Otherworld

For Becky

“But do you really mean, sir,” said Peter, “that there could
be other worlds—all over the place, just round the corner—like that?”

“Nothing is more probable,” said the Professor.

from C. S. Lewis'
The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe

Contents

COVER

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Extras

CHAPTER ONE

She was dead before she knew it. Before she toppled to the unyielding earth with a dull thud, she was dead. A bone snapped, maybe two, but she didn't feel or hear them. Just before it happened she knew it was very cold. But it had been cold for days, days she didn't and couldn't keep track of, so she never thought to complain. Then she heard the footsteps, quick and heavy on the frosty ground. Then a piercing pain. In a hip? She couldn't be sure. A searing heat. Then darkness. Had she the mental capacity to philosophize, she would have thought,
So this is it
. But she didn't, so she didn't. If she had been the least bit wise, and of course she wasn't (it was impossible), she might have realized that what was happening to her was the bizarre beginning to the most terrible story the small town she didn't know she lived in had ever seen.

CHAPTER TWO

The old man cursed his neighbors' pathetic aversion to the cold as he began his routine morning trek across his land, semifrozen turf crunching beneath his brown work boots. The news reported eighteen degrees. One would think it a definite sign of the apocalypse from the way the locals were acting. Ice on windshields became top news stories, just like every winter, but Pops Dickey didn't know what all the fuss was about. He had moved to Trumbull, a small town attached to the Texas mecca of Houston, about five years ago, and every year the Texans, used to the sweltering hundred-degree temperatures in the summertime, became prophets of woe when the weather turned chilly. Pops was a Wisconsin native, so besides putting up with all these Southern oddballs, he had to put up with their moaning and complaining about the cold. He had been through much worse. Much, much worse.

Pops owned a small bit of land on the Myrtle side of Trumbull to the north, not the Houston side. Pure country. He had some woods, a little pond, some animals. The sound of his cow bellowing became audible as Pops latched the gate on his chicken coop.

“Even the freakin' cows are complainin',” he muttered, his breath fogging in the crisp air.
Wisconsin cows don't complain
, he thought.

When he'd purchased the farm, three cows came with it. He'd sold one of them two years before but held on to the other two for no particular reason. He liked the milk, but he had no ambitions of expanding his operation to supplying dairy or raising beef cattle. He just liked the thought of having cows on his farm. “What's a farm without cows?” he had said. “Still a farm,” his wife, Gertie, replied, but Pops kept them just the same. He was beginning to have second thoughts as the animal's lowing seemed to change pitch, nearing an almost shriek. He was in the little barn now, and it struck him that only the mooing cow was present.

“For crying out loud, ya stupid cow, what's got your tail in a grinder?” Pops examined the animal up and down and from end to end. Nothing appeared to be physically wrong. “Where's your sister?” he asked aloud. Pops had been around cows all his life. He'd never heard one of the docile creatures make such a ruckus. Her moo became unbearable, and he exited the barn, made a left, and walked around to the rear of the brown wooden building. There on top of a thin patch of ice and scattered hay lay the missing animal, lifeless and stiff.

“Well, dang.”

Something caught his eye.
You gotta be kidding me
, he thought. He crouched, touched a gloved hand to the animal's side, and sure enough, there was blood there. It was black and hard, coagulated by time and the cold, dry air.
Coyotes?
Maybe. It was possible, but there weren't that many in this area. Plus, he'd never heard of coyotes attacking a cow anywhere around here. Chickens, maybe. Maybe even a pig or two. He admitted to himself that it wasn't out of the question, though. It was probably the best explanation short of human mischief. He got down on his knees, gripping her belly with his hand firmly. He ran it along her underside and looked for tearing or ripping. It was a pretty clean kill for coyotes, or any animal, for that matter. There was no pool of blood, no obvious damage to the beast, no evidence at all that a coyote—or pack of coyotes—had attacked her. Wouldn't she be strewn about, her insides dashed all over the place? Or maybe they would have eaten the evidence or dragged it away. Or maybe the blood had seeped into the ground. The latter was a tough one to believe. The ground was bone-dry, even frozen in places. It could not have swallowed up water, much less blood.

Pops positioned himself where he could grab her with both arms from underneath, squeezing them between her heavy carcass and the ground. It was a tight fit, but he reached under as far as he could and attempted to turn her over. It was futile. Pops was a seventy-one-year-old man, and thin to boot. She was immense, and the stiffness of death had long since set in. A young weight lifter would have left the task incomplete. Pops was straining, aged muscles tight, his teeth clenched. He managed to bring more of her belly into view, though, and what he saw cleared it all up. No coyote had touched her.

He rose to his feet, spit, and began a slow trot back to the house. He had to tell Gertie, and he supposed he should make a phone call. Somebody had cut his cow open.

 

Six o'clock came very early for Graham Lattimer. He had been up all night with a splitting headache and collapsed into bed at four in the morning only to wake at half past five. He would have called in sick, but the Trumbull Police Department had a light morning shift. He was their captain, and his presence was imperative. He didn't shower and didn't shave. As he removed his uniform from the closet, he began a somewhat frantic search for his car keys. They lay on the kitchen counter next to the refrigerator, and he discovered them only when he decided to give up the search for a while and get a glass of orange juice. He downed it quickly, wiped strands of pulp from his mouth, and stepped into the frigid Trumbull morning.

It was only after settling into his creaky office chair that he realized his headache was still present and promising to make the day as excruciating as the previous night. He dug in his desk for aspirin. No dice.

“Kelly!” he yelled, then winced at the self-inflicted pain. He pressed the intercom button on his telephone. “Kelly? Are you there?”

“Right here,” came the reply.

