“Oh SHIT!” Cal said. He turned for the door and caught a glimpse of the dog slipping on the travertine as it came around the island, sliding into the stove, a copper pot crashing to the floor. Cal ran into the hallway, his robe flapping open, the dog streaking after him with its ears pinned back, its nails scrabbling and clicking on the slippery floor. Cal got to the game room and juked between the chairs and tables, the dog right behind him. He saw his reflection in the sliding glass door, the dog about to pull him down like a lion on a wildebeest, but he one-hopped it from the sofa to the pool table and back down to the floor without breaking stride.
The dog went wide around the pool table giving Cal just enough time to reach the sliding door. He yanked it open, got outside and tried to close it but the dog was right on his heels, the heavy door slamming on its neck and holding it there like a hunting trophy. If the dog felt anything you couldn’t tell. It squirmed, twisted, and snarled, slinging drool off its fangs. Cal leaned into the door handle with both hands, his legs out behind him like he was pushing a car, the dog berserk with blood lust. Cal started screaming like he was already being ripped apart. His legs were giving out, he was losing leverage, his slippers slipping on the bricks.
The dog got its shoulders through the door and was wriggling the rest of its body through. Cal let go of the door and ran across the patio, the dog on him in three strides, grabbing the back of the robe, jerking him to a halt. Cal leaned forward like a plow horse, grunting and straining, but the dog was strong, yanking on the robe with its legs splayed out in front of it. Cal was crying and slowly sinking to his knees. He hoped he’d die quick and not get disfigured, be like one of those burn victims you could hardly stand to look at. He couldn’t hold out any longer, his knees were almost touching the ground—and then the robe ripped. Cal twisted free, stumbled forward, and went face-first into the pool. There was the shock of the temperature change and then it was peaceful, nothing but the sound of bubbles coming out of his nose. He thought he’d like to stay down here, away from the dog, away from the world—until he realized he couldn’t breathe. Panic seized his lungs. He kicked and pawed his way upward, breaking the surface, taking huge choking breaths.
The dog was at the edge of the pool, barking relentlessly, leaning out over the water. Cal couldn’t believe it when the beast dived in and started swimming right at him. This muthafucka was like the bad guy in Terminator 2. Cal tried to swim backward, flapping his arms and kicking, making more commotion than sharks in a feeding frenzy but staying in the same place. He was exhausted and every breath he took was mostly water. If he didn’t drown on his own, the dog would drag him under. He couldn’t go on anymore, too tired to dive or do anything else. The dog was approaching fast, only the blacked-out pig eyes above the surface.
The woman next door came out on her balcony. A rich bitch with nothing to do, always complaining about the music and the smell of weed. “The police are coming! The police are coming!” she shouted. Cal thought her next words were you fucking nigger but he might have imagined that. The dog didn’t seem to care and kept coming. Five feet away, four, three… Cal could see down its throat, smell its sour breath—and then its ears shot up like they had on the patio and it veered away. Cal had never been so happy in his whole life. With a new burst of energy, he flapped his way to the edge of the pool. And then he heard what the dog had heard. Sirens, and they were getting louder. He shouted at them: “I’m in the swimming pool! Help my ass!”
Isaiah watched the tape, trying to wrap his head around what he was seeing. Someone sent a dog to kill Cal? Someone used a dog like an assassin. Who would do that?
On the tape, Cal had made it to the edge of the pool, the woman next door yelling nonstop. The dog was in a panic, paddling furiously to get out of the pool.
“What’s the dog gonna do now?” Dodson said. “How’s he gonna get out?”
Isaiah focused on the trees at the back of the property. The man would come from there, nowhere else he could be. And then he appeared. He was wearing a ski mask, cargo shorts, a T-shirt that said THE WHITE STRIPES, and big rubber shoes like clogs.
“Who’s that?” Dodson said.
“Exactly,” Anthony said.
The man jogged across the lawn. Isaiah had him in his late twenties, five-ten or eleven, a hundred and sixty-five pounds, in good shape. He had an awkward up-and-down gait, his arms going back and forth like a speed-walker. The woman leaned over the railing to yell, as if she wasn’t being loud enough. He ignored her and drew a handgun with a long barrel. She screamed and fled inside. The man got to the pool and saw Cal way down at the end just as the flashing lights of a police car flickered red against the house next door. The cops were in the cul-de-sac. The man thought a moment, put the gun away, and said something to the dog. Then he walked alongside the pool, leading the dog to the shallow end. He jumped into the waist-deep water, grabbed the dog under its hindquarters, and lifted-shoved it over the edge of the pool and onto the cement. The man got out and the two of them trotted back into the trees.