Billy Povich: Loot The Moon Part 20

Some little electronic device, made of hard plastic, about the size of a cellular phone, but not as heavy. What the h.e.l.l was this thing? A small compartment in the back held two alkaline AAA batteries. A plastic clip on the object was meant to attach to something, though it was too narrow to snap onto a belt.

The front of the device-if he a.s.sumed the batteries were in the back-showed a small silhouette of a dog stamped above four letters: F.I.D.O.

"Cute," Scratch said aloud.

He repacked the item in bubble wrap and checked the envelope for a return address-none.

"Huh."

Somebody must have sent Scratch the wrong item from an Internet auction. He opened his laptop to check his recent auction bids, then changed his mind. No, what probably had happened, he decided, was that some seller Scratch had patronized in the past had crisscrossed his records, and had sent Scratch an item meant for another customer. And the poor buyer had paid for express s.h.i.+pping, too.

"What a b.u.mmah!" he said.

Scratch put the doohickey aside-maybe he could resell it later.

He realized he had forgotten to search the apartment.

Gripping a twenty-inch hunk of steel m.u.f.fler pipe as a club, Scratch poked in the closest, peered under the bed, and-oh G.o.d, yes!-peeked behind the d.a.m.n shower curtain. For good measure, he looked inside the dresser. Not that anyone could fit in his underwear drawer, but, in theory, a person could cut out the drawers with a power saw, and then conceal himself inside the empty sh.e.l.l.

Nope, just underwear in there.

He was alone.

He left the club on the nightstand, then locked the dead bolt, engaged the chain lock, and shoved the dresser against the door.

He fell backward onto the bed and exhaled a deep breath polluted with fear. That calmed him.

Finally, for this evening, peace.

The pressing sense of doom hit Scratch around 4 a.m. The feeling was not like somebody had dumped a load of bricks on his chest, more like someone had piled the bricks on him one at a time, until he could not sleep, and hardly could breathe. He stared at the clock until 4:16, then got out of bed and pulled on his jeans. He hated these ambiguous bouts of paranoia but had learned to listen to them. He knew that if he did not get up and be sure he was safe, he would not sleep again this morning.

With the m.u.f.fler pipe in hand, he repeated his in-house intruder check: closet, under the bed, shower stall, dresser. Other than a c.o.c.kroach under the bed, which he whacked dead with the pipe and left there as an example for the others, he was alone.

He slid the frilly window curtain aside and looked out to the parking lot. Nothing unusual. His car was where he had parked it. He saw n.o.body in the predawn gray. m.u.f.fled truck traffic had already begun to hum around the airport.

Everything seemed normal. Everything seemed exactly like the day before, and the day before that.

Well, not everything.

He dumped the little doohickey out of the envelope in which it had arrived. This was the only thing different from the day before.

He read the letters on the device. "Fido, eh? What the h.e.l.l are you, fido?"

Scratch flipped open his laptop and powered it on. He plugged the modem cable into the wall and dialed into the Internet. He had no accounts with a service provider, but he had bought a dozen log-in names and pa.s.swords from a guy in a bar, and they had proven useful. As long as the rightful owner of the account was not currently logged in, Scratch usually could get online for free.

Using a dial-up Internet connection was breathtakingly slow compared to the broadband line at the public library. Scratch tried to be patient, but using the outdated technology was like crossing the country in a covered wagon. The antic.i.p.ation increased the pressure on his chest. He ma.s.saged his breastbone. Finally, the machine gave him a solid connection and a search site.

Scratch typed the keywords: "F.I.D.O." and "dog" and "batteries."

Click.

After another minute of waiting, he had his answer: F.I.D.O. Inc. was the name of a high-tech company in Ma.s.sachusetts. Its logo was the silhouette of a German shepherd. The acronym stood for Find Intrepid Dogs Online. The company Web page gave a sales pitch: Your answer to lost pets!

The F.I.D.O. Global Positioning System device attaches easily

to your dogs collar.

Shock tested and water resistant.

The F.I.D.O. unit sends out a silent signal detected by GPS

satellites anywhere in America.

The system allows you to easily pinpoint the location

of your lost pet through our Web site.

Accurate to 30 feet!

