King’s hold on Sid seemed unbreakable. He brought the bat down against the dog’s side as hard as he could, but the animal was impervious to the blows. When Sid lost his balance, the dog released his leg in order to go for Sid’s throat. His snap was so close that Sid actually caught the scent of the animal’s breath. He moved just in time to avoid being seized at the throat. Then, turning over on his stomach, he spun away and got to his feet. The dog came at him, but Sid ran fast enough to get back to the garage.
There he fell against the back of his car and watched the animal lunge into the air. Its chain snapped and held him back. Sid moved farther into the garage and pushed the button to close the door. Then he stumbled into the house where his wife and his daughter and his eight-year-old son were all crying hysterically. Dazed, he looked down at his blood-covered lower right leg and went for some towels. After he wrapped his leg and got some towels to Clara, who was simply holding Bobby to her in the living room, he went to the telephone and called the Fallsburg police department. The dispatcher said he would call for an ambulance.
By the time the first patrol car arrived, the dog was sitting casually in front of the doghouse and eating his food. He didn’t bark at the police; he simply stared at them with what was now a puppy’s curiosity. The patrolmen were quite confused. They saw the bad gash on Bobby Kaufman’s shoulder and the bad bite in Sid Kaufman’s leg.
“Shoot him,” Sid demanded. “Shoot him!” he shouted at the hesitant young cop, who looked to his older partner.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“Shoot him,” Sid repeated. The older officer looked at Sid and then shrugged.
“Shoot the bastard,” he said.
The younger patrolman took out his thirty-eight, walked a few steps toward King, and fired directly into the animal’s head. All the while the dog sat there peacefully. To the young policeman, it felt like a murder.
Afterward, it was clearly determined that the dog did not have rabies.
From the time he was a boy, Sid Kaufman demanded logic in everything. Contradictions, paradoxes, mysteries annoyed him to no end. He was downright intolerant when it came to confusion. When he analyzed it, he concluded that his attitude had found it’s genesis on the day his mother gave birth to a stillborn baby girl. When his father brought his mother home and they all sat together in the gloomy living room after the comforting relatives had gone, Sid demonstrated a four-year-old’s inquisitiveness, as precocious as it was.
“Why did God make a baby if the baby was going to be dead?” he asked. His parents looked at him, their faces filled with sympathy because they didn’t have the answer and they knew he needed a satisfactory one very badly.
“It happens,” his father offered.
“Why?”
“It just does. It’s part of life, part of this world.”
“That’s silly,” he said. He looked to his mother, but she offered nothing else.
But the frustration didn’t defeat him. Questions continued to be a major part of his dialogue. He challenged everything and anything he could. In school his teachers saw him as a genuine pain in the ass, always wanting to know why things were due on a certain date or why they had to be done a certain way.
Perhaps it was only logical that he eventually became an efficiency expert. As a systems analyst, he traveled all over the state and country, going into factories, plants, corporations, and department stores to review practices and regulations and find ways of streamlining methods. He was good at it; he usually left a list of recommendations that resulted in increased production, if not more pleasant and agreeable working conditions.
Although his firm was situated in New York City, it didn’t really matter where he lived. He was rarely at the office. Usually he received his assignments on the telephone, traveled to the location, did his job, and returned to file a report. So when Clara wanted them to buy the house in the Catskills in a town not far from her parents, he didn’t resist. It was only an hour and forty minutes to the George Washington Bridge and the quiet country setting was very appealing. It was certainly a beautiful place for the kids to grow up. The school system was small and suffered from few of the problems that plagued more urban areas.
It was true that in the summertime, the resorts attracted thousands of tourists to the area, but their home was situated on a side country road, just east of a beautiful lake. In the fall the geese flew over on their journey south, and in the spring they returned, always in their remarkable V formation.
The air was clear, the people were friendly, the woods were beautiful, and the mountains were often awe-inspiring. A man could feel alive here and a father and husband could feel that his family was secure and safe. There was little crime, even though people were made paranoid by an occasional burglary and by television news crime stories.
