God, how he hated the cold. The way the wind tore through every heavy winter coat he’d owned since childhood like a blade of dry ice, always finding an opening. Button up or zippered, it didn’t matter, the wind found a way to cut him. Was it that he’d never owned a good coat? Or was it impossible to hold back the biting elements?
“God, this sucks,” Jeff said, his Timberland work boots crunching down on marble-sized hunks of ice left over from an inadequate attempt to plow the street. The sound sent chills down his spine.
“It’s all about layers,” replied Evan, his companion, dressed up like an Eskimo, anorak and all.
Jeff thought his partner looked ridiculous, with that stupid looking fur-lined hood, and said as much.
“At least I’m not cold,” Evan replied.
Jeff had to admit his partner had a point, but where did one draw the line? At some point, common sense and vanity had to rear their head. What good would it do to be warm, if one looked like a fool? Maybe if they were in Alaska or a Siberian gulag or something, but in the middle of Ohio? Jeff would freeze before he walked around looking like Evan.
“And the emperor loved his new clothes.”
Evan said nothing, but kept walking. Streetlights cast hard circles of light every twenty-five meters; the ice and snow of chest-high banks, thrown up by passing plows over the last month, reflected the light, illuminated the street as bright as a nighttime baseball game.
“No one’s around to see, anyway. Christ, it’s two a.m.,” Evan finally said, his breath billowing in a cloud of frozen vapor beyond his fur-lined hood.
“I’m around,” Jeff said, shivering, trying not to slip on the icy surface. “Have some pride, man.”
“This is it,” Evan said, pointing off to one side. He left the pavement and scurried up the snow bank, stumbling briefly, putting down a gloved hand to catch his balance. In a flash, he reached the top, and disappeared down the other side.
Jeff started up the bank. The plow tailings were rock hard, thawing slightly during the day and refreezing at night. Jeff cursed as the solid soles of his boots failed to gain any traction. He fell to his knees three times during the ascent, tearing his cotton chinos and probably scraping away a layer of skin.
Evan was waiting for him, not even out of breath, by the time Jeff made it down the other side, huffing and puffing like the big bad wolf.
“Not cold now, I’ll bet,” Evan said. Jeff was sure he was laughing at him. When this was over, if Evan didn’t bite the bullet, Jeff promised he would teach the man a lesson. Dressing like a damn Eskimo, Jeff thought. He would teach Evan. He wasn’t sure how, but he would find a way.
Jeff looked around, getting a feel for the surroundings. One never knew when things would go to pot, where situational awareness might mean the difference between life and death.
Twenty meters in front of him was a small ranch house. Not the home on the range kind of ranch house, but the kind found in every middle and working class suburb around the country. It could have been nice, or trashy, depending on how well the owners maintained it, information hidden beneath a thick layer of icy snow. Based on the neighborhood, and their own mission, Jeff would have bet his last cent the place was run down and dirty. His eyes rested on a garage door and the driveway leading to it, showing signs of a plowing since the last snow.
Jeff cursed Evan long and hard, but not too loudly, lest any occupants become alerted to their presence. Fifteen feet from where he labored over the icy berm was a neatly plowed opening where the driveway met the road. If not for Evan, he could have waltzed into the yard as easy as could be. Jeff swore to get even. He would see that smug smirk wiped from Evan’s face. Sometime soon, perhaps.
Sensing Jeff’s discomfit, Evan said in a low voice, “Problem?”
“Yeah, asshole,” Jeff said between breaths, pointing at the plowed area. Evan’s face was just a shadow in his hood, but Jeff knew his partner had to be laughing at him. Jeff hated it when he had to work with assholes. This was his second job with Evan, and if he had his way, it would be the last.
Evan just shrugged, turning around and walking effortlessly over crusted snow toward the door. Jeff was bigger than Evan, and broke through the first inch of icy crust, sinking halfway to his knee with every laborious step. Bits of ice and snow wedged between his chinos and the top of his boots, melting against skin, the cold burning his flesh.
Finally, Jeff made it to the small covered porch. Snow had drifted onto the concrete slab, but up next to the wall, by the door, it was bare.
Evan put his ear to the door, listening. All appeared to be quiet, with no one awake. More importantly, there were no dogs. He bent down over the door knob. Evan was the lock man. Within a minute, the lock yielded to his machinations. Evan carefully eased open the door.