“Have you got any aspirin?”

“Just a sec. Let me check.” A pause. “Yeah, right here.”

“Bless you. Could you spare a couple?”

“Sure. I'll be right there.”

Graham released the intercom and picked a clipboard up off the corner of his desk. He scanned it, reading the names of those currently out on patrol. Kelly entered.

“Here you go,” she said, handing him the bottle of generic headache medicine.

He removed the cap and dumped out a handful of pills.

“I don't think you're s'posed to take that much.”

He just looked at her blankly, and then lifted his palm to his mouth, devouring its contents. Struggling to swallow them all dry-mouthed, he continued to peruse the shift sheet. He held the clipboard limply with one hand and buried the other in his brown mop of hair as he massaged his head. When he had downed the last pill, he asked, “Is Petrie still out?”

“I think so. He hasn't checked in, but I could be wrong. He was due back at five-thirty.”

“Yeah, that's what it says here. Is Lane in?”

“Yes, sir. He came in about fifteen minutes ago.”

“Good. Would you have him and Petrie, when Petrie gets here, meet me in the office?”

“Yes, sir.” She retrieved her aspirin bottle and exited, but a minute later Graham's intercom sounded.

“Yes?”

“Um, Captain Lattimer, I forgot to tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

“A Mr. Dickey called about forty-five minutes ago and filed a report.”

“Mr. who?”

“Mr. Dickey. Pops Dickey. The old couple who own the farm off Trace Road.”

Graham searched his memory. The search came up empty.

Kelly ended the silence. “Anyways, he called about forty-five minutes ago and filed a report about a … well, a vandalism, I guess.”

“Somebody key his truck or something?”

“Uh, no, sir. Somebody … um …”

“Yes?”

“Somebody killed his cow.”

“Killed his what?”

“Yeah, his cow.”

“Well, okay.”

“Anyways, he just filed a report. You know, over the phone. I said we'd send somebody out.”

“Yeah, okay. Thanks, Kelly. Don't forget to tell Petrie and Lane whenever Petrie manages to get himself here.”

“Yes, sir.”

Graham closed his eyes and breathed deep. His attempts at relaxation only made the intense throbbing in his skull more pronounced. The
Houston Chronicle
lay on his desk, the banner headline in bold lettering calling attention to the cold weather. THE HEAT IS GONE! it read.
You don't say
, the captain thought. He was only on the second sentence of what he considered a pointless article when a rapping on the glass of his office door drew his attention away. He saw Petrie and Lane through the translucent panel.

“Come in,” he ordered.

The two police officers filed in, both yawning conspicuously.

“Tired?”

“You bet, Cap,” Mark Lane answered. He was the taller of the two.

“How'd the shift go?”

Officer Sam Petrie offered, “Like a Sunday drive, sir.” He was the more muscular of the two, but also the more awkward. “A couple of kids were out goofin' around. Otherwise, pretty uneventful.”

“Same here,” Lane added. “I didn't see nobody out, 'cept the newspaper guy this morning.”

“Good,” Graham responded. Then he remembered: “Either of y'all out by Trace Road last night?”

“Not me,” Lane said.

“Me neither.”

“Where were the kids you ran into?”

“Out by the high school,” said Petrie. “They were just hangin' out, though. Weren't even drinkin' or nothin'. I told 'em to get home or I'd call their parents. They said their parents knew they's out, but I told 'em to get to goin' anyway, and they left.”

“Follow 'em?”

“No, sir,” said Petrie.

Graham leaned back in his chair. He stroked the inside of his cheek with his tongue and rubbed his temples with his forefingers.

“What's up, Cap?” Lane asked.

“Somebody's cow was killed last night.”

“Whose?”

“Oh, some old couple. That's why I was askin' about Trace Road. Name's Dickey.”

“Pops and Gertie Dickey?” said Petrie.

“Yeah, I guess. You know 'em?”

“Yessir. They go to church with my folks.”

“Well, good. Since you know 'em so well, you can check out his dead cow on your way home.”

“Sir?”

“You heard me.”

“Right. Dead cow.”

“That's all, fellas.”

The two police officers turned and vacated the captain's office. Lane headed home as Petrie navigated his car toward Trace Road.

 

Like all trips between two points in Trumbull, the drive was short. Officer Petrie arrived at Pops and Gertie Dickey's small farm and parked in their dirt driveway. He watched the old man in a red flannel shirt and faded overalls emerge from the house and peer out from the porch.

“Howdy,” Petrie called out.

Pops groaned, then said, “Didn't think you guys would make it out this quick.”

“Well, you know.”

“Uh-huh. My cow's over there around the back of the barn.”

It was an odd coupling—a young cop, clean-shaven and hair slicked back and parted neatly, wearing his starched police uniform, following the old, gruff farmer with gray whiskers poking out of his wrinkled and leathery face and clothed in his weather-beaten attire. They commenced the hundred-yard trek to the barn and remained uncomfortably silent the entire way. Only when they had rounded the building did Pops break the quiet.

“There she is.”

“Yep.” Petrie approached the animal and crouched down. He didn't know exactly what to be looking for. He had never investigated a dead cow. He had never investigated a dead
person
, for that matter. He didn't know what to say. “Yep. She's dead all right.”

“Yeah. She's dead.” Pops gave him a look like,
You're a regular Sherlock Holmes
.

“She a prize cow?”

“Pardon?”

“A prize cow. You enter her in contests and such?”

Pops looked at Petrie like he'd just passed gas. “No. She's just a regular cow.”

“That so?” Petrie asked mostly to himself. He inspected more closely, touching the blood dried into the animal's hair and the short cut in its underside. He still didn't know what to say. “Anybody sore at you?”