Der Hund

His attention returned to the present, though. At least for the moment, the dog had stopped howling. James was holding her close to his chest, and, though trembling—they both were trembling . . . all three of them were trembling considering the circumstances they were in; there were no really differences between one breathing soul and another in a foxhole—the dog was momentarily quiet.

James had such a look of concern—for the dog—and nervous affection in his eyes that Barnes’ ire drained from him. Yes, James was quite a delicious piece, and Barnes hadn’t had any tail in weeks. James took it, Barnes knew. He’d seen him taking it from Elliott. Barnes was hard just from looking at James and thinking about what he could do with him—what he intended to get from him. It wasn’t just Barnes who was randy for it, he knew. James had liked getting it from Elliott well enough. And Elliott had been dead for over a week now. James was ripe for wanting it. Elliott wasn’t here to give it to him and Barnes was more than willing to step in to do the honors.

The dog. The dog was key to all of this.

“There, that’s better. She has quieted down,” Barnes said. “Sorry to have growled about the noise, but it’s a bad thing we’ve got here.”