Barefoot Beach

by Toby Devens

  Minutes later, back in my slicker and carrying my tote with four bottles of water nesting in Merry’s jacket, I was ready to go. With Sarge leading the pack, we were on our way.

  chapter thirty-six

  The Henlopen place was a beaten house off the beaten path. The skinny dirt road leading to it was lined on one side with elms and oaks. On the other were wetlands, an amoeba of a marsh clogged with cattails, sedges, and rushes. Above it hung an eerie mist.

  As we drove up we took in the shambles of a house. “I’ve seen worse,” Scott said, “but not in this country.”

  Once, it must have been beautiful. Like a has-been film star, it displayed the souvenirs of youth in its bone structure—the elegant sweep of the roof, the exotic cutwork of the gables, the fanciful scroll trim. But time and neglect had eroded its skin. Peeling paint exposed layers of former colors. Absent shingles like missing teeth ruined its expression, and the chimney was crumbling. One of the porch pillars, detached from its overhead mooring, leaned drunkenly against what had once been a swing for two and was now suspended vertically from a single rusty chain. The entry had been sealed with a massive lock and the front door was plastered with a “Condemned” placard washed by rain and bleached by sun to an anemic pink.

  Throughout the drive I’d heard Jack softly sweet-talking Sarge, who maintained a quiet demeanor, emitting an occasional low growl, mostly keeping his cool. But when we parked in the driveway and Scott opened the door for the backseat passengers, the dog bounded out, tail wagging.

  Scott, Sarge at his side, moved around the car to the trunk and removed a coil of rope, which he slung over his shoulder, and the large canvas bag loaded with his tools and Lon’s. Since he was working with Sarge, he asked Jack to carry the bag.

  Scott kept a judicious silence as he scoped the front of the property. Pulling up the poncho hood against the battering rain, he climbed two decaying stone steps to read the faded sign nailed to the door. “The city authorities declared this house structurally unsound, so we’re going to have to be really careful in there,” he said.

  Two of the windows had been boarded up, but then maybe someone had seen the interior and concluded there was nothing for vandals to steal and, since the house had been scheduled for demolition, had stopped at that.

  Scott stepped down, backed off, and looked around. “There’s got to be access. Merry got in,” he said.

  “Maybe not,” Jack answered. “I mean, the pings tell us she’s in the vicinity, but they don’t tell us if she’s inside or outside the house. She could be anywhere around here.”

  If Merry hadn’t been able to break into shelter, she might have thought to hole up in the woods, where the trees were natural targets for lightning bolts, and where snakes and muskrats lurked in darkness under the leaf canopy. A dangerous place. I tried to shoo off a more disturbing possibility. If she’d opted to make her way back to the scattering of homes where the Brinkers lived and taken a shortcut around the marsh, whose margins were blurry, she could have easily lost her footing.

  Scott seemed to have his dog’s ability to read human emotion. He chased away my worst-case scenarios with an upbeat, “Look at Sarge. Already on the job. See him sniffing. All canines have an ability to pick up human scent. Two hundred million scent receptors make for one big, wet nose. In Sarge’s case, he’s been trained to use it to save human lives.”

  The dog, tethered to Scott by a loose leash, had started his perimeter search, trotting over the spongy earth. We followed.

  “I thought he was a bomb sniffer,” Jack said.

  “He’s what we call a multifunction dog, cross-trained by the military to detect IEDs and other weapons and as a combat tracker. Combat trackers alert to generic human presence. But when I got him back to the States, I decided the best way for us to bond was to go through training together, the experienced dog and the new handler. Nothing works better to forge a relationship. We hooked up with law enforcement to qualify him as a SAR, a search-and-rescue dog. These trailing animals can home in on a specific live human scent. Like the Belgian Shepherd on the Osama bin Laden mission.”

  “Cool,” Jack said.

  “Yup. Sarge learned how to follow that personal mix of microscopic flakes of skin we’re constantly shedding, along with sweat, perfume, shampoo, urine, and blood, if the subject is injured.”

  Sarge, moving at a canter, stopped to sniff, then reject, pieces of litter along the path.

  “Damn, I wish we had something of Merry’s to give him,” Scott said.

