Dogs

by Allan Stratton

  The wind whips up. The snow stings my cheeks. Enough of this crap.

  I send Mom another text: I’m outside freezing. Where are you?

  She gets back right away: Sorry. Held up. Ken’s on his way.

  The next five minutes feels like forever. At last I see Ken’s car. Whew. He stops at the side of the road. I jog out. He rolls down his window. Only it’s not Ken.

  “Hi, Buddy.”

  “Dad.”

  43

  Dad smiles. “Hop in.”

  “Dad, what are you doing here?”

  “Why, I’ve been at the motel next door since Saturday morning. Drove nonstop since our call on Friday. The room’s not bad, but the coffee’s crap.”

  I start to shake. “And Ken—what are you doing in Ken’s car?”

  “Ken? Don’t I even get a ‘Hi’ first? You hurt my feelings.”

  “Okay, hi. So where’s Ken?”

  “Hop in and I’ll tell you.”

  I think about running back to the school. For what? The doors are locked. Everyone’s gone except the custodian, off in the gym.

  Dad keeps smiling, but his voice is stone cold. “I said, ‘Hop in,’ Cameron.”

  I step back from the car, stick my hand in my pocket, and fumble for my phone.

  I speed-dial Mom.

  There’s a ring in Dad’s jacket pocket. He pulls out Mom’s phone and talks into it. “Hello, Cameron? Is that you? I’m afraid your mom can’t come to the phone right now. She’s held up. Remember?”

  I stand there frozen.

  Dad flips the phone shut. “If you want to see your mother again, Buddy, give me your phone and get in the car.”

  My brain jams. I can’t think. I hand Dad my phone and get in the car, like he’s a zombie puppet master. Is this real? Am I breathing?

  “That’s my boy,” Dad says, all friendly again. “You should unzip that coat. I’ve got the heat up.”

  I unzip my coat. “Mom.” I can hardly get the words out. “Where’s Mom? Ken?”

  “Why do you care about Lover Boy?”

  “Tell me.”

  “Fine,” Dad sighs, disappointed. “Your mom’s at the farmhouse. She’s had a nasty tumble into the basement, but she’s all right. You know the coal room? She’s locked in there for her own good. You know how she likes to run. After a fall, that wouldn’t be good.”

  Silence. Dad starts to drive. He’s heading to the farm. I feel sick.

  Dad sings, “I had a dog, his name was Rover.” Only Dad sings “Rex.” “You lied to me, Buddy. About the dog, the apartment building. You think I can’t tell when you’re lying? When your mother was lying?”

  “Ken,” I blurt out. “Where’s Ken? What did you do to him? Why won’t you say?”

  Dad grips the wheel like he used to squeeze my arm. “As a matter of fact, Lover Boy is in the trunk,” he says, super controlled. “Don’t you remember anything? I texted: Ken’s on his way. And he was. I’ve never lied to you. You and your mom, you’ve lied to me, but I’ve never lied to you.”

  Dad turns on the windshield wipers to brush back the snow.

  “How did you find us?”

  “There are lots of ways to find people, Buddy. No one can hide forever, not if someone wants to find them hard enough. You and your mom, you’ve been my hobby. You’re all I’ve thought about. Your mom, she took everything from me. I lost my job, my savings, you. Finding you is all that’s kept me going.”

  “But how did you find us this time?”

  “Well, that’s an interesting story.” He settles back into his car seat. “I’ve had a Google alert on your name from the beginning. Every so often I thought I was wasting my time. Do you have any idea how many Cameron Weavers there are? How many have wedding and birth announcements, obituaries, and awards that get mentioned in local papers? No wonder your mom never changed your name. But I kept at it. Like I said, I’ve had time. And a couple of weeks ago it paid off.”

  “Huh? I wasn’t in the papers.”

  “Maybe not, but you sure ticked off some kids at your school. Imagine my surprise when my Google alert spits out your name at this new blog: “Cameron Weaver Is a Dickhead.” It’s got photos too, and a comment section. This Cody Murphy, did you really stalk his great-granny? Like father, like son, huh?” He chuckles. “Someone said you deserved to be ripped apart by dogs, like the guy who used to live at your place. Kids can be cruel, huh?”

