HAROLD'S LANDING, PA., MAY 19, 1983 
One mile North of Mercer Bridge

Sherry was still awake.  It was 2 a.m., and the tent was swaying slightly from a light breeze coming up the river.   Mom and Dad were just two dark lumps across from her.  Her inflatable mattress was comfortable, squeaking when she rolled over.  The new sleeping bag was a nice birthday present, but Mom must have been crazy to think that Mickey Mouse and the really goofy tee shirt with her dad and mom's picture on it were cool. Big black letters said HE'S-MA-DAD.  If the kids at school could see her, they would laugh.  After all, she was twelve.  But it was still a nice present and, kids or not; right now it kept her warm and snug. The damp air above the riverbank smelled like fish and something else that she couldn't place.  It was so cozy. 
       Her first time of the month had happened yesterday, of all days. How gross.   Thank goodness Mom had known it was coming and kept the stuff in her purse.  Sherry was full of tedious emotions that she couldn't explain, and she wondered what she would do if one of the creepy boys at school ever tried to get some from her. 
     The Gardners lived in Trenton, had lived there forever.  At least it seemed like that to her.  Life was beginning to mean something.  She had won the gymnastics championship and the poetry contest which caused Charlie Hanks to ask her to go to the mall.  She was sure it was the poetry.  Since she got her own computer, things had changed.  So now she had to put up with that yucky period thing.  It could be worse.  Some of her friends had their period and big boobs already.  That really seemed to make a difference and it wasn't one that she was looking forward to. 
     Sherry lay back with her hands behind her head and watched the stars move through the open tent flap.  She thought about her parents; how goofy they were and so old fashioned.  But it was reassuring that they were near.  They had a nice home with a big room that she called her own and a big basement where she could have parties. If only Dad didn't have to travel so much, it would be perfect.  The only thing that caused a pang of guilt was that they had left the cat at home.  Trenton was so busy and made so many demands.   Places like this were just great.  She felt safe and warm now in the tent, in her new sleeping bag and everything was just-- 
     That was Muzzy. 
     Out in the dark, along the bank, she heard the cat.  Its meow was unlike any other cat because it almost growled a little at the end.  Muzzy always sounded so funny.  But Muzzy was locked in the house.  She couldn't be here.  Just couldn't be.   Trenton was about eighty miles south; at least Sherry thought so.  But Muzzy was out there. Pets had been known to follow their owners for hundreds of miles, but how did she get out?  She was locked in.  Had to be. 
     No need t o wake Mom and Dad.  Sherry slipped on her new sneakers, one of many presents--and opened the tent flap.  A rich aroma of river bottom and forest floor poured in like a shovelful of new wet garden soil. All night long, crickets, small animals, and rustling leaves had been keeping up a steady, hypnotic commotion.  It had been amusing to hear the little creatures arguing, but the moment she opened the flap, it stopped. The air outside the tent was like a thick blanket wrapping around her. 
     She listened again.  There it was.  Muzzy was just a few yards away in the steaming blackness. 
      "Muzzy," she whispered.  "C'mere you silly cat.  How did you get out there?"  There it was again, farther away.  Why would she run?  Why would she move away? 
      "Muzzy?"  Sherry couldn't see the tent anymore.  Her bearings were gone.  The dark night, the aroma, the lack of sound, that smothering richness of river and wet soil and dead fish all came together in a feeling that was like running up the stairs too fast.   The blanket of night surrounded her like a walk in space.  She felt clearly sick and the cat didn't really seem worth it anymore.  She turned to go back. Something brushed against her neck.  Her hair was shoulder-length, blonde, thin as silk, but it was like it wasn't even there.  The touch had gone right through; it was wet, cold, and stiff as an old dog's fur. Then there were stars everywhere, white whirring pinpoints of light. They rushed at her face, millions of tiny bright dots.  Spider webs wrapped around her, covering, smothering. 
     A walk in space. 
     She regained consciousness once during her abduction and her hair was sopping wet, dragging through the cold leaves, snagging on roots.  She would have screamed but something about it seemed so uncool.  She would have called for her father, but right up until the end she couldn't be sure it wasn't a dream.  The motion of swinging forward and back gave her a mild seasickness.  She hoped Muzzy was okay. 
     Sherry started to cry.  The tears ran through her eyelashes and down over her forehead. 

     In the morning, Ed Gardner opened his eyes and threw off the cover of his sleeping bag. His daughter was gone and he smiled.  She was so adventurous and never did he and his wife get up before her.   He stepped out into the woods and smelled the air.   He would start the Coleman and get some coffee going. 
     Then he was puzzled.  He knew there was something terribly wrong but it took some time for his mind to accept the waves of panic as they slowly rolled in.  Something had been dragged from the tent.  A few yards away the gouge in the forest floor started and continued up to the towpath. He walked slowly at first.  Maybe it wasn't her.  Maybe it had nothing to do with her.  She could be taking a wee in the bushes. She could be getting in a run down the towpath.  But as he walked faster and faster he could see strands of her hair.  First a few, one by one, leaving a trail over rotten logs and branches and then large clumps.  When he saw the precious drops of blood he began to cry. He sat down hard, emitting a thin reedy wail, and his wife woke up.
.