All in all, settling in the town of Fallsburg seemed a smart and logical thing to do. He had been happy with his decision and proud of what he had done for his family. He had placed them in a simpler, happier world and they had loved it—until now.
Chief Michaels handed him a copy of the lab report and he read it three times before reacting.
“There’s got to be some mistake. Can we have them redo it?”
“Believe me, they did.”
“It doesn’t make any sense. It wasn’t a dog we just got.”
“It happens,” the chief said.
“You mean it’s part of life, part of this world?”
The chief shrugged. “What can I tell you? It wasn’t rabies. The dog just got a stick up its ass. Thank God it wasn’t worse than it was.”
“It was bad enough.”
“It’s dead. What else can we do?”
Sid simply stood there, staring at him.
“Go see a vet or talk to an animal psychiatrist,” the chief added facetiously.
Sid nodded. “I might just do that,” he said.
The chief followed him to the doorway of the station, which was part of the town hall and justice court. The hamlet of South Fallsburg, which was one of seven in the township, was the busiest and most populated. The Kaufmans lived a little more than two miles out of the business area, which was located on one main street that consisted of a variety of stores, luncheonettes, two bar-and-grills, two drugstores, two banks, a large grocery, and some professional offices. The town was so quiet during the off-season months, especially during the heart of winter, that a dog could go to sleep on the main street and feel confident of his security.
It was precisely this simplicity that made the area so attractive to Sid. Now, as he looked out at the intermittent traffic, he felt deceived. Terrible things could happen here, too. There were no guarantees.
Harry Michaels’s weathered face softened as he stood beside Sid Kaufman. He was sorry now that he hadn’t appeared more sympathetic. The father of two grown sons, he could understand Sid’s outrage at what had occurred. It was easy to lose track of how fragile life was and how vulnerable to injury, illness, and disaster children were. How many vehicular traffic accidents involving teenagers had he investigated over the past twenty-nine years, and what about those two teenage suicides last year? Even a semi-rural police chief supervising a force of only twelve full-time men could grow hardened and insensitive, he thought.
“How’s your boy doin’?”
“Thirty stitches,” Sid said, looking out the window. It was as though he were talking to himself. “But the worst part of it is the psychological part. He doesn’t sleep—nightmares. He’s afraid to go out of the house. He’ll probably be afraid of dogs for the rest of his life ... maybe all animals. And my daughter... she’s just as bad. Clara’s just coming down from a peak of hysteria.”
“It’s eerie. I wish I had some logical explanation for you, but like I said . . .”
“I know.” Sid looked at him. He was a couple of inches taller than the fifty-six-year-old police chief, but his slim build and fair skin made him appear slight beside the stocky, one-hundred-eig
hty-pound law officer, who often appeared more like a senior truck driver. He had big hands and large facial features. His hair had grayed and thinned, but he kept it brushed down and over so it didn’t seem so.
“However,” Sid said, “I’ll find the logical explanation. That’s for sure,” he added. His blue eyes darkened with intensity and determination.
The chief nodded. “Wish you luck. Call me if you need anything else.”
“Thanks.”
The chief watched Sid walk out to his car. He limped because of the bite in his leg. After he drove off, Michaels went back to his desk and put the file on the Kaufman dog incident in his closed-case folder. As far as he was concerned, there was really nothing else to do.
Sid felt differently. As he drove back toward home, he considered the chief’s half-facetious statement. Why not talk to a vet and get some insights into animal psychiatry? Could something mental have happened to King? Was it possible for an animal to become schizophrenic? The dog was so peaceful when the police arrived. Sid knew that if he and Bobby didn’t have the wounds as evidence, the police would have doubted the story. The animal didn’t growl or bark at them. It was as if... as if he had put on an act just for the cops.
