Free Hellhound by Mark Wheaton

couldn’t see his own building.
    “Good-looking dog,” someone said.
    Ken glanced over and saw a woman in a tight jogging outfit nodding at Bones.
    “Yeah, but he works out like crazy, only eats organic. You know the type.”
    The woman laughed and sidled up to Ken. “You live over there?”
    “Yeah, just off Jefferson Park,” Ken replied, giving a thought to lying, but not caring enough to do so.
    “Oh, Jeez,” she replied. “Were you around for the shooting last night?”
    “Nah, that was a couple of buildings over,” Ken lied, not looking for pity.
    “That’s crazy. All those cops.”
    “Yeah, I know. Everybody in the neighborhood is freaked out,” Ken replied while looking for a way to change the subject. “Where do you live?”
    “Sunnyside, but I work here on the island. I use my lunch to do some running.”
    “Cool, where do you work?”
    She shot a thumb over her shoulder. “Psych Hospital. I swear I’m not an escapee.”
    Ken laughed. “Well, maybe we’ll get lucky and send you a couple of patients after all this sorts itself out from last night.”
    “Good thing you’ve got that dog.”
    “Good thing. I’m Ken. Dog’s name is Bones.”
    “Catherine. Well, Cathy. Nice to meet you.”
    “You, too. If I see any lunatics on the trail, I’ll be sure to send them your way.”
    “Do that,” Cathy laughed. “You know how you can tell which are the crazies?”
    “How?”
    “They just say they work at the Psych Hospital and swear they’re not escapees.”
    Ken laughed and gave her a little wave as she continued on her jog. It felt good to flirt, a reminder that, some day, he just might put his hands on a woman again. His life hadn’t allowed for much socializing of late.
    “Good boy, Bones,” he said, scratching between the dog’s ears.
    That’s when he heard the distant sirens carrying across the river.
    “Hah, can’t have more mayhem back home, can we?”
    But the shepherd just looked up him confusedly, as if giving voice to skepticism.
    “Shit, you’re right,” Ken sighed. “Way things are going, probably means the whole building’s on fire.”

VII
    U pon encountering the police still conducting interviews on the Lester case in front of the building, Ken led Bones around the block. He came up to Building 7 from the rear, taking the back stairs up to his apartment.
    “Where’d you go?” Trey asked, sprawled out on the sofa next to Becca, watching television.
    “Randall’s Island,” Ken replied. “Felt good to get out.”
    He went straight to his bedroom and, a moment later, Trey and Becca could hear him on the phone.
    “It’d just be for a couple of nights,” Ken was saying. “You have to understand how bad things are up here.”
    “Shit,” groaned Trey. “Bet he called Aunt Marta.”
    Becca held her breath. Their “Aunt Marta” was really “Great Aunt Marta” down in East Orange. Their mother’s aunt, they’d only met her a few times. That entire side of the family had functionally abandoned them years ago, down to the absence of Christmas cards, which took a couple of years to be noticed.
    Becca remembered being in Aunt Marta’s house only once. It was large and filled with grandkids when they were there, but what Becca remembered most was being made to feel like a stranger. She’d gone off to explore the upstairs, only to be corralled by an older cousin or uncle who chewed her out for going in whichever mothball-smelling guest room she’d made her way to. To make things worse, when he’d brought her downstairs, he made a big deal out of implying that he’d caught her about to steal something. That this wasn’t true in the slightest did little to assuage either Becca’s guilt or her mother’s humiliation.
    “I would not be calling if this wasn’t a life or death emergency,” Ken said. He was silent for a moment, but when he spoke again, his exasperation was on the rise. “Turn on your fucking television! It’s all over it! Whole team shot