I was pretty sure I knew where we’d find the fetch. All the clues so far pointed to one spot, but Lisa helped us confirm it when she ducked off the road and crossed into the forest. Even without knowing the area very well, I knew where she was heading.
The Bleeding Rock.
“THIS IS IT.” Lisa crouched several yards away from the ancient stone. She spoke in a breathless whisper. “The dog came this way. I saw several trails leading to and from the rock. Looks like the dog’s been coming here every night for a couple of weeks.”
“I told you!” I said. “I knew the dog had something to do with Maddie Someday!”
A thick netting of branches and hanging vines blocked our view of the stone, but I heard a shuffling and a series of quick snorts.
“It’s still up there,” I said.
The three of us crept forward—carefully!—to get a peek. Another couple of steps, and the grass and weeds gave way to dirt and withered runners. If I wanted to turn back, now was my chance. As I took another step, the chance quickly slipped away.
I saw the fetch.
Atop the Bleeding Rock stood the dog, its head tilted back as it sniffed the air. Dirt and frothy spittle matted the fur around its muzzle, eyes, and neck. Its hair rose in nasty tufts, and beneath I saw bloated gray insects—ticks—burrowing into the dog’s skin. On its side, a symbol had been branded through into its flesh, a circle with a line slashed through it, like the symbol for NO. Its eyes looked like those of a normal dog for the most part, deep set and brown, but when a sliver of moonlight swept across the dog’s face, the reflection in its eyes looked more human... and not just human, but creepy, too.
Pale blue.
“Witching eyes,” Marty said. He realized he’d spoken aloud and slapped his hand over his mouth.
The fetch snapped its head around and leaped off the stone on the other side. It crashed through the thistles and thorns on the other side of the clearing and darted through the trees.
“Way to go,” I said. “You scared it off.”
Marty shook his head in frustration.
“Where’s it going now?” he asked.
“Only one way to find out.” Lisa stepped out of hiding and searched the barren ground around the large stone. She was like a character out of
Last of the Mohicans,
picking up clues from the surroundings. She stood up, looked into the woods, and scratched her red hair as if trying to figure out a puzzle. “We’ll have to track it.”
“You can do that?” I asked.
She shot me a look that said, I can’t believe you’d even ask such a thing, then plunged through the trees gracefully, ducking under branches and skirting thorn bushes. She moved like someone more comfortable in the wilderness than indoors. She was showing off just a little, daring us to keep pace with her.
For the next fifteen minutes, we followed Lisa as she tracked the dog. She didn’t use a flashlight, and every now and then I lost sight of her completely. One second, she was right in front of me. The next, she pushed through a bank of low, lazy fog and vanished. I rushed to keep up, limping on my bum ankle, my breath catching in my throat whenever I lost track of her. A sticky sweat coated my skin. My chest ached with every breath. Then I spotted her again, her skin pale in the moonlight, her freckles like the spots of a hunting leopard. She glanced back at me, then pulled what looked like a tuft of dog’s hair from a branch.
“Give her some room,” Marty said.
Like that’s gonna be a problem.
When we finally caught up with Lisa, she crouched behind a fallen log. She held a finger to her lips, shushing us. On the other side of the downed tree waited the fetch, busy with whatever strange errand its master had commanded.
Hunched over and pawing at the ground, the fetch rooted through fallen leaves as if looking for a scrap of food. It burrowed in the moist earth, nipped thick roots between its teeth, tugging at them. It snorted and moved in a circle, sniffing the ground.
As I inched closer, my foot settled on a spindly twig.
Snap!
The dog looked up, sniffed the air, and growled. It’s floppy ears perked up. Its hair bristled. Its terrible eyes turned in our direction.
We ducked. The three of us hugged the fallen tree. I saw worm trails winding through the rotting wood. Fat, glossy beetles hid in the bark’s nooks and crannies, their antennae waving at me. A shiver raced along my spine.
The dog shuffled through the leaves, padding closer, sniffing and snorting around the fallen tree.
Lisa clutched the slingshot close to her chest, the way a baby might hold onto a security blanket. Her knuckles were white, she gripped the slingshot so tightly. The weapon wouldn’t be much use to us, not at this range, not if the fetch savagely attacked us, leaping over the tree and tearing at our flesh with its teeth and nails, all the while glaring at us with those awful eyes—
The fetch panted steadily, rapid blasts of hot air growing closer, closer.