This is getting insane, Sid thought. My mind is running wild. I have to talk to someone with expert knowledge and see if I can understand. And yet, in the back of his mind, he had a feeling, an idea that what had happened would be something even specialists would not fully comprehend.
When he arrived at the house, he found Bobby and Clara in the living room. Clara was playing video games with Bobby, even though she hated them. She gave him a knowing glance when he entered, signaling that Bobby was still on fragile ground.
“Where’s Lisa?”
“Still at school. Tomorrow, Bobby’s going to go to school. Right, Bobby?”
The little boy looked up at his father. Sid smiled expectantly.
“I guess so.”
“Good,” Sid said.
“My shoulder still hurts,” Bobby said. “A lot.”
“It’ll get better fast.”
“It’s going to hurt to take the stitches out.”
“Oh no. By then you won’t feel a thing. I had stitches too, you know.”
“Didn’t yours hurt?”
“Sure, but it’s getting better already. I just don’t think about it. You shouldn’t either.”
“How about a little relief?” Clara said. “You know, substitution time,” she sang.
“Oh, sure. Bobby’s getting better at Breakout, huh?”
“I’m terrible at these things,” Clara said. She got up and Sid went to take her place. “Anything new?” she asked softly.
“I just got a copy of the official results. The police don’t know anything more.”
“No other incidents like this?”
“Not that I know of or they spoke of. I think he would have told me if there were. He’s a salty fellow, but not hard to read. He’s as puzzled as we are, only his response is to shrug and file it away. Of course, it wasn’t his family who suffered.”
“Maybe he’s right. Maybe it was just a freak thing.”
“I don’t think so. There’s no such thing as a freak thing. There has to be an explanation.”
“I just find it so hard to believe it happened. That dog was so . . .” She stopped talking when Bobby looked up.
“I know. Forget it for now. So, champ, what are we playing here?” he asked, squatting beside his son.
“I’m changing the cartridge to Asteroids, okay?”
“Sure. I don’t know one from the other, but sure.”
“Is King dead for good?” Bobby asked.
“You can only be dead for good, Bobby. There’s no other way to be dead. He won’t be coming back, if that’s what you’re worrying about.”
“Yes he can,” Bobby said. He pushed the button and started the video game.
“Yes he can? No, it’s not possible, son. Don’t think about that.”
“But I saw him,” Bobby said, looking away from the small television screen.
“Saw him? You mean King?”
“Uh huh.”
“That’s silly, Bobby. You probably mean you had a bad dream again, right?”
“Nope. It wasn’t a dream. I heard him outside and I looked out my window.”
“When was this?” Sid asked.
“Last night. I woke up and looked out the window and he was on the lawn. He was looking up at my window.”
“Bobby, that was a dream. To you it seemed as though it really was happening, but it wasn’t. You had a bad experience, a terrible experience, and when things like that happen, they stay with you for a while. It’s like having a bad taste in your mouth after you eat something rotten,” he added, searching for a simple analogy.
His son shook his head. “It wasn’t a dream,” he said. “I know it wasn’t because I had to go to the bathroom and I went and I stopped by your door, but you and Mommy didn’t hear me, so I went back to bed. I looked out again, but he was gone. He’ll be back tonight, won’t he?”
“Clara!”
“What is it?” Clara said, looking back through the doorway. She had gone to the kitchen to prepare dinner.
“Now he’s saying the dog was here last night.”
“I know. He told me the same story.”
“Didn’t you explain that it was a dream?”
“He doesn’t believe me. You explain,” she said and disappeared again.
“All right, I’ll tell you what, Bobby. If King comes back, you come into my room no matter what and wake me up so I can see him too, okay?”
“All right.”
“And I want to tell you something else, son. German shepherds are common. You’ll see dogs that look like King from time to time. That doesn’t mean it’s King.”
“Nobody else has a German shepherd on Lake Street,” he said.
“That’s true. As far as I know, that is.” He thought about it for a moment. “I’ve been home for three straight days now and I haven’t seen any,” he added, more for himself than for his son.