Jeff heard a strange huffing sound, like someone with emphysema was trying to clear their throat. Something crashed, like someone getting thrown against a wall. At the collision, the flimsy drywall shook throughout the house. The two intruders jumped in surprise.
All pretense of stealth gone, Jeff dragged iron, a cheap Ruger P-89, and quickly made his way through the house. Presumably, Evan was behind him with his own piece drawn, backing him up. Jeff didn’t have time to check. He needed to clear and control the house before any occupants were fully awake.
The entryway yielded to a kitchen to the left, beyond which was a living room. Jeff took a quick look, everything happening fast. Nothing. To the right was a hallway with three closed doors. Jeff went right. Behind the first door was a bedroom, unkempt with scattered clothing and an unmade bed, empty of any occupants. Behind the second door was more of the same.
The huffing and wheezing continued, punctuated by occasional crashes, sounding incredibly loud in the quiet house. Whatever was making the sound was behind the third door. Unless he missed someone sleeping on the floor behind a couch or something in the living room, not unheard of in a drug house, Jeff knew whatever occupants existed had to be behind door number three.
Jeff reached for the doorknob. Something heavy crashed into the door. It was a cheap hollow laminate model, and it bulged out in the middle, force stressing the hinges and latch.
“It’s a fucking dog,” Jeff said, startled, stumbling back. “It’s had one of those throat operations. Big ol’ pit or canaris.”
“Dangerous,” Evan said, by way of agreement. Jeff noticed for the first time that indeed, Evan was backing him up, a cheap Saturday night special .38 in his hand. “And I think it’s Canary.”
“Whatever. The stash has to be in that room, and no one is home. Probably gone for the night.”
“Or out partying all night.”
“The point is they’ll be gone for a while,” Jeff said, getting frustrated. F’ing Evan, he thought.
“Let’s just shoot the dog,” Evan said.
“And risk waking up the neighbors?”
“They won’t hear.”
“They might. And those dogs are fast. You want to be the one to open the door and try to get a shot in before it’s all over you? You can shoot them three or four times and they’ll still manage to rip your throat out.”
“What, then?” Evan asked, waiting. His hood was back. Jeff could see Evan’s little mousy features, like some type of ferret or rat. Jeff didn’t understand why Evan always seemed to get the women. They’d only gone out to the bars together a couple of times, but for some reason the women always gravitated toward the man, while ignoring Jeff.
Jeff had an idea. He was about to solve two, maybe three, birds with one stone.
“I have an idea,” Jeff said. He walked past Evan toward the kitchen. As he came adjacent to Evan in the hallway, he gave a quick half spin and clocked Evan behind the ear with the handle of his P89.
Jeff expected Evan to slump down in a pile, like in the movies, but Evan was barely stunned, and probably more by the sudden action than the impact. It was a composite gun, with a steel barrel and slide, but cheap plastic handle grips, a less than ideal weapon for creating blunt force trauma.
“Cocksucker,” Evan hissed, bringing his little .38 around. Jeff quickly struck again and again, four or five times in quick succession, finally turning the gun to get the heavier steel slide into play, at last subduing Evan.
From first strike to last, less than ten seconds expired, but Jeff felt like he’d run a marathon. He was huffing worse than the dog, who was crashing against the door with renewed fury upon hearing the scuffle, and his heart was beating madly. Jeff slumped down next Evan, leaning his back against the wall. He was warm now, he thought. Sweat was pouring down his face, and he could feel dampness against his shirt.
After ten or fifteen minutes, Jeff felt better. He felt good, he realized, euphoric, even. He reached over and felt for Evan’s pulse. The man was still breathing, in good shape. The skull was intact. There was probably little damage beyond a mild concussion. Even now, Evan was already coming awake.
Jeff pushed himself to a standing position and pulled off Evan’s belt, using it to tie his hands behind his back. The tugging and pulling finished bringing Evan back.
“Cocksucker,” Evan hissed again, groggily. “I’m gonna kill you.”
“We’ll see,” Jeff merely replied, double checking the belt, making sure it was tight. He pocketed Evan’s .38 and went to the kitchen.
