“There comes a time when you just have to wait it out, Maggie, my girl. That time’s come now.” The dog opened and closed her eyes, as if in agreement. Qwen closed his. It was close to forty minutes later when he opened them again.
Chief Michaels was standing alone on the dock. He had his hands on his hips, the sleeve of his bandaged arm rolled back, and his hat tilted to the rear.
“I called about that Fishman guy, the one you supposedly killed,” he said.
“So?”
“They said he was transferred. They way they talked, I gathered it was because he fucked up.”
“He fucked up all right.” Qwen sat up. Michaels stared at him.
“Why wouldn’t they tell me you killed him? Try to get you for murder?”
“They can’t have any investigations. They don’t do things that way, anyway. I’m learning that fast. Did you let on where you were headed? Because if you did . . .”
“No, but I didn’t leave the office before I got a call back. A doctor Bronstein wanted to know what I wanted with Fishman.”
“What’ja tell him?”
“I told him I thought he might be able to help with the search since we still haven’t found the dog.”
“He didn’t buy it,” Qwen said. “He knows I got to you. I wish you would’ve believed me.”
“Now look, I admit that the whole thing’s been botherin’ me and I—” Qwen put his hand up to indicate that Michaels should wait. Another vehicle was coming from the dirt and gravel road. Two men sat in the front seat and one sat in the back. None of them looked like fishermen.
“You told someone at the station where you were goin’?”
“Just my dispatcher.”
“And you didn’t tell him it was to be kept quiet.”
“Well, I didn’t think that—”
“You’d better get in the boat,” Qwen said. He reached for the oars.
“Huh?” Michaels looked back. The car kept coming slowly.
“Get the fuck in the boat,” Qwen commanded. He started away from the dock. Michaels looked behind again. The car had stopped and the men were getting
out. Without hesitation, he stepped off the dock and into the boat. Qwen’s big thrust with the oars sent him into a sitting position. He took care not to bang his arm on the side.
The three men came down to the dock as Qwen drove the boat into the downstream current. One of the men reached under his jacket for what looked like a pistol, but the other two stopped him before he brought it out. They looked for another boat and found one, but it was without oars. One of the men was sent to the office to get them. Before he returned, Qwen had brought his boat around the first bend in the river.
“They’re after us?” Michaels asked.
“Me, mostly, but now you, too. I suppose they could make it look like I killed you.”
The river turned again about two hundred yards down. Qwen considered it and then made a quick decision. He turned the boat in toward the shore. As soon as he hit it, he got out.
“Use your good arm and push the son-of-a-bitch,” he said.
Michaels saw what Qwen wanted to do. They got the boat out of the water and dragged it back behind some bushes. Then they crouched down and waited. Less than a minute later the three men appeared. Two of them were telling the one who was rowing to row faster.
Qwen waited until they had disappeared around the far bend and then he led Michaels into the woods. They made their way back to Keebler’s Landing quickly.
“They must have turned around by now,” Qwen said. “Let’s get goin’.”
They got into Michaels’s patrol car and Harry started away. “I don’t know what the hell’s goin’ on,” he finally said.
“You know those guys ain’t fishermen. That’s for sure.”
“Tell me how this all started and what you know about the dog,” Harry Michaels said. As Qwen talked, Harry thought about the way Ken Strasser had died, about Carlson’s body on the basement floor, and his own confrontation with the dog.
“Do you think it could have influenced other animals, too?” he asked, thinking about the Kaufmans’ dog.
“Who knows? They don’t even know what it’s capable of doing.”
“I don’t know. I’d like to believe you, but—”
They were interrupted by a radio call.
“I figured you’d want to know this, Chief. There’s a wild story comin’ out of New York City. It’s about a dog.”
“What about a dog?”
“A big German shepherd . . . invaded some old man’s apartment, killed a teenager, caused a traffic tie-up, and nearly killed a cop.”
“Where’d it happen?”
“South Bronx.”
“Did they get the dog?”
