"You were lookin' for the little brown brother, man. Maybe you found him."

"I didn't."

"Maybe you did, man." Stepping forward. Just a few feet away, now. Lots of missing teeth. Mustache clogged with dandruff. An angry pus pimple had erupted under his left eye. The tattoos were badly done, a green-blue riot of female torsos, bloody blades, and Gothic lettering.

I said, "I already got a letter from Wallace's lawyer-"

"Fuck that." He came within swinging range, smelling like the bottom of a clothes hamper that needed emptying.

I backed up. Not much room to maneuver. Behind me was shrubbery- hedges and the maple tree whose branch had been used to skewer the koi.

"You're not helping Donald Dell," I said. "This won't look good for him."

"Who gives a fuck, man? You're off the case."

He swung the iron listlessly, pointing downward and hitting the dirt. Looking at the pond just for a second, then back at me. I searched the area for possible weapons.

Slim pickings: oversized polyethylene bags left behind by the pond crew. Lengths of rubber hosing. A couple of sheets of scummy filter screen. Maybe the koi net. Six feet of stout oak handle below a steel-mesh cup- but it was out of reach.

"Since when?" I said.

"What?"

"Since when am I off the case?"

"Since we said so, man."

"The Iron Priests?"

"Where're the kids, man?"

"I told you. I don't know."

He shook his head and advanced. "Don't get hurt over it, man. It's just a job, what the fuck."

"You like fish?" I said.

"Huh?"

"Fish. Finny creatures. Seafood. Piscinoids."

"Hey, ma-"

"You like to sneak around, spearing 'em? Breaking branches off trees and doing the old rotisserie bit?"

"What?"

"You've been here before, haven't you? Sportfishing carp, you sick fuck."

Confusion tugged at his face, zipping it up into something peevish and tight and offering a hint of what he'd look like on the off-chance he made it to old age. Then anger took its place- a brattish resentment- and he lifted the iron and took a poke at my middle.

I danced away.

"Hey," he said, annoyed. He jabbed again, missed. Sloshed, but not enough to stagger, and there was force in his movements. "Here, chickie chick." He laughed.

I kept moving away from his blows, managed to get up on the rock rim of the pond. The stones were slick with algae and I used my arms for balance. That made him laugh some more. He shouted, came after me, clumsy and slow. Caught up in the game as if it were what he'd come for.

He began making barnyard clucks.

I split my focus between the iron and his eyes. Readying myself for the chance to use surprise and his own weight against him. If I missed, my hand would get shattered.

"Boom, boom, boom," he said. "Chickie-chick."

"C'mon, stupid," I said.

His face puffed up and reddened. Two-handing the iron, he made a sudden swing for my knees.

I jumped back, stumbled, pitched forward onto the pond rim, breaking my fall with my palms.

The iron landed on rock and clanged. He raised it high over his head.

The next sounds came from behind him.

Deep bark.

Angry snorts.

He wheeled toward them, holding the iron in front of his own chest in instinctive defense. Just in time to see the bulldog racing toward him, a little black bullet, its teeth bared in a pearly grimace.

Just in time for me to spring to my feet and throw my arms around his front.

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.

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."

17

"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 chokehold 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.

"Good boy," I said to the dog.

"Seeing as he's saved your kneecaps, Alex, don't you think he deserves a real name? My vote's still for Rover."

"When I was trying to intimidate Keffler, I called him Spike."

"Very manly."

"Only problem is," I said, "he's already got a name- someone's bound to come get him. What a drag. I'm getting kind of attached to him."