Jeff opened the refrigerator. It was empty except for some condiments, an egg carton, and half a pack of bacon. Jeff frowned. He was hoping to find some marinade for his plan, but there was nothing remotely useful. He opened the pantry. Nothing but a couple of half eaten boxes of generic cereal and some dried dog food. Jeff opened cabinet after cabinet with mounting frustration, but he didn’t find what he was looking for.
“God, this sucks,” Jeff said, his Timberland work boots crunching down on marble-sized hunks of ice left over from an inadequate attempt to plow the street. The sound sent chills down his spine.
“It’s all about layers,” replied Evan, his companion, dressed up like an Eskimo, anorak and all.
Jeff thought his partner looked ridiculous, with that stupid looking fur-lined hood, and said as much.
“At least I’m not cold,” Evan replied.
Jeff had to admit his partner had a point, but where did one draw the line? At some point, common sense and vanity had to rear their head. What good would it do to be warm, if one looked like a fool? Maybe if they were in Alaska or a Siberian gulag or something, but in the middle of Ohio? Jeff would freeze before he walked around looking like Evan.
“And the emperor loved his new clothes.”
Evan said nothing, but kept walking. Streetlights cast hard circles of light every twenty-five meters; the ice and snow of chest-high banks, thrown up by passing plows over the last month, reflected the light, illuminated the street as bright as a nighttime baseball game.
“No one’s around to see, anyway. Christ, it’s two a.m.,” Evan finally said, his breath billowing in a cloud of frozen vapor beyond his fur-lined hood.
“I’m around,” Jeff said, shivering, trying not to slip on the icy surface. “Have some pride, man.”
“This is it,” Evan said, pointing off to one side. He left the pavement and scurried up the snow bank, stumbling briefly, putting down a gloved hand to catch his balance. In a flash, he reached the top, and disappeared down the other side.
Jeff started up the bank. The plow tailings were rock hard, thawing slightly during the day and refreezing at night. Jeff cursed as the solid soles of his boots failed to gain any traction. He fell to his knees three times during the ascent, tearing his cotton chinos and probably scraping away a layer of skin.
Evan was waiting for him, not even out of breath, by the time Jeff made it down the other side, huffing and puffing like the big bad wolf.
“Not cold now, I’ll bet,” Evan said. Jeff was sure he was laughing at him. When this was over, if Evan didn’t bite the bullet, Jeff promised he would teach the man a lesson. Dressing like a damn Eskimo, Jeff thought. He would teach Evan. He wasn’t sure how, but he would find a way.
Jeff looked around, getting a feel for the surroundings. One never knew when things would go to pot, where situational awareness might mean the difference between life and death.
Twenty meters in front of him was a small ranch house. Not the home on the range kind of ranch house, but the kind found in every middle and working class suburb around the country. It could have been nice, or trashy, depending on how well the owners maintained it, information hidden beneath a thick layer of icy snow. Based on the neighborhood, and their own mission, Jeff would have bet his last cent the place was run down and dirty. His eyes rested on a garage door and the driveway leading to it, showing signs of a plowing since the last snow.
Jeff cursed Evan long and hard, but not too loudly, lest any occupants become alerted to their presence. Fifteen feet from where he labored over the icy berm was a neatly plowed opening where the driveway met the road. If not for Evan, he could have waltzed into the yard as easy as could be. Jeff swore to get even. He would see that smug smirk wiped from Evan’s face. Sometime soon, perhaps.
Sensing Jeff’s discomfit, Evan said in a low voice, “Problem?”
“Yeah, asshole,” Jeff said between breaths, pointing at the plowed area. Evan’s face was just a shadow in his hood, but Jeff knew his partner had to be laughing at him. Jeff hated it when he had to work with assholes. This was his second job with Evan, and if he had his way, it would be the last.
Evan just shrugged, turning around and walking effortlessly over crusted snow toward the door. Jeff was bigger than Evan, and broke through the first inch of icy crust, sinking halfway to his knee with every laborious step. Bits of ice and snow wedged between his chinos and the top of his boots, melting against skin, the cold burning his flesh.
Finally, Jeff made it to the small covered porch. Snow had drifted onto the concrete slab, but up next to the wall, by the door, it was bare.
