“You’ll be sorry!” Peterkin screamed. “You and your damn dog!”
I’ll get you, my pretty, I thought as I pedaled down the narrow alley. I wasn’t able to go as fast as I wanted to because the hubs of the back wheels kept scraping the sides. I’ll get you, and your little dog, too.
“Hold him!” I shouted. “Hold him, Radar!” If she could do that, he could lead us out of here. I would persuade him, just as I’d persuaded Polley.
But as I was nearing the end of the alley, Radar came back around the corner. Dogs can look shamefaced—anyone who’s ever lived with one knows that—and that’s how she looked just then. Peterkin had gotten away, but not unscathed. In her jaws, Radar held a good-sized scrap of bright green cloth that could only have come from Peterkin’s britches. Even better, I saw two spots of blood.
I reached the end of the alley, looked to my right, and saw him clinging to the second-story cornice of a stone building twenty or thirty yards down the street. He looked like a human fly. I could see the metal gutter he must have climbed to get out of Radar’s reach （but not quite quickly enough, ha-ha）， and as I watched he scrambled onto a ledge and squatted there. It looked crumbly, and I hoped it would give way beneath him, but no such luck. It might have done if he’d been of an ordinary size.
“You’ll pay for that!” he screamed, shaking a fist at me. “The night soldiers will start by killing your damn dog! I hope they don’t kill you! I want to watch Red Molly rip your guts from your belly in the Fair One!”
I drew the .45, but before I could shoot at him （given the distance I would almost certainly have missed）， he gave another of his ugly screams, tumbled backward into a window with his little arms clasping his little knees to his little chest, and was gone.
“Well,” I said to Radar, “that was exciting, wasn’t it? What do you say we get the hell out of here?”
Radar barked once.
“And drop that piece of his pants before it poisons you.”
Radar did, and we went on. As we passed the window through which Peterkin had disappeared, I kept an eye out for him, hoping he’d appear like a target in a shooting gallery, but no luck on that, either. I guess cowardly fucks like him don’t give you a second chance… but sometimes （if the fates are kind） you get a third one.
I could hope for that.
CHAPTER NINETEEN The Trouble with Dogs. The Pedestal. The Graveyard. The Outer Gate.
1
The trouble with dogs （supposing you don’t beat or kick them, of course） is they trust you. You’re the food-giver and shelter-provider. You’re the one that can fish the squeaky monkey out from beneath the couch with one of your clever five-fingered paws. You are also the love-giver. The problem with that kind of unquestioning trust is that it carries a weight of responsibility. Mostly that’s okay. In our current situation it was anything but.
Radar was clearly having the time of her life, practically bouncing along beside me, and why not? She was no longer the old half-blind German Shepherd I’d had to haul, first in Dora’s cart and then in the basket behind Claudia’s oversized trike. She was young again, she was strong again, she’d even had the chance to rip out the seat of a nasty old dwarf’s pants. She was easy in her body and easy in her mind as well. She was with the food-giver, the shelter-provider, the love-giver. All was awesome sauce in her world.
I, on the other hand, was struggling against panic. If you’ve ever been lost in a big city, you’ll know. Except here there was no friendly stranger I could ask for directions. And here the city itself had turned against me. One street led to another, but each new street led only to dead ends where gargoyles leered down from great blind buildings I’d swear hadn’t been there when I turned around to check for Peterkin slinking along in our wake. The rain slackened to a drizzle, but my view of the palace was often blocked by buildings that seemed to grow the moment I looked away, cutting off the view.
And there was something worse. When I was able to glimpse the palace, it always seemed to be in a different place than the one I was expecting. As if it were moving, too. That could have been a fear-driven illusion—I told myself so again and again—but I didn’t completely believe it. The afternoon was passing, and every wrong turn reminded me that dark was approaching. The fact was simple and stark: thanks to Peterkin, I had entirely lost my bearings. I almost expected to come upon a candy house where a witch would invite me and my dog—me Hansel, her Gretel—inside.