“So then it must have been King,” Bobby insisted.
Sid looked at his son. The kid has my serious expression, he thought. He has Clara’s eyes and Clara’s nose, but when he thinks, he looks like me. Bobby was always precocious. It wasn’t surprising that he held on to his ideas.
“Listen, Bobby. Do you know what had to be done after King was shot? I didn’t tell you all of it because it isn’t pleasant. They had to cut off his head and send it to the laboratory in Albany for examination to see if he had rabies. Now how could he come around without a head?”
“I don’t know.”
“So it can’t be King, right?” He could see that he had succeeded in placing some doubt in Bobby’s mind.
“I don’t know.”
“You know. Don’t say you don’t know. He couldn’t go get his head and put it back on again, could he?”
“No.”
“Then it wasn’t King or it was a dream, okay?”
Bobby didn’t respond. Stubborn, just like I am, Sid thought.
“Why did he bite me?” Bobby asked softly.
“I don’t know yet, son. But I will. You can be sure of that.”
“He didn’t want to bite me again. He sat down on the grass and looked up at me. He wanted me to come out and pet him and play with him, just like always.”
“That was your dream.”
“What if I’m having a dream and I go out?” Bobby asked.
“That’s called sleepwalking. Don’t worry, I won’t let you go out.”
“You didn’t hear me go to the bathroom.”
“I’ll hear you open the front door. That’s different. Besides, if you went out, there would be nothing there. You’d wake up and come back inside.”
Bobby looked at the television set and began to work the video sticks, but Sid could see that the boy’s mind wasn’t totally on it. Suddenly, Bobby got up
and ran to the front door.
“Hey, where are you going?”
“You’ll see,” Bobby said. He opened the door and rushed out. Sid got up reluctantly and followed his son out of the house. The gray afternoon seemed to have grown even darker. Sid thought he saw rain in the approaching overcast. He stood out on the patio and looked about, at first not seeing Bobby. Then he saw him crawling about on the lawn near the rosebush.
“What are you doing, Bobby?”
“Here,” his son said. Sid walked to him. “He was here, looking up at me,” Bobby said, pointing to his bedroom window.
“Bobby,” Sid began, thinking he had to be as patient as possible. The kid had gone through a hell of an experience.
“Look,” Bobby said, pointing to the soft earth around the rosebush. “See?”
Sid focused on the ground and then squatted slowly so he could inspect the area Bobby had indicated. There was a paw print there, a large dog’s paw print.
“He was here,” Bobby said. “It wasn’t a dream.”
Sid looked at the print and then looked at his son.
“It could have been one King made a while back, Bobby.”
“It wasn’t. He made it last night.” Bobby said.
Sid studied it some more. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll look for him tonight—or whatever dog it was.”
“Good,” Bobby said. He wore a look of relief. He got up and ran back to the house. “Come on, Dad, let’s play Asteroids.”
“Right,” Sid said. He stood up, but he couldn’t take his eyes from the paw print.
When he looked up, he was sure it was going to rain. Answers. He had to have answers, and soon.
2
IT WAS OBVIOUS to him that the old barn was no longer in use, even though it was still structurally sound. He thought of it as an ideal location, warm and secure. He could easily move in and out unobserved. His own observations told him that only the old man inhabited the farmhouse, an old man so set in his ways that it was possible to tell the time of day by his actions. He watched the old man in the morning, working on his small garden, taking meticulous care of the newly planted crops. Everything was growing straight and proper. The smallest weeds were plucked and removed. The earth was pampered, watered, and fed the proper nutritional chemicals. And the fence around the garden kept out the deer and the rabbits. He saw them standing nearby, looking longingly and hungrily at the old man’s plants, and he understood what the power of precaution, well-thought-out planning, could be. In a sense, the old man knew the future because he knew what would happen if he didn’t take steps to prevent it. This was the power of foresight. How powerful it could be.
Night Howl Page 2