Chapter 5
Iwas tired after working at the bakery all day, and my stomach was rumbling. But before I could sit down and eat, I had chores to do. Carla had filled the chicken feeder up before she left, but now it was almost empty.
There was a bucket next to the chicken run. I pulled the lid off to find it was full of grain, with a scoop for dishing it out. I scooped some up, and when I turned to the run, three large birds were lined up against the wire, staring at me with their beady black eyes.
“Eeep!” I flinched backward. “You birds don’t bite, do you?”
Carla had written down every detail about feeding them, but hadn’t said whether they were dangerous. The only birds I had any experience with were the pigeons that swooped down on dropped crumbs at the park. Compared to them, the chickens were giants. Practically dinosaur sized.
“Back up. Don’t stand so close to the door.” I approached nervously. The feeder was a little way inside, which meant that for me to pour the corn into it, I’d need to expose my tender flesh to their sharp-looking beaks.
Nope. Not going to happen.
“Here’s your dinner,” I said to the danger birds, pouring the grain through the wire onto the ground. They started gobbling it up right away, not seeming to care that I hadn’t put it into their feeder.
“Job done.” I dropped the scoop back into the bucket of grain. “That wasn’t so hard. If I feed you more often, it won’t matter if I don’t fill your feeder. You’ll have full stomachs just the same.”
But my moment of self-congratulation was over quickly, because when I went back inside, the house reeked of smoke. Rushing to the oven, I yanked it open and groaned. The frozen pizza that was supposed to be my dinner was black and smoking.
Cursing, I grabbed a dishcloth to yank it out of the oven and dumped the charred mess onto the counter. As I waved the dishcloth over it to waft the smoke away, I wanted to howl.
The oven had bamboozled me. The only options on the dial were incomprehensible pictures. Why couldn’t it have a simple on-off switch?
At least I’d managed to get music playing out of Carla’s stereo. I picked the least-burned bits off the top of the pizza, put them on a plate, and plonked myself onto the couch to eat them. My feet were sore. I was used to standing all day, but the bakery was several times busier than the fashion boutique had ever been, even on sale days.
My phone rang.
When I glanced at it, my stomach twisted. The screen said Scary Drug Dealer.
Spike was calling. Again.
I let the call ring out, then tried Eric’s number. It rang for ages, then clicked to voicemail when he didn’t answer, so I left him a message.
“Eric, it’s me.” Though I wanted to yell and curse, I kept my tone calm. “Call me back right away, okay? Spike’s still calling me, and you promised you’d speak to him. I’m afraid of the guy, Eric. You can’t leave me to deal with him alone. Please call as soon as you get this message.”
I hung up with a frustrated huff of breath, wishing I’d thought to buy a bottle of wine. All I had was water, burned pizza toppings, and singed cheese. None of those things tasted good.
After finishing my unappetizing dinner, I dumped the rest of the pizza into the trash and took myself off to bed. The cat was already there, curled on top of the covers, presumably waiting for me. He’d had his dinner, and if last night was any indication, he wouldn’t move again until it was time for breakfast.
I brushed my teeth, put on pajamas, and climbed into bed next to Freud, deciding to call a friend from home, then watch Project Runway on my phone until I fell asleep. After a long day, it wouldn’t take long to nod off.
But after chatting to my friend, I’d barely hung up when my phone rang again. Scary Drug Dealer flashed on the screen and my stomach took another dive. This was getting ridiculous. Spike was relentless.
Acting on impulse, I snatched my phone up and answered his call.
“Hello, Spike,” I said in as cool a tone as I could muster.
“Where’s my money?” Spike snarled the question, kicking my heart rate up.
“You mean the money that Eric owes you? You should check with him seeing as he’s the one who borrowed it in the first place.”
“Eric left the country. You’re here. I’m asking you.”
“Actually, I’ve had to leave town for a few weeks. Eric’s going to get back into the city before I will, so if you?—”
“I don’t care where you are. You’ll give me my money.”
My mouth went dry. At the same time, I realized I was sweating. Fear was somehow expelling all the moisture from my body through my skin.
It took an effort to swallow. “Eric will pay you as soon as he gets home,” I croaked. “He’s the one who owes you the money, not me.”
“If I don’t get my money, shit’s going to get messy. That’ll be bad for you. Consider this a warning.”
He hung up.
I whooshed out my breath, then wiped my damp face on the bed sheet and took a sip of water.
“That was intense,” I muttered.
Without much hope he’d pick up, I called Eric’s phone again. Sure enough, I had to leave another message.
Needing the reassurance, I put my arm around Freud and cuddled into his small body. “Don’t worry,” I murmured. “We’ll be okay. Eric will come through for us. He has to.”
The cat didn’t say anything.
“You don’t believe me?” I asked. Then I sighed. “That’s smart. I’m not sure I believe me, either.”
Switching my light off, I lay in the dark. It wasn’t silent anymore, but there weren’t any of the sounds I was used to hearing. There were no sirens. There were no voices, car engines, or thumps of distant music. Instead there were chirps and croaks, and a creepy chatter like a thousand tiny insects all talking at once.
A loud screech made me jump. What the hell was that? An owl?
Freud was curled in a ball with his head tucked in, and I tried to cuddle closer. He was warm, but still. Sound asleep, despite all the unsettling noises coming from outside.