THE SOUTHERN COAST OF PORTUGAL, 
NEAR LAGOS, JUNE 3, 1973

Ruis Montan held the horse's head off the ground.  Must weigh 80 kilos, he thought.  The animal was sick, as were most that he bought cheap. All the sick animals eventually made their way to his strong little tree. It made no noise as he opened its throat.  An unpleasant task, it was part of his daily ritual now.  He made his way to the barn, his right biceps bulging from the weight.  Love could take many forms and devotion could be an endless journey into terror.  How odd that his life should take such a turn. 
     The barn stank like the swill behind a butcher shop.  It had once held the sweet scent of manure and hay for the cows.  Now, there was no hay and the cows would never come near the barn.  He moved deeper into the shadows.  The heavy steel door loomed over him.  He kicked at the latch and it opened.  The trap was just large enough to accept the head, or something of equal size.  Rusted and caked with old blood, it no longer bothered to squeal when it fell open.  Ruis swung the load onto the slide, the dull gray eyes no longer caring about their fate. He pushed it further down the chute with a pole. The rails carried it home. Suddenly it vanished.  Hair and flesh flew in a fine spray. Along the nearest wall the remains of the head-less  horse hung in pieces, nothing to be wasted, already beginning to decompose. 
     A daily chore. 
     He thought back.  Was there ever a time before his sons had left?  Had Sonia, his wife ever been sane?  Was there ever a beautiful farm where children and dogs ran free, happy, and there was no need to kill ponies?  He thought back.  Long ago, perhaps.

THE MONTAN FARM 
April 1, 1971 
Three Years Earlier

     His dreams danced on the lonely horizon.  Far out in the milky space beyond where the ships vanished, into the sun, she came up from the endless images.  He looked out over the fields, his land, his family birthright, and she came from the very grass, the clouds.  The air wove itself into the shape of the little dog, panting, wanting the love they all wanted. In and out of focus, blending with the patterns of earth and sky, she spoke to him in the center of himself, images and thoughts passing swiftly without the need for words.  Her message was brief. 
     Another night without sleep.  It would never end.  He knew, because the dog had said so.  In the dream--he had been standing, eyes open for God's sake!--the little dog was screaming.  She said the thing was coming.  It had been so clear, like a vision.  What would the church think of visions like this?  How would those men in black suits, so pious, deal with a visitor who crossed the plateau faster than a horse, quiet as a dead man's last breath? 
     His family had lived on this farm for hundreds of years.  They had, as generations past, watched the rough mountains become round.  Cliff walls rose hundreds of feet up from the sea where the rocks pounded the water to steam.  Along the edge, cows tugged at the grass that bulged over the emptiness. 
     Ruis Montan, with shoulders like a prize bull, with his head sitting right down on his shoulders; no neck above his shirt collar; with hands that could bend steel spikes; with short legs big around as chimneys; Ruis Montan was nervous today.  He did his small chores mechanically.  Checking the cattle pen, he made sure it was closed and secure.  These daily necessities had not changed for a thousand years.  They were part of the unconscious life of a farmer along the coast of Portugal.  If it weren't for the dog, this would be a perfect day. 
     As the rain began, the garden in front of the house turned the color of deep chocolate.  It was a black, fertile island with brilliant jade-colored shoots sprouting from the neat furrows.  They sparkled in the peering sun. 
     The boys were in Lagos.  He wondered what they did there, but he wasn't suited to the crowds and the stink, so he never went to see for himself. Sometimes they spent days away from home, with the cousins and other relatives.  It was better to have them around.  They were lazy and didn't care for the farm, but still, it was better. 
     Out along the precipice, the cows grew skittish.  They started to move instinctively toward the barn, toward the feed.  Moving in a group, they stayed close when they were alarmed.  Ruis could see their eyes, large and aware like polished onyx stones. 
     Dogs ran all over the farm.  They were wild, covered in burrs and ticks.  There were seven of them, running in a pack and he watched them disappear into the barn, chattering.  It was a lonely sound, floating out the door.  The youngest dog was in a pen by herself.  Her name was Tita.  She was in heat, and more pups were just more trouble, so she had been separated. 
     The dog in the dream.
     They got quiet.  The cows abruptly stopped lowing and the dogs stopped their chatter as though a knife had chopped off their voices.  Ruis saw them huddled together.  They were watching him.  A breeze picked up out over the fields.  It too dropped off in an almost stunning snap.  He watched his world blend into the silvery haze above the sea.  His shoulders slumped as he thought about the approaching night. Enwardo might come and aid him soon.  The grandfather knew everything, and Ruis felt sure that he was on his way.  He thought about the dog. The dog with spots that changed like a map of the ocean and eyes like churning sea water. 
     Fear came like a hammer.  He wasn't a fearful man and there was nothing to see, but a feeling of falling overwhelmed him.  It was nothing, he told himself.  Nothing to be afraid of and it was day.  Nothing ever happened during the day.  Nausea grabbed his stomach and he turned, looking over his shoulder, overriding the urge to keep turning forever. 
     Cutting through the earth, the plow hissed.  It sliced through the new bean sprouts; the pumpkin vines.  The unmistakable grinding sound came from the garden as stones struck the rusty steel blade.  He was alone, no one there to hitch up the burrow, no one to hold up the plow or guide it.  But the tender sprouts were being destroyed.  He was indignant and angry, the need to twist like a top still torturing his senses. 
      A strong gust of wind startled him.  It came like a cornered animal. He held on to the fence as it swirled around him, exploring like tiny fingers and he started running.  Cattle screamed, terrified, as he sprinted.  Then, as though this irrational terror were not enough, the squeaking of heavy cart wheels shocked him, coming fast, behind, always behind him, slogging through the wet mud. 
     He had no cart.  But he ran anyway. 
     Fumbling with the doorknob, he hurried into the kitchen.  Here he was safe, surrounded by shadows.  The windows in the kitchen, as well as the whole house, were covered with blankets and cardboard.  They were barred with bent pipe, which was bolted to the sills. 
     In the middle of the door, just at eye level, a small hole had been drilled.  A thin sword of amber sunlight shot through the dust.  Ruis stood gasping for breath with his back against the wall.  He stood clear of the door.  Glancing to his right, he reached down and took a slender stick from a can.  The stick was sharpened to a point.  It was the thickness of a pencil, as long as his leg, made to go through the hole in the door.  Careful not to look through the hole, he touched the stick to its center and propelled it through.  He grunted with the effort, pulled it back, checked the point, and thrust it through again. 
     Outside the door, on the porch, something cackled, gibbering in a dozen voices.  It imitated tiny artillery wars and whimpering homeless victims; like electric arcs dancing on water, it spoke to him.  The dog, Tita, the youngest, who had vanished in the dream, said it would come.  Her cry was a thin steady wail, like a child on fire.