Evan put his ear to the door, listening. All appeared to be quiet, with no one awake. More importantly, there were no dogs. He bent down over the door knob. Evan was the lock man. Within a minute, the lock yielded to his machinations. Evan carefully eased open the door.
Jeff heard a strange huffing sound, like someone with emphysema was trying to clear their throat. Something crashed, like someone getting thrown against a wall. At the collision, the flimsy drywall shook throughout the house. The two intruders jumped in surprise.
All pretense of stealth gone, Jeff dragged iron, a cheap Ruger P-89, and quickly made his way through the house. Presumably, Evan was behind him with his own piece drawn, backing him up. Jeff didn’t have time to check. He needed to clear and control the house before any occupants were fully awake.
The entryway yielded to a kitchen to the left, beyond which was a living room. Jeff took a quick look, everything happening fast. Nothing. To the right was a hallway with three closed doors. Jeff went right. Behind the first door was a bedroom, unkempt with scattered clothing and an unmade bed, empty of any occupants. Behind the second door was more of the same.
The huffing and wheezing continued, punctuated by occasional crashes, sounding incredibly loud in the quiet house. Whatever was making the sound was behind the third door. Unless he missed someone sleeping on the floor behind a couch or something in the living room, not unheard of in a drug house, Jeff knew whatever occupants existed had to be behind door number three.
Jeff reached for the doorknob. Something heavy crashed into the door. It was a cheap hollow laminate model, and it bulged out in the middle, force stressing the hinges and latch.
“It’s a fucking dog,” Jeff said, startled, stumbling back. “It’s had one of those throat operations. Big ol’ pit or canaris.”
“Dangerous,” Evan said, by way of agreement. Jeff noticed for the first time that indeed, Evan was backing him up, a cheap Saturday night special .38 in his hand. “And I think it’s Canary.”
“Whatever. The stash has to be in that room, and no one is home. Probably gone for the night.”
“Or out partying all night.”
“The point is they’ll be gone for a while,” Jeff said, getting frustrated. F’ing Evan, he thought.
“Let’s just shoot the dog,” Evan said.
“And risk waking up the neighbors?”
“They won’t hear.”
“They might. And those dogs are fast. You want to be the one to open the door and try to get a shot in before it’s all over you? You can shoot them three or four times and they’ll still manage to rip your throat out.”
“What, then?” Evan asked, waiting. His hood was back. Jeff could see Evan’s little mousy features, like some type of ferret or rat. Jeff didn’t understand why Evan always seemed to get the women. They’d only gone out to the bars together a couple of times, but for some reason the women always gravitated toward the man, while ignoring Jeff.
Jeff had an idea. He was about to solve two, maybe three, birds with one stone.
“I have an idea,” Jeff said. He walked past Evan toward the kitchen. As he came adjacent to Evan in the hallway, he gave a quick half spin and clocked Evan behind the ear with the handle of his P89.
Jeff expected Evan to slump down in a pile, like in the movies, but Evan was barely stunned, and probably more by the sudden action than the impact. It was a composite gun, with a steel barrel and slide, but cheap plastic handle grips, a less than ideal weapon for creating blunt force trauma.
“Cocksucker,” Evan hissed, bringing his little .38 around. Jeff quickly struck again and again, four or five times in quick succession, finally turning the gun to get the heavier steel slide into play, at last subduing Evan.
From first strike to last, less than ten seconds expired, but Jeff felt like he’d run a marathon. He was huffing worse than the dog, who was crashing against the door with renewed fury upon hearing the scuffle, and his heart was beating madly. Jeff slumped down next Evan, leaning his back against the wall. He was warm now, he thought. Sweat was pouring down his face, and he could feel dampness against his shirt.
After ten or fifteen minutes, Jeff felt better. He felt good, he realized, euphoric, even. He reached over and felt for Evan’s pulse. The man was still breathing, in good shape. The skull was intact. There was probably little damage beyond a mild concussion. Even now, Evan was already coming awake.
Jeff pushed himself to a standing position and pulled off Evan’s belt, using it to tie his hands behind his back. The tugging and pulling finished bringing Evan back.
“Cocksucker,” Evan hissed again, groggily. “I’m gonna kill you.”
“We’ll see,” Jeff merely replied, double checking the belt, making sure it was tight. He pocketed Evan’s .38 and went to the kitchen.