“Don’t you hear those sounds, Freud?” I asked. “Want to tell me what they are?”
It’d be a lot more comforting having him with me if he wasn’t practically an inanimate object.
A loud scraping sound came from the outside porch.
Heart jumping, I flicked on the light switch.
Could it be Spike outside? No, there was no way. He had no idea where I was.
Did he?
Another noise came from the wooden porch, like someone scraping the edge of their shoe over the boards.
I grabbed my phone off the nightstand and keyed in 911. But I wasn’t sure whether to hit the green button. Before I connected the call, I needed to be sure what was out there, whether it really was a person creeping around, or a false alarm.
In horror movies, the first scary noises always turned out to be tree branches scratching on a windowpane. It was only after the victim relaxed that the serial killer came leaping out.
Clutching the phone, I jumped out of bed, edged out of the bedroom, then crept down the dark hallway. Scratching sounds came from the front door. Definitely not tree branches. It sounded like fingernails on wood, as though someone was taunting me.
“The cops are on their way!” I yelled at the top of my lungs. “You’ll hear the sirens any minute!”
The scratching sound stopped. Then it started again, getting louder and a lot faster, as though whoever was out there was giving it his all, in a weird, only-using-his-fingernails way.
I searched frantically around for a weapon. The hallway was bare, apart from a coatrack and a couple of jackets. Maybe I could hit him with an umbrella? Ugh, no! I wasn’t thinking straight.
Scratch, scratch, scratch.
Dashing into the kitchen, I fumbled the biggest knife out of the drawer then crept back down the dark hallway. With one hand, I brandished the knife in front of me. With the other, I clutched my phone. The light shone from my bedroom, casting creepy shadows. My chest was so tight, my heart could hardly beat.
“I have a rifle pointed at you, and my finger is on the trigger.” My voice was loud, but a little too shrill, betraying my fear.
Scratch, scratch, scratch, scratch, scratch.
I lifted the knife. My hand was shaking, but maybe I could scare away whoever was out there.
With the knife held high, I flung the door open.
A dog stood frozen, staring at me with frightened eyes. It was tall, but skinny, and a patchy shade of brown. Its tail was between its legs, and it looked like it was about to bound away.
I lowered the knife.
“Well, hello.” I let out a nervous bray of laughter, suddenly feeling in urgent need of a chair. “What are you doing here, besides giving me heart failure and almost getting yourself turned into a dog meat skewer?”
The dog backed up, its tail even lower, as though it found the high, trembling tone of my voice disturbing.
Well, me too, Dog. Me too.
“Okay.” I pulled myself together. “You’d better come in. I don’t want to keep standing here with the door wide open.”
I went into the kitchen, opened a tin of cat food, and dumped it into a bowl. By the time I was done, the dog was standing next to me in the kitchen, gazing up at the bowl with hopeful eyes. It was a big dog, as tall as a full-grown Labrador, but a lot skinnier. Close up, I could see it was dirty. Some of its darker brown patches looked like dried mud, and the smell of damp dog hair was strong.
I put the bowl down and watched the dog gobble up the food for a moment, then went to shut and lock the front door. By the time I came back into the kitchen, the dog was licking the bowl clean. Though I knew nothing about dogs, judging from my view of what was between its hind legs, my late-night visitor had to be male.
“Don’t make yourself sick,” I told him, dumping another tin of Freud’s cat food into the bowl. “That’s all you’re getting for now, so slow down.”
The dog didn’t listen to me. He gulped that tin as fast as the first one, then looked up at me hopefully, his tail punctuating the look with a slow wag.
“Nope,” I told him. “No more food. And you stink. I’ll try to clean you up, then I’m going back to bed. You can have some breakfast in the morning, before we look for your owner.”
When I padded into the bathroom, the dog followed me. I wiped as much dirt off as I could with a wet washcloth, then rubbed him down with a towel. Finally, I padded back into the bedroom, the dog at my heels. Freud stayed curled up, but lifted his head to stare at the intruder with an impressive level of disdain.
“Mr. Cat, meet Mr. Dog,” I said. “Don’t worry, it’s only for tonight. The dog will be leaving in the morning.”
Come to think of it, I needed a photo of the dog to post online. Grabbing my phone, I lowered myself to his eye level. “Say cheese!” The dog’s tongue lolled out as I snapped his picture.
After searching online for the local lost-and-found pets page, I posted the dog’s photo with my contact details. Once that was done, I spread a towel on the floor. “You can sleep on that,” I told the dog, clambering back into bed next to Freud.
The words were barely out of my mouth before the dog jumped onto the bed, landing squarely on my legs.
“Hey! Get down!”
The dog sniffed Freud, who lifted a paw in warning. Wisely, the dog retreated to my other side. He collapsed beside me on the bed with a sigh so loud it was comical. It was the kind of sigh you’d make after a very long and trying night, once you’d finally clambered into bed and were looking forward to getting some sleep.
Now I was sandwiched between the two animals. Strangely enough, it was comforting. Neither of them seemed bothered by the strange croaks, chirps, and chattering sounds coming from outside. And if anybody tried to break in, the dog would probably bark, right? Maybe even attack?
I tried hard to convince myself the dog would protect me, and I had nothing to fear. But sleep was still a long time coming.