The Lure

by S. W. Hubbard

  Frank pulled into the Pennimans’ driveway. No cars, neither Mel’s nor Judy’s and no sign of Doug’s rig, but his pick-up was there. Frank leaped out and pounded on the front door.

  “Police! Open up!”

  No response from within. Earl shaded his eyes and peered through the front window. “I don’t see anyone,” he said and Frank continued to knock and ring the bell.

  “Let’s go around back.” Still, no one answered. Frank was considering whether to throw his shoulder against the back door when Earl simply reached out and turned the knob. The joy of living in a place where people still routinely left their doors unlocked.

  They stepped into the kitchen, which once again contained the remnants of the family’s breakfast. A package of chicken thawed on the counter. Frank and Earl quickly searched the house: unmade beds, towels on the bathroom floor. Clearly the Pennimans had taken off this morning in a rush and hadn’t been back.

  “Come on. This is a waste of time.” Frank returned to the car and drove straight across Harkness Road and up the Stilers' driveway. Again, no cars, but he knew Mrs. Stiler kept hers in the garage. Where was Melanie’s little red Chevy?

  He knocked on the back door, and when it was not immediately answered, reached to try the knob. As he did, the door opened from within. Mr. Stiler, frail and hunched in his cardigan sweater and bedroom slippers, stood before them.

  “Hello, Mr. Stiler, is your wife home?”

  He responded with an unintelligible sound, but stood aside for them to enter. They all three stood in the kitchen, uncertain what to do next. “Mrs. Stiler?” Frank shouted

  Her husband shook his head.

  Now what? He couldn’t very well barge in and start looking around. “Was she here a little while ago?” Frank asked.

  Mr. Stiler nodded. The Parkinson’s made his face strangely expressionless, but his eyes were keen.

  “Did she have a young woman with her who looked pregnant? Blonde hair, pretty?”

  Again he nodded.

  “Where did they go?” Earl asked. The agitation in his voice transmitted to Mr. Stiler. He edged away from them, shaking his head.

  “Look, Mr. Stiler, we need to talk to your wife and Melanie Powers, the girl with her. It’s very important.”

  He made another garbled sound, his eyes pleading.

  “Did they go somewhere together in Melanie’s car?” Frank asked.

  A shake no, accompanied by a lot of distressed sounds. The pathetic man made a feeble effort to push Frank toward the door.

  Frank caught his trembling hands by the wrists. “Listen to me, Mr. Stiler. Your wife is in trouble. If you want to keep that trouble from getting worse, you better tell me where she went. I’ll ask you the questions, you answer yes or no.

  “Are Melanie and your wife alone together?”

  No

  “Are they with Dr. Galloway?”

  His eyes widened in surprise. No.

  “Are they with Anita Veech?”

  Mr. Stiler swayed in Frank’s grasp and he lowered the man into a chair. He was truly distraught now, struggling to form a word. His lips pursed. “R-r-r, R-r-r.”

  “Ralph Veech?” Earl guessed. “Ralph took Melanie away?”

  Mr. Stiler shook his head emphatically. He lifted his stiff right arm as best he could and pointed toward a corner of the kitchen. Frank was puzzled for a moment, then understanding dawned. “They went down the road to the Veech place?”

  Mr. Stiler collapsed against the chair. They left him weeping.

  Frank radioed the state police as soon as they reached the car. “We’re not going to sit around and wait for them, are we?” Earl was practically hysterical.

  Frank shook his head. The dispatcher had told him Trooper Pauline Phelps was in Lake Placid and was on her way. It would be a good half-hour, depending on traffic. He didn’t like going in alone, but he liked waiting even less. What could Constance Stiler possibly intend by taking Melanie to the Veeches? Surely they didn’t think they could kill the girl to shut her up and no one would make the connection. He thought Constance had more sense than that, but he was afraid the Veeches might take drastic action first, and think about the consequences later.

  He decided to call for the ambulance too. Probably completely unnecessary, but what the hell. Roger and the boys on the squad lived for this kind of thing. He gave them strict orders to wait at the turnaround on Harkness Road. If there was any possibility of violence at the Veeches, he didn’t want the volunteer paramedics mixed up in it.