I held my breath.
Instead of leaping over the log, the fetch growled a warning, then took off in the other direction, scurrying through the low-hanging brush.
Marty jumped up and crawled over the log.
Lisa and I stayed put, and I hissed for my cousin to wait up. He spun on his heels, annoyed and jumping from foot to foot anxiously, more like someone who needed a bathroom than someone chasing a witch’s familiar. He tossed his hands in the air.
“It’s getting away,” he whined.
“I think we should quit while we’re ahead.” Lisa popped a peppermint into her mouth, rolled it around nervously, the hard candy clicking against her teeth. “It’s getting pretty late.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“I’d like to know what the dog’s doing just as much as you,” I said, “but I think we should call it a night.”
“I can’t believe what I’m hearing.” Marty stuck a finger in his ear, making a show of cleaning it out. “We’ve got him on the run. You can’t seriously want to give up now just because you’re a little chicken.”
“I’m not scared,” I said.
“Whatever you say. Chicken.”
My ears burned. I didn’t like Marty making fun of me, especially not in front of Lisa. If he didn’t take it back—
Lisa jumped up and socked Marty in the shoulder—in the exact same spot I’d punched him earlier. He flinched and recoiled away from her.
“First of all,” Lisa said, “I don’t think we have him on the run at all. I get the feeling he just had more important things to bother with than three kids. Second of all, don’t pretend you’re not scared. I saw the look on your face. You were just as frightened as we were, but all of a sudden you want to act tough.”
Lisa’s argument had knocked some of the wind out of his sails. Marty pursed his lips and looked at me, hoping to find an ally. He raised his eyebrows.
“Don’t look at me.” I admit, standing up to the onslaught of his big, pleading eyes was tough. If I wasn’t so mad, I might have given in. “Nobody here but us chickens.”
“Fine.” Marty thumbed the flashlight’s switch, testing the batteries. “You don’t want to finish what you started, I don’t care. But I’m going after the dog, with or without you.”
“You’ll never be able to track him,” Lisa said, “not without me.”
“We’ll see, won’t we?” Marty pointed into the trees. “He went that way. It’s a start, at least.”
“Come on, Marty,” I said. “Let’s just go home.”
Marty turned and trudged after the fetch. He pointed the flashlight’s beam into the darkness. He glanced over his shoulder one last time.
I couldn’t just let him traipse off by himself, could I? I might have been angry, but I knew I couldn’t let him go alone.
“He’s so hardheaded,” Lisa said. “He’s going to get hurt.”
“If you want to go home,” I said, “I understand, but I’m going with him.”
“If I leave now,” Lisa said, “the blood of both of you will be on my hands.”
A little jolt of excitement streaked through me as she brushed by, smelling of peppermints.
“Wait up,” I called to Marty.
He kept moving, of course, stubborn old Marty, trying to prove he didn’t need or want our help. He pushed a branch away, letting it swing back, almost swatting Lisa in the face. I heard an angry growl come from Lisa’s throat as she caught him by the shoulder.
“You’re going the wrong way.” She jerked her thumb to the right. “The dog went that way.”
At first, Marty scowled at us, but his scowl gradually turned into a smile.
“I knew you guys wouldn’t let me down.”
“Ten minutes,” Lisa said, stepping past him to pick up the dog’s trail again. “No more. If we don’t find the dog by then, we go home.”
“Fine by me,” Marty said.
But ten minutes turned into fifteen, and fifteen into twenty as Marty urged us to continue the hunt. “Just a few minutes more,” Marty begged every time we were about to give up. “We’ve got to be getting close.” I started to wonder if we’d even make it back home before the break of dawn. We’d gone an awful long way from home.
Lisa must’ve had it up to her ears with tracking the fetch, but she didn’t complain about it. Finally, she held up her hand, signaling for us to stop. We waited until she waved for us to join her. We crouched down next to her. Marty almost pushed through the trees, but he suddenly jumped back, like a killer bee had buzzed a part through his hair.
Just beyond our hiding spot, the woods gave way to a clearing. A small, run down house and a couple of sheds stood between us and a paved road slicing a path through the hills. On the other side of the road, the woods rose wild once again. A gauzy curtain of late night mist crawled out of the trees on the other side of the road, gliding over the pavement and through the yard.
