Over the next couple of weeks, however, Kipp discovered he was a dog who loved stories. He was unable to play dumb dog any longer.
20
You again.
As Woody considered those ominous words, his mouth flooded with saliva, as if maybe he was going to throw up, his heart pounded, and he felt as if the o in You was an eye that stared at him without blinking.
They couldn’t be looking at him. For one thing, he had a piece of painters’ tape over the camera in his computer. Besides, he had spoofed to them through multiple exchanges; and there was no way that they could track him to source in the short amount of time that he had been on their site today.
The two words blinked off the screen, and letters appeared from left to right, as if someone was texting him: Y-o-u a-r-e n-o-t . . .
Woody watched with growing horror as the message completed: You are not Alexander Gordius.
They couldn’t know all the exchanges through which he’d jumped to get there, couldn’t know his origin, not this fast, but they knew whose account he had hijacked to visit them.
Those words blinked off the screen, and four more appeared letter by letter: we will find you.
He bailed out of the site, dropped off the internet, switched off his computer. He wheeled his chair backward, crawled into the knee space of his workstation, and pulled the computer plugs, though that precaution seemed both unnecessary and pointless.
The security program at Tragedy evidently monitored the origin of each visitor to the site. And if someone visited but had no password to enter, the program apparently issued an alert to the effect that they might be the target of a fishing expedition by someone not on their client list. He had gone to the site twice before. Although months had passed between those contacts and his third visit today, their security system had been lying in wait for him.
Okay.
All right.
Stay cool. No reason to sweat it. No problemo. Zip, zero, nada. In such a short time, they can’t possibly have tracked him to source through a series of nine exchanges. Anyway, he had used a few other deceptions to cover his trail. And he would never, never, never go back there.
Sweat broke out on his brow, and nausea rolled through him. He needed something to settle his stomach. A Coca-Cola. That was all he needed, a Coca-Cola, and then he’d feel all right.
21
Kipp in the kingdom of the Hater.
Stitched on the pocket of the man’s khaki uniform shirt was the name Frank.
He had a black mustache and eyebrows almost thick enough to be two more mustaches. His eyes were hard little green marbles.
Frank smelled not only of hatred but also of garlic, verbena aftershave, coconut-scented hand sanitizer, antiperspirant, and ChapStick, among other things.
His work shoes exuded the odor of fresh human urine, suggesting that when he had most recently peed, he’d not at first aimed well.
In addition to a metal desk and two visitor chairs and an office chair and file cabinets, the front room of the cabin contained a grizzly bear.
The life-size sculpture had been carved out of a log. The seven-foot-tall bear stood on its hind feet, arms reaching, teeth bared.
The bruin looked so fierce that Kipp whimpered even though he knew it wasn’t real.
Evidently out of concern that the grizzly would topple over in a quake and crush someone, two steel rods extruded from its back and were bolted to the wall.
Frank the Hater tied Kipp’s leash to one of those rods.
Pretending meek submission, Kipp settled at the feet of the bear and sighed as if with resignation.
In fact, he was waiting patiently for an opportunity to escape.
Dogs were the most patient creatures on the planet. They passed their lives waiting for their humans to walk them, play with them, cuddle them.
No matter how attentive their people were, dogs spent more time waiting than doing.
Which was okay. Humans were busy, with more responsibilities than dogs would ever have. Most dogs.
Frank the Hater went around behind his desk and sat in his chair and plucked the handset from his phone. He keyed in a number.
When someone answered, the Hater said, “I have us a good one, Fred. He’s a golden, maybe from pure stock. Looks like a show dog.”
After a listening pause, Frank continued. “Didn’t have to nab him from anyone. He’s a stray.”