Mr. Bowditch shrugged. To him it was a closed case, a done deal. “You’re being paranoid, Charlie. The real problem is what to do with some of the gold I still have on hand. Concentrate on that. But—”
“Be discreet, I know.”
“Discretion is the better part of valor.” He nodded sagely.
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Not a goddam thing.” Mr. Bowditch grinned. “I just felt like saying it.”
10
That night I went on Twitter and searched for Benjamin Dwyer. What I got was a bunch of tweets about an Irish composer, so I changed my search to Dwyer murder suspect. That netted me half a dozen hits. One was from the Stantonville Police Chief, William Yardley, basically congratulating himself for the quick arrest. Another was from someone who ID’d herself as Punkette 44, and like so many on Twitter, she was thoughtful and compassionate: I grew up in Stantonville, it sux. That guy Dwyer could murder everybody in it & be doing the world a favor.
But the one that interested me was from BullGuy19. He wrote: Benjy Dwyer a murder suspect? Don’t make me laugh. He’s been around Shitsville 1000 years. Should have VILLAGE IDIOT tattooed on his forehead.
I thought I’d show that one to Mr. Bowditch the next day, and suggest that if BullGuy19 was right, that would make Benjy Dwyer the perfect patsy. As it happened, I never got the chance.
CHAPTER NINE The Thing in the Shed. A Dangerous Place. 911. The Wallet. A Good Conversation.
1
I no longer had to show up at six AM to feed Radar; Mr. Bowditch was able to do it himself. But I’d gotten used to rising early, and I usually rode my bike up the hill around quarter of seven so I could take her out to do her business. After that, because it was Saturday, I thought we might go for a little stroll along Pine Street, where she always enjoyed reading the messages left on telephone poles （and leaving a few of her own）。 That day there was no walk.
When I came in Mr. Bowditch was at the kitchen table, eating oatmeal and reading a cinderblock-sized book by James Michener. I got myself a glass of orange juice and asked him how he slept.
“Made it through the night,” he said without taking his eyes from his book. Not much of a morning person was Howard Bowditch. Of course he wasn’t much of an evening person, either. Or noon, for that matter. “Rinse that glass when you’re done.”
“I always do.”
He grunted and turned a page in his cinderblock, which was called Texas. I gulped the rest of my juice and called for Radar, who came into the kitchen hardly limping at all.
“Walkies?” I said. “Radie want to go walkie-walk?”
“Jesus,” Mr. Bowditch said. “Enough with the baby talk. In human years she’s ninety-eight.”
Radar was at the door. I opened it and she picked her way down the back steps. I started to follow her, then remembered I’d need her leash if we were going to walk on Pine Street. Nor had I rinsed my juice glass. I did the glass and was heading for the peg in the front hall where the leash hung when Radar started to bark, harsh and fast and very, very loud. It was the farthest thing from her I see a squirrel bark.
Mr. Bowditch snapped his book shut. “What the fuck is up with her? You better go see.”
I had a very good idea of what was up with her, because I’d heard that sound before. It was her Intruder Alert bark. She was once more crouched down in the backyard grass, which was now much shorter and mostly poop-free. She was facing the shed, her ears laid back and her muzzle wrinkled to show her teeth. Foam flew from her mouth with each bark. I ran to her and grabbed her collar and tried to pull her back. She didn’t want to come, but it was clear she also didn’t want to go closer to the locked shed. Even with the fusillade of barks, I could hear that weird scraping, scratching sound. This time it was louder, and I saw the door moving a little. It was like a visible heartbeat. Something was trying to get out.
“Radar!” Mr. Bowditch called from the porch. “Get back here, now!”
Radar paid no attention, just went on barking. Something inside the shed hit the door hard enough for me to hear the thud. And there was a weird mewling sound, sort of like a cat but higher in pitch. It was like listening to chalk scream on a blackboard, and my arms hucked up in gooseflesh.
I got in front of Radar to block her view of the shed and moved at her, making her back up a step or two. Her eyes were wild, showing rings of white, and for a moment I thought she was going to bite me.
She didn’t. There came another of those thuds, more scratching sounds, then that horrible high-pitched mewling. Radar had had enough. She turned and fled back to the porch, showing not a single sign of a limp. She scrambled up the steps and huddled at Mr. Bowditch’s feet, still barking.