  Frank steered the car up the rutted dirt road to the Veech property. At least this time, he knew where he was going. Before long, he could make out glimpses of the dilapidated Veech houses through the almost bare trees. Frank pulled into the clearing and he and Earl got out of the car, the noise of their arrival echoing through the still woods.

  The door to the first shack slammed open and Melanie flew out. She ran toward them across the hard-packed dirt yard, head down, dodging old tires and rusty appliances, the look of intense concentration on her face almost comical. The little ditz-brain wouldn’t pull a stunt like this again any time soon. Relief unwound the coil of tension in Frank’s gut.

  No one saw him coming.

  The dog appeared from the trees, running with startling speed. He hit Melanie at the shoulders and knocked her down so unexpectedly she had no time to put out her hands to break the fall. Her face hit the ground with the same impact as her knees and chest.

  Frank was out of the car by the time the second dog appeared. Smaller than the first, he latched onto Melanie’s jean-clad leg and worried it back and forth like a toy. The first dog, the same brindle-coated beast that had attacked the patrol car on their first visit, went about his work with deadly intent.

  With his enormous paws planted on Melanie’s back, he pinned her to the ground, her head and neck within easy reach of his slavering jaws. Frank drew his gun just as the dog lowered his head over Melanie’s and bit into her scalp.

  Her shrieks rent the air. Earl ran forward, but the other dog immediately came after him, baying ferociously and blocking any move to rescue the girl. Then a third dog joined the pack.

  “Get back, Earl!” Frank dropped to one knee and prepared to shoot. The big dog raised his head. Saliva, mixed with Mel’s blood, dripped from his mouth. Melanie writhed to get free, but as Frank took aim, the dog flattened his body, lowered his massive head over Melanie, and bit again.

  “Shoot him! Shoot him!” Earl screamed. But it wasn’t that easy. Frank could hit a bull’s eye nine times out of ten on the firing range, a margin of error wholly unacceptable in this circumstance. He had to wait for the perfect opportunity or risk killing the girl.

  Melanie’s shrill screams and the dogs’ deep barks blended in a horrific harmony. She struggled and thrashed under the dog, which weighed at least as much as she did. His attack grew more frenzied as she fought against him.

  “Roll into a ball, Melanie! Protect your neck. Try to go limp.”

  Maybe if the dog thought he’d killed her he’d let up for a moment and Frank could pull off a shot. But Melanie continued to thrash, too terrified to follow instructions, if she’d even heard them.

  Frank changed his position. If he could bring down the other dogs, he could move in for a clearer shot. He moved to the side so that Melanie and the big dog would not be in his line of fire, and shot the dog that was holding Earl at bay. Its body arched in the air with the force of the shot, and flopped down.

  The sound of the shot caused the big dog to pause and look around. This was Frank’s chance. He aimed. As his finger tightened on the trigger, the shack door opened and little Olivia ran straight toward him.

  Jesus Christ, could this get any worse!

  He lowered his gun—the opportunity had passed. The dog got a mouthful of Mel’s yellow sweater and ripped it away, exposing the bare flesh of her back. Then he bit again.

  Olivia continued running right at the dog and Melanie. That’s all he need
ed, for the dog to turn on her. “Get back, Olivia. Go back in the house.”

  But Olivia paid him no mind. She slid to a stop a foot from the dog. “Cujo, release!” she shouted. The dog hesitated, but kept Melanie’s shoulder locked in his jaws.

  Olivia reached over and rapped him on the snout with her bare hand. “Release! Now!”

  Reluctantly, the dog opened his mouth.

  Olivia locked eyes with the brute and pointed her finger in the direction of one of the sheds. “Go. Go to your bed.”

  Frank watched in astonishment as the big dog drooped his head and tail and slunk away, followed by the second smaller dog. When cops who worked with dogs talked about how important it was for the animal to recognize which people were higher than it in the pack, Frank had dismissed it as doggy pop psychology. But obviously Cujo accepted a sixty-pound child as his social superior.