No more calls to the pound. No more "lost dog" posters.

Get F.I.D.O. for your pet and sleep soundly tonight!

Scratch read the advertising again. He grabbed the device. What the h.e.l.l ... ?

A GPS locator beacon?

And it already had the batteries ... .

A chill combed over his skin.

"Oh, no."

Its ... G.o.dd.a.m.n ... turned ... on.

"f.u.c.k!" he cried.

He threw down the device like a hot hunk of charcoal, grabbed the pipe, and bashed F.I.D.O. to S.H.I.T.

He hit it five more times than necessary, and then dropped the weapon and crushed his fists into his eyes. They were onto him! How could Scratch have let this happen? He slapped his open hand on his forehead.

Slap. Slap. Slap.

"Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!" he berated himself.

Okay, stop hitting your own head and f.u.c.king THINK!

No time to waste. This motor lodge would be his tomb.

Gotta go!

He stripped a pillowcase and dashed around the room, ransacking the place, stuffing his valuables in the bag in a panic, as if he were robbing himself. As he gathered his essentials, he thought ahead.

Time for Plan B.

Drive!

One-half tank of gas in the car. Not a problem. Can always gas up on the interstate. With the seasons growing colder and winter on the way, he would head south.

No! Thats what theyd be expecting.

Haaaa-ha-ha! Scratch would drive north.

Not so far as Canada-no sense trying to cross an international border in a junkyard car with bogus plates.

How bout Maine! Whats that rhyme? The rain in Maine is wetter than Spain. Or something like that. Whatever! He would go to Maine, way up there, near the Arctic Circle for Christs sake, past Bar Harbor, to the frozen tundra where the tourists rarely trod.

Thats untamed land, where a man could find a fresh start, shoplifting from department stores and selling s.h.i.+t on the Internet.

Scratch heaved the dresser out of the way, threw open the locks, and ran out with a Santa sack of his own stuff over his back.

The Fords door opened with a meow and Scratch heaved the pillowcase to the pa.s.sengers side. Remember to drive the speed limit, he reminded himself. Dont get pulled over for bad plates. The keys jingled. His hands would not stop shaking. He pumped the gas and stabbed the key at the ignition.

The rope was a blur.

It came from behind, slipped quickly before his eyes, then clamped tight above his Adams apple.

He didnt have time to scream. The rope tightened around his throat and choked his scream back down.

Scratch pulled and writhed against the rope that strangled. He kicked his feet and flailed his arms, bashed his elbow against the window, tried to twist away, but the rope just cinched tighter around his neck. He picked desperately at the rope with his fingernails and ravaged his own skin. The man choking him from the backseat breathed heavily in his ear. The gurgle Scratch heard was from his own throat. In the mirror he saw the eyes of his attacker, those dead gray eyes from the shower.

How G.o.dd.a.m.n stupid. Always check the backseat.

Scratch smelled rubber, asphalt, and oil. His cheek rested on a tire. A spare tire? He was in blackness, folded up in the trunk of a car.

My car, by the sound of it.

The engine wound dangerously high. They were going fast.

His chest made a wet whistling as he inhaled. His damaged windpipe seared with pain. His hand explored the damage, found his throat, burned raw, and the rope coiled around it. He fingered the cord around his neck. Nothing but nylon clothesline rope. Probably cost twenty cents a yard. Something youd hang your wet knickers on.

He knew there would be no negotiating when the car stopped. He could not speak, nor fight, nor hope for escape. He could not even lift his head from the tire. Why had he even woken up? These extra moments of consciousness were unnecessary, he thought, even cruel. Only by accident did Scratch still live, and not for long. The attacker had one reason to be driving the car.

To dump the body.

Scratch faded out again.

If he dreamt, he did not remember. A car door slammed and the vibrations woke him. The engine was off. He heard the crash of waves. Gulls squawked. They were at the beach.

Footsteps circled the car. They sounded hollow. Like a man walking on a dock.

Scratch heard a grunt and a low "Eeeeee!" Someone strained himself against a heavy load.

He felt slight movement and heard the wheels grind forward. The footsteps followed behind the car. They got faster and faster, until they became the sound of running. Why was he pus.h.i.+ng the sedan? Had they run out of gas?