CHAPTER 2 – THE CALLER
The next morning, Leonard Loomis, age 52, sat in his tidy house and flipped the pages of his wedding album. It was silly, really, he thought, to be doing this – and in broad daylight, too. It seemed the sort of thing to do at night, with a tall glass, and a few regrets. But it had been five years Tuesday since he'd become a widower. He had mourned, and honestly. But his life had righted itself, and nicely. To his amazement, there were very few pangs as he went from picture to picture. Time did heal all hurts, apparently.
Between the milestone of five years without recommitting (which made it seem decent, by his lights, to be in circulation again), and the anticipation of golfing with his number one girlfriend in a few days, Loomis was feeling peace at heart mixed with something akin to pride. He had a number two girlfriend if you stretched the accounting a bit, but she was half his age and was only a business colleague, and he gave her no encouragement – still, it was flattering, having a young thing make eyes at you, and there wasn't any reason not to be civil to the girl.
The look at wedding pictures, he supposed, was some sort of semiconscious test, to see if he'd really made it far enough that he could leave that marriage behind. Not that he meant to forget his first wife. Nothing of the sort. But he was a considerate man, and wouldn't remarry until his heart was truly free, or at least free enough to properly give to someone, if you wanted to be precise. By his age, he'd discovered, the heart got pulled twenty different directions as a matter of course, and there didn't seem to be any help for it.
There was a scuffling noise from the kitchen. Loomis set the album aside and went to mediate, if necessary, among 'the girls.'
He thought it was funny, in a way, how a man could get so contradictory as he got older. Here he was, ready to retire in less than a year thanks to some prudent planning and better luck, and suddenly – just when he could be tying up loose ends so he could travel – what was he doing? Collecting stray dogs. Three of them. He had decided he would stop at these three, but was aware that he'd decided to stop at one, and just as solemnly and soberly had decided to stop at two.
If there was anything non-conducive to being able to pick up and go on a moment's notice, it had to be collecting misfit dogs. None of these dogs was the sort that would be easy to sponge off on maiden aunts for the duration. None of the dogs were mean, mind you. They'd just been mistreated along the way, and needed extra patience and adaptability on their human's part. Maiden aunts, at least Loomis's maiden aunts, weren't especially known for their adaptability. Plus, their patience was mostly of the longsuffering kind, aired regularly for public approval. 'Just look at what I do for everyone else, with no thought for myself, poor me' – that sort of thing. It was hardly worth it to ask them for actual favors, not when they wanted gratitude in perpetuum as payment even for imaginary assistance. No, thought Loomis, what with one thing and another, he'd probably doomed himself to home-centered life for what was left of his time, unless he could bear to part with his misfits.
That was one nice thing about his number one girlfriend. She also had pets that couldn't be left alone or handed over easily. In her case it was salt-water fish, finicky varieties that died off easily if the conditions weren't kept just so. But she liked dogs in addition to fish. She even liked these specific dogs.
He liked these dogs. And usually they liked each other. But they did have their disagreements, and in the present squabble it was patently two against one. Well, that was easy to solve. "Come, Marti," he said, as he turned back into the front room.
Marti gave her companions a look that may well have been interpreted in human speech as "Hah!" and walked away with the human head of the pack. The other two gave each other looks that translated more or less into "Oh, well. The boss is the boss," and barreled out the dog door into the back garden to find something else to do. Unlike Marti, they were naturally resourceful, and didn't bear grudges. Loomis was gentle and they adored him. They saved their fussing for any attempts to separate the two of them. After a rocky beginning, they had become fast friends.
Loomis looked at the clock. It was still early. He grabbed a book and sat down, even though he didn't feel like reading. It was unusual, the head of the department asking him to stay home and wait for word. It felt odd, being knocked off routine. Probably that was at least half the trouble with Marti, Loomis thought. She fretted when things didn't go as expected.
Marti was short for Martinet, someone who demanded obedience. The term was used unconventionally, but accurately enough in its way. Marti demanded obedience to a schedule, or someone paid for it. She'd pee on the floor or hide under the bed, or just sit and look at a person with eyes conveying how deeply she felt her betrayal. Much more than the other two, Marti had been a challenge. By the same token, there was that much more room for improvement, and she had improved greatly in the five months she'd been in the household.
"Come, Marti, what's so bad this time? I thought you'd learnt to manage those two slightly better than this," Loomis said, indulgently.
Marti sat her squatty, elongated body just out of reach and wagged her tail. Loomis shook his head. What sort of dog liked to have human company, but hated to be petted? Marti generally sat as close as she could without running the risk of actual contact. She was a funny case.
She was also a funny-looking dog. Loomis called her his corgi, but she wasn't really. The proportions were slightly off. The ears and tail were wrong. And the coat? Whatever mixture of dog breeds would result in a semi-corgi with hair that smacked of what a Yorkshire terrier's coat would be if a Yorkie's coat was shorter – well, it was beyond Loomis. He'd speculated, of course. So had the neighbors. And friends. This is not to mention the postman, the policeman, and practically everyone else who had come into contact with her. The only consensus was that, whatever her ancestry, Marti had been a basket case when Loomis had adopted her, and was still too apt to crumple compared to your average mutt.
The doorbell rang. Marti ran behind Loomis. He chuckled. The mutt had, at first, been prone to run off entirely when someone came to the door. But lately she'd developed the habit of running for his aid in times of uncertainty. It was a nuisance. A man had to watch his step because sometimes she was too nervous to move out of the way. But it was a flattering nuisance, all the same, having some poor creature looking his direction for protection.
Loomis peeked out the front door peephole, opened the door, and invited the caller in. Marti went berserk with fear. "Here, now, girl. It's all right," Loomis said automatically, just as it dawned on him that it wasn't all right at all. Death had walked in the door. He could smell it. It made no sense. This person shouldn't be a danger. But that this person was here to kill him, he suddenly had no doubt.
"Run, Marti!" Loomis squawked, in a voice choked with fear and confusion.
Marti went in entirely the wrong direction, as far as Loomis had wanted. For the first time in her mostly sad and pathetic life, she was overwhelmed with a sense of loyalty, and against all odds she tried to drive off her master's attacker.
Loomis saw her peril and hesitated.
It was not a situation that allowed for hesitation.