Note: I'm really sorry, but this chapter is going to have to be short. If I wrote any more, it would spoil the surprise of the chapters to come.
"And that was what happened," Cora finished in a shaking voice, her cup and saucer rattling in her quivering hands.
Mort gazed at her inquisitively. "Mhmm. All right, that's all I wanted to know," he replied with an encouraging grin. A steady hand aided her in placing the clattering cup and saucer on the cherry oak coffee table. "Can I just take a look at your arms one last time?"
The house cleaner sighed. "Mort, if I were going to commit suicide, I would have been dead LONG before you came home. Now, if you'd excuse me, I'd like to clean up this huge mess I made. After all, it's my job."
"Let me help you."
"If you help me, don't pay me."
White took up her rag and headed for the path of blood that seemed to have drifted away from the river form and creep into each crack of the hardwood flooring. Rainey followed close behind with an old t-shirt. She spun around for a moment to impede him from assisting her, but seeing as he had not paid much consideration to what was in front of him, he advanced and collided with the delicate frame of the young woman. He tripped frontward, she toppled backwards, and as he landed on top of her, the door flung open and the profile in the entryway froze, hesitant of how to respond.
"Errr…Did I come at the wrong time, Mort?"
Without getting up, Morton peered at the silhouette in the doorway. "Uh…No, actually, you didn't.
"What is that all over the floor? Is that blood!"
"No, no. It's, uh…"
"It's wine," Cora interjected. "As a matter of fact, it's my fault."
"Yeah," the author agreed. "But I really think it was my fault."
"Okay. Should I just pick up the story later…?"
"No. You can come in and get it from my desk. Don't mind us."
"Who is that?" Cora hissed in Mort's ear as the visitor passed without a second glance at the two on the floor.
"My publisher."
"Why can't you get off of me?"
Mort brandished a massive, roguish smirk. "Because I like it here."
She snorted and gazed up at him, pulling off his broad frames. "Well, you're going to have to get off…And I think you should start wearing contact lenses, or at LEAST get a fresh pair of specs. These are sort of…Nerdy," she plainly told him before giving him a vigorous jostle. He tumbled over to the side.
"Nerdy? …NERDY! Is that all you can say to me?" he snapped, combating a modest smile. His voice went high-pitched, as to poke fun at her. "Oh, Morton, darling, you should get a fresh pair of spectacles. Those are nerdy."
He had anticipated a laugh or a giggle, but the girl's eyes appeared fixated upon something other. He followed her gaze out onto the driveway. She turned to him. "Isn't that your dog?"
"…What dog?"
"You only have pictures of him all over the place."
"OH! Y' mean Chico?"
"Yeah. He's out there," she stated blankly, with an airy tone. A slender finger indicated.
"Cor, nothin's out there."
"Yes, there is. Chico's out there. How could you let your own puppy sit out there in the cold?"
The publisher came romping down the stairs. With a leap over Cora, he fled out the door. "See ya, Mort!"
"Bye, Rob!"
The maid released an ear piercing screech. "MORT! HE'S GOING TO RUN OVER THE DOG! MORT! STOP HIM!" she hastily screamed, seizing her companion by the shoulders and shaking some sense into him.
He peered into her eyes…A rabid wolf, perhaps. There was a fire in her eyes that leapt up and devoured the normality of its host. Not dissimilar to that of an infected animal. Had she been bitten?
"CORA. CALM DOWN. There is nothing out there. CHICO IS DEAD. Shooter killed him."
"But he's RIGHT THERE!"
Concerned, Rainey took her up and placed her on the couch. "You're still in shock. That's all. Take a nap. Naps always do the trick."
"I think you're suffering from more than just schizophrenia, Morton. Your DOG is sitting behind the tire of a Chevy 4X4 that's about to back up, and you're telling me that Shooter killed him."
"Sleep, Cora. Just sleep."
"I'M TELLING YOU, YOU'RE GOING TO BE SORRY!"
"C-C-Cora! SLEEP! I'll take care of it! I'll go check on him, okay?"
She nodded and pulled a blanket over herself, now quieted by the fact he was going to let the dog inside…If he were still alive.
Mort trudged out the door, shuddering from the spontaneous burst of disturbed shouting. Psh. There was no dog. Chico was long dead by now. He kicked up dirt as he walked along the road, following what appeared to be a fluid leakage from Rob's truck. "Better go call 'im up and let him now before something bad happens..." he pondered, still following the trail of moist dirt. For a moment he peered up into the gray sky, and stumbled into the dust as he was again, not giving his attention to what should have been given attention. Out of curiosity, he looked over his shoulder to see what had tripped him. A lump. Just a lump in the road. ...Freaking litter bugs. He hauled his body up and followed his track, only to find that it no longer existed.
The lump wriggled. The wind? There was no wind. It twitched again. It snorted, and fell limp again. Morton proceeded towards it with all prudence. A silver pendant on a black collar caught his eye. It was a dog. His heart sank. Cora, as always, was accurate. She must have thought it was Chico for the reason that it perhaps looked reminiscent to Chico. How could Rob have not taken note of it?
Now crouching near it, the man inspected it. The corpse was horrible. It was a young dog, beautiful pelt, probably adorable little eyes...But the fleshy tissue had been worn to shreds on the reverse side it laid on, exposing dark red meat and a defined ribcage embellished with thousands of tiny blue and purple veins. Its purple intestine had been drawn out quite a few feet, and the flies had already begun gathering. The most he could do, he felt, was inform the agonizing owner about his or her dead puppy. His fingers ran over the soft fur and it reached for the tag. He plucked it off and peeked, just interested in whose dog it could have been.
Without any sort of last emotion, Mort swaggered back, his eyes fluttering shut, and his conscience leaving him.
The tag flew out of his hand and slid across the dirt:
"CHICO RAINEY"