heiress,’ she said.
He tied the shoelace and got to his feet. ‘Heiress? I thought your father was a professional poker player.’
‘He was. A damned good one. And he invested his winnings wisely. When he died, he left an estate worth thirty-four million dollars.’
Tommy gaped at her. ‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’
‘When am I not?’
‘That’s the question, alright.’
‘You know how to use a pump-action shotgun?’
‘Sure. But guns aren’t going to stop it.’
She handed the Mossberg to him. ‘They might slow it down – like your pistol did. And these pack a lot more punch. Come on, let’s hit the road. I think you’re right about being safe only when we’re on the move. Lights out.’