Jeff opened the refrigerator. It was empty except for some condiments, an egg carton, and half a pack of bacon. Jeff frowned. He was hoping to find some marinade for his plan, but there was nothing remotely useful. He opened the pantry. Nothing but a couple of half eaten boxes of generic cereal and some dried dog food. Jeff opened cabinet after cabinet with mounting frustration, but he didn’t find what he was looking for.
He leaned against the counter, thinking. On the stove was a cast iron pan with some sort of greasy residue in the bottom. Jeff smiled, a plan forming. An even better plan than his original, he thought.
Firing up the gas burner, Jeff took the bacon out of the refrigerator and began frying it. The smell made Jeff hungry, but there was no telling how long the bacon had been sitting in the fridge, and the pan was dirty, besides. He could wait.
After frying up the remaining bacon, Jeff noticed with satisfaction there was at least a cup of superheated bacon grease in the pan.
Using an old hand towel as a pot holder, Jeff carried the pan, rancid smoke roiling from the bacon grease, into the hall.
Evan was half sitting, half slumped against the wall and floor.
“You’re dead,” Evan hissed, looking at Jeff through hate-filled eyes.
“We’re all dead. Some just sooner than later,” Jeff replied, almost cheerily. He was feeling good, now that he was in the process of teaching Evan a lesson. Hmm, he mused, that would be a good nickname for himself, “The Teacher.” He liked that.
“You hear me!” Evan yelled, seeing that his first threat had missed its mark. “I’m gonna to cut you up piece by piece!”
Jeff said nothing. He poured the hot bacon grease on Evan’s face and neck, trying to get it to flow down between skin and sweater at the neckline. Evan yelled and tried to move his head out of the way. Jeff adjusted his aim, keeping the stream of superheated liquid on target.
Bubbly blisters formed almost instantaneously.
The dog was throwing itself against the door again, a solid mass of muscle and fury, making its odd huffing sound. Jeff hoped the door held.
“You look like you’ve had a run in with some bees. Or, well, maybe some hot grease,” Jeff taunted.
“I’m coming for you, cocksucker. No matter how long or how far you go, I’ll be somewhere behind you. Hunting.”
Jeff smiled a hard smile. “Let this teach you a lesson about making fun of my jacket. You and your stupid hood.”
Jeff reached down and took the fur lining of the anorak hood and used it wipe the blackened greasy residue from the bottom of the pan.
Jeff studied the window opposite the doorway to the dog’s bedroom. The frame appeared to be high enough for his plan. This was the hard part, but Jeff thought he could do it. His whole plan, and maybe his life, depended on it.
Bracing himself between the opposing walls, his hands on the bedroom side and his feet opposite, Jeff walked himself up, until his feet rested on the bottom of the window frame, a little over halfway up the wall. The dog could probably jump that high and grab a foot, Jeff thought, but he hoped the dog would be distracted.
Supporting his weight with his left hand next to the door frame, Jeff reached down with his right and turned the door knob. The door opened inward, which was probably why it had held against the dog’s vicious thrusts, but which made it difficult for Jeff to open in his awkward state, especially with the muscular animal’s continue efforts to burst through.
Jeff finally managed to get the door to swing open between one of the dog’s leaps, by pushing close to the hinges.
The dog leapt out of the room in a blur of brown and black. Brindle, Jeff thought in the millisecond before he saw the dog’s size, his heart catching in his throat, almost making him fall, a sure death. The dog would be on him way before he could get the gun from its holster.
The dog was huge! He had expected a smallish pit bull, but this thing seemed the size of a small horse, all muscle and sinew and rage. It would easily have been able to jump up and wrestle Jeff down from his perch. Luckily, just as Jeff had planned, the dog’s eye fell on Evan, laying helplessly on the floor, bound with the belt and covered in bacon grease.
Evan screamed a guttural, primitive shriek of fear and pain as the dog fell on him. Jeff saw the dog clamp down on fur lining and human neck in its huge, square jaws, and shake his head like a giant rat terrier worrying an oversized rat.
Jeff tore his eyes from Evan and half fell, half jumped into the room, awkwardly closing the door behind him, hurriedly making sure it was latched, sitting against it in breathless relief, listening to the dog’s huff and Evan’s screams.
