Sick Puppy

20

The first few times Twilly and Desie made love, McGui

"Bad boy," Twilly scolded through clenched teeth.

McGui

"Bad dog," Twilly tried again.

Desie whispered, "I think he's feeling left out."

"What do you suggest?"

"Are you hurt?"

"Only my concentration," Twilly said.

Desie released the headboard and slipped her arms around Twilly's shoulders. She hooked her fingertips inside the Labrador's cheeks and tugged gently. McGui

"Good boy," Twilly said, the words muffled by Desie's right breast. "Wa

McGui

"No bleeding," Desie reported.

"How about hickeys?"

"Maybe he was having a bad dream."

"Or a really good one."

They tried again later, after McGui

"Bad boy," Twilly rasped. He was highly a

"He's biting your neck again!"

"He certainly is."

"Maybe I'm making too much noise when we do it," Desie said. "Maybe he thinks you're hurting me."

"No excuses. He's not a puppy anymore."

But the more strenuously Desie tried to prize open the dog's jaws, the more intractable his grip became. To McGui

"Well, I intend to get some rest," Twilly said. "If the dumb bastard doesn't let go of me by morning, I'm killing him."

And to sleep Twilly went, a jumbo-sized Labrador retriever attached to his neck. Soon the dog was sleeping, too, as placidly as if he'd dozed off with his favorite rubber ball in his mouth. Desie lay rigid in the bed, listening to both of them enjoy a deep, restful slumber. She thought: So this is my status at age thirty-two and a half – alone with a kinky dog and my kidnapper-lover in a twenty-nine-dollar motel room in Fort Pierce, Florida. What interesting choices I've made! Roll the highlights, please, starting with untrustworthy Gorbak Didovlic, the not-so-gifted NBA rookie; brilliant Andrew Beck, the self-perforating producer of deceptive political commercials; slick-talking Palmer Stoat, the tiresomely devious husband whom we dumped only two hours earlier at a Cracker Barrel restaurant off Interstate 95.

And finally young Twilly Spree, who would probably love me faithfully and forever in his own charming adolescent way, but who has no ambition beyond wreaking havoc, and no imaginable future that doesn't include felony prison time. The man of my dreams!

Fun? Big fun. Major adrenaline rush. Mysteriously wealthy, and other surprises galore. Then what? Desie wondered. Then he'll be gone, of course.

Well, there was still Palmer. Deceitful asshole though he was, Desie nonetheless had felt a twinge of pity at the sight of him tied up and hooded in the rocking chair. And the expression on his pie-shaped face when Twilly removed the sweat-stained pillowcase and cut the ropes – a look of malignant contempt, manufactured for Desie's benefit. See how serious I am!

But he'd take her back in a heartbeat, her husband would. Palmer required a sharp-looking wife, one who would put up with his conveniently ambiguous travel plans and his unsportsmanlike hunting trips and all that Polaroid weirdness in the bedroom. Palmer knew he had a good thing in Desie, and he also knew what divorces cost. So, sure, he'd take her back.

That would be the easiest road for Desie, too, but she couldn't take it. She would not be able to look at her husband without thinking of tiny orange-striped toads, bulldozed into goop.

Her folks in Atlanta – they'd be glad to have her home for a while. Mom was busy with her medical practice, but Dad would be retiring soon from Delta. Maybe I could start back at GSU, Desie thought, finish up on my teaching degree.

Yeah, right. And afterward I'll move to Appalachia and live in a tin shanty and do volunteer work with the learning disabled. Who the hell am I kidding?

Twilly stirred when Desie stroked his brow.

"You awake?"

"Am now," he said.

"Dreaming?"

"I du

"I'm afraid so."

"Then I wasn't dreaming," Twilly said.

"I've been lying here wondering ... what happens now?"

"The itinerary, you mean."

"The agenda," she said.

"Well, first, I intend to seriously fuck things up so Shearwater never gets built."

Desie cupped his chin in her hands. "You can't stop it."

"I can try."

"They'll fix it so you can't. Palmer and the governor. I'm sorry but that's a fact," said Desie.

"If they say the bridge is a done deal, it's done."

"Just watch."

"There's nothing you can do, Twilly, short of killing somebody."

"I agree."

"My God."

"What?"

"Don't even joke about that," Desie said. "Nothing like this is worth taking a human life."

"No? What's the life of an island worth? I'd be curious to know." Twilly reached behind his head and flicked McGui

Twilly rose on one arm to face Desie. "Ever been to Marco Island? You can't imagine how they mauled that place."

"I know, honey, but – "

"If you'd seen it when you were a kid and then now, you'd say it was a crime. You'd say somebody ought to have their nuts shot off for what they did. And you'd be right."

Desie said, "If you're trying to scare me off, you're doing a fine job."

"You asked me a question."

Desie pulled him into her arms. "I'm sorry. We can talk about this in the morning."

As if it could end differently.

"The whole damn island," she heard him murmur. "I can't let that happen again."

Dick Artemus offered Lisa June Peterson a drink. He was on his third. She said no thanks.

"Still drivin' that Taurus?" he asked her.

"Yes, sir."

"You break my heart, Lisa June. I can put you in a brand-new Camry coupe, at cost."

"I'm fine, Governor. Thanks, just the same."

The phone on his desk rang and rang. Dick Artemus made no move to pick it up. "Is Dorothy gone home already? Jesus Christ."

"It's six-thirty. She's got kids," Lisa June Peterson said. She reached across the desk and punched a button on the telephone console. Instantly the ringer went mute.