Gretchen was standing in the doorway to the living room, butcher knife in one hand, glass of Diet Coke in the other.
“You really are gay for me, aren’t you?” Gretchen said, taking a sip.
Abby thought about smashing through the glass door and running, but she couldn’t move her legs.
“I can’t believe you were dumb enough to come here. Especially after you were arrested,” Gretchen said, sighing. “Come on. If you’re here, you might as well see something cool.”
Gretchen trudged up the stairs to the second floor. Abby hesitated, then followed. She found Gretchen in her bedroom standing in front of her closet, pulling on a baby blue raincoat.
“What are you doing?” Abby asked.
Gretchen took a deep pull of her Diet Coke and set it down on her desk.
“You’ll see,” she said.
Gretchen lifted the enormous butcher’s knife from her desk. Its blade caught the light in the room and sent silver shards dancing across the walls.
“Come on,” she said, then she beckoned to Abby with the knife. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
Gretchen walked into her bathroom. Abby knew it was stupid to go into a small room with a crazy girl holding a knife, but Gretchen didn’t feel dangerous right now. She felt like Abby had interrupted her in the middle of an extra-credit project and Gretchen wanted to finish it up before starting anything new.
Abby entered the bathroom. Gretchen was waiting for her, leaning against the sinks, the knife lying on the counter. In her hand was the black pistol from her parents’ bedside table. In the shower was Good Dog Max. His leash was looped over the faucet and he was dancing from one foot to the other, his claws clicking on the fiberglass tub. When he saw Abby, his tail began to wag.
“See,” Gretchen said, “he likes you.”
Max let his tongue fall out, then the wastebasket next to the tub caught his interest and he stuck his head inside and started rooting around.
“It’s because he likes you so much that I got this idea,” Gretchen said. “So in a way, what’s happening to him is all your fault.”
Gretchen pulled up the hood of her raincoat and stood at the edge of the tub.
“Good dog, Max,” she said. “Who’s a good dog?”
Gretchen took Max’s collar and pulled his head out of the garbage. Good Dog Max tried to lick Gretchen’s hand that was holding the gun; then she had his chin in her hand, lifting his head, and she pressed the gun to the base of his neck.
“You don’t have to hurt him,” Abby said. “You don’t have to do any of this.”
“You don’t know who you’re talking to anymore,” Gretchen said.
Max whined, his claws tapping at the fiberglass, trying to twist his head to get back in the garbage.
“I know who you are,” Abby said.
Without hesitation, Gretchen released Max, stepped away from the tub, and backhanded Abby. Caught off guard, Abby spun to her side, hit the wall, and fell to the floor. Gretchen was straddling her, yanking her head back by the hair, the cold metal gun pressed to the underside of Abby’s chin. Abby had never been on the wrong end of a gun before, and ice blossomed inside her guts.
“Lesson learned,” Gretchen said. “Don’t talk shit.”
Then Gretchen was standing, and she kicked Abby in the stomach. Watery spit flooded Abby’s mouth. Through blurry eyes she saw Gretchen standing at the side of the tub, and Good Dog Max’s feet were thundering on the hollow fiberglass.
Unable to catch her breath, Abby crawled into the bedroom and dragged herself to the far wall by the door. A moment later the air cracked in half and slapped her in both ears as a flash lit the room. In the silence that followed, gunsmoke and the stink of cordite wafted from the bathroom door. Through the ringing in her ears, Abby heard something moving, thumping against the tub, and then Gretchen came out.
“Whew,” she said. “Thirsty work.”
She chugged the rest of her Diet Coke, gulping it down, her throat moving as she drained the glass. Abby stared at her. Half of Gretchen’s face was misted in blood, and in one hand she held the gun. Blood dripped from the raincoat and pattered to the floor. Gretchen finished the Coke and set down the glass, then she leaned back through the bathroom door and checked on her work. She looked back at Abby, whose eyes were swimming in tears.
“Don’t cry, Abby,” Gretchen said. “Dogs are like cars. They’re cheap in the country.”
She grinned. And at that moment Abby knew something was broken that could never be fixed.
“Now, here’s what you’re going to do,” Gretchen said. “We have to toss this mutt over Dr. Bennett’s fence, because can you imagine what kind of drama is going to break out when Pony Lang discovers the remains of his beloved family pet in the next door neighbor’s yard. I wouldn’t be surprised if some seriously gratuitous violence broke out. I mean, they both own guns.”
She set the pistol on her desk and picked up the knife.
“But that’s a whole lot of dog,” Gretchen said. “So I want you to take this knife and give me—oh, I don’t know?—just his head? Don’t give me that look, Abby. You and I both know you’ll do it. You always do what you’re told, especially when I’m the one telling you.”
Abby couldn’t face what was in the bathroom: that lifeless bag of wet fur slung in the corner of the tub. She started to panic. Gretchen picked up the knife and stepped toward Abby. Her leg buckled and Gretchen caught herself against the wall. She leaned there for a moment, breathing hard, her hand gripping the doorframe. She swayed again. Then she raised her head and looked at Abby with hatred.
“Oh,” she said. “You bitch . . .”
Then someone unplugged Gretchen and she hit the floor in a boneless heap. Abby didn’t move for a few minutes, not until she heard deep, regular breathing coming from Gretchen. She went to the phone in the Langs’ bedroom and dialed.
“Hurry,” Abby said when Chris Lemon answered. “It’s number eight. The modern one.”
She hung up and, careful not to look in the bathroom, dragged Gretchen downstairs in her bloody raincoat, not caring as Gretchen’s head bumped hard against each carpeted step. She left her slumped in the hall while she went to the living room and grabbed two woolly throw blankets off the sofa; she pulled off Gretchen’s raincoat and rolled her in the blankets.
Then she waited.
The grandfather clock tocked next to her. The cooling system blew soft air through the vents. The house was cold. The house was quiet.
Something flashed outside the window and Abby leapt to her feet. She heard thrashing and movement, and then a barn owl was standing on the limb of a live oak, staring in at Abby as if it knew her name.
Headlights lit the downstairs hall, then went dark. A car door slammed and Brother Lemon was there. Abby opened the front door and let him inside.
“Holy cow,” he said. “What did you do to her?”
“It’s not her blood,” Abby said. “She killed her dog.”
“She what?” he said.
Abby thought about Good Dog Max, so sweet and stupid, sticking his head in every trash can he could find, and she almost cried. Then she dug her fingernails into her wrist until the pain made the image go away.
“Forget it,” Abby said. “Let’s hurry.”
Brother Lemon tied nylon straps around Gretchen’s blankets so she couldn’t move, and together they carried her out of the house and laid her in the back of his van and drove away. The owl watched them the entire time.
Don’t Stop ’Til You Get Enough
“Promise me she won’t get hurt,” Abby begged.
Brother Lemon leaned back in the wicker chair he’d commandeered from the living room of the Langs’ beach house. He spread his legs wide, cracked his knuckles, and rested his elbows on his knees.
“That’s up to her,” he said. Even seated, he was taller than Abby. “An exorcism is a contest of wills between the demon and the exorcist. Now, I’m a pretty strong guy, but I’m going up against the forces of darkness, so there’re no guarantees. As Jesus Christ once said: by any means necessary.”
Brother Lemon paused and looked around the dark living room.