     Sonia Montan was an overweight woman with a great head of black hair.  She gave the children their blue eyes.   Her eyes, set in her round, plump face, were vacant and always slightly out of focus.  She refused to accept even the smallest responsibilities, and problems sent her into a rage.  It was impossible for her to cope with what she saw and heard.  Ruis knew that such traits ran in her family.  Her own father had spent years in chains, in a canvas restraint, lying in his own shit. That was during a more brutal time and Ruis Montan would not let that happen to his beloved Sonia.  Still, it was hard.  When they were married, he thought it would work out but she spent the first three days in an upstairs closet.  She wouldn't undress, even now, in front of him, even now, only in the dark.  She was frigid, a word he had heard his sons use, not about their mother, but about their girlfriends. 
     The boys had returned, Juan, Miguel, and Tomas.  The family was high on the hill, overlooking the farm.  They walked along with the burro, breaking dry grass with their bear feet.  His sons stayed close the animal, touching its flank, keeping it at arm's length to avoid the clumsy hoofs.  A broken copper bell hung from its neck, clunking in time with its steps. 
     As they got near the farm, Ruis and Sonia looked down with pride at their home and the beautiful plants that only days ago were coming through the soil. Now they tried to overtake the yard.  The garden seemed to make his wife return from her other world for a little while. 
     They ate a dinner of fish and boiled potatoes cooked in a galvanized tub, which made the house smell of vinegar.  A table of worn wooden planks was covered with a ragged red and white checked cloth.  They sat as a family, and passed plates, while the boys talked about their trip.  All through the meal they watched the cot under the stairs. 
     Enwardo Montan had come the day before.  He was a tiny man with bird-like features and arms like sticks.  His hair was white and long, thick, to his shoulders, making him look like a sinister little hawk.  He was very strong, with a wiry frame.  As a young man he had been a famous wrestler, with arms that looked like bags of snakes. 
     Most of the muscle had, with time and old age withered away, but he was still agile.  The night was hot, and thick humidity seeped through the walls.  Ventilation was nonexistent because of the covered windows.  They had a couple of old fans, which helped stir the air but in spite of the heat, the old man insisted on a heavy quilt.  His old legs moved under the covers as he ran from something in his dream.  The boys laughed, mimicking him and Ruis rapped a knuckle on the side of his chair.  They had no respect.  Outside the door, as night crept across the ocean, the animals prepared for sleep.  The sea roared, but they only heard it whisper. 
     Sonia had gone to bed.  Ruis could see her getting farther and farther away in her mind.  She should have been moved to the city, to one of the small towns where an endless chain of cousins would care for her. This was no place for her.  The seclusion and openness would eventually drive her maluca, mad, he thought, but couldn't bear to see her leave.  He sat in his chair, looked around the comfortable room, with shelves made of old barn wood and photographs from the past; the worn rug with the woven trees and woven baskets of fruit, and at the windows, through which no light would ever come. 
     He drummed on the edge of the thick book cover with his fingers.  His right foot bobbed up and down.  This was the equivalent of a dog wagging its tail.  It had been three days.  Things seemed to come in threes. He got up to check the windows and saw that one of the blankets was hanging down.  It was ripped from the sill, completely open!  He threw a sour look at Juan.  The boy was retarded in some subtle way, which was from her family.  Just like her, the boy refused to cooperate with anything.  But this! 
     "This is a bunch of crap," Juan yelled, anticipating his father.  "And you're crap!"  He would not meet his father's angry gaze. 
     "We don't take the Goddamn blankets down!" Ruis grew furious. 
     "Leave him alone," Tomas said.  He pointed at the cot as if to say, 'Don't wake him.' 
     "This is important," Ruis pleaded, "you don't know what we've seen." 
     "Nobody sees anything," Juan said.  "That's why it's all crap." 
     The old man on the cot snorted and sat up.  He swung his legs to the floor, slipping on a pair of work boots with thick leather laces. At the door, he coughed and spat.  Placing his fingertips to the cracked paint, he felt it for a moment with his eyes closed.  He shut the door to within an inch.  The boys watched him closely.  He came near Juan and lifted his open palm.  The boy flinched. 
     "Light more lamps," Enwardo said.  "It's here."  He put his knee to the door and slammed it.  Locked and bolted it top and bottom.  In the barnyard surrounding the house, the cows began to whine.  It was a hollow, nagging sound that drew them like new mothers when a baby cries in the next room.  Enwardo Montan held a cup of strong coffee and sat on his bed.  He stared at the door.  He stared at the tiny hole like an object of meditation. 
     Beyond the porch, it began.  Something popped out in the meadow.  Then, from all directions, wood snapped and cracked.  Breaking boards were heard like pistol shots in the night.  They all jumped like old soldier sat the sound.   Trees were being ripped out of the ground by the roots and dragged, the wrenching sound of heavy canvas being torn. They knew.  The thud of hoofs pounded the soil and wet hides scraped the side of the house.  The building shook to its foundation. 
     The barn door was torn away and the dogs went running, barking frantically amongst the cattle.  All the animals were fleeing for their lives.  Above it all, one sound pierced the rest; the little female, Tita the dog in the dream, trapped in the stockade.  She was screaming like a tiny demon. 
     Sonia Montan appeared in the stairway door, her eyes wild, her night- dress like a pale circus tent.  Her melon-sized breasts were swaying in the dim light, dark circles moving beneath the thin cloth.    She wasn't trying to cover herself. She was naked under the dress and she began to stroke herself, her breasts, her belly. Moaning, she walked to the couch and lay down with her legs open. It was an unbelievable thing. The boys were shaken badly by the sight of their mother.  Tomas and Miguel went and helped her back to her room. 
      She screamed at them.  "Stupid, stupid, stupid boys!  You left the pens open!  What's wrong with you?" 
     Ruis could hear her as her voice diminished.  She hadn't even tried to cover herself and she was acting like common slut, he thought.  The windows in her room were boarded shut.  A single electric bulb burned continuously, which was a source of great concern.  It was unthinkable that she might try to harm herself with the empty socket.  They tried to keep sharp objects away from her, but the broken glass could cut.  He was revolted at what his fat wife had done, but he knew it was the thing outside that had done it. There were many stories about the lobishom turning women into nymphos. 
     Enwardo Montan waited for the boys to come back down.  He reached for one of the long sharp sticks by the door.  Saliva began to dribble from his lips.  His stomach muscles jumped uncontrollably.  He held the stick straight away from the door, lining the point up with the pea-sized hole.  There was movement on the other side.  In a violent, desperate lurch, he rammed the shaft through the door.  Quickly, he pulled it back, checking the tip carefully, not touching it.  His nose shined like a goshawk's beak as his old eyes squinted shut.  He repeated again the whip like dance.  In and out went the stick, demanding all his strength just to propel it through.  Soon he was covered in sweat, as bile rose in his throat. 
 

