Shivers 7 Read Free Page B

trapped inside. Bill’s thinking that if there’s an air pocket in there, the dog might still be okay.
    Just then the bag bobs in the water. Movement. That means the dog’s still alive. At least right now it is... and right now Bill’s just ten feet away.
    He raises his head for another breath, then keeps on stroking. Behind him he hears Jason splashing along in his wake. Jason’s not much of a swimmer—he’s a big kid, already has a set of shoulders that tell you he’ll end up playing football in high school.
    If he lives that long , Bill thinks. And just that quick he shakes the idea out of his head. Because he’s really not thinking of Jason at all. He’s really thinking of Cheryl Ann Rose.
    He won’t do that now.
    Not when he’s so close.
    Not when he’s right there .
    Bill grabs the bag and starts treading water. The bag’s not very big at all. He rolls onto his back, pulls the bag up on his belly and holds it there with his hands. He glances at Jason behind him, just to be sure his friend is okay. Once he’s certain of that, he starts kicking toward shore, doing a modified backstroke.
    He kicks through clutches of spidery plants that scrape at him from the mucky bottom, and he doesn’t think of the drowned girl’s hands once. Instead he tells himself that he’s going to keep kicking until he hits that little scab of beach on the other side of the lake.
    Bill feels other legs kicking, too.
    They’re kicking against his chest.
    The dog in the bag. It’s still alive.
    Bill hears it whimper. The poor thing must be terrified.
    He swims on, advancing through the cold dark water.
    He doesn’t make a sound.

    * * *

    Bill’s been on shore for a couple minutes, the open bag at his feet, when Jason comes slogging out of the water onto the little beach.
    “All right!” Jason says. “The dog’s okay!”
    Bill doesn’t say anything. Jason’s right, of course. The rust-colored terrier is fine. The runty pooch barks and wags its nub of a tail. It’s soaked straight through, shivering on little chopstick legs while it trots around in shadows cast by a couple of old oak trees. But Bill isn’t looking at the dog. He’s looking at the canvas bag—
    “Hey, Bill, are you okay?”
    Bill doesn’t answer, because he’s got the pocket knife he used to open the bag in one hand, but in his other hand he clutches a tangle of colored ribbon that had sealed the bag.
    He hadn’t noticed the ribbon when he first grabbed the bag out there in the lake. He’d been too intent on getting the dog to shore safely. But he notices it now, because a good detective has to be observant. There are two intertwined strands of ribbon, royal purple and dark valentine red, the kind of stuff you get at the five-and-dime when you want to wrap up a present. The ends of the ribbon have been scored with a pair of scissors or a knife, making curlicues that wrap around Bill’s fingers. He can’t imagine why someone who wanted to drown a dog would use gift ribbon to close up the bag, or why they’d score that ribbon with curlicues. He can’t imagine why the man who threw the dog in the lake would do that, but the fact that he did scares Bill, even though he really can’t explain why.
    Jason sweeps the mutt into his arms. The pooch nuzzles under his chin with its nose, then licks his cheek, and Jason can’t help but laugh while he scratches the dog behind one ragged ear.
    “Hey,” Jason says. “This mutt’s got a tag.”
    And he’s right. There’s a leather collar around the dog’s neck, with a silver tag dangling from it. Jason sets the dog on the ground. Bill kneels, takes the tag in his hand, and reads one side:

    MY NAME IS:
    RED ROVER

    And then the other:

    I BELONG TO:
    CHERYL ANN ROSE
    (707) 641-8734

    Bill swallows hard. He lets go of the tag. Red Rover barks happily, wags that nub of a tail and nuzzles Bill’s hand, then barks again.
    Bill stares down at the wet mutt. He’s Cheryl Ann Rose’s dog. Cheryl Ann drowned