“Not yet. It disappeared somewhere in the slums.”
“Could there be more than one of them?” Michaels asked Qwen.
Qwen thought for a moment. “No,” he said, “it’s our dog.”
“But how did he get to New York City? Take a bus? Come on!”
“I don’t know how he did it, but it doesn’t surprise me that he did.”
Michaels went back to his car radio.
“What about our dog? Any progress?”
“Not a thing, Chief.”
“Because he’s not here,” Qwen said.
Michaels looked at him again. Then he looked into his rearview mirror. There was no one behind them, but he sped up, anyway. “What the hell do we do?”
“We go to the Bronx,” Qwen said. “Maggie and I will find him. I gotta find him. I want the world to know.”
“Hunt a dog in the city? You know what that area’s like?”
“It can’t be any wilder than where I’ve been,” Qwen said. “All I know is, I gotta get him.”
H
E HEARD THE
sound of human voices. They seemed to be coming from everywhere. He heard many different sounds; many were alien; some were familiar, but most of the scents he smelled were strange. He had no concept of anything he could think of as home, but he fondly recalled the time he had spent in the forest.
There was nothing to hunt here. The air wasn’t as clear and the solitude wasn’t real. The animals, mostly rodents, were unlike the field mice. These rats and mice had the scent of death about them. They were more like parasites feasting on decay. He sensed them eyeing him from dark corners. They wanted his flesh. He was sure that if he were to die here, they would consume him to the bones. He could face other dogs, vicious dogs; he could taunt a snake and he could even challenge a bear if he had a mind to, but there was something about these vermin that made him cringe.
This reaction came from a part of him that he didn’t quite understand. It brought with it memories that seemed more like dreams. He didn’t know how to deal with them. They weakened him. He had the urge to bark, to growl, to snap his teeth at the rats that were gathering, but he backed away, instead. He didn’t like fleeing, but he didn’t want to remain in so small an area with so many of them scurrying about on all sides and
even behind him. He turned and went deeper into the shell of the wrecked, degenerated building.
With its windows out and gaping holes in some sections of its walls, the building’s interior was a curious mixture of darkness and light. Broken ceiling panels dangled from above; torn Sheetrock revealed the intestines of the structure. The rays of light that streamed in illuminated particles of dust, making them dance in the air with the brilliance of tiny gems. He saw broken bottles, empty cans, and articles of old clothing strewn about, but nothing really attracted his interest.
When he came to a stairway that still had integrity, he gazed upward into the vertical corridor. Behind him the rats squealed and danced nervously over the loose floorboards. The human voices grew louder and he understood that people were approaching the building from at least two different angles. He decided to go up, but when he turned the corner of the first landing, he came upon a man sprawled out on the floor, his back against the wall, his eyes closed. His right hand still clutched a syringe, but there was the definite scent of death around him.
As Phantom drew closer to the body, three rats poked their heads out from under the man’s torn overcoat. When they saw him, they scurried into the holes between the floor and the walls. He didn’t hesitate; he heard the sound of footsteps below and he continued up the stairs. He climbed five flights before pausing and listening to the sounds below. The voices were muffled and indistinct. He waited to see if they would remain so or if they would grow louder as the men began to climb the stairway to come after him. He assumed that they could track him as well as he could track them.
But they didn’t come. Their voices grew lower and lower until they were gone altogether. Even so, he
climbed another three flights before stopping. This time he entered the floor, taking care to avoid the weak boards and large holes. He kept to the side of a wall and reached a room on the northeastern end of the decayed and deserted structure. He made his way to an opened window and got his paws on the sill so he could look out at this strange and unfriendly world into which he had somehow been dropped.
The sight dazzled him. He saw all the movement and activity below, but its diminished size made him feel much bigger. He grew dizzy from the constant traffic on the major highway in the distance. To his left he could make out what looked to be a pack of those men in the uniforms. They had gone past the building he was in; they looked like insects crawling in and out of the rubble and sifting the area for something of value.