     Out in the night, on the porch, a horror churned and called to those in the house.  It could break down the door easily, but it wouldn't.  It wasn't yet time for the bliss that came through that pathetic little hole.  It laughed in its own way.  Scanning the thoughts and biological functions of those inside, it saw the way a child sees an anthill.  It saw that, of those creatures inside, there was an order, receding back away from the old one.  He was the one that it had come to be with.  He was the one who, when it was time, would provide what was needed most.  If it had a concept of value, then the old one was without compare. If it had a sense of fear, then it would be as terrified as those inside, of that little man with the stick.  It had no concept of mirth, but again, it laughed, in its own way.
     The old man was weakened by the effort.  But he continued to stab with his delicate weapon.  The stick probed and challenged the rotten-smelling thing on the other side. 

     They fell asleep at dawn.  Not once during the night of sounds and nightmares did they look out the windows or disturb the blankets.  It was Juan who finally opened the door.  Blinding light entered the room as they cautiously went out on the porch.  They stood looking over the garden at the cattle pen.  Like a person who tries to pick up an object that appears to be very heavy but finds it to be light, they recoiled. Even though they knew what they would see, it was still the same lightness. 
     The garden was intact, no hoof print to be seen.  The cattle pen was still locked, the cows exhausted but unharmed.  The pigpen, the goat pen, chickens and dogs; nothing had been disturbed.  There was not a mark in the dirt or on the house to show that anything had happened. 
     Enwardo Montan lay asleep on his cot.  He stank of bile and vomit.  Juan, the retarded son, had the pointed stick that his grandfather had used, in his hand.  He looked through the tiny hole in the door.  Its circumference was polished to a bright ring.  The ten-year old touched his thumb to the point and made a face, sticking out his lower lip. Ruis lunged at him and slapped him hard across the nose, causing a thin trickle of blood to run down the boy's lip.  The father looked at the boy with tears in his own eyes, knowing that he had hit the child too hard.   Then he stared with revulsion at the stick where it lay on the floor.  One touch was enough.
     One of the dogs had died.  It was the little one.  Her carcass was twisted and opened in a wide ragged gash.  Her entrails had been removed and the grass was matted with a brown glistening stain.  She had been locked in the pen.  Now the Montans stood out in the field, in a circle around their pet.  Juan was sobbing.  The boys avoided the insane eyes of their mother. 
     They knew that the Lobesomen had come. 
 
 

UNITED STATES 
KINTNERSVILLE, PA.  JUNE 1,1983 
Sunday Road, 4:32 P.M.

