Free Metzger's Dog by Thomas Perry

the bread truck, it writhed and twisted in midair. As it landed, the dog dashed into the horse trailer eagerly, and Immelmann closed the door.
    They pulled the trailer up the aisle, but the dog inside was silent. Immelmann beamed. “He’s strong as a man and weighs as much. He’s fast, he’s got teeth like a Rototiller, and he’s not afraid of anything that breathes.”
    “All true,” said Kepler. “Hell of a pet for a man who’s afraid his yard will be infested with cows.”
             
    T HE SUN WAS ALREADY ABOVE THE LEVEL of the ridge to the east when Chinese Gordon drove past the gate and onto the gravel drive and waited for Kepler to replace the lock. As Chinese Gordon eased the van onto the highway, the sound seemed to grow louder for a moment, then fade into the hum of the engine and the rush of the wind and the more unfamiliar rattle of the trailer. He knew the sound hadn’t gone away. He listened intently, trying to separate it from the other sounds and identify it. There was a high-pitched whine for a few seconds that seemed to go down the scale to a growl. It wasn’t too surprising that a horse trailer in a junkyard needed a grease job, maybe even needed wheel bearings. It was the shaking that worried him. Every ten or fifteen seconds he felt something happen to the horse trailer. It shook as though its weight had shifted suddenly, and that could only be trouble. He was glad when he saw they were getting close to Van Nuys, because by then he’d decided there was something wrong with the way the trailer was mounted to its axle. What it felt like was that the trailer wasn’t empty. It felt as though it had a horse in it and the horse was getting mad as hell.

9                   
When the telephone rang, Porterfield was awake and alert. His left foot pushed off on the floor and he lifted himself out of the bed carefully to keep from moving the blankets over Alice. There was a slight twinge in the left knee, a stiffness that wasn’t yet a tremor or a pain, but a reminder. Alice stirred slightly in her dream, sighed, and tugged the blanket up to her neck.
    He closed the bedroom door and lifted the receiver. “Yes?”
    “Please call in.” It was a man’s voice, the toneless, clear, quiet voice.
    Porterfield turned on the hallway light and squinted against the glare to dial the familiar number. “Benjamin Porterfield. Any messages?” He waited while the computer, somewhere in the communications center, compared the recording it had just made with the master print of his voice in the memory bank. Then the man said, “Can you be in at six?”
    Porterfield’s eyes were beginning to adjust to the light. He glanced at his watch without surprise. It was four-thirty. “Yes.” He hung up and slipped into the bedroom, leaving the door ajar to cast a sliver of light on the closet.
    He could see Alice’s shape on the bed, a small, compact lump with the covers clutched around her, her face empty and innocent of thought—a face watching the pretty pictures of a dream. Alice was becoming a little old lady, he thought, a sweet little old lady. She was nearly as old as he was, although time didn’t appear to be using her up as quickly. She seemed to feel his eyes on her and let part of herself come to consciousness to acknowledge him.
    “Ben?”
    “What?”
    “That wasn’t one of the kids?”
    “No, baby. Nothing to worry about. I just have to go in early.”
    “Trouble?”
    “No. Go back to sleep. I’ll call you later.”
    Alice sat up in bed and rubbed her eyes. “I’ll make you some breakfast.” She looked like a child in the dim light. He leaned over and kissed her cheek.
    “Thanks anyway. I’ve got to have a breakfast meeting with somebody.” He sat on the bed and put his arms around her, then gently pushed her back on the pillow. “Now go back to sleep.”
    He showered and dressed in the bathroom, trying to be as quiet as possible. It made him feel good to think of