After a few seconds, Jeff caught his breath, and Evan went silent. Jeff could hear the sound of rending meat and imagined the dog literally tearing his ex-partner from limb to limb, like a beast in a horror movie.
Jeff stood and took stock of his surroundings. Enough light filtered in from a window on the opposite wall to illuminate the room. There was an old couch against one wall, an old style boom box or radio on an end table, and in the center of the room, a round wooden table with three metal folding chairs arranged haphazardly around it. On the table was a small kitchen scale, a couple of boxes of Ziploc sandwich bags, and a larger, one gallon Ziplock filled with a crystalline material.
Jeff was ecstatic. There it was, just as they said it would be. Ice. Crystal meth. And without Evan, one less person to cut in. His boss wouldn’t like losing Evan, but shit happened in this business. Jeff would make up something good to explain the loss. His boss would understand. Next time he would be assigned a new partner, one who knew to keep his mouth shut and stay on plowed surfaces and not wear stupid coats.
There didn’t appear to be any more drugs or money in the room, but working quickly and quietly, so as not to attract the attention of the dog, Jeff searched it anyway, lifting cushions, checking in the small closet, opening the drawer to the end table. Nothing.
Jeff picked up the bag of ice and distributed it into four of the smaller Ziplocs, making sure not to drop a single crystal. At a street price of nearly a hundred bucks a gram, each rock could pay for a nice dinner at Pizza Hut, with enough left over for a bottle of booze. These rocks were huge, nearly the size of kidney beans. A sign of quality, not some backroom tweaker cook. Jeff put the now more manageable Ziplocs into the side pockets of his coat.
It was silent in the hall. The gnashing sounds had stopped. Jeff paused to listen, but heard nothing. He glanced at the window. That was his way out. Thankfully the neighborhood was nice enough that residents had not taken to putting bars on the windows. Yet.
The window was a side open model. Jeff flipped the lock and tried to push it open. It was jammed, maybe from the layer of ice coating the exterior, or maybe from lack of use. Maybe it was even painted shut. Jeff didn’t know, and didn’t really care. All he knew was he couldn’t get it open. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead. He paused, trying to think. Worst case scenario, he could break it out.
A huffing sound in the hallway, followed by a meaty thud against the door, nearly caused Jeff to trip over himself. He had to hurry. The door opened inward. This time only the cheap door latch prevented it from flying open. Jeff didn’t think it would hold long. Luckily, the hallway prevented the dog from getting much momentum, reducing the force it could bring to bear.
Jeff had hoped the dog would be sated by Evan, but apparently this wasn’t the case. He picked up a chair and threw it at the window, breaking it. Most of the glass fell away, leaving jagged pieces around the edges.
The noise had an enraging effect on the dog and it renewed its efforts, cracking the door before Jeff had a chance to clean off the jagged glass edges of the window. There was no time now, Jeff knew. In seconds the dog would be through. He moved a chair under the window. He climbed up and broke off a couple of the biggest pieces of glass hanging from the window frame with his elbow.
In an explosion of splinters, the dog burst through the door, its muzzle covered in foamy blood, a shiny gray in the dim room. Its huge mouth was open wide, a gaping maw three quarters the size of its blocky head, big enough to hold a large cantaloupe.
Panicked, Jeff jumped through the window, praying the dog wouldn’t follow. His calf caught on one of the points of glass, cutting deep, but Jeff barely felt it. He fell face first into a drift of snow, breaking through the outer crust. He floundered for a second, then popped up, running across the yard, his boots breaking through the exterior crust, sinking nearly to his knees with every step. For some reason the snow was deeper in the back yard than the front, but Jeff didn’t notice, he just wanted to get away from the beast.
Jeff paused for a second and looked over his shoulder. He had made it about fifteen meters. The dog’s head was sticking through the window, its lips and jaws were slapping against each other, but instead of a bark, it emitted only a suppressed huffing sound, and was all the scarier because of it. For now, though, the dog wasn’t following.