It was just a small barn used to store a tractor, leaning awkwardly to one side from old age and stubbornness.  Black as a cave when the door was closed, it was a mouth in the green woods. Light came in from hundreds of cracks and nail holes, hardly piercing the murky interior. There was a man on the roof dressed in black pants and a white shirt. He looked entirely out of place; more suited to an office cubical than the soft bending tin of the old roof.  The man knelt, squinting down into a hole that revealed a beam underneath.  The rope slung over the beam was rough hemp, three quarter inch.  He shook his head. 
      Pennsylvania State Police were covering the scene for a square mile.   They were in the woods and along the road, where a convoy of patrol cars was haphazardly scattered.  In the barn, crawling through the brush, cops were everywhere; dusting, sifting, bagging, collecting everything, they were being thorough.  A police helicopter roared past overhead. The man waved.  Every access road leading to the scene was blocked with yellow two-by-four sawhorses.  Nobody was getting in.  Hundreds of yards of yellow tape, repeating POLICE LINE--DO NOT CROSS, were wrapped around trees older than Christ. 
     Leaning against a battered, un-marked car, Norman P. Kirk watched the sun filter behind his closed eyes.  He reviewed the day's events on that screen. Napoleon, he knew, would lead a complex battle while playing cards with his officers in a trench.  Kirk didn't play cards but he directed this investigation purely by intuition, as he always did.  Sometimes they would approach his car.  He would try to guess who was coming before they spoke, and he was always right.  Usually, before they got within twenty feet, he would answer the question, never opening his eyes, never checking to see if he was correct.   Rookies got flapped easily when the all-seeing Kirk voiced and answered their thoughts. 
     "All along the sides," Kirk said.  "He went straight in--doesn't mean he went straight out.  Sometimes they stick to the building like glue." The two uniforms that were headed his way weren't even sure he was referring to them. 
     "I mean you," he said. 
     They looked at each other with faces that were no longer theirs; faces of kids who have seen the dancing bear. 
     Before they made a plaster cast, Kirk wanted to identify the print.  They called in an ex-Marine from the Boy Scouts.  He was stumped.  It was big.  That's all he could say.  His book full of black diagrams had nothing in it like that thing impressed two inches deep in the dirt. 
 
 
 

THAT MORNING 
Kintnersville PA. June 1, 1983 
Sunday Road, 8:30 a.m.

     Tim Bowman and Earl Cunningham, both ten, made the call.  They didn't want to.  All the frenzied way home they batted stories back and forth to cover their tracks.  But in the end, their mothers knew something was wrong.  The mothers insisted. 
     It was that morning, as they ran over hills and through valleys of the Pennsylvania countryside that they saw the barn.  They rolled and slid along in all the excitement that their ten-year-old bodies would allow.  It was Saturday, and "school's-out" was only two weeks away.  In the damp morning air, sweat collected on their faces.  The early sun occasionally broke through and cooked the earth.  Tim and Earl tumbled to the bottom of a slick, emerald slope and were swallowed by the mouth in the woods. 
     Earl, his blonde head adorned with dead leaves, saw it first. 
     "Look what my totally sharp little eyes have spotted," Earl said. 
     "Oooo, baby," Tim sang out, in a parody of grade school titty bar.  He did a bump and grind with hands behind his head. 
     An abandoned barn was leaning in the middle of a mossy hollow.  Red-brown planks overgrown with fungus and lichens and rot drew them like an ancient magnet. No grass grew in front of the door.  The yawning, open jaw seemed huge to the two young boys.  Broad slabs of wood were nailed to the frame like jagged, hairy paws, ready to rip the skin from a young thigh. Sixth grader Earl gave the splintered boards a wide birth but Tim brushed too close and felt the sting of sweat and chlorophyll from a dozen red welts.  Tears rose over his lower eyelids, but he shook them away. Earl would call him a gay-boy. 
     Black mud, trampled for fifty years, clung to the rubber tread of their sneakers.  Razor thin beams of 9 o'clock sun fell like delicate ribbons through the dusty atmosphere giving no clue to what the interior kept hidden. It was like a capsule of night caught in the brilliant morning.  Earl was three months older than Tim, and always thought it made all the difference. 
     "Maybe there's hay we can jump into," Tim said. 
     "Yeah, like at Whale's farm," Earl shouted. 
     "Pipe down, dick brain." 
     "Nobody's here," Earl said, whirling on his friend. He grabbed him in a headlock and began lightly smacking his nose and eyes.  "And don't ever call me...DICK BRAIN!" 
     "Yes, yes, yes, let me go, let me go," Tim said, then whispered, "Dick head." 
     "I wonder who owns this barn," Earl said, reaching for his matches. 
     "Put them away.  We ain't gonna set anything on fire," Tim said, serious. 
     "But I just wanna--" 
     "No!  My mom smelled smoke after that damn field went up.  Will Sarkady came to my house.  He's fire chief, ya know.  They were talking about putting me in a home." 
     "It's rich people that live up in that house, that's who owns it," said Earl, ignoring the plea, but putting the matches away just the same. 
     They crossed the dry, inner floor, eyes adjusting to the dark. 
     "Bet we can catch some baby pigeons in the rafters and start a good coop," Tim said, head tilted back. 
     "Your mom probably wouldn't let you." 
     "Your mom probably hey, what's that? 
     "Wow, looks like a bag or something hanging up there," Earl said, moving in. 
     "Stinks," Tim said. 
     "Sure does."  Earl was by far the more adventurous.  He reached out. 
     "Don't touch it, asshole!" 
      "Asshole?" 
     "Jeez, you sure are dumb," Tim said, eyes narrowed to black minnows. 
      Earl focused hard, "That's a real-looking foot.  Must be a doll, like in the store windows up in Easton." 
     "Mannykins," Tim corrected.  "Sometimes tick-tackers hang them from a tree to get you scared." 
     "Well, I ain't scared of a mannykin." 
     Earl reached out in spite of the warning.  His throat began to lump up and he felt a puzzling urge to cry.  Gay-boy.  He touched the real-looking foot and set the thing swinging.  It spun gently, revealing toes, toenails painted gaudy red, chipped, and one with a little star, big toe, little toe, tiny little toe. 
     This little piggy went to market...
     "Nah, it ain't real.  It's one of them old dummies stuffed with rags and a sewn-on face.  Stupid old scarecrow hung up there to scare off--" 
     And this one cried, boo, hoo, hoo...
     "It's sticky.  Feels like..." 
     They bolted as one. 
     All the way home.