  Earl reached Melanie’s side first. He tore off his shirt and used it to stanch the flow of blood from the worst wounds on her back. Although her face was covered with blood, miraculously, the dog had never succeeded in biting her neck. She was still conscious, but obviously in shock. Mel needed immediate care—he’d have to deal with the Veeches and Constance later.

  Frank picked her up and carried her to the patrol car. Carefully, he slid her into the back seat, where Earl cradled her head in his lap. In minutes they were transferring her into the ambulance. Earl rode along as they tore off.

  Seconds later, Trooper Pauline Phelps arrived and she and Frank headed back up the rutted road to the Veeches'. With Pauline driving, Frank noticed something he hadn’t seen on his first trip up the hill: a small red Chevy parked among some trees about twenty yards from the clearing where the Veeches houses were located. Melanie’s car.

  When they pulled up in front of the cluster of shacks, the only sign of the nightmare that had just unfolded were some dark stains on the dirt. Frank reached for the bullhorn to call the Veeches out, but it wasn’t necessary. An old man appeared on the sagging porch of the second shack.

  Pap Veech was as lean as his daughter was fat, but there was nothing frail about him. Big, powerful hands protruded like pruning hooks from the too-short sleeves of his faded flannel shirt. A golf-ball sized lump distended his right cheek. He moved it with his tongue and spoke.

  “You killed my dog.” A glob of brown spit followed the words out of his mouth.

  “You people abducted Melanie Powers. I want Ralph, Anita and Constance Stiler out here right now,” Frank commanded. “You’re all under arrest.”

  “That girl trespassed on my proppa-tee. I got signs sayin’ to watch out for them dogs. That’s what happens when strangers get too close. She got no one to blame but herself.”

  The old man’s brazen offensive seemed deranged in the circumstances. “Constance brought her here. You were holding her inside your house,” Frank repeated.

  “There ain’t no Constance here.”

  Frank glanced around. The only vehicle in sight was a rusted pea-green Impala with three wheels. They had to have come together in Mel’s car. Certainly no car had passed them on their trips up and down the dirt road that led to Harkness. He remembered something Joe Sheehan had said. “There’s another way out of here. Where’s Ralph?”

  Pap shrugged. “Ralph left this morning and he ain’t been back. That girl come sneakin’ up here. She went right into Anita’s place, snoopin. The dogs were protecting our proppa-tee.”

  “George Stiler told me that Melanie and Constance came up here.”

  “George Stiler? Ain’t he that sick man who can’t talk? Don’t see how he coulda told you nothing.”

  The man really did plan on denying everything. Well, he’d see how long they all stuck to that strategy. Being questioned—separately—at state police headquarters might produce a variety of different tunes.

  Frank walked toward Pap Veech with his handcuffs out. “You’re going for a ride, Mr. Veech. And so is your daughter.”

  Frank had Pauline take the Veeches to the state police barracks in Ray Brook while he stopped back at the Stilers' home. This time, when he knocked on the door, Constance answered.

  She looked like she always did—neatly dressed, not a silver hair out of place. Her expression was serious, but not particularly nervous. She let him in without question and began talking first.

  “I’m afraid I’m having a rather difficult day. I went out to run a few errands, and when I got back I found my husband having a small seizure. I finally have him medicated and in bed, resting.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. I guess I should have realized he didn’t look too good when I left him. But, you see, I was too worried about Melanie Powers.” Frank watched her reaction intently, but all he noticed was her hands tightening their grip on the top of the kitchen chair.

  “What do you mean? You were here earlier?”

  “Yes,” Frank checked his watch. “I guess it was about an hour and a half ago, now. I was looking for Melanie Powers. Your husband told me that you and Mel went down the road to the Veech place.”

  Constance took a step backward. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Who is this Melanie person? How could my husband tell you anything? He can no longer speak.”

  “No, but he can hear. He can answer yes or no to questions that are put to him. And he told me that Melanie Powers was here.”

  “You must be mistaken, Chief Bennett. My husband is very easily upset. When he’s agitated, it’s difficult even for me to understand what he’s trying to communicate.”

  “Well, ma’am, I might agree with that, except, you see, he was right. He told me Mel was at the Veeches' place, and that’s where I found her. When I got there, she was being attacked by the Veeches' dogs. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

  Constance turned her back and began spraying the immaculate countertops with cleaner and scrubbing. “What could I possibly know? I don’t even know the girl.”