  Oh my God. If I hadn’t gone to the nursing home, none of this would be happening. Mom, Ken, I’m sorry.

  “I don’t get the feeling this Cody kid is all that bright, but I guess it doesn’t take much to put up a blog these days. Just energy or hate. Me, I have energy; I never hate. But your mom—not a word against her, but hate’s her middle name.” He reaches over to Ken’s iPod dock. “Want some music?”

  “No,” I whisper.

  “Suit yourself.” Dad turns up the windshield wipers. “You know, at first I wasn’t sure that Cameron Weaver the Dickhead was you. I thought I might be heading off on a wild-goose chase, almost didn’t come. I mean, this place is the farside of nowhere. But then you phoned. It was like a sign from God. I took a chance and mentioned the name Cody. The way you reacted, well, I knew I’d hit the jackpot.”

  My fault. This is all my fault. I can’t see for all the snow in the headlights. Or is it my eyes filling? “How did you get Mom and Ken? You would’ve had to fight.”

  “Buddy, I never fight. I defend myself—that’s different.” He pauses. “To answer your question, I watched your mom drop you off this morning from the motel parking lot. I followed her to that real estate office, saw Lover Boy going in and out. I googled the office, sent him an email, said I was new in town, staying at the motel, and could he show me some properties. Sure enough, he picked me up. I got in the car and, well, he didn’t say much when I showed him my gun.”

  A gun. Dad has a gun.

  “I had Lover Boy drive to a country lane,” Dad continues, “then I hog-tied him in the trunk. He kicked around a bit, but a whack to the head knocked some sense into him. Back in town, I parked by the rear door to the office. There was no one inside but your mom. When I said I had you, she did what I wanted, meek as a lamb. So sweet. Reminded me of when we met.”

  “You said you had me? So you do lie.”

  “Buddy, why so harsh? I didn’t have you then, but I have you now, don’t I? I was just off by an hour.”

  I see our farmhouse in the distance.

  “You were in the barn, weren’t you? Why didn’t you get us Saturday night?”

  “I’m not stupid, Buddy. You’re on one floor, your mom and Lover Boy are on another; you all have phones. Come on, give me some credit.”

  “So what are you going to do now?”

  “Your mom’s always made me do things I don’t want to do. She’ll never come back to me. And she won’t let me have you. It isn’t fair, is it? So what can I do? I don’t have a choice.”

  I’m too scared to shake. “You’re going to kill us?”

  “A family needs to be together, Buddy. Lover Boy needs to pay. Once he pays, it’ll be just the three of us.”

  Our farm’s getting closer. I see the entrance to our lane.

  Dad gets this sick smile. “Your mom will be crying, begging, no question. She’s always tried to make me feel bad. Always tried to shift the blame.”

  “Leave Mom alone. I won’t see you hurt Mom.”

  “Don’t worry. I don’t think a boy should see his mom die either. It isn’t right. So instead I’ll have you stand in front of her, and after you’ve said your good-byes, I’ll make her watch what she’s done. Then your mom and I will have a final talk. It may be painful—she always made it painful—but once it’s over we’ll be together forever.”

  44

  Dad turns up our lane. He puts his foot
on the accelerator, as if he can’t wait.

  “Dad, you can’t do this.”

  “Who’s to stop me?”

  “Me!”

  I throw myself across him, grab the wheel, and jerk it hard. The car flies off the lane into the field. “Mr. Sinclair!” No way he can hear me. I push on the horn with one hand and keep it down.

  Dad struggles for control. “Settle down, Buddy.”

  I scrunch my knees and pull myself over the gear stick to his side. Dad punches me on the ear. I see stars. It doesn’t matter. I keep hold of the wheel, horn blaring.

  The car veers toward the woods. Dad tries to brake, but I jam a foot on the accelerator. Everything’s a rush of snow, wipers, horn, headlights, shouting.

  Suddenly, right ahead—the bushes in front of the woods. We’re going to crash. I hurl myself toward the passenger side.

  The car hits the bushes. We fly forward. I bang my shoulder by the glove compartment. Dad hits his head on the windshield. He falls back, bleeding.