     Crying, running, not knowing why they were running or from what, they flew from the mouth in the woods like startled sparrows.  As they cleared the door, Tim tripped.  He went sprawling in the mud, came up like a tar baby.   Earl grabbed his friend, nearly blinded by the light of day and hefted him up. 
     Barking dogs. 
     First a few, then a dozen, then a hundred.  Vicious, slavering, snapping, mad dogs.   The dogs chased them until they got near the first road.  For Tim and Earl, the run for their lives was a series of near-death experiences.  Though neither of them knew what that was, they would remember its essence for the rest of their lives. 
     They didn't want to tell.  Fires and smoking sneakers and firemen coming to talk tended to keep things close to the vest for ten-year-old guys.  Barns were strictly forbidden, after Bert Whales and the Young brothers got their bails slashed year after year.  It wasn't them that did it, but they got hell for it just like they did. 
     It was nearly 3 PM. when the local policeman--the only policeman--got the word. He drove carefully along the ruts and washed-out sections of Sunday Road.  The car was brand new and he thought of it as his own.  Not a scratch.  Still had that new car smell. 
     Primitive, useless wooden guardrails with rusted orange cables leaned out away from the steep bank, giving a disorienting tilt to the world.  Not a scratch.  The Petersons had sold the place and some Spaniards or, no, Portuguese--had bought it.  Damned foreigners anyway.  Bobby Rearson served and protected.  He didn't mind serving and protecting people he had known all his life but these folks couldn't even speak English.  That's what he heard. 
     As the barn came into view, he realized he was going to get his shoes dirty. He was neat.  If anything could be said about Bob, it was that he was neat.  The car, the paperwork, the tiny office that functioned as Police Headquarters, the uniform; everything was neat.  He stopped well short of the door.  Needing time to think, he thumbed the radio.  Time to call the strictly-pain-in-the-ass-dispatch. 
     "Uh...this is Chief Rearson.  Uh...box four-two, over.   Uh...I'm on Sunday Road--bout a quarter mile in.  Off six-one-one...the De Flavio--DeFalvo property.  It's a barn--got a possible H-O-M-O-S-I-D-E." He spelled out the words as if to hide it from a child, then wasn't sure if he'd spelled it correctly and felt his ears grow hot in a moment of embarrassment. 
     "Checking it out.  Uh...going in now...over." 
      Chief Bobby was a bad joke.  Long before he became a cop, he was nicknamed "Ha Ha".  A peculiar habit had started with him somewhere in high school and had stuck.  So had the name.  The job allowed him to get revenge on anyone who had ever called him "Ha Ha", and so it was perfect.  Real cops bothered him, so he did Starsky and Hutch whenever he felt threatened. 
     He pulled the gun.  No reason not to.  This time he had a feeling. Lifting out his mace can, he crossed the threshold, wincing as old cowdung and mud oozed over his shoe tops.  The non-regulation chromeplated .357 nosed its way in as his eyes adjusted.  The description had been accurate.  Something was hanging from a beam.  It was swinging in the dark in front of his face.  Not a sack or anything like that.  It was a shredded T-shirt, rouge colored, turned insideout.  Rearson read backwards. 
     "Dad-Ma-She ," he muttered.  Then it came to him. 
     "He's-Ma-Dad...He's...my...dad...oh."  He took in the glistening, sticky, highlights.  Newly developed breasts that had been destroyed peeked from under the cloth.  A tiny nipple drooped with nothing to support it.  If he had been a cultured man, he would have compared his find to Rembrandt's butchered cow, to the deformed figures of Francis Bacon, to the worst paintings of Franz Franta; the very worst .   But he wasn't cultured, and the thing above him was, or had been, human.  That was obvious.  Then the smell wafted down toward him. 
    There was no head.  A chalky stump of vertebrae, crowned with torn arteries and bits of ligament poked through the ruined cloth.  The left leg and right arm were gone, chewed off, he thought.  The painted toes hung just above his eyes.   Most of the flesh had been raked loose except for a small patch across the left breast.  The left arm hung stiff, with flayed fingers, hard from rigor, claw-like.  On the dirt floor, a matching dark puddle had soaked in.  A few fat flies hovered lazily over the spot. 
    Chief Rearson was suddenly sick.  Acid floated to the back of his tongue and his cheeks swelled as he fought the urge to run.  This was not in the pain-in-the-ass book.  But it was the situation he had been looking for.  If he had any presence of mind, he would have shot at something.  Better yet, someone might shoot him.   Oh yeah.  Workman's compensation, nice paycheck every week, reporters from channel 6; it would be a good day for Bobby "Ha-Ha" Rearson.  But, he would neither shoot a perp, nor be shot.  Instead, he would weep. 
    There was always the little .22 in the lunch box.  Just a pop in the leg; a pin-prick, and then the interviews would start.  Playboy, Penthouse, People Magazine, The Enquirer; he wondered who would bid the highest. All the other cops would line up behind him, of course.  This might be the day.  That beautiful little fifteen minutes of fame.  Whoever did this, shit, he could blow this guy's head off. 
     He was trying to gather details for what he knew would come later.   As his stomach tried to do a flip, he felt a minuscule wave of sadness for the victim.   Then he heard the dogs.  Sniffing. They sniffed at him.  He began to turn around to see them.  Growling. They weren't there, but they were all around him.  Biting. They wanted to rip his skin off.  He backed out, in a series of short, pumping steps, darting for the car.  Rearson opened his mouth, but nothing would come out.  He fired.  He fired again.  When he was out of bullets, the dogs were gone.  He had put a round through the windshield.  Sonofabitch! 
     The lack of sound was like being under water. 
     All was silent but for the squeaking of the rope. 
     Dispatch was busy.  They were usually were when the surrounding small-towners called.  Rearson began to reload.  "Unit four-oh-three to dispatch."  He thought he heard something. 
     They answered.  Through the unbroken distress call, which lasted for some time, they were able to as certain that he had shot someone.  He was incoherent, screaming about murder and the dog catcher. 
     Units were on their way.
 
