At first, Bayard didn’t seem to realize he was being addressed. A man nearby touched his arm and pointed at the officer, who was already repeating his request. Bayard stopped. Ellis was ahead of him, approaching the exterior rolling stairs leading up to the aircraft, when he realized Bayard wasn’t close behind. He spotted the security officer, frowned, and returned to Bayard’s side. There was a three-way conversation, the officer making it clear there was a problem in the works. Bayard made a response, but didn’t persuade the officer of his need to board the plane. Ellis started to kick up a fuss but Bayard waved him down, probably thinking a show of cooperation would speed them along. The officer repeated his request and the three of them walked back to the boarding gate.
I decided to make myself scarce just in case the security officer intended to ask for a full accounting of the theft from Barbara Ann Mendelson. I went through the front entrance and intercepted the tow truck before the driver could position himself for the removal of my vehicle. I don’t know how I persuaded him of my innocence, but with frequent reference to Lieutenant Phillips, and by citing the ongoing investigation of Fritz’s death, I somehow extracted my car before it was hauled off to the impound lot.
I slid behind the steering wheel and took a moment to collect myself.
? ? ?
Traffic was still slow and I made the drive home reconciled to the time it would take. Once in my neighborhood, I found a parking spot, got out of my car, and locked it. I let myself through the gate, rounding the corner of the studio as I moved into the backyard, slowing my pace. I’d been greeted by so many unexpected sights recently that I leaned forward for a quick look before committing myself. Ned’s attack came from behind. I felt his fist in my hair. He yanked hard. I raised my hands and clung to his wrist to prevent his scalping me. He dragged me sideways and my feet flipped out from under me. He maintained an iron control by the simple expedient of his grip on my head. I was scrabbling backward as swiftly as I could in the face of his forward motion, which kept me off balance until he’d towed me out of range of the street. I couldn’t avoid a sharp intake of breath, which was part surprise and part pain. I managed a brief moment of equilibrium, which he offset by hooking a foot behind my leg. I dropped, but only until he hauled me around so we were face-to-face. His complexion was gray and the strand of hair that fell across his face was oily, suggesting weeks without a shower. His breath on my face was hot and moist and stinking. He was jabbering at me, words and phrases that scarcely made sense, not that clarification was necessary. He’d come back to finish the job of killing me, which I sincerely hoped to prevent. I heard a quick noise that I knew was a switchblade triggered into play.
Belatedly, I registered Killer’s presence. He reclined between the open tent flaps, happily licking a 3-by-6-inch Styrofoam tray. He’d torn a piece of plastic wrap to shreds and gnawed off bites of Styrofoam that were now strewn on the dirt around him. His preoccupation was puzzling except for the certainty he wasn’t going to help. My immediate salvation came in the form of Pearl White, who’d rounded the corner of the studio on her crutches.
She was saying, “Bad news about Ned. He got away again—”
At that point she spotted me and stopped in her tracks. Ned had forced my head back around until I faced her, my mouth open, no sound coming out. He had the blade against the base of my throat, where one swipe would do the trick.
“Well, son of a bitch. I guess we know where he’s at,” she said. And then shouted, “Killer!”
The dog rose to his feet, his Happy Meal forgotten, though a chunk of Styrofoam still dangled from his mouth. He had enough latent mastiff and Rottweiler in him that a deep vein of canine ferocity had leaped to the fore. The ridge of hair went up along his back and the low rumble emanated from his chest. Over countless generations, his breeding had rewarded assault as a survival strategy. Unfortunately, domestication held equal sway and he was stricken with what was clearly a moment of doggie consternation. Which was stronger, the drive to protect his mistress, fighting to the death, or his enthusiasm for the amuse-bouche? Pearl and I exchanged a quick look, both of us counting on his baser instincts.
I heard a squeak from his throat and looked over in time to see him surrender to a gargantuan yawn. He lowered his head, which I hoped was the prelude to an unprecedented display of viciousness. Instead, his upper body continued sinking until his legs buckled under him. Killer rolled gently onto his side and slept. Ned had apparently laced a pound of hamburger with a sedative and Killer had obliged the man by wolfing it down. The sight of the dog was absurd and Ned laughed. It was in that moment of inattention that Pearl made her move.
She crossed the distance between us with remarkable speed for someone of her massive proportions with a broken hip contributing to her physical condition. He was unprepared for the aggression he’d unleashed. She swung one crutch and delivered a blow to the side of his head. He wasn’t stunned so much as surprised. She brought the same crutch down on his wrist. His grip on the knife loosened and it flew off to his right. Pearl stepped forward and aimed the tip of the crutch at his Adam’s apple. Ned made a sound like a cat coughing up a hairball. She tossed the crutch aside temporarily and embraced Ned and me in a bear hug of such magnitude that the three of us toppled sideways into the pup tent, which collapsed under our combined weight.
Ned popped up first, fueled by outrage and fury. Pearl had trouble getting to her feet. He snatched a heavy fold of canvas and tightened it over her face. While I worked to free myself from the voluminous tenting, he straddled her and bore down, cutting off her air. She flailed. Without traction or leverage, she had a hard time bucking him off, but she finally succeeded. Her hip must have been giving her excruciating pain because I heard a quick cry of distress as she lumbered to her feet. Ned had turned his attention to me and we grappled without much effect. The quiet was punctuated with quick gasps and inarticulate grunts. Some of the sounds mimicked sobs, but none of us wept. I pulled myself upright, shoved him back, and kicked him on his injured side. He toppled, howling with agony.
Pearl struggled to hold herself upright while racked with pain. For a moment, none of us moved. In this orgy of violence, this was the moment when we might have paused for a postcoital smoke.