  I halted. “I have her jacket.”

  Scott wheeled on me. “You have her . . . ,” he began.

  “Jacket,” I repeated, thinking that I’d struck gold because the colonel’s eyes were as bright as nuggets of the precious stuff.

  As the men watched, speechless, I reached below the water bottles in my tote and pulled up the windbreaker. “Her mother was worried she’d be cold when we found her.”

  Scott shook his head in wonderment as I handed it over. “A mother’s love, you can’t beat it.” He motioned us under an overhang where we’d be protected from the worst lashings of rain. He unzipped the plastic bag and held it out open to Sarge, who was immediately on it. We could see his nostrils rippling as he captured Merry’s scent.

  “Oh yeah, that’s a good one, isn’t it, fella? Yeah, you got it now, don’t you?” Scott burbled in a cloying tenor. For the next minute or so, he gave the dog a pep talk in that syrupy tone. “Yeah, you’re excited, boy. Yeah, we’re going to work. You love to work.” He unclipped the shepherd’s lead and in a deeper, authoritative voice, issued the command, “Find this!”

  Sarge set the pace, trotting, it seemed to me, with a new sense of purpose while managing to avoid obstacles in the path, mostly brambles and blown shingles. He detoured around a couple of broken two-by-fours. “Grab the longer one of those, will you, Nora?” Scott called back. “Once we’re in the house, we’ll use it to sound the floor ahead to make sure we’re not walking on a surface that will give way under our weight. Falling through a floor sucks.”

  “Copy that,” I said as I picked it up, eliciting a turn of his head and a smile.

  Our parade had just rounded the second turn when something seized the shepherd’s attention and he picked up speed. When he stopped, it was at a side window. He huffed, gave a short bark, then sat statue still, ears perked, nose drawing deep drafts of air. “He’s found a scent cone,” Scott explained. “He’s picking up a match to the jacket. This is where she got in.”

  As we moved closer we could see the window had been knocked out. “Probably with this.” Scott motioned to a denuded tree limb lying off to one side.

  He examined the jagged glass. “She smashed the window, reached inside, and unlocked the door. Smart girl, our Merry.”

  We took a step to the adjacent door. He turned the handle and pushed it open. He gave us, two humans and a dog, the command, “Stay.”

  Above us, the sky was a shroud. We peered inside, where it was even darker.

  “We need light,” Scott said.

  I groped around the doorjamb and found the light switch on the inside wall. I flipped it. Nothing.

  “Mom, first thing they do is cut off utilities,” Jack said. Of course. He unlatched the tool bag, fished out a headlamp, and handed it to Scott, who strapped it on and switched it to broad beam. Jack pulled out two flashlights, handed me one, and shone his torch ahead on Miss Henlopen’s kitchen, then down on the linoleum littered with glass.

  “We can walk around most of the larger fragments,” Scott said, “but be aware there may be smaller scattered pieces, spikes that can pierce your shoes.” He looked down at Sarge. “His paws are sensitive, but we didn’t have time to stop for his booties.” He fastened Sarge’s lead. His tone turned deadly serious. “Before we go in there, you need to know the first rule for any rescuer is not to become a victim. We can’t help
Merry if the search has to be diverted to help you, and this place could be like a minefield, with all kinds of stuff falling apart. I’ve got to keep my dog safe. And I’m responsible for you two. I’m open to suggestions, but I’ve done this before, so inside I’m in charge. Get it?”

  “Got it,” I said.

  Jack gave an almost imperceptible nod. I caught his expression in the light from my torch. Not happy. I thought I understood why. In his mind, he was under the protection of a leader who’d previously managed to get blown apart and who, in Jack’s eyes, wasn’t fit for duty.

  The dog startled. He looked up at Scott.

  “He’s onto something,” Scott said.

  Jack said, “I heard it too. There. Again. You guys didn’t hear it?”

  I did then. Mewling cries. Soprano. Feeble. Merry.

  “Let’s go,” Scott said. Once inside, he began to uncoil the rope. “Our safety line,” he said, as he secured it to a post near the kitchen door. “If all hell breaks loose and we can’t see our way to the exit, we’ll follow it out.” We moved, deliberately, delicately, Scott yelling Merry’s name. No answer. He touched my shoulder. “She knows you. Call for her and ID yourself.”