 

Norman Kirk scraped the mud from his shoes.  The mat inside his car was marked with his footprints, smelling faintly of cow.  He stretched the fingers of his left hand.  It was like the exercise of a pianist or a slight of hand artist.  There was only a little feeling in the hand and he was in the habit of trying to induce some sensation. 
     Norman P. Kirk had been called a rogue cop.  Dirty Harry or some crap, he thought.  He didn't go to the movies.  Didn't watch much TV, but occasionally he liked to watch old science fiction films. White shirt and black tie had been his uniform since he made detective.  If Kirk had a bible, it would say that the job didn't allow nonsense.  No nonsense. It would say that he was God walking the earth.  He was deemed unstable and unpredictable by his detractors.  These were all things that brought about early retirement.  Most of the guys who got as far as he became somewhat independent which was almost expected.   And that was too bad for bad guys.  When they had a string of rich New Yorkers crying about cat burglars, Norman gave them a whole family--hell, a dynasty--of B & E experts.  He thought of them as termites. 
     Short stuff, they used to call him.   Standing five foot six, most of the new young fellows looked down at him like he was a kid.  His hair was almost entirely white now and his cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk. He had a belly. 
     Norman had never naturally commanded respect but respect became an issue very quickly if somebody lost their train of thought.  He acted dumb when it suited him and played the clown some of the time.  But don't get caught dreaming.  If he spoke to you you looked him in the eyes, or you'd pay. 
     He would talk to a rookie for three or four minutes, then, out of nowhere, he'd say, 'Now Ace, repeat everything I just told you.'  And God help the man who couldn't.   Chief of Detectives Kirk had an I.Q. that buried the needle.  His eyes had a disconcerting way of looking in two different directions and it was hard to tell when he was actually making eye contact.  They were pale grey; some said almost transparent, and large, which could have been enhanced by his glasses. 
     He wouldn't retire early or any time soon, that was for sure.  If it became necessary, he would decide who took his place.  Had to keep his hand in the pot.  Nearing sixty, there was more for him to think about than cases and killers.  There were younger men.  Men who didn't get out of breath and could use the computer better than their own minds.  Norman P. Kirk had a reputation.  His mere gaze could wilt a rookie.  It was a fault, a weakness perhaps, that he lived up to his reputation; that he would do almost anything to live up to it. 
     A living legend could settle for no less. 
     When he heard the tape of Bobby Rearson's call, he was amused like everyone else.  But then he heard things that didn't make much sense.  Almost as though the man were reacting to unseen things.  When they played the tape it came over his car radio.  Just a yelling, screaming, reflexive Chief of Police.  What would make a man act that way? 
     From the blur of forest and hillside came a grim face approaching slowly, looking away, occasionally looking right and left. This was one of those who would be in line for the job.  The man was young, less than thirty, with a crew-cut--that was good--trim, also good.  He walked like one of those martial arts guys, marine, yup, had to be a marine.  Nice looking young fellow.  About to tangle with a bad, bad man.  And Kirk wasn't referring to himself. 
     "Afternoon sir.  We've left everything as it was.  Tried to--inside and out." 
     Kirk said," You've been inside, of course."  He looked down and saw mud on the man's shoes. 
     "Sir, yes--yes...you haven't seen it yet?" Grim face asked. 
     "Just got here," Kirk answered, which was bullshit.  He was staring into the man's eyes.  The young cop was collecting evidence as they spoke, a natural hound on the run. 
     "Don't you do that, young man.  What'd you say your name was? 
     "Frank Holtz.  Don't do what sir?" 
     "Don't you investigate me.  You just transferred here, didn't you Holtz." 
     "From Chicago, under Cap'n Rawley." 
     "I know Rawley.  Good man.  Regular Sherlock Holmes," Kirk said. "We've helped each other out now and then."  The eyes went blank. The old detective had a look of vacancy and distraction.  It was a trick.  New men had to be tested to see if they would trip, and exactly where.   Could they be trapped?  Kirk's Gambit--take it or leave it. 
     "He's spoken highly of you, sir.  I talked with him just last night." 
     Left it.
     "And he told you about me?" 
     "Sure did.  You're the best in this half of the country," Holtz said, brightening. 
     "Best in the whole damn country, but we'll keep it a secret." 
     "So, what do you think we have here?  Can I call you Norman?" 
     "Not in front of the men.  You got here first.  That clear?" 
     "Clear sir." 
     "Now what about the dogs?" 
     "No dogs," Holtz responded quickly. 
     "Are my men in any danger?" 
     "We haven't found a trace of any animals and to my knowledge, we aren't in any danger." 
     "That's good," Kirk said. 
     "Unless," Holtz continued, "you want to consider the thing on the floor in there." 
     "I do Ace.  You bet your ass, I do." 

