Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 40, No. 6, June, 1995

Pressing down on the rolling hills, the humid heat caused man in general to sweat and curse but encouraged certain of the lowest forms in the ecological chain to multiply, spread, chew, and blight with primeval glee.

In the small apple orchard on the hill above the house, a masked, gloved, hatted, and freely perspiring Roback was attempting to curb their enthusiasm with his sprayer, hoping to save at least some of the season’s yield.

Overriding the hiss of the nozzle, the staccato barking of the dog echoed up the slope. He released the trigger on the wand, brushed sweat from his brow, and looked down the orchard row.

Because the two-lane macadam made a sharp turn at the corner of the fenced yard before rolling toward the horizon, he could clearly see the brown bitch at full alert at the end of the twenty foot chain anchored beside the front door of the white farmhouse, eyes fixed on two men slowly approaching along the blacktop through shimmering heat.

Giving the alarm. Her job. Too many incidents of strangers walking into a man’s house while it was unoccupied or his wife unprotected.

The dog would protect Shelley, all right. Definitely her dog, her scent alone enough to set the short tail wagging furiously.

The dog only tolerated Roback, which was fine with him. Never big on pets, he believed animals on a farm were there to earn their keep.

He pulled off the mask, unslung the heavy sprayer, and massaged his shoulder.

“Choice between us, I go,” he’d said to Shelley.

Shelley had laughed.

“Watch,” said Roback. He placed one hand on her shoulder and lifted the other. The dog was on her feet instantly, head lowered, growling.

“Now you threaten me,” he said.

Shelley raised her hand.

The dog’s ears lifted.

“Know what she’s saying?” asked Roback. “Go get him, babe. I’ll back you up.”

Shelley smiled and stroked the dog’s head, undiluted adoration in the bitch’s brown eyes at her touch.

He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, removed his hat, and drew the cloth across his balding head, wondering if the dog was so extra protective because she sensed Shelley’s disability.

Deepset eyes slitted against the sun, he watched as the men stopped at the gate, beyond the reach of the dog, feeling a touch of anger when his wife came out on the porch in her wheelchair. He’d told her countless times to stay inside, that there was no point in advertising for the benefit of those who might be looking for an edge. She’d patted the Ladysmith .38 Special he’d bought for her and grinned at him.

If he didn’t know better, he could almost believe she did it deliberately to irritate him. Stubborn woman, Shelley. Insisted on doing everything she’d done before the accident unless it was downright impossible. Wise woman, Shelley. Knew that if she allowed that disability to get the upper hand, they’d have no choice but to sell out and move on. Loved the place as much as he did. Almost as much as she loved that dog.

She rolled down the slight ramp, the dog an alert bodyguard at her side. After a short talk, the half-inch figures of the men continued along the road toward Roback, while Shelley propelled herself back into the house.

Roback slipped the slim transceiver from the holster on his belt, pressed the button, and said, “What was that all about?”

“The big one is my lover, but I told him he’d picked the wrong time because you were watching.”

“You should have told him to forget the whole thing because I’m always watching. Why are they walking in this heat?”

“They said their car broke down a half mile back and they wanted to use the phone. I told them they had my sympathy but, since they needed help, they’d be better off by walking another two miles to the service station at the crossroads.”

“More like three miles.”

“So they’ll curse the dumb broad and sweat a little more. The bugs are calling, Aphid Man. Get back to work.”

He grinned and reholstered the unit. Until he’d become smart enough to buy the transceivers, he’d run back to the house almost every hour to see if she was all right. A lot of heated arguments over that. Bless technology for bringing peace to the household.

She didn’t know it, but he planned to get her a computer, not only to ease her keeping of their financial records, but also to provide her with another link to the outside world. Farm wife in a wheelchair speeding down the information highway.

Taking a final swipe with the handkerchief and replacing his hat, he grunted as he swung the sprayer across his broad shoulders. Something made him pause before resuming spraying. He waited, watching the men come down the road toward him.

The green hills rolled away, brilliant under a cloudless sky. Far down the valley, the new medical center glistened on its hilltop perch.

No rain soon and he’d really take a licking on this year’s crop. The dog was quiet now, like the birds and insects; the only sound the slight roar from a jet leaving a contrail in the fifty-below cold at forty thousand feet.