Jeff trekked on, he was home free now. All he had to do was make it back to the car. He felt dizzy and stopped to catch his breath. Looking behind him, Jeff saw black splotches against the white snow. He looked down. His leg was soaked with blood. What if the glass had hit an artery? Jeff knew that could be bad. He felt fine, though, just a little lightheaded. He would stop to rest. Just for a minute. He deserved it, for a job well done. Jeff plopped down, sinking into the snow with a crunch. That was better. He closed his eyes. Just for a minute. He wasn’t even cold.
Firing up the gas burner, Jeff took the bacon out of the refrigerator and began frying it. The smell made Jeff hungry, but there was no telling how long the bacon had been sitting in the fridge, and the pan was dirty, besides. He could wait.
After frying up the remaining bacon, Jeff noticed with satisfaction there was at least a cup of superheated bacon grease in the pan.
Using an old hand towel as a pot holder, Jeff carried the pan, rancid smoke roiling from the bacon grease, into the hall.
Evan was half sitting, half slumped against the wall and floor.
“You’re dead,” Evan hissed, looking at Jeff through hate-filled eyes.
“We’re all dead. Some just sooner than later,” Jeff replied, almost cheerily. He was feeling good, now that he was in the process of teaching Evan a lesson. Hmm, he mused, that would be a good nickname for himself, “The Teacher.” He liked that.
“You hear me!” Evan yelled, seeing that his first threat had missed its mark. “I’m gonna to cut you up piece by piece!”
Jeff said nothing. He poured the hot bacon grease on Evan’s face and neck, trying to get it to flow down between skin and sweater at the neckline. Evan yelled and tried to move his head out of the way. Jeff adjusted his aim, keeping the stream of superheated liquid on target.
Bubbly blisters formed almost instantaneously.
The dog was throwing itself against the door again, a solid mass of muscle and fury, making its odd huffing sound. Jeff hoped the door held.
“You look like you’ve had a run in with some bees. Or, well, maybe some hot grease,” Jeff taunted.
“I’m coming for you, cocksucker. No matter how long or how far you go, I’ll be somewhere behind you. Hunting.”
Jeff smiled a hard smile. “Let this teach you a lesson about making fun of my jacket. You and your stupid hood.”
Jeff reached down and took the fur lining of the anorak hood and used it wipe the blackened greasy residue from the bottom of the pan.
Jeff studied the window opposite the doorway to the dog’s bedroom. The frame appeared to be high enough for his plan. This was the hard part, but Jeff thought he could do it. His whole plan, and maybe his life, depended on it.
Bracing himself between the opposing walls, his hands on the bedroom side and his feet opposite, Jeff walked himself up, until his feet rested on the bottom of the window frame, a little over halfway up the wall. The dog could probably jump that high and grab a foot, Jeff thought, but he hoped the dog would be distracted.
Supporting his weight with his left hand next to the door frame, Jeff reached down with his right and turned the door knob. The door opened inward, which was probably why it had held against the dog’s vicious thrusts, but which made it difficult for Jeff to open in his awkward state, especially with the muscular animal’s continue efforts to burst through.
Jeff finally managed to get the door to swing open between one of the dog’s leaps, by pushing close to the hinges.
The dog leapt out of the room in a blur of brown and black. Brindle, Jeff thought in the millisecond before he saw the dog’s size, his heart catching in his throat, almost making him fall, a sure death. The dog would be on him way before he could get the gun from its holster.
The dog was huge! He had expected a smallish pit bull, but this thing seemed the size of a small horse, all muscle and sinew and rage. It would easily have been able to jump up and wrestle Jeff down from his perch. Luckily, just as Jeff had planned, the dog’s eye fell on Evan, laying helplessly on the floor, bound with the belt and covered in bacon grease.
Evan screamed a guttural, primitive shriek of fear and pain as the dog fell on him. Jeff saw the dog clamp down on fur lining and human neck in its huge, square jaws, and shake his head like a giant rat terrier worrying an oversized rat.
Jeff tore his eyes from Evan and half fell, half jumped into the room, awkwardly closing the door behind him, hurriedly making sure it was latched, sitting against it in breathless relief, listening to the dog’s huff and Evan’s screams.
After a few seconds, Jeff caught his breath, and Evan went silent. Jeff could hear the sound of rending meat and imagined the dog literally tearing his ex-partner from limb to limb, like a beast in a horror movie.
