What the Mastiff Was Hiding

The door slammed wide and struck the wall hard enough to rattle the surgical cabinets.

Mark filled the opening, chest heaving. His torn polo clung to him beneath sweat, grit, and flecks of broken glass.

His gaze skipped over us and landed on the X-ray display. The white rectangle inside Brutus’s stomach held him motionless for one awful second.

Then his mouth curled with a satisfaction that made my skin crawl.

“I knew it,” he murmured, squeezing the tire iron. “Sarah put it in the animal.”

His eyes remained on that bright shape. “I dug through the farm. I ripped open walls. I went through every safe-deposit box she ever used.”

He took another step into the suite. “And it was in the yard all along.”

“Police are already on the way,” I said, planting myself between Mark and Brutus’s table.

“No, they aren’t.” Mark’s answer came calmly. “I know how long this town takes.”

He gave a thin smile. “Davis is the only unit covering this side of the river, and he is at the precinct.”

“That gives me four minutes.”

The bar rose in his hand while his attention returned to Brutus. “Move, maintenance man.”

“Or I’ll split your head before I cut that capsule out of the dog.”

Above us, the fluorescent fixtures sputtered. Their hum rose into an angry electrical buzz.

Every light went dead at once.

For a heartbeat, the surgical suite vanished into complete blackness.

Battery lamps kicked in almost immediately, staining the room with a weak yellow wash that made everything look diseased.

Mark blinked and faltered under the abrupt change. It was barely a pause, but it was enough.

I had no chance of beating him in a fight, so I reached for the loaded metal tray on the rolling instrument cart.

I flung it at him with everything I had.

Scalpels, forceps, and surgical shears burst across his chest in a clattering spray. Mark swore and lurched backward into the hall, shielding his face.

“Rear door!” I shouted to Dr. Aris.

I dragged Brutus down from the table. His huge body landed heavily, yet fear and adrenaline got him moving beside us.

Dr. Aris raced for the emergency exit and drove her shoulder into the crash bar.

The steel door flew outward, and we spilled from the dim clinic into the blazing humidity behind the building.

Sunlight stabbed my eyes after the darkness. I blinked furiously, gripping Brutus’s battered collar as the alley came into focus.

“My car’s across the street,” Dr. Aris said, pointing toward the alley mouth. Panic sharpened every word. “We can reach it.”

“No.” I stopped so suddenly that Brutus nearly pulled past me.

Mark’s black SUV sat sideways across the alley entrance, sealing off the street. Its engine ran, rumbling low between the brick walls.

He had not abandoned it there by accident. Before entering the clinic, he had made certain our escape route was blocked.

What froze me, though, was the rear driver-side door hanging open.

“Maya,” I breathed.

I released Brutus and sprinted toward the idling SUV. Mark had forced his daughter into that vehicle at the park less than an hour earlier.

If she was still inside, I had to get her out before he reached us.

I reached the open door and looked into the rear compartment.

There was nobody on the backseat.

The leather seats had been folded flat, exposing the cargo space. A thick blue tarp covered it from side to side.

On the tarp lay an unopened fifty-pound bag of quicklime, a steel shovel carrying fresh mud, and a coil of heavy nylon rope.

Beside the shovel rested a small pink backpack, dirt-smudged and unmistakable. It was Maya’s.

“Where is she?” Dr. Aris asked behind me. Brutus leaned against her leg as she stared into the SUV and lifted a hand to her mouth.

The answer struck with sickening force. Mark had not taken Maya home, and he had not left her safely anywhere.

Maya had freed Brutus from his chain. Maya had found the hidden place. She knew enough about what her father had done to become dangerous to him.

He had come for Sarah’s evidence, but he was also trying to erase every living thing that could connect him to Sarah’s murder.

Steel scraped brick behind us, slow and deliberate.

Mark stepped from the clinic doorway into the alley, dragging his tire iron along the wall. “I’m not walking away without what belongs to me.”

We could not retreat into the clinic. Mark had broken through its front and forced his way into the surgical area; its dark interior would turn into a trap.

Mark kept advancing through the alley while the idling SUV sealed the only path to the street.