“Then at least we might still have those!” he said.
“Why don’t you and Charlotte look around the lab here—make sure nothing else is missing—and I’ll go over to the kennel.” Ever since he’d looked out of the vent, he’d wanted to check out everything across the way.
He zipped up his coat again, and as he descended the ramp, he looked carefully for any signs of a dolly’s wheels, but the only markings were from bootheels. How the hell did whoever it was get the damn thing out? He marched across the snow to the kennel and found the chest at least right where Danzig had unloaded it. But despite the fact that a few odds and ends were still inside—a silver cup engraved with the initials SAC, a white cummerbund, yellow with age—the bottles were all gone.
“Hey, what the hell’s going on?”
Michael turned around to see Danzig himself standing with his arms out in wonderment.
“I guess you just heard from Murphy.”
“Heard what from Murphy?”
“Oh, about the missing bodies, from the ice block.”
“The dogs, for Christ’s sake—I’m talking about the dogs! There’s one hell of a storm coming, and I came to make sure they were settled in for the night.” He looked all around, like somehow he might have simply missed them. “Where the hell are they?”
Michael had been so set on retrieving the bottles that it hadn’t occurred to him that something even more surprising was gone. But now he saw the dogs’ stakes, still in the ground, and their empty food bowls, lying upturned on the straw.
“The sled’s missing, too,” Danzig said. “What the fuck is going on?”
Michael couldn’t believe that anyone would dare to mess with the dogs, much less without Danzig’s express permission—which would almost certainly not be granted.
“I was just checking to see if the chest had been looted,” Michael said, feeling the need to explain his own presence. “It has been.”
“I don’t give a shit about that, or that pair of human popsicles. Where are my dogs?” Danzig boomed as he stomped around the kennel, his eyes fixed on the floor. “How long have you been here?”
“I got here just before you did.”
“Goddammit!” He kicked one of the bowls clear across the kennel, then he stopped at the foot of the stairs, yanked off one of his gloves, and touched something on the steps. As Michael looked on, he raised it to his face, smelled it.
“It’s blood,” he said, lifting his eyes toward the loft. And then he was racing up the stairs as fast as his heavy boots and gear would let him.
Michael heard him cry, “Jesus, no!” and by the time Michael got up there, Danzig was down on the floor, cradling the bloody carcass of Kodiak in his burly arms.
“Who did this?” Danzig was muttering. “Who would do this?”
For Michael, too, it seemed unthinkable.
“I will kill the son of a bitch,” Danzig said, and Michael believed him. “I will kill the son of a bitch who did this!”
Michael put a hand on Danzig’s shoulder, not knowing what to say, when he saw the dog’s eyes flicker, then open. “Wait, look…” he started to say, when the husky suddenly let out a low, angry growl. And before Danzig could even react, the dog had lunged up at his face. Danzig toppled backwards, and the dog was on him, snarling and tearing at his clothes and skin. His legs kicked out wildly, he was trying to stand, but the dog was too powerful and too insane with rage. Michael saw the short chain, with its stake still attached, dangling from its collar, and grabbed for it. It flew out of his hands, but he grabbed again, and finally got hold of it. He pulled back on it with all his might, and the dog’s jaws, dripping with blood and foam, came away from Danzig’s throat. It was still snapping, still trying to bite its master, when Michael yanked it away toward the stairs. Kodiak’s paws scrabbled at the wooden floor, but only then did it turn its attention to Michael, whipping around, its cold blue eyes burning with fire, and leapt up. Like a matador, Michael stepped neatly to one side and the dog went flying down the open stairs; Michael heard a thump, a splintering sound, and a loud snap…and then silence.
When he looked down, he could see that the stake had wedged itself between two of the open steps, and the dog was now swinging by its broken neck from the short chain. The stairs creaked with the strain, and Danzig, clutching his throat on the floor, whispered “help” in a weak, burbling voice. The blood was pouring out between his fingers, and Michael ripped his own scarf off, wrapped it tightly around Danzig’s neck, and said, “I’ll be right back with Dr. Barnes.” As he shot down the stairs, in shock, Kodiak’s body swayed back and forth beside him, blood dripping from a puncture wound in its chest—how had that happened?—and matting the straw below.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
December 13, 8 p.m.