Jeff stood and took stock of his surroundings. Enough light filtered in from a window on the opposite wall to illuminate the room. There was an old couch against one wall, an old style boom box or radio on an end table, and in the center of the room, a round wooden table with three metal folding chairs arranged haphazardly around it. On the table was a small kitchen scale, a couple of boxes of Ziploc sandwich bags, and a larger, one gallon Ziplock filled with a crystalline material.
Jeff was ecstatic. There it was, just as they said it would be. Ice. Crystal meth. And without Evan, one less person to cut in. His boss wouldn’t like losing Evan, but shit happened in this business. Jeff would make up something good to explain the loss. His boss would understand. Next time he would be assigned a new partner, one who knew to keep his mouth shut and stay on plowed surfaces and not wear stupid coats.
There didn’t appear to be any more drugs or money in the room, but working quickly and quietly, so as not to attract the attention of the dog, Jeff searched it anyway, lifting cushions, checking in the small closet, opening the drawer to the end table. Nothing.
Jeff picked up the bag of ice and distributed it into four of the smaller Ziplocs, making sure not to drop a single crystal. At a street price of nearly a hundred bucks a gram, each rock could pay for a nice dinner at Pizza Hut, with enough left over for a bottle of booze. These rocks were huge, nearly the size of kidney beans. A sign of quality, not some backroom tweaker cook. Jeff put the now more manageable Ziplocs into the side pockets of his coat.
It was silent in the hall. The gnashing sounds had stopped. Jeff paused to listen, but heard nothing. He glanced at the window. That was his way out. Thankfully the neighborhood was nice enough that residents had not taken to putting bars on the windows. Yet.
The window was a side open model. Jeff flipped the lock and tried to push it open. It was jammed, maybe from the layer of ice coating the exterior, or maybe from lack of use. Maybe it was even painted shut. Jeff didn’t know, and didn’t really care. All he knew was he couldn’t get it open. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead. He paused, trying to think. Worst case scenario, he could break it out.
A huffing sound in the hallway, followed by a meaty thud against the door, nearly caused Jeff to trip over himself. He had to hurry. The door opened inward. This time only the cheap door latch prevented it from flying open. Jeff didn’t think it would hold long. Luckily, the hallway prevented the dog from getting much momentum, reducing the force it could bring to bear.
Jeff had hoped the dog would be sated by Evan, but apparently this wasn’t the case. He picked up a chair and threw it at the window, breaking it. Most of the glass fell away, leaving jagged pieces around the edges.
The noise had an enraging effect on the dog and it renewed its efforts, cracking the door before Jeff had a chance to clean off the jagged glass edges of the window. There was no time now, Jeff knew. In seconds the dog would be through. He moved a chair under the window. He climbed up and broke off a couple of the biggest pieces of glass hanging from the window frame with his elbow.
In an explosion of splinters, the dog burst through the door, its muzzle covered in foamy blood, a shiny gray in the dim room. Its huge mouth was open wide, a gaping maw three quarters the size of its blocky head, big enough to hold a large cantaloupe.
Panicked, Jeff jumped through the window, praying the dog wouldn’t follow. His calf caught on one of the points of glass, cutting deep, but Jeff barely felt it. He fell face first into a drift of snow, breaking through the outer crust. He floundered for a second, then popped up, running across the yard, his boots breaking through the exterior crust, sinking nearly to his knees with every step. For some reason the snow was deeper in the back yard than the front, but Jeff didn’t notice, he just wanted to get away from the beast.
Jeff paused for a second and looked over his shoulder. He had made it about fifteen meters. The dog’s head was sticking through the window, its lips and jaws were slapping against each other, but instead of a bark, it emitted only a suppressed huffing sound, and was all the scarier because of it. For now, though, the dog wasn’t following.
Jeff trekked on, he was home free now. All he had to do was make it back to the car. He felt dizzy and stopped to catch his breath. Looking behind him, Jeff saw black splotches against the white snow. He looked down. His leg was soaked with blood. What if the glass had hit an artery? Jeff knew that could be bad. He felt fine, though, just a little lightheaded. He would stop to rest. Just for a minute. He deserved it, for a job well done. Jeff plopped down, sinking into the snow with a crunch. That was better. He closed his eyes. Just for a minute. He wasn’t even cold.
