Marlowe trotted into the building with Remy close behind him.
The dog was immediately on alert as he took in his new surroundings. The smell of urine washed over his senses, and he suddenly realized how bad some of these dogs really were.
Following his nose, he glanced over to see a woman kneeling down with a handful of paper towels mopping up the floor as a white poodle stood innocently by, feigning disinterest.
“He does this when he’s frightened,” the middle-aged woman in the New England Patriots jacket tried to explain to Remy. “Guess it’s obvious why we’re here,” she said with a nervous laugh.
Marlowe knew that it wasn’t fear that made the dog pee inside the barn; it was the desire for his scent to be the strongest, marking his territory. He pulled Remy over toward the poodle as the woman quickly disposed of the damp towels, tossing them into a nearby plastic barrel. She kept the dog tight to her side, although he struggled to get closer to Marlowe.
“He isn’t very nice,” the woman said to Remy. “They say he needs to be socialized better. I hope these classes work.”
“What’s his name?” Marlowe heard Remy ask.
“Vincent,” she replied, still holding the poodle back.
Bad dog better name, Marlowe thought as he extended his muscular neck toward the defiant poodle.
He heard Remy making small talk with the woman as he fixed the poodle in his sternest of stares. “No pee,” he growled at the white, curly-haired dog.
“I pee . . . mine,” the poodle retorted, his entire body quivering with excitement.
“Not yours,” Marlowe corrected.
“Mine!” the dog barked, straining on his leash.
With a harrumph, Marlowe went to the spot where the dog had just relieved himself, sniffed it, then positioned himself over the damp floor.
“Not yours,” Marlowe said again, letting a quick stream of his own urine spray upon the spot.
—
“Marlowe!” Remy yelled in horror as he watched his dog urinate on the barn floor.
The dog looked at him with an expression that said, What’s the problem?
“What the hell are you doing?” Remy asked, dragging him over to one of the many paper towel dispensers bolted to the walls around the barn.
“Teaching,” the dog explained.
“Yeah, this one escapes me,” Remy muttered softly. He pulled a handful of towels from the roll and returned to the scene of the crime.
“How were you teaching by pissing on the floor?” Remy asked him as he started to sop up the still-warm puddle.
“Said room his. . . . Not his,” Marlowe explained.
“So you showed him that the room wasn’t his by peeing on his pee,” Remy finished.
“Yes,” Marlowe barked happily.
“You know what, no more teaching, okay? Let’s leave that to Jackie.”
Marlowe didn’t really care for that, but agreed for the sake of higher learning.
Remy tossed the wet paper towels into the barrel, and took a moment to absorb the vibe in the room. Jackie had talked about feeling a presence, something that had prevented her summer puppy classes from happening, but all he could sense at the moment was the nervous anticipation of people desperate for their dogs not to do anything embarrassing.
He watched as a large man in baggy shorts and a red hoodie was dragged by an equally large Saint Bernard to see a cream-colored French bulldog, owned by a mother and little girl, that didn’t appear at all interested in the other dogs, focused instead on killing a spider that had been trying to cross the room. There was an attractive young woman with a slightly older companion whose eyes were glued to a BlackBerry. She was trying to calm a shivering German shepherd mix who seemed terrified of the other dogs. An older couple—probably retired—stood off by themselves, a howling dachshund held tightly in the woman’s arms.
“How old?” asked a voice nearby, and Remy spun to face a woman with a coal black dye job, drawn-on eyebrows, and a turquoise velour sweat suit. She held a small, puffy-furred black dog protectively in her arms that silently studied him and Marlowe with deep, dark eyes. Remy didn’t know what kind of dog it was, maybe a Maltese, or some kind of terrier, but it was cute in that ankle-biting kind of way.
“Excuse me?” Remy asked.
“Your dog,” she said, looking down at Marlowe. “How old is he?”
“Oh, he’s four,” Remy replied.
Marlowe pulled on the leash, trying to get closer to the woman, as well as the dog in her arms. She backed up quickly as if afraid, holding her little dog closer to her.
