Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 38, No. 13, Mid-December 1993

Rube felt a flush of curiosity, then a flash of apprehension as he saw the human hand. The dog was big, a yellowish Labrador, and even from where Rube stood in the waves, he could tell the dog was careworn. His tail was ringed with scabs, as if some greater animal had taken small chunks along the way, had chewed the tail when the Lab wasn’t looking. It gave the tail a diseased look, like some aging raccoon that was losing its fur. The dog stood on the shore, but Rube could still clearly see the human hand. The big Lab had it between his teeth as if worrying a snack, and he was trying to pull the hand from a huge clump of greenish seaweed. Rube could tell the dog was a he, too, the dog all spraddle-legged like that, and Rube shook his head at the observation, wondering why, at times of stress, he always noticed things like that. It was a character flaw, he felt. One he’d always had. If there was a terrible accident in the street, he would not only see the accident but all the attendant sights and sounds on the periphery. He’d see the car make, the color, the license plate number. He’d remember later the kind of day: cloudy or bright, approximate air temperature, number of clouds. Everyone else would be screaming, “Oh my God, the blood!” and good old Rube would be checking out the details. Inside, Rube thought, where no one could see. There was something wrong with him. He had no real compassion, perhaps, for humanity and its tragedy.

Rube splashed toward the dog. As he did, his focus frayed again and he saw: almost deserted beach, one flock of gulls a hundred yards down picking over some trash; a sky misty with alto cumulus; a sun melting through the clouds, still rising toward zenith; and a breeze softly tossing more trash along... the breeze plucked at the sweat on his forehead.

The dog saw Rube coming. He growled around the hand, then started to back, with the hand still in his mouth. The clump of seaweed shifted slightly.

“Easy now,” Rube said, splashing up on the sand, “easy boy,” as though he were trying to settle a big horse that was about to buck. Hell, the dog was big as a horse. But that wasn’t the real reason — that wasn’t the real fear. Rube was trying to settle himself because he didn’t want to see what the dog had — not really. From a distance this was all very interesting, but from up close there was a chance it would get gruesome. Worse, it might interfere with Rube’s new life. If what was attached to that human hand was a human body, then he’d be involved. And he hadn’t come to the coast of California to get involved. He’d come here to retire.

The big dog lowered his head, as if to hide the contents of his mouth.

“Don’t you swallow that!” Rube shouted.

The dog’s eyes were big and white and they seemed to turn in the great head and accuse him.

“Drop it, now!”

But the dog didn’t. He pulled instead, a muscle-wrenching heave of a pull that suddenly exposed a white arm. The rest of the body was tangled up in the big clump of green seaweed, and Rube told himself he couldn’t really see. Couldn’t really see the white, bare shoulder, and exposed breast, and the big gaping hole.

Rube turned away and put his hands on his shaky knees. “Ah, Jesus Holy Jehoshaphat.”

His arms shook, and the sweat spilled down his forehead. Salty, it burned its way down his face like a track of guilty tears.

He could hear the dog worrying the hand, a small whimper through his large white teeth. Rube realized he’d bitten his own lower lip so hard the blood ran down his chin. He ran the tip of his tongue over the spot, licking it back like a wounded animal. He felt wounded.

But alive. And breathing.

The body tangled in the seaweed was not. The body tangled in the kelp was way past any thought or consideration for such mundane physical needs.

How to get the dog away?

Rube straightened and wiped the smear from his chin. He stomped toward the dog, big splashing steps in the sand. Pebbles flew, but the dog stayed. Whimpering.

“You gotta let go of that,” Rube begged.

The dog growled around the fingers of the hand.

Rube backed off and picked through the sand until he had a neat handful of sharp stones. He started pegging them at the yellow Lab. The first fell short. Rube grimaced and bore down and fired the next, hard, at the dog’s flank. The dog yelped, hitching sideways, but he held onto the hand. The dog seemed to grin around the shredded flesh like some demon from hell. Rube started throwing rocks as fast as he could: one, two, three, striking the dog along the body; and finally, the dog romped sideways, dropping the shredded hand. He stood with his big head hanging, looking back as if mournful over his loss.

“Just stay now — just stay.” Rube waggled his finger at the dog, and the dog dropped to his haunches. Still whimpering. Still looking mournfully at the body.