Sick Puppy by Carl Hiaasen

laughed and rolled his eyes.
    “OK,” she said, “you’re kidnapping our dog?”
    “Your husband’s dog.”
    “I want to come.”
    Of course Twilly chuckled. She couldn’t be serious.
    “I need to know what this is all about,” she said, “because I don’t believe it’s money.”
    “Please.”
    “I believe it’s about Palmer.”
    “Nice meeting you, Mrs. Stoat.”
    “It’s Desie.” She followed Twilly out to the rental car and hopped in. He told her to get out but she refused, pulling her knees to her chin and wrapping both arms around her legs.
    “I’ll scream bloody murder.
Worse
than bloody murder,” she warned.
    Twilly sat down heavily behind the wheel. What a twist of rancid luck that Stoat’s wife would turn out to be a head case. A light flicked on in the house across the street. Desie saw it, too, and Twilly expected her to start hollering.
    Instead she said: “Here’s the situation. Lately I’ve been having doubts about everything. I need to get away.”
    “Take a cruise.”
    “You don’t understand.”
    “The dog’ll be fine. You’ve got my word.”
    “I’m talking about Palmer,” she said. “Me and Palmer.”
    Twilly was stumped. He couldn’t think of anything else to do but drive.
    “I’m not very proud of myself,” she was saying, “but I married the man, basically, for security. Which is a nice way of saying I married him for the dough. Maybe I didn’t realize that at the time, or maybe I did.”
    “Desie?”
    “What.”
    “Do I look like Montel Williams?”
    “I’m sorry—God, you’re right. Listen to me go on.”
    Twilly found his way to the interstate. He was worried about McGuinn. He wondered how often the dog needed the pills, wondering if it was time for a walk.
    “I’ll let you see the dog, Mrs. Stoat, just so you know he’s all right. Then I’m taking you back home.”
    “Don’t,” Desie said. “Please.”
    “And here’s what I want you to tell your husband—”
    “There’s a cop.”
    “Yes, I see him.”
    “You’re doing seventy.”
    “Sixty-six. Now here’s what you tell Palmer: ‘A dangerous drug-crazed outlaw has kidnapped your beloved pet, and he won’t give him back until you do exactly what he says.’ Can you handle that?”
    Desie stared in a distracted way out the window.
    Twilly said: “Are you listening? I want you to tell your husband I’m a violent bipolar sociopathic lunatic. Tell him I’m capable of anything.”
    “But you’re not.”
    He was tempted to recite a complete list of personal felonies, but he thought it might freak her into jumping from the car. “I blew up my uncle’s bank,” he volunteered.
    “What for?”
    “Does it matter? A bombing is a bombing.”
    Desie said, “You’ll have to do better than that. I still don’t believe you’re nuts.”
    Twilly sighed. “What do you and Palmer talk about—politics? Television? Repression in Tibet?”
    “Shopping.” Desie spoke with no trace of shame or irony. “He’s got a keen interest in automobiles and fine clothes. Though I suppose that doesn’t count for much in your social circle.”
    “I have no social circle.”
    “And he also plays a little golf,” Desie said, “when he’s not hunting.”
    “You play golf, too?”
    “Exactly twice in my life. We’re members at Otter Glen.”
    “How nice for you,” Twilly said. “Ever see any otters out there?”
    “Nope.”
    “Ever wonder why?”
    “Not really,” Desirata Stoat said.
    Back in the motel room, McGuinn-Boodle was happy to see her. Twilly tried to play vet but the dog kept spitting out the pills. It turned into quite a comic scene. Finally Desie shooed Twilly aside and took over. She slipped one of the big white tablets under McGuinn’s tongue while she massaged his throat. Serenely the Labrador swallowed the pill. When Twilly tried to duplicate Desie’s technique, the pill came shooting out at him.
    She said, “I’d say that clinches it.”
    “No, you
cannot
come