“Sorry,” Remy said, hauling Marlowe back. “He’s perfectly harmless.”
“This one isn’t,” the old woman said, eyes darting to her little friend, who remained perfectly calm and silent cradled in her arms.
“Bit of an attitude?” Remy asked with a smile.
“You might say that,” she answered coldly.
There was silence then, and Remy tried to fill the uncomfortable moment by again looking around the barn. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Even extending his preternatural senses, Remy experienced nothing more than anxiety from the dog owners in attendance, and their pets.
“You shouldn’t be here,” the older woman said suddenly.
“Excuse me?” he asked.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she repeated, her expression showing as little emotion as the tiny black dog she held in her arms.
“I really don’t understand what . . .”
“He’s too well behaved,” she added, motioning with her chin to Marlowe, who was sniffing the air, taking in all the various scents. “Maybe an advanced class would be better for him.”
“Maybe,” Remy said, petting his dog’s head. “But I think a refresher course might do him some good.”
A chorus of dog barks suddenly filled the air of the barn, and Remy glanced over to see Jackie Kinney entering through a back door, striding across the wood floor, clipboard in hand. He was amused by the air of confidence she exuded as she stopped in the center of the room, her eyes falling upon each and every person, and their dog. Like General Patton about to address his troops.
“Good evening,” she said, her voice booming with authority. “First off, I’d like to thank you all for choosing the Kinney Obedience School for your dog’s education, and for having the wherewithal to realize that a dog needs training if it is going to be a part of your family . . . a part of your day-to-day life.”
She looked around the room again, this time only making eye contact with the dogs. Remy could have sworn that the majority averted their gazes, surrendering dominance, as her stare touched them.
“I’m scared,” Marlowe grumbled, as Remy gently stroked his blocky head with the tips of his fingers.
Jackie raised the clipboard. “Before we get started, I’d like to take attendance.”
The trainer began to read from the list, ticking off the names of the owners and their dogs as they responded.
“Remy Chandler and Marlowe?” she called out, and before Remy could respond, Marlowe let out a booming bark to let her know that they were there.
Jackie smiled at them, checking off their names.
“Anyone whose name I didn’t call?” she asked, her eyes darting around the room for people she might have missed.
“Patricia Ventura,” the woman standing behind Remy called out. “Patricia Ventura and Petey.”
And that was when Remy felt it. There was a sudden change in the atmosphere. The air seemed to get heavier, colder. It was obvious that the others were feeling it as well because they began to look about, talking amongst themselves. The dogs became uneasy, some beginning to whine.
“What happening?” Marlowe asked.
“I have no idea,” Remy answered as he watched Jackie, her face wearing an expression of supreme unease. She was staring at a point somewhere behind him, at something that seemed to have frozen her in place. Remy started to turn, as the lights began to flicker, a sound like an angry hive of bees filling the room.
The barn then went completely dark and somebody cried out, the dogs all reacting in a cacophony of high-pitched yips and booming barks.
The lights momentarily returned, before they started to flicker again, and Remy saw that Jackie was gone, her clipboard lying abandoned on the floor, the door at the back of the barn swinging in the evening breeze.
The room was in chaos with dogs barking crazily, straining at their leashes, as their owners struggled to maintain control. The owners could feel it too: the presence of something unnatural. Remy watched as a few of them dragged their dogs toward the exit, and he started across the room to the swinging back door. Then he noticed that Marlowe was still by his side and he stopped.
“I want you to stay here,” he told the dog, kneeling at eye level.
“Help you,” Marlowe said eagerly. “Find scary Jackie.”
“No, I need you to be a good dog and stay here,” Remy replied firmly.
“Good dog?” Marlowe asked with a tilt of his head.
“Yes, a good dog will stay here and do as he’s told.”
He saw that Marlowe was about to argue, but then the dog sat down just inside the door.
“Good boy,” Remy said, darting out into the night. “I’ll be back.”
—