Sarah didn't ask what was wrong until they were on their way to Russian Hill. Garvin gave her a brief explanation. She pursed her lips, inhaling through her nose as she digested his words. "Do you think il was Vic?"
Garvin didn't answer. From the tone of her voice, he knew he didn't need to. Who else could have broken into Annie's apartment and smacked her dog on the head but Vic Denardo? He'd admitted to keeping an eye on her. He'd known she could lead him to Sarah.
But what had he expected to find in Annie's apartment? Directions? Annie herself?
Garvin focused on the task at hand and kept his mind from drifting into the swamp of possibilities, questions, fears. Get to Annie's. Help her with Otto. Everything else had to wait.
When they arrived on Russian Hill, he double-parked in front of Annie's building and left Sarah in the car with the engine running.
Annie must have heard him coming and was waiting in the doorway like a ghost. "I called a vet over on Ninth Avenue. She's waiting for us," she said, leading him into her bedroom.
Semiconscious on the floor, Otto looked even more massive. He managed to growl at Garvin. "Don't worry, he's too weak to bite." Annie knelt down at her big dog's head and stroked his chest. "If you can help me lift him—"
But Garvin had already squatted down and was working his hands, gingerly and carefully, under Otto's middle, his fur hot and damp with blood. He had a foul, musky smell. The big dog gave a low growl as Garvin lifted him. Annie, rising with them, continued to stroke Otto's massive neck and tell him he was a good dog.
Dog paws hanging down in front of him, Garvin grunted under the strain of one hundred and twenty pounds of wounded, cranky rottweiler. "He might be good, but he's not light."
"He doesn't weigh much more than I do."
"You," Garvin said, "would be more fun to carry."
Otto growled. Annie smiled weakly. They were, Garvin thought, a pair.
"Have you called the police yet?" he asked.
She shook her head. "I have to take care of Otto first."
She did have her priorities. She held doors for him and negotiated him through doorways and down the walk alongside her building as he breathed in musky dog odor, felt dog blood seeping into his suit.
When they reached the car, Sarah was still perched in the front seat, waiting nervously. Annie climbed in back first, then helped get Otto in on the seat with her, his head in her lap. In the harsh glare of the streetlights, Garvin could see how pale she was, tears shining high on her cheeks, as if none dared dribble down to her chin until she was ready to give in to her fear.
"Annie—" How could he reassure her? He didn't know if Otto would be all right. "Ninth Avenue. I think I know the place."
Her eyes widened on him. "He can't die, Garvin. I should never
"Don't start, Annie," he said gently. "It'll get you nowhere."
Sarah looked around at them both, her face grim and as pale as Annie's. "We should go."
Garvin drove as fast as he dared. At the vet's, he again parked illegally, again left Sarah to fend for herself. Annie had to help him get Otto out of the car, holding up his front half—head, shoulders, and legs—as she slid across the seat. Then Garvin scooped him up and carried him inside. His lower back, his legs, his arms all screamed in protest.
The vet, a strongly built woman in her forties, had him carry Otto to an examining room. "What happened?" she asked briskly.
Annie explained, and Garvin retreated back outside. "I'll drive you home," he told Sarah. "They'll probably know more by the time I get back."
Her vivid eyes fastened on him, determined to see whatever they had to see. "Is there hope?"
He threw the car into reverse, his jaw clenched. "Otto's a big dog. He can probably take a good knock on the head."
"I hope so. Rottweilers were bred to have thick skulls, and with their double layer of fur, it would take a crowbar—"
"Don't, Sarah," Garvin said softly. "Speculating won't get you anywhere."
When they got back up to her house, Garvin insisted on taking a look around for an intruder before he would let Sarah inside. Without protest, she quietly handed him her house keys and remained in the car. The drizzle had turned to a soft rain.
Sarah's house had an eerie feel in the dark, the panorama of lights sweeping out before him not helping. Neither did the canvases, dozens of them. They kept drawing his eye, forcing questions he didn't want to ask. Concentrating on his task, he checked the bedroom, the bathroom, corners. Nothing seemed out of place.
Sarah needed help getting from the car. In spite of her gnarled joints, there was a strength to her that surprised him. But the evening had taken its toll. She moved slowly, with obvious pain, her face gray and perspiration glistening on her upper lip. Once inside, she collapsed into her rattan chair with the chintz cushions.
"If you want, I can stay for a while," Garvin said.
She shook her head. "I'll be fine."
"If you need me—"
"I won't." She focused on him with some effort. "Tell Annie I'm sorry."
"What happened tonight isn't your fault."