She scooped through the dry morsels until she reached the false metal bottom. Her fingers fumbled along the edges of the disk that she’d skillfully fit so snugly into the pail. Another mistake. If she could do it again, she’d make it a looser fit so it would release easily. But sometimes life doesn’t give you second chances, and this was one of them. She shimmied her thumb nail under the edge of the false bottom and slid it along the circumference, prying as she moved along. There was no give at all. She imagined Officer Budd discovering her here, squatting behind the door with a bucket of dog food. The life she knew would be over.
She peeked out. He had reached the Food Area and then was gone again with more pails in hand. She dumped the kibble onto the floor and again shoved her thumb nail into the razor thin space, pulling and maneuvering. While she did so, she stared absentmindedly at the tiny pile on the floor, doing the math. If there were as many dogs here as they predicted and only twenty-eight buckets, this small amount of food was meant to feed ten or more. No wonder they were so skinny. She was getting a feel for it with her thumb, on the cusp. Suddenly, it shifted. Finally! She gave a forceful tug upward and the false bottom escaped from its perfect fit. And there it was, like a pearl in her hand: her cell phone, good as new. She slipped it in her pocket and scooped the morsels back into the container.
When the coast was clear, she ran out to the dwindling line, left her pail among the others and sped back to relative safety. Her head was spinning from the adrenaline and near- misses, and from knowing that the hardest part of the plan still lay ahead.
Her thumb was throbbing and dripping blood. She wiped red droplets from the floor with a hasty sleeve. She would need to hide the metal piece where it wouldn’t be found any time soon. She lifted the mattress at the foot of the bed and wove the disk between several springs until it lodged into place. Next, she powered up her phone. Wow, twenty-seven messages since yesterday morning? No kidding! There were texts, tweets, Instagrams and Snapchats. It felt like weeks since she and her phone had parted, but it had only been a day. A text from Gil that morning asked if today was “the day.” (FYI, she was secretly relieved about the Gil thing, despite it having been the most embarrassing moment of her life. Besides, the last thing she needed just then was a boyfriend.) She was in the middle of a response when she mentally slapped herself: Earth to Moron, Job to Do.
Had she closed the door at the bottom of the stairs? Wiped up all the blood? She crept down the steps, saw no sign of him, shut the door, and checked for bright red dots. There were none, but there was a lone piece of dog food lying there, dead center for all the world to see. Many a critical mission was foiled by as small an oversight as this. She picked it up and (she would never, ever tell anyone this, except, foolishly, Gil) she popped it in her mouth and swallowed just as footsteps sounded. She tripped on the way upstairs and hopped in bed, stiff as a corpse. The door opened below.
The countdown began. Neon numbers flipped in her mind as nausea clutched onto her from the inside. The rest was dangerous lunacy. What had they been thinking? It sounded so simple: one, find a clever way to sneak a camera into the Compound; two, take photographs of the unspeakable goings on; and three, distribute the photos as proof to the outside world. But they’d never detailed exactly how to “take photographs”—nor could they have. No one had ever been in the position to do it. She closed her eyes and let the minutes crash over her like turbulent ocean waves as she struggled to stay afloat.
Finally, Officer Budd left the building again. She followed him through the spot on the window pane. It must have been eleven o’clock: roll call. The time had come which she, alone, could expose to the world. It was a calling and a duty she had taken on herself. And suddenly, she didn’t want it. She didn’t want to see, didn’t want to know. For the first time, she longed to be in English class, taking a test right now, where the only problem she faced would be flunking it. Before this morning, a failed grade would have been a big deal. Now, it was mere child’s play—a frivolity compared to what she was staring at.
Out came the dogs from Barracks I: a running stampede. Officer Budd was shouting at them and swatting, stick figures all. There were elderly dogs and puppies, some with large floppy ears that weighed down their burdened bodies, others with triangle ears that made them look perpetually happy—even in a place like that. But not a single tail wagged. Somewhere among them was her beloved Penelope. She peeled her eyes across the masses, searching for the shiny tan-and-black coat and the birthday collar. But the dogs had been stripped of their identities, reduced to a horde of starvation.
