Agnes kicked the gun into the housekeeper’s room and peered at the guy, trying to catch her breath. When he didn’t move, she backed up to grab the phone off the counter. “Some guy just showed up here with a gun and tried to take Rhett,” she told Joey, breathing hard. “ But it’s okay, I’m not angry.” Miserable little rat-faced jerk.

“Where is he?”

“On the floor, across the hall doorway. He knocked himself out. I have to-”

“Get the hell out of there,” Joey said, sounding like he was on the move. “Take Rhett with you.”

“I can’t get out, the guy’s lying across the hall door. If I climb over him, he’ll come to and grab me. I have to call-”

“Get out the back door-”

“I can’t, Doyle’s got it blocked with screen and boards. I have to hang up and call nine-one-one.”

“No,” Joey said, and she heard the screen door to the diner slap shut on his end of the phone. “No cops. I’m comin’ over.”

“What do you mean, no cops? I-”

The dognapper stirred.

“Wait a minute.” Agnes put the phone on the counter and held the frying pan at the ready, hands shaking, as she craned her neck to look closer at the dognapper.

Young, just a teenager. Short. Skinny. Limp, dirty dark hair. Stupid, because if he’d had any brains, he’d have grabbed Rhett when he went out for his nightly pee. And now that he was unconscious, pretty harmless looking. She probably outweighed him by thirty pounds.

As she calmed down, she could hear Dr. Garvin’s voice in her head.

How are you feeling right now, Agnes?

Well, Dr. Garvin, I am feeling a little angry that this punk broke into the house with a gun and threatened my dog.

And how are you handling that anger, Agnes? I never touched him, I swear. The boy opened his eyes.