  “Really? You didn’t meet her in the park in Verona this morning?”

  Constance pursed her lips and let loose another blast of Formula 409. “No.”

  “Where were you then?”

  “In Lake Placid, shopping.”

  “In what stores?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Oh come on, now. There aren’t that many places to go…was it Eastern Mountain Sports, the Bookstore, the outlets?”

  “I was just window shopping. I needed to get out.”

  Frank pulled out a chair and sat, stretching his legs before him. “Poor Melanie was terribly hurt. She’s in surgery now. But she’s young and strong. She’ll recover. And when she does, she’ll tell me exactly what happened.”

  Frank paused. Constance lifted up canisters, wiped beneath them, and banged them down.

  “You know, Constance, it might go easier with you if you just told me everything now. All about Sheltering Arms. About Mary Pat and her baby. Tell me where Diane Sarens is, and if she’s had her baby yet.”

  Constance stopped scrubbing. “Who…?” Suds oozed between the fingers of the hand that clutched the pink sponge. “I want a lawyer.”

  “A lawyer? Why would you need a lawyer?”

  “You obviously have it in your head that I am involved with something illegal. I won’t have you twisting my words and trying to pin something on me that I didn’t do. I want a lawyer.”

  Frank stood up. “All right, then. Call your lawyer—tell him to meet us at state police headquarters in Ray Brook.”

  For the first time, Constance looked afraid. “I can’t leave my husband.”

  “Then talk to me here.”

  She wavered, then stepped toward the phone. “I’ll get Judy Penniman to sit with him. Just give me a few minutes and I’ll be ready to go.”

  Chapter 33

  The buzzing florescent tubes in the ceiling of the police department cast the only light in the town square. There was no moon, and a dense cloud cover obscured the usual canopy of stars.
Malone’s and the Store were closed; all the meetings at the church were long over.

  Two hundred and twenty five stitches and three units of blood later, Melanie Powers lay heavily sedated in post-op recovery. The doctors said it would be at least forty-eight hours until she could talk to Frank. The Veeches’ two surviving dogs were under observation at the state police animal control unit. Pap, Ralph and Anita Veech had steadfastly stuck to their story: Ralph had been out all morning checking his beaver traps; Anita and Pap had been in Pap’s house when Melanie had sneaked into Anita’s place; the dogs had attacked when they discovered the trespasser on the property. All three denied any knowledge of Shelter Arms, and the whereabouts of Diane Sarens. Pap had finally been charged with failure to control an aggressive animal, and released on his own recognizance.

  Constance Stiler had followed the advice of the lawyer she had brought in from Lake Placid and had refused to answer questions. When Frank pointed out that she would be compelled to testify before a grand jury, the lawyer had merely smiled and shrugged. “When, and if, one is convened, Chief Bennett.”

  Now, all of them were back in their own homes while Frank sat in his office.

  He craved solitude to plan his next move, and had commanded Earl to go home, but relented at the stricken look on the kid’s face. Melanie’s family held Earl responsible for what had happened, making him persona non grata at the hospital. But Earl’s restless sighing and pacing were driving Frank to distraction.

  “Can’t you sit still?”

  “I can’t help it,” Earl whined. “It’s not fair that Melanie’s hurt so bad and none of them are in jail.”

  “I explained it to you, Earl. We need corroborating evidence. The Veeches say Mel was trespassing. We have nothing to prove she wasn’t.”

  “What about what Mr. Stiler said?”

  “He didn’t say anything. It’s not even hearsay. It’s less than nothing.”

  “But when Mel comes around, we’ll get them, right?”

  Frank sighed. By the time Mel came around, Constance Stiler and the Veeches would have had two full days to destroy evidence and cover their tracks. Even then, it would just be her word against theirs. He needed concrete proof now that they were running an illegal adoption business. Finding Diane Sarens would help—she might be able to identify Anita or Constance. But if she couldn’t, Mel’s testimony alone would not be enough to bring the whole operation down. A good lawyer could tie that girl up in knots on the witness stand.