When the guest bedroom door was shut, Fiji said, “I’m afraid he’ll try to get her out there to kill herself tonight.”
“Olivia and I will take turns watching,” Lemuel said. Despite that reassurance, Fiji was awake for most of the night, listening for sounds of movement in her house. She got up very early, and quietly made breakfast, thinking it was the least she could do. Now, she felt vaguely guilty, though leaving might save Kiki’s life. She put on a pot of coffee and left biscuits and jelly on the table. When she glimpsed Kiki going into the bathroom, Fiji went into her own room to make her bed and pull on some clothes. Then she sat and waited, identifying each noise Kiki made until she heard the good-bye sound of suitcase wheels. After the back door slammed, Fiji emerged and watched out the back window as Kiki slung her suitcase into her backseat and got into the car herself.
It was a profound relief, in many ways, to see the car pull onto Witch Light Road. Kiki turned south at the light, and Fiji hoped she was on her way back to Houston.
11
Rasta ran away that afternoon. The little Peke had been acting oddly the past few days, growling at nothing and barking at shadows. Despite all the extra petting and reassurances Joe and Chuy lavished on the dog, his atypical behavior accelerated. Rasta refused to go for his walk on the Midnight streets; he tugged and tugged until Joe or Chuy took him out behind the shop.
The two men were baffled. Rasta had always enjoyed visiting the other people of Midnight, who often had dog treats to offer him. (Though the hospitable Fiji was not on Rasta’s visiting list, because Mr. Snuggly would seldom permit Rasta to come into the yard.) The hotel residents had quickly become favorites, but now Joe could not even drag Rasta over to see them.
The morning Kiki drove away, Chuy had to carry the dog down the steps from the apartment and then turn left instantly to take Rasta into the backyard, which they’d never succeeded in turning green. As soon as Rasta was empty, he’d demanded to be picked up again. After a windy and chilly morning had passed, Joe opened the door of the Antique Gallery and Nail Salon, intending to sweep off the sidewalk.
To Joe’s shock and astonishment, Rasta suddenly darted out past him. Hampered by the broom, Joe could not lunge fast enough to stop the Peke. No one else witnessed Rasta’s mad dash, even Chuy, who was upstairs in their apartment doing ten minutes’ prep work for their evening meal.
The little brown streak dashed east, sprinting without pause across the Davy highway—thankfully, he wasn’t hit by the pickup truck slowing to a stop at the light—continuing past the pawn shop (unseen by Bobo, whose attention was on the computer) and passing Manfred’s house at only a slightly reduced speed. Manfred happened to be collecting his previous days’ mail. He dropped the bundle of envelopes and started his pursuit.
“Rasta!” he bellowed. “Stop!” Rasta, perhaps not in his right mind, did not stop. But the Peke’s little legs were tiring, and he was gradually slowing down. Rasta didn’t seem to be aware that Manfred was closing in behind him. Manfred staked everything on a flying forward tackle. He landed on the hard ground with a bone-jarring, tooth-rattling thud, but he had his hands around Rasta.
The dog bit him.
Manfred said, “Shit!” And then he said it several more times. But he didn’t let go, which he thought was quite noble, especially since he’d never had a pet as a child. He was content to lie in the dirt for a second, listening to Rasta pant and whine and yip and snap.
Or maybe, he thought, that’s me.
Manfred was relieved to hear Joe pounding up.
“Rasta,” Joe said, “BAD BOY!” Joe was a regular runner, so he wasn’t as winded as the dog and Manfred, but since Joe’d gone from zero to warp speed, he was doing a little gasping of his own.
“Can you take him, so I can get up?” Manfred said, still feeling noble.
“You’re bleeding,” Joe said. He squatted and took the Peke, holding him to his chest while all three of them recovered.
“Yeah, well.” Manfred rolled onto his stomach and then pushed up, trying not to be obvious as he inspected his hand.
“What’s the blood from?” Joe asked anxiously. He was inspecting the dog for any sign of harm, and Rasta was trembling.
“He bit me,” Manfred said bluntly.
“No!” Joe was clearly shocked to the core. “Not Rasta!”
Manfred looked down at himself. He was literally covered in dust. (It hadn’t rained in three weeks.) “Yeah, Rasta,” he said. “I hardly bit myself!” Then he was ashamed of being so put out. “Sorry, man, but it was him,” he said in a more civil tone. “He just seemed terrified. Something scare him?”