  I throw my door open. Dad grabs the back of my coat. He pulls me back, but my jacket’s unzipped, and my arms slip through the sleeves. I scramble away as fast as I can into the bushes.

  “Stop!” Dad yells. “Don’t make this hard, Buddy.”

  I look back. Dad’s out of the car. I’m alone. There’s no one to help me.

  “Jacky!” I shout. “Jacky!”

  I’m here, Cameron.

  “Dad’s going to kill me.”

  No. Remember the clearing? Get to the clearing.

  I make it past the bushes, into the woods. I stumble across dead branches. The snow’s in my face. Where am I?

  “Buddy, I see your tracks,” Dad singsongs. His voice goes in and out of the wind.

  What do I do? Where do I go?

  Don’t give up, Cameron.

  I shield my eyes. In front of me I see fallen trees under a thin layer of snow. I recognize the one with the roots pointing to the sky. The clearing’s ahead.

  “You can run but you can’t hide.” Dad’s voice is louder. Closer. “I’ve found you before. I’ll find you now.”

  I’m dead. I’m dead.

  Keep going.

  I push on, make the clearing. “What now?”

  The boulders. Arty and me, we played in the boulders.

  I head toward them.

  Faster. Faster.

  A few more feet, I’m there. I crouch behind them, look back to the woods. All I see is snow. My eyes fill with tears and flakes. I search for a crawl space.

  To the right. There’s an opening between the rocks.

  Here, yes. I pull myself inside as far as I can. All I hear is the wind and my heartbeat. Out of nowhere, everything goes still. There’s just a breeze, a whistling through the rocks.

  Where’s Dad? Did my tracks fill in? Did I lose him in the snow? Maybe he passed through. Maybe he’s gone. Yes, that’s it. I picture him wandering in the woods, lost. Or on the run. He’ll want to get out of here. He knows I’ll be getting someone to call the police. Maybe he thinks they’re already coming.

  The storm picks up again. For the first time I realize how cold I am, and how my leg and shoulder hurt. It doesn’t matter. I’m safe. I close my eyes. My fingers and toes stop tingling. I fill with a strange warmth. I start to drift.

  Cameron, no. You can’t let up. It’s dark. It’s snowing. You’ll freeze out here. And your mother and Ken, they’re still locked up. Your father could kill them before he runs. You have to stop him.

  Mom. Ken. I give my head a shake. I have to save them. I go to crawl out of my hiding place. That’s when Dad grabs my legs.

  “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

  I’m afraid to look back. I don’t have to. I picture Dad on all fours outside the opening. There’s a gash on his forehead from where he hit the windshield. His face is covered in blood and snow. It runs down his neck.

  “You always loved that story.” Dad pulls on my legs.

  I brace myself tight with my elbows. The wind blows louder. Snow whips around the boulders.

  “I said, ‘Come out,’ Buddy. You can’t win. It’s over. I’m stronger than you. I have a gun.”

  “Then shoot me! Go ahead! Let the neighbors hear! Let them call the police! Let them catch you, you psycho whack job!”

  Dad roars and yanks my legs so hard I feel my arms pulling out of their sockets. He yanks again. As my arms give way, I hear a high, piercing whistle. Is it Jacky? The wind? I don’t know. All I know is that the whistling turns into howling. It’s so loud I can’t hear myself think.

  I feel Dad pulling me out. I close my eyes and wait for the end. Only the wind—it’s not the wind. It’s the dogs.

  I see them bounding through the woods. Their heads are down. Their fur bristles. Their eyes burn like coals.

  Dad hears them too. He’s still on all fours. He turns his head. He sees the dogs racing toward him, ears back, teeth bared.

  Dad lets go of my legs. He freezes in terror. The dogs leap in the air.

  Dad screams.

  45

  I’m sitting on the living room couch between Mom and Ken. Mr. Sinclair is here too, along with police and paramedics. There are three police cars and an ambulance outside.

  Mr. Sinclair was the one who called the cops. He heard the horn, looked out his window, and saw headlights, the car out of control, and the crash. He took his shotgun and a heavy-duty flashlight and went to see what was up. When he realized the car was empty, he headed into the woods. He heard some yelling and found me at the boulders.