      The Scout Master arrived in a pickup truck.  He had a pile of books and rolled up charts on the seat next to a collection a traps and a dart gun.  Another Marine, Kirk saw.  This one was brown as an Indian. He walked like he had been going uphill for years.  His jacket was full of patches from jamborees, environmental causes, and shooting events.  They went in together: Kirk, Holtz, and Tony Bernet, tracking expert from the Boy Scouts of America.  Bernett measured the impression and whistled through his teeth.  Kirk found his guts admirable.  The man didn't flinch when he saw what hung in the air above the print.  That fact was also filed away under possible suspects.  But the lineup was too remote.  This was just a vet.  He'd seen some things. 
      "Well, "said Bernet, "this is the section on canine and lupis--that's wolf--and all related species.  I can include foxes, jackals, coyote, and even Australian varieties; dingoes but there's nothing in any book I've seen, that matches that." 
     "That's the best you can do then," Kirk said. 
      After Bernet left, Holtz asked Kirk why he didn't just have a mold made and then call in an expert. 
     "I wanted to catch it.  This might be the companion of the man who did the deed.  Sound feasible?" 
     "That's no pet," Holtz countered. 
     "You're correct, young man. Now Ace, get something straight.  You should be staying one step ahead of your supervisor at all times." 
     "That's a tall order," Holtz said," from what I hear." 
     "You flatter me," Kirk said.  "I like that." 
     The print was thirty-eight centimeters.  Larger than a man's foot.  The heel was roughly grapefruit sized with a thin arch pressing deeply into the hard-packed floor.  It ended in a cone-shaped hole.  The tracker determined that to be a claw, a single, large claw. 
     "And this is the only one," Kirk asked. 
     "That's all we've found," Holtz answered. 
     "Ace, this whole area has been walked on.  The scene has been blown to smithereens.  I stayed out purposely to allow you a chance to shine, to give you a pristine dirt floor.  It looks like a platoon has had lunch in there. I want to know why." 
     "That's the way we found it," Holtz said, thinking about his answer. 
     "What should we have?  We should have one idiot with a patrol car driving right up to the door.  We should have two scared as shit kids coming in and running out.  And we should have..."
     "Him," Holtz completed the sentence. 
     Frank stared at the gently swaying remains.  Even in Chicago this would be considered unusual.  This was his first involvement with a murdered child and, as yet, they didn't even know who the kid was.  Female; that was it.  His own son was six, wanted to play football, and his new boss was Rasputin with eyes that didn't see you, but they did. 
     "We think," Holtz said, "that the town cop, Rearson, danced around in here.  We think, that he might have changed his shoes or something.  One of the guys said he was a neat freak.  That might account for the extra set of prints."  He looked down briefly at Kirk's shoes and saw dried mud mixing with wet. 
     A uniform stepped up, careful where he placed his own feet.  "I know the guy, Norm, and he'd forget about procedure.  A real glory hunter, you ask me." 
     "Okay," said Kirk, "we're not getting anywhere.  Cut that poor child down. Everybody okay with that?  Can we cut her down?  Gather all you can get, outside.  Stay out of here after we're done and make sure--Stanley, you keep that plaster in one piece."  He looked at Holtz and allowed the eyes to relax.  It seemed in that moment that all pretense was dropped and the whole act became transparent. 
     "You okay?" Holtz asked. 
     "Just dandy," Kirk answered. 
     There was the gambit again. 
     Took it.
     Then gunfire erupted.  It was everywhere, all over the area. 
     Holtz stepped in front of Norman and drew his weapon.  It wasn't just a shot or two.  Not random firing.  But hundreds of controlled bursts, like a military operation.   Large caliber weapons from all directions were tearing though the foliage.  It was war.  The screams of the hit and the dying rose up like a massacre. 
     Then abruptly, it stopped. 
     Men emerged from the barn to see cops crouching, prone, feet spread wide, aiming at nothing.  They were scanning for assailants. 
     "Cease fire!  Cease fire!"  Kirk yelled.  "Who fired those shots?" 
     "They came from right next to me," a uniform said. 
     "Me too," another man called.  "Right beside my ear." 
     "I didn't shoot," said another. 
     "Me neither," a man fifty yards away agreed. 
      "Nobody shot," Norman Kirk said, grabbing a weapon and sniffing the barrel.  "Nobody shot?" 
     "I got one off, sir," a wary rookie said.  His was the only weapon that was fired. Eyes darted.  Highly trained observers, experts in theirs fields, met each other's eyes.  Mouths dropped, as between them, surrounding them, and close; came the bellowing and snarling of dogs that weren't there.