“Oh, great,” I muttered, “what the hell is this?”
Noor sunk down into her seat. “Let’s hope it’s not more wights.”
We could only hope, since there was no way the hobbled Caprice could outrun a police cruiser. The cop signaled for me to stop. I parked, and he walked toward us while sipping from a thermos.
“The loop entrance is in the potting shed in the backyard,” I whispered. “If you have to, make a run for it.”
If it’s still there, I thought. If the shed didn’t blow away in the storm.
“Names.”
The officer had a trim black mustache, a square jaw, and pupils in his eyes. Pupils could be faked, of course, but there was something about his manner, so bored and irritable, that struck me as distinctly non-wightish. The patch on his official police rain jacket said RAFFERTY.
“Jacob Portman,” I said.
Noor gave her name as “Nina . . . Parker,” and luckily the cop didn’t ask for ID.
“I live here,” I said. “What’s going on?”
Officer Rafferty’s eyes darted from Noor back to me. “Can you prove this is your residence?”
“I know the code to the alarm system. And there’s a photo of me and my parents in the front hall.”
He sipped from his thermos, which had a Sarasota County Sheriff’s Department logo on it. “Were you involved in an accident?”
“We got caught in the storm,” said Noor. “Skidded off the road.”
“Anyone injured?”
I glanced at the black hollowgast blood that had run down my door and my arm, and realized with some relief that he couldn’t see it.
“No, sir,” I said. “Did something happen here?”
“A neighbor reported seeing prowlers in the yard.”
“Prowlers?” I said, exchanging a glance with Noor.
“It’s not uncommon during evacuations. You get thieves, looters, individuals of that nature lurking around, looking to burglarize abandoned properties. They most likely noticed your alarm signs and moved on to greener pastures. We didn’t find anyone . . . but we were attacked by a canine.” He indicated the animal control van. “Some folks stake their animals outside during storms. It’s damn cruel. They get scared, break their leashes, run off. The animal’s being collared now. Until it’s secure, you should remain in your vehicle.”
There was a sudden burst of loud barking from behind my house. Two more officers rounded the corner, one young and one gray, each grappling the end of a long pole. At the other end of the poles was a collar, and inside that collar was a furious dog. It was giving them hell, snarling and trying to shake them loose while they dragged it toward the animal control van.
“Give us a damn hand here, Rafferty!” the older officer shouted. “Get that door open for us!”
“Stay in your vehicle,” Rafferty growled. He jogged to the animal control van and started trying to open its rear door.
“Let’s go,” I said as soon as his back was turned.
We got out. Noor rounded the car to join me.
“Back in your car!” Rafferty shouted, but he was too busy struggling with the door to come after us.
“Quick now—before we get bit again!” the gray-haired cop yelled.
I led Noor toward the backyard. We heard a bloodcurdling snarl and then the younger cop shouted, “I’m gonna tase it!”
The dog’s barks took on a new, louder urgency. I fought an urge to intervene, and then I heard someone say, in a crystal clear British accent: “It’s me!”
I stopped cold and turned. So did Noor.
I knew that voice.
It belonged to a tan boxer dog with a spiked collar, his muscular legs dug into the gravel. In the chaos the officers hadn’t seemed to hear him.
Rafferty finally got the van open. The older animal control officer held on to his pole while the younger one brandished a taser.
Then I heard the dog say—saw his lips form the words—“Jacob, it’s Addison!”
The cops heard that—and then they were all gaping, openmouthed. So was Noor.
“That’s my dog!” I shouted, running toward him. “Down, boy.”
“Did he just . . . ?” said the younger officer, shaking his head.
“Stay back!” Rafferty called, but I ignored him and knelt down a few yards from Addison, who was looking a bit ragged and very glad to see me, his docked tail wagging so hard it shook his whole rear end.
“It’s okay, he’s trained,” I said. “He does all sorts of tricks.”
“He’s yours?” Rafferty said doubtfully. “Why the hell didn’t you say that before?”
“I swear to God he said something,” said the gray-haired cop.
Addison snarled at him.
“Put that away!” I said. “He won’t bite if you don’t threaten him.”
“He already bit me!” complained the younger cop.
“The kid’s lying,” Rafferty said.
“I’ll prove he’s mine. Addison, sit.”
Addison sat. The cops looked impressed.
“Speak.”
Addison barked.
“Not like that.” The young cop frowned. “He said words.”
I looked at him like he was crazy.
“Beg,” I said to Addison.
He glowered at me. That was going too far.
“We’re going to have to take him in,” said the older cop. “He bit a police officer.”
“He was just scared,” I said. “He won’t hurt anyone now.”
“We’ll take him to doggie training school,” Noor said. “He’s a total sweetheart, really. I’ve never seen him even growl at someone before.”
“Make him talk again,” said the younger cop.
I gave him a concerned look. “Officer, I don’t know what you thought you heard, but—”
“I heard him say something. Now make him apologize for biting me.”
“It’s just a dog, Kinsey,” the older cop said. “Hell, I seen a Doberman on YouTube once that sings the national anthem . . .”
And then Addison, who’d had quite enough of being insulted, drew up on his hind legs and said, “Oh, for heaven’s sake, you provincial boob, I can speak better English than you can.”