  Dad was already dead.

  Dad’s dead. I say it over and over. I can’t believe it. Dad’s dead.

  I told Mr. Sinclair about Mom and Ken. We went to the car. The key was still in the ignition. We’d just gotten Ken out of the trunk when the first cops drove up with their flashers.

  The cops called in reinforcements and brought us back to the house. Before they could tell me to stay put, I raced downstairs and got Mom out of the coal room. She and Ken hugged me tight and didn’t let go till just now when the paramedics arrived.

  The medics check us out. Mom has a sprained ankle, Ken’s face is messed up, and I have a bruise on my shoulder. “Other than that, you seem be okay,” one of them says. “To be on the safe side, we’d like to bring you to the hospital to be sure. They may want to keep you overnight. You’re likely in shock.”

  “Fine,” Mom says, “but not till you’ve finished what you have to do out there with the police.” She means in the woods with Dad. She won’t feel safe till she knows he’s in a body bag. Neither will I.

  The cops leave with the medics, except for the two who came by that night after the nursing home. The heavy one asks each of us to tell him what happened; the thin one sits on the piano bench and takes notes. We tell them, then wait, numb, till the others return. I hear the shed door open and the sounds of them stomping the snow off their boots.

  Dad’s dead. Dad’s dead. Why don’t I feel anything?

  Our cop friends go out for a briefing, then they all come back into the room.

  “So it’s true?” Mom asks.

  The heavy cop nods. “It seems his throat was ripped open by an animal. All we can think is a coyote. It’s next to unheard of. But if he was down on all fours, bleeding in the dark, he’d have looked and smelled like wounded prey. One good bite to the jugular, and he’d have been gone in no time.”

  His partner nods. “Whatever it was, there aren’t any tracks. The snow’s seen to that. We’ll have a sniffer dog sent over from Hamilton County, but with all the critters out here and in the ravines, who knows if we’ll find the one that did it.”

  I want to tell them it wasn’t a coyote, it was the dogs, but I’m not stupid.

  “You’re lucky to be alive,” the heavy cop says.

 
There’s a moment of silence. Mr. Sinclair’s been sitting in the leather armchair in the corner, head bowed. “May I say something?” he whispers with a glance to Mom. “Something personal?”

  “Certainly.”

  Mr. Sinclair shifts awkwardly in his seat. I’ve never seen him look so old. There’s something in his voice and eyes that’s different too.

  “Would you like this just for the family?” the heavy cop asks.

  “No, stay,” Mr. Sinclair says quietly. “What I have to say is mainly for Cameron, but I don’t care who hears it.” He looks into my eyes. “After what happened tonight—with you, with your mother, with your father…well…there’s something I never thought I’d say, but it’s something you deserve to know.”

  I’m half afraid to hear. “What?”

  “The boy who lived here when I was your age, Jacky McTavish, he’s been on your mind since the day we met.”

  I nod.

  “His father was like yours. I saw the bruises. McTavish said Jacky got them from playing. But I was the one he played with, and he never got bruised around me.” Mr. Sinclair closes his eyes; his forehead presses down. “The last time I saw Jacky alive, we were in the clearing. He was crying that his mother had run off with somebody, that she didn’t want him, and from now on he’d have to stay inside. He made me promise not to tell. He said if I told, something terrible would happen to him. I knew what his father was like. So I promised I wouldn’t tell.

  “Later I heard my parents whispering that Jacky’s mother had taken him away with Matthew Fraser. Father said, ‘It’s not proper,’ but Mother said, ‘Even if it isn’t, it’s a good thing. How Evelyn’s managed to stay with Frank so long is a mystery known only to God.’ I heard kids gossip at school. They said things about Jacky’s mother, how she was a whore, and no wonder Jacky was so strange. But they didn’t know Frank McTavish. And they didn’t know what Jacky was like when he wasn’t at school being picked on.”

  Mr. Sinclair sucks in his breath again and again. “I should have said something. I never did. I kept that stupid promise because I was afraid for Jacky and what would happen if I told. Then McTavish got the dogs, and within a month he was dead. When Jacky wasn’t found there afterward, I figured his mother had come back and got him.