A Snippet from Here Lies a Wicked Man

“Told you to stay home and finish your breakfast.” Booker fished a granola bar from his jeans pocket, peeled off the foil wrapper, snapped the bar in half and tossed the larger piece for Pup to catch.

The dog gulped down his treat then sat back on his haunches. Ears drooping, he whined comically.

“Give it a rest, you hairy-faced beggar. This piece is mine.” Booker bit the morsel in half and, with his free hand, ruffled the mutt’s fur.

Across the lake, sunlight glinted off a first-story window and reflected off the water. Almost time but not quite. He snapped a few more frames anyway.

After finishing the crunchy breakfast bar, Booker licked his sticky fingers then wiped them down his pants leg. He plucked a small stone from the sodden lake bank and watched the sunlight inch downward toward the pier. When it brightened a brass pelican at the foot of the steps, he lobbed the rock. It splashed through the water’s calm surface, spreading sun-sparkled ripples to lap the shore, adding movement to an otherwise static picture.

The perfect shot. This was the one Booker had set his alarm clock to catch. He triggered the remote—

Then three disasters struck like firecrackers on a string.

Pup barked and streaked toward the lake. In his eagerness to fetch, he sideswiped the tripod.

Booker grabbed for the camera. Mud-mired shoes threw him off balance. He landed on his butt, one knee wrenched painfully toward the rising sun.

The Nikon struck a rock, motor drive whirring like an angry wasp. The crunch of metal and glass made him wince.

“Hellfire, Pup!” He snatched at a clump of weeds to pull himself erect. “When I catch you, I’m going to roast you alive!”

Pup was busy paddling toward the pier, toward the wonderful thing Master had tossed for him to fetch.

The weeds tore loose in Booker’s hand.

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