He went down to the floor again and thought. It was difficult, if not impossible, for him to understand this world, but his biological clock told him that some time had passed and daylight was on its final half. He had to remain safely in hiding and wait. Night would come as it always had, even to this world. Darkness had always been his friend. He was secure in it; it made him stronger, especially if he had to do battle against men.
He looked around the room. It was empty, except for a large carton in the far right corner. For now, that was a most attractive place. He went to it and, as comfortably as possible, curled himself up within the carton. He wasn’t tired, but he didn’t want to chance any more travel through the building and he didn’t have his usual curiosity in things. If anything, this place depressed. Even the most hateful room in the laboratory was preferable to this.
He thought about the laboratory. Being there seemed so long ago to him. He went back over the journey that had taken him from there to this point. Most of the challenges had been invigorating. Now his
mood was characterized by foreboding. The shadows in the room darkened and took on the shapes of monsters. Fears instilled in him as a puppy came to the fore.
He recalled being afraid of being crushed by objects much larger than he was. He remembered whimpering and shivering in a cage. He thought about being lifted and transported in the night. He remembered the first time he had heard a truck engine and felt the vibrations. He thought some terrible creature was going to come through the metal walls and tear him apart. None of this happened, but still these were some of the images that often made for sleepless nights. The fact that he thought of them now dispirited him. He lowered his head to his paws and looked out at the naked room. His breathing was soft; he made no sounds, but he felt the heavy thumping of his heart. He didn’t even care about being thirsty. All he could do was lie there and wait in anticipation. For now he hated the brightness of the daylight and the sounds that came up from the hard, cold cement and metal world below.
He tried closing his eyes, but the moment he did so, he envisioned a pack of those rats coming up the stairs after him. There were so many of them that their bodies rubbed against the sides of the stairway walls. Some walked over those in front and some drove others into the gaping holes, sending them to their deaths below. He opened his eyes quickly and growled, but all he heard was the echo of his own voice. Still, he was distrustful of the silence within the building. Perhaps these rats were as quiet as the mice in the field. Perhaps they were already just outside this door.
He stared at it and waited. He wanted to relax and end the tension, but he couldn’t. He had to keep his eyes open; he had to listen, and as he did so, something
in the back of his mind came alive—a tiny electrical reaction in the deep caverns of his brain sent a signal into his consciousness. It came in the form of a large, black bird swooping down from the mountains, soaring above the tall buildings and then diving in between them as it headed toward him.
It was coming with two hot coals for eyes. It would come through the window and drive its razor-sharp beak into his head. The picture was so vivid he couldn’t help but whine like a puppy.
“I was thinking to myself how that dog killed old Ken Strasser,” Michaels said, “and how it got into Sid Kaufman’s house and took down Carlson. I wasn’t particularly crazy about him, but he was a good cop, a smart policeman. Then I thought how Clara Kaufman and her children were terrorized to such an extent that they pushed furniture up against that basement door.”
“Opening a door isn’t much of an accomplishment for him,” Qwen said. “That woman, Ann, she told me some of the clever things he did in the laboratory.”
“Yeah, well anyway, I listened to their explanation and I thought to myself, something don’t sound right, but what else do I have to go on? Then you called. If I didn’t have this gut feeling that they were full of shit, I would have written you off as some loon.”
Qwen nodded and turned around to see how Maggie was doing in the rear of the police car. She looked up quizzically, her tongue extended. They were more than halfway to the city limits, Michaels cruising at eighty to eighty-five all the way. He had contacted a friend of his on the city police force and been quickly placed into contact with the captain whose precinct covered that section of the Bronx in which the dog had done its damage. He told him he was coming down with a trapper who was trained to tracking such animals.
The captain said he welcomed any professional assistance.
“He heard what happened up here, didn’t he?”
“Oh yeah, but he didn’t see how the events were related. The army dog trainers didn’t contact him about any dogs trained in or very close to the city.”
“You didn’t try to explain any of what I told you then?”