One of the sheds looked brand new, like it was just built, while the rest looked decayed and on the verge of collapse. The new shed’s large double doors were closed, a heavy wooden beam holding them in place.
The fetch sniffed around the building.
“Who lives here?” I asked.
Lisa and Marty looked at each other, and Marty’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed down his fear. He licked his dry lips.
And suddenly... I knew. The answer to my question popped into my head, and I didn’t like it. Only one thing—well, two things, actually—scared Marty so bad.
“Greg and Hatch Crewes,” I said.
“How’d you know?” Marty asked.
“Just a guess.”
I didn’t want to tell him his fear painted his face like clown makeup.
“That’s a pretty lucky guess.” Lisa pointed toward the dog. The fetch padded around the base of the newer shed, sniffing through tall weeds sprouting along the wall. “Want to take a guess about what it’s looking for?”
“Any ideas what’s in there?”
“I reckon that’s where Greg parks his car.” Marty scratched his chin. “Greg thinks of that car as his baby. No way he’d let it sit out in the open, exposed to the elements.”
Pretty good deduction on Marty’s part. Maybe those Hardy Boys books had taught him something.
I scanned the driveway. A beat-up blue and white pickup sat in the drive. Probably their father’s truck. I didn’t see Greg’s car anywhere. It was most likely locked away in the shed.
“Just the truck?” I asked. “What does Mrs. Crewes drive?”
“There is no Mrs. Crewes.” Lisa shook her head. “Not any more, anyway. She died when Greg and Hatch were real young.”
“Oh.”
The word just popped out of my mouth. Funny, I hadn’t known Mrs. Crewes, and I certainly hated Greg and Hatch, but I felt a little knot of sadness swell in my throat. I felt sorry for them, losing their mom.
“So what’s the dog want with Greg’s car?” Lisa asked.
“Maybe he wants to mark the tires,” I said. I thought the idea was pretty funny, but nobody laughed.
Still sniffing the ground and pawing at the dirt, the dog disappeared behind the shed. It’s mangy, wagging tail peaked out from around the side for a second or two, then slipped away. I tried to see where it was going, but the darkness and fog blinded me.
Then Marty did something I never expected. Still hunkered down, he tensed like a coiling spring. He let out a half-growl half-sigh and jumped out of the brush. He jogged across the yard to the shed, dirt puffing under his feet.
“What are you doing?” I hissed, nowhere near loud enough to be heard by anyone but Lisa.
As much as the Crewes boys terrified him, he hated the idea of losing the fetch’s trail again. He might never stop searching unless someone forced him. He’d chase the dog until—
“He’s going to get himself killed,” Lisa said.
He dashed through splashes of shadow and moonlight. He hugged the shed’s wall like a soldier behind enemy lines. He inched along the side of the shed, peered around the corner. He looked back in our direction. I don’t think he could see us, but he shrugged and shook his head. He didn’t see the fetch. He ducked around the corner and vanished into mist and shadow.
As far as I knew, I might never see him again.
“If the dog or the Crewes brothers don’t kill him,” Lisa said, “I will.”
I skulked out of the brush and with a burst of speed sprinted for the shed.
“Not you, too!” Lisa said.
I skidded to a stop like I was sliding to home plate. My back slammed against the wall of the shed. I waited a few seconds to make sure no one heard. I motioned toward Lisa’s hiding spot and waved her over.
She stepped from the trees, looking both directions like someone crossing a busy street, and ran to my side.
“You’re nothing but trouble,” she said, catching her breath, “the both of you.”
Around the corner of the shed, Marty duck-walked to the edge of the building. He hid behind a rusty metal barrel full of trash and leaned around the side. I came up behind him, moving quietly. It looked like the dog had been digging at the edge of the shed, trying to tunnel beneath it. I placed a hand on Marty’s shoulder. He spun around with a cry of “eep!” He almost knocked the smelly garbage barrel over.
“Are you trying to scare me to death?” he snapped.
Payback, I thought, grinning.
“What’s it doing?” I asked.
“Don’t know. It was sniffing around the house a little. Now it’s just sort of sitting by the back steps.”