She pressed her phone flush against the cleared spot on the window. Her grip was firm and steady. I’m not really seeing what I’m seeing, she told herself. In truth, she was only seeing her electronics. It was the inanimate screen in her hand that was “seeing” the patch of glass, and in turn, it was the smudged pane that was witnessing the scene below. And all of this went first through the lenses of her glasses. So, she reasoned, she was four times removed, four distant steps from reality. She was seeing an illusion, nothing more.
But as she took the shots, the phone wobbled and her fingers shook. She was about to faint. She pressed the button several times. She could take no more.
She suddenly didn’t recognize the small, bare room she found herself in. Where was she? What was this hideous place? His commanding boots stomped up the stairs, each step like a gunshot. She opened her lunch bag and stuffed the contents of the sandwich into her mouth. She hid the slender phone between the bread, re-wrapped it and chomped fast. She stared straight ahead and breathed: in, two three; out, two three. Chew, chew, swallow!
A knock came at her door. “Everything alright, Pip?” It was the pleasant voice of a demon. How dare he address her by Angie’s endearing nickname?
Vibrations traveled up her throat, and she heard a “yes.”
“Your dad called. He’ll be here in a couple minutes to run you home.”
She jumped off the bed, grabbed her lunch and jacket, and started to leave.
He blocked her at the door. “You know the routine,” he apologized as he opened her lunch bag. “Silly procedures, I know, but they must be followed.” He fingered quickly through the items. He pulled out the sandwich to the sound of someone’s heart pounding. “Like you could eat your lunch, right.” He tucked the sandwich back in the bag and handed it to her. She showed her empty pockets, shoes and socks, and accompanied him to the Front Gate. “Hope you feel better.” He unlocked it.
Once he was out of sight, she made a turn for the woods, where Angie was doing jumping jacks behind a tree. “It’s about time!” she exclaimed, warming her hands. “It gets cold out here all alone. And so boring.”
“Done,” was all Raelyn could say. She tossed the hat with the glued hair into the trees, hopped on her bike, and was gone. Five minutes later, Mr. Quinn’s police vehicle pulled up to his daughter waiting for him.
By noon, both girls were in school, reportedly feeling much better. Rae got her first zero on an assignment. Failed, it read.
But she didn’t feel like a failure at all.
CHAPTER 14
How To Pass Inspection (With Tricks And Illusions)
MY MOTHER WAS OBSESSED whenever company came with presenting a fantasy of what the day-to-day Devines really were. We would stuff bags of miscellany into closets and drawers, haul laundry baskets well out of sight, display the brass candlesticks. In my dream, I was in a large, echoey room with alabaster pillars and famous paintings on the walls in ornate frames.
“Where are we?” I asked.
“Home.”
AN ENVELOPE MARKED Welfare Society landed on a large, cluttered desk along with a stack of other mail. It had no return address. The director guessed it was from a child. She remained standing as she sliced open the envelope at the seam. The photos that spilled onto her desk were amateurish—out of focus and uncentered. Her first inclination was to toss them directly into the trash.
But one image
caught her attention—an erect structure in the distance with a cluster of objects in front of it. One was a man who towered over the others. She drew the photo closer. They were four-legged animals of varying sizes, none reaching much above the man’s knees, but unidentifiable. They were hairless like wet seals, the legs skinny like those of ostriches.
She flipped to the next photograph of these same creatures standing in perfect rows on rickety appendages. The third photo showed a skeletal figure with bowed head and tucked tail, a man standing over it with a club. She made out the grainy features, the eyes wide and vacant, the jaw clamped. It dawned on her that the peculiar animals were dogs.
She sank into the chair, picked up the phone, and ordered an investigation.
Word got out immediately.