  I used all the voice I had. “Merry, it’s Aunt Norrie. Are you here, Merry? Merry, answer me!” I heard only scratching nearby. Jack said, “Field mice probably. No big deal.”

  Sarge droned a low growl. Instinct goaded him to chase small prey, and he acknowledged their presence, but he’d been trained to overcome his natural impulse.

  “Listen,” Scott commanded, and the dog slackened on the lead.

  Faint baby cries, the same sounds we’d heard at the door, filtered through the din. “Merry!” I shouted her name. Silence, then the scratching noise, and “Ugh!” I felt something scurry over my boot. I leapt aside and swung my light to catch a scampering shadow. “A mouse.” I was panting. “No. Bigger. A rat.” My dancer’s reflex lifted me to my toes and I hopped from foot to foot, stifling the urge to run. My teeth chattered a revolted rattle. Scott reached over and squeezed my hand.

  Jack swept an arc of light over Miss Henlopen’s kitchen. The cries became howls.

  “Not rats,” he said. “Cats! Oh shit.”

  The place was teeming with them. Most had taken cover. Escaping the strange voices and smells, they’d concealed themselves under tables or on tops of cabinets. From dark places their feral eyes glowed green and gold. Two of the braver ones roamed from the kitchen to the hall, tails up. Sarge was shuddering with suppressed ecstasy. “Easy, boy,” Scott calmed him.

  “How did they get in?” I asked.

  “Every house has chinks and tunnels, narrow spaces in the basement or attic that open to the outdoors,” Scott said. “See how thin these critters are. They can slip out to hunt, come back for shelter. And you said the Henlopen woman ran a hotel for strays. She must have pulled five stars on Expedia. Word obviously got around.”

  “Merry loves cats,” I said. “Especially the homeless ones. I’ll bet right now that’s the way she sees herself. She’s got to be here.”

  Scott asked Jack to check the Lost and Phoned app to keep up with Merry’s location.

  It was a long minute of playing with his iPad before Jack said, “No signal. Mom, try your cell.” Also down. “The storm must have knocked everything out. We’re on our own.”

  “No, we’re not,” Scott replied. He bent down, ruffled Sarge’s coat, and gave the command: “Wander.”

  We followed as Sarge did just that, ignoring the cats’ cries, loping through the first floor, pausing here and there to sniff. He covered the living area, a small bathroom, a nook housing an old-fashioned sewing machine and bolts of fabric, but showed no special interest until he got to the staircase. There he stood at the bottom, nostrils twitching, ears flicking. “That’s indicating, not alerting,” Scott explained. “We’re on track, but not there yet.” When Sarge placed his front paws on the second step and tugged to go up, Scott motioned us closer. “He cleared this floor. From his reaction, Merry’s been around, but he’s catching a draft from upstairs that’s interesting him.” He held up the flat of his hand. “Feel that?” A whoosh of cooler air from above. “That’s where he wants to go, which means so do we. But stay to the sides of the steps. They’re stronger there than in the middle.”

  He reinforced the “Find” command. Sarge began to climb, and we followed, Scott tapping each step before we mounted it. Some were warped so badly they bowed. Halfway up, Jack lost balance and grabbed the handrail. I saw it waggle and heard his “oomph” as he steadied himself. I nearly tripped over a cat toy. But Scott, handling the lead, trailing the safety line, never faltered. His gait was perfectly balanced, no sway, no wobble, no hesitation.

  As soon as the shepherd’s paws touched down on the second-floor landing, he bristled with excitement. His tail went into wild spasms. He barked exclamation points. Scott unclipped the lead and gave him consent to go.

  As he swept down the hall, his nose worked constantly. He charged through two rooms, in and out, and I swear I saw him shake his head “no” after each foray. We hustled after him in the corridor that had become a wind tunnel.

  “Only one more room left,” Scott shouted over the gusts. The dog dashed a frantic approach.

