Free Wicked Angel by Taylor Caldwell

better vocabulary than kids twice your age. But you’re not going to put me off the track. We’re going to find Petti. Aren’t you worried about him at all?”
    “Sure,” said Angelo. “But I’ve looked since after lunch. Everywhere. He’ll come back when he’s ready. He’s bright, too.”
    He put his hands behind his back and looked up at his father. “I really am tired, Daddy,” he said soberly. “Why don’t you look for Petti yourself?”
    “All right,” said Mark. “But after this don’t be so careless.”
    He went toward the woods, whistling to the dog, and calling, and searching. He was a little disappointed that Angelo showed no anxiety for his pet. Mark stopped in the shade of the first trees. Of course, the little puppy had been with the family only a few days. You could not expect a boy to develop a sudden overwhelming passion for a pet in that short space of time. Love had its slow growth and maturing. But now Mark remembered that Petti himself was showing no signs of loving what Kathy called his little master.” Kathy did not like the dog; she complained over his muddy paws and his long hair. She was forever following him about with a damp cloth, and becoming angry over puppyish accidents. Mamie loved the small creature, and he was to be found more in the kitchen at her heels than anywhere else. Too, when Mark sat down the dog would run to him to be picked up and sheltered in strong arms.
    Mark frowned. Yet, he recalled, his son would pick up the dog forcibly and carry him outside to play with him. Sometimes Petti would yelp as if in pain, and when Mark stepped out the dog would race to him, trembling. “You play too roughly with him,” Mark would warn his son. “Remember, he’s still only a baby.”
    “Yes, Daddy,” Angelo would reply seriously. “I’m sorry. I was just wrestling with him.” One day, and it was only yesterday, Angelo showed his father the marks of infant teeth on his arm. The flesh had not been broken, but Kathy had become quite hysterical, and had rushed for hot water and soap and iodine and had raved about hydrophobia. Mark had winked at Angelo, and the boy had only stood there, being ministered to, and not returning the wink. “You’ve just got to train him,” Mark had said, and Angelo had nodded.
    Mark, in the shade of the woods, lit another cigarette, and carefully ground the match into the damp earth. He listened to the voices of the trees, the shy animal rustlings, the dry scuttlings. Otherwise, it was very still. Mark called quietly to the dog; he walked all through the woods, snapping his fingers and whistling. But no small bark answered him. No small feet rushed toward him. Mark went down to the country road and looked over it. Tree-patterns lay on the warm dust, but there was no sign of life anywhere. Mark crossed the road and climbed the low hill to his neighbor’s property. A little girl and boy were romping in the distance with a fine yellow and white collie. The dog, scenting him, burst into a series of friendly barks and ran toward him, and the children, laughing, followed.
    “Hello, Sally and Bobbie,” said Mark, trying to evade the leaping dog’s kisses. “Have you seen our dog, a cocker spaniel called Petti? He’s Bruce’s dog, and he’s only a puppy.”
    The children were surprised. The little blond boy said, “Has Bruce got a dog? I think I saw Bruce awhile ago, on your own land; it’s where the trees are thin. And there wasn’t any dog with him. He just stood there and looked at us.” He colored with discomfort.
    His sister, seven years old, was younger than Bobbie, and more forthright. “I guess he wanted to play with us, or something, Mr. Saint,” she said. “But we don’t play with Bruce. Not after last summer.”
    “Why not?” asked Mark, with the old dark anxiety.
    The children looked at each other, and Bobbie muttered, “Shut up!”
    “No, kids, please. I want to know. After all, Bruce is my child. Did he do something