Never underestimate the ingenuity and precision of a well-oiled murder machine. The Blundertown Compound’s classified, internal memo reports that it is taking a seventy-two-hour hiatus to undergo a Quick Change—a total alteration of set and scenery. The chimney stops abruptly. Bleach pours out by the truckload, the dirt roads hosed down and neatly raked. The betraying odors dissipate with air fresheners, and a van of new prisoners arrives from out of county. There are a dozen poodles, all quite healthy, with curly coats and bountiful muscle and fat. Hold off on the routine grooming for now. Triple up their kibble portions and fill their water bowls. For now.
When the Welfare Society Investigative Team arrives at the Blundertown Compound, they are met with a smiling crew led by Angelica’s father, Officer Ted Quinn. They also are met at the entrance by a small garden filled with roses, petunias, and geraniums, and a gardener clipping the shrubs. Even a yellow butterfly has found its way there. Never mind that it’s barely spring; it’s April Fool’s Day.
Officer Quinn leads the Investigative Team on a limited tour of the premises. Of course we have nothing to hide, he seems to be saying; come right this way.
The Team follows him with their clipboards and pens to a fenced in playground called Pooch Park. Inside are a dozen frolicking poodles, each in a bright red bow, not a single rib showing. There are balls and toys and a small drinking pond.
“Snack time!” calls Officer Quinn. The poodles trot over to him with bright, excited eyes. He feeds one after another a bone-shaped treat and pats each on the head. He instinctively wipes his hand on the back of his trousers.
Come, let me show you their dorm, he suggests. The small building is immaculate, with two tidy rows of fluffy, individual beds with built-in pillows. Alongside each bed a water bowl is filled to the brim. You would imagine these residents enjoy a bedtime story each night.
And what about those two large buildings over there? someone on the Team asks.
More of the same, Officer Quinn explains. More state-of-the-art bedrooms, more bedtime stories. Would you care to see them?
If you don’t mind. . . .
Mind? Not at all! He gives a heartwarming chuckle. But our guests might be sleeping; it’s their nap time. We’ll try not to disturb them, that’s all.
Oh! No, please. There’s no need. Not if it’s their nap time.
You sure? You are more than welcome to see—
No, it’s quite alright. The Team shifts gears. What about those two buildings in the distance over there? The small white one and the large tower?
Come, we’ll show you. See, the small building here is the Spa. Our guests enjoy baths with warm water and bubbles in here, and they are hand dried with fluffy white towels. Egyptian cotton. The tower over here—it’s a chimney, really—is where debris and garbage are disposed of. It keeps the Compound clean and pleasant, dirt and disease free. We’re a one hundred percent germ-free facility.
The Team is impressed. Their notebooks are closed. Frankly, they are a bit embarrassed. What had they been expecting to see here, anyway?
Thank you for the most informative tour. We’re sorry to have inconvenienced you.
Not at all! The honor is entirely ours. Feel free any time. We have an Open Door Policy here.
The Team is escorted to the Gate. They shake hands and part ways.
Investigation closed.
Jackson had always been a good magician. He could make things disappear before your very eyes: coins, playing cards, plastic jewels, you name it. The “trick,” he confided in Raelyn, lay not so much in making an object disappear (for that was impossible) as in getting your audience to look the other way. “So when I wave my right hand overhead with a shiny quarter between my thumb and finger,” he demonstrates, “your eyes follow. While the real action,” he says, pausing for dramatic effect, “is happening—” his left hand flips open quietly at his side—“here.” But though Rae honed in with razor sharp focus, she could never catch him in the act. And like any good magician, he never revealed exactly how he did it. She still saw things disappear before her very eyes.
So it had been on that day at the Blundertown Compound. The trick was to avert the inspectors’ attention from the real action by directing it to an extraneous event—the fairytale dorm room that had been created precisely for this purpose. The trick was to create an appealing, plausible Alternate Reality that the inspectors would much prefer to the truth. The lovely garden, the woman with a twinkle in her eye and shears in her hands, the red bows, the bone-shaped treats, fluffy new beds and the “Spa” sign—all of these things were Jack’s right hand waving a shiny, perfect coin overhead of a man in a wig.