  “Be careful,” Scott called out as we entered. For the first few seconds inside, I was blind. I could only feel the needles of rain and darts of debris pricking my skin, and the slap of wet wind against my face. Shielding my eyes, I opened them. There was light from above. I looked up at a massive hole in the ceiling. Part of the roof had collapsed. Falling, it had built a mountain of rubble, a jumble of plaster, broken timber, plywood, and shingles, crowned by a heap of books and a few shelves from a huge oak bookcase that had toppled over on the mound. For a split second, my brain allowed entry to the certainty that no one could have survived under that avalanche of debris.

  Sarge was high-stepping around its perimeter, emitting a series of quick, sharp barks. “He’s alerting,” Scott said. “Merry’s in there. Under all that.” He quieted Sarge and stepped back to assess the site. “Okay,” he said finally. “I think I’ve got this figured. Nora, you call her name.”

  I did and I swear my heart stopped for the endless moment of silence that followed. Then—a cardiac jolt—as we heard a muffled response, a word that might have been “Help” in a voice I thought could have been Merry’s. Not just thought. It had been a long time since this strayed sheep had been part of the fold, but now I prayed, begged, Let it be her, and added, my inner voice cracking, And please, let “help” not be her last word.

  “We’ve got to get this thing upright,” Scott broke through before I got to “amen.” “Jack, I need you here.”

  While the dog paced half circles, the men worked to shift the bookcase. Scott lifted his share with arms built in boot camp, combat, and physical therapy. These days he worked out to keep those muscles. My son was strong, but I heard him groaning and, as he struggled to lift his side of the load, I saw him buckle.

  “Nora. Over here, with Jack!”

  “We’re good,” I called as I helped my son stabilize the weight. Then I got hit. I had both arms braced against my side of the heavy Victorian oak cabinet, when shards of shingles along with a shower of clotted plaster came shooting down. One of the broken shingles grazed my jaw. My head jerked in surprise and I staggered back, but held tight.

  Jack called, “Mom!” And Scott yelled, “Nora!” at the same instant.

  “I’m all right, but the sky is falling,” I said. “For God’s sake, let’s go.”

  “On three,” Scott commanded. On one, I sucked in my gut. On two, I started a Hail Mary. On three, we heaved the bookcase erect. Then, following instructions, we shifted it away and leaned it against a far wall. “Done,” Scott said. “Good job, gang.”

  We turned our attention back to the debris pile. For a moment,
nothing moved. Then there was an almost imperceptible shift in the mass.

  “Stay still, Merry,” Scott called out. “You are Meryem Haydar, right?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Merry, are you hurt?” Scott asked her.

  “Can’t . . . breathe.”

  “Can you wiggle your toes? Don’t move your legs yet.” To us he said softly, “We don’t want the pile to shift and block her air pocket.” But shift it did, and that must have opened a new air tunnel, because her next words were clearer.

  “Toes wiggle. Just my wrist. Hurts bad.”

  Then, in an undertone, he to me, “Talk to her. Keep her calm.”

  “Merry.” I got as close to the debris pile as Scott would allow. “It’s Aunt Norrie. We’re going to get you out.”

  “Please.” Her voice was weak, but it was her voice. “Hurry.”

  Sarge, quivering with excitement, stared at Scott expectantly, waiting for the command to make a soft walk up the pile and dig.

  “Stay, boy,” Scott ordered. “He’s too excited. Besides, this calls for human judgment and fingers, not paws. Especially not a paw that’s still recovering from an injury.”

  “I’m lighter than you. I’ll climb up and move stuff bit by bit,” Jack offered.

  “It doesn’t work that way. Watch me first. And somebody see if you can reach 911.”

  While I talked soothingly to Merry, Scott gently, very gently for a big, tough guy, laid himself on the pile. “To distribute my weight evenly,” he said. Crablike, he crawled his way up the mound, precisely choosing bits to pick away as Merry whimpered, which broke my heart but also helped him zero in on her location.

  “Communications up,” Jack said, waving his iPhone. He gave the emergency operator our location. “They’re on their way.”

  Finally, I heard Scott shout, “We’ve got her,” and there she was, neck up, covered with white plaster dust, gasping for air. When she got a gulp of it, she began to sob. It was like watching a newborn emerge. Eyelids glued shut, then the first cry that blared, “Alive.”