CHAPTER 15
Jackson’s Jolly Followers
EVEN WITH HER KEEN NOSE, Penelope and I were trapped in a cave, lost. We wandered together aimlessly in my dream until we heard Jack’s voice echoing from somewhere high above: “T-R-EA-T! T, t, t. . . !” Penelope spun around and broke into a gallop, following the sonar trail of letters. I chased her tail, as it made a left turn out of sight.
EIGHT YOUNG MEN IN GRAY TROUSERS and button-down shirts sat around a table. A man considerably older wore a blue uniform and stood at attention, a firearm in his holster. The leader of the gray group was Jackson Devine, Number 502734993. This was their fourth session, and they were psyched to get started.
On the table lay the following items: six pairs of scissors, fabric remnants of vibrant colors and patterns, straight pins, assorted threads, sewing needles, measuring tape, thimbles, and a stack of finished products.
“Alright, boys,” Jackson announced, rolling up his sleeves, “let’s get to it.”
They dove in for their favorite fabrics and materials and began to sew.
The young men were hand-stitching neck scarves by the dozen: large, medium, and small. The scarves would be gifts for all the dogs who were currently imprisoned. Unlike themselves, however, the dogs had never violated any laws at all. This kind of blatant injustice rubbed these fellows the wrong way. They couldn’t do much—at least while they were housed there—but they could do something.
Jackson was an optimist, convinced that, one day soon, the dogs would be freed. When that day came, the first thing they’d do, he guessed, would be to toss away the government collars with the despicable numbers. His idea was to give each of them something special to replace them with. They stored the growing number of bandanas for the pooches’ return home. But when no one was watching, Jackson slipped his newly finished scarf into the back pocket of his trousers. It was long and made of silk, with dazzling streaks of color. The delicate, fluid patterns seeped through each other like water, a burst of rainbow tucked safely in his keeping.
There had been considerable red tape and resistance before his sewing club was formed. When he first presented the idea to his mates, they’d looked at him strangely for sure. They teased him relentlessly. But soon they came to see that he was dead serious and wasn’t going anywhere (at least for a while), and neither were they.
Selling the idea to the Powers That Be was a greater challenge. They considered having him evaluated by the staff psychiatrist, who came on Tuesdays. But Number 502734993 charmed them and made his case, and eventually they endors
ed the Jackson Sewing Club. What was the harm? The club was the first of its kind in the institution’s seventy-five-year history.
Imagine these budding young tailors tangling their thread, pricking their fingers and thumbs, howling, “Son of a—ouch!” shaking their hands in the air, and sucking their fingers in pain, all while telling jokes, laughing, and concentrating. Over time, they became quite skilled, too. These would be the best memories they would have of the place. And they would remain so long after they left.
MEANWHILE, PENELOPE WAS DIGGING. Her calloused paws scrabbled at a furious pace, scooping the rocky dirt and flinging it frantically behind her. On either side of her was an endless line of other dogs digging, too. Together, they were digging the largest, deepest, longest hole any of them had ever dreamed of, the dirt flying behind them in a blinding spray. Big dogs, tiny dogs, young and old, all in a row, all furless and afraid, digging to the shouted commands of the guards.
To slow down meant a beating, or perhaps something worse—being taken away someplace. She had never seen those dogs again, impossible to imagine. She didn’t know how she could dig one more inch, mow her paws one more time into the heartless soil, but somehow she did. She dared not contemplate beyond the moment. She dared never project into the imminent future—when her paws would comb through the rocky terrain for the last time, her last drop of energy depleted.
“Hello,” a low voice murmured next to her. It was a Doberman Pinscher digging to her left. He was quite thin, of course, and a good deal younger than she, his sinewy musculature still intact. By the whiff of him, she guessed him to be in his prime.
“Hello!” she whispered.
“You know what we’re digging, don’t you?” he asked. She hadn’t the faintest idea and really hadn’t thought about it. “We are digging our own graves,” he said.
The Thing at the Edge of Blundertown Page 12