by Peter Idone
“I didn’t get his name.”
“That’s who signed it. Is there a problem?”
“Yeah, there is. Three thirty this morning it was stolen.”
“What was stolen, Mr. Logan?”
“My dog.”
“You have another dog?”
“No. The dead one. I locked it in the tool shed, and it was taken by a bunch of guys that were in some van decked out in unusual lights. The lock was cut, burned through.”
“Could you identify any of these men?”
“Not really. They were wearing visors over their faces. I couldn’t identify anyone. The strange thing is, Officer York wanted to take my dog with him. I wouldn’t allow that. He admonished me—several times—not to bury it in my backyard.”
“True enough. That’s a health violation.”
“I told him I was going to bring it to the vet in the morning. Have it checked out to see if he could discern what kind of dog or animal could have killed so ruthlessly. But it was stolen.”
“Are you saying Officer York had something to do with it?”
“No, I’m not saying that at all. While he was at my house, a couple of Response Team contractors showed up and spoke to him.”
“What did they say?”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t hear. They spoke privately.”
“Do you want to swear out a complaint?”
“Will it do any good?”
The duty sergeant shrugged. “I can’t say, but at least we will have it on file.”
“Have there been other reports about pets getting torn apart like this around Essex?”
“Animals, dogs especially, die all the time by a variety of means. Cars, poison, abuse, you name it. It’s not always a matter for the police.”
“Do you think my case is a matter for the police?”
“That’s difficult to say with any degree of accuracy at the moment.” The duty sergeant rummaged around his desk, took out some papers, and slid them through the opening of the counter. “Why don’t you take this and write a detailed account of everything that transpired last night. You can do it here or bring it home. Take your time. Try to remember everything. It will help us and help spark a detail or two you might have overlooked.”
Logan took the paperwork. More forms to fill out and a large blank section for his chronology of events. “This is great. I can have hours of pleasure writing all this out. It’s specifically designed to keep me occupied for the entire weekend.”
“That’s bureaucracy for you.”
“Yesterday afternoon there were guys in space suits setting fire to cattle at the Lennox Farm Road exit off the highway. Then a group dressed in very similar protective gear was at my house, in the dead of night, breaking into my tool shed and stealing my dead dog. A guy has really got to wonder what is going on.”
The duty sergeant glanced over his shoulder at the Tacticals milling about the table and water cooler. He turned back to Logan. “You’ve witnessed a lot of strange goings-on in such a short period of time.”
“Does it sound crazy?”
“Who am I to judge? Do the paperwork and it will be filed. We’ll be in touch if anything turns up.”
Logan crammed the papers into his coat pocket, but he knew he wasn’t about to waste his time writing out some detailed summation of what happened last night. It sounded too offbeat, even to his ears, when he spoke about it. The local police were not going to help him; they were in collusion with the TRT in some form or another. What Logan didn’t know was what direction to go from here. He was on the verge of coming clean to the duty sergeant, explaining how he was planning on burying Tara in the backyard but had to wait because the responding officer was parked across the street for the longest time. And then the armored patrol carrier showed up. He knew they’d contacted some agency to get the dead dog for whatever reason. The creature he had seen that had ripped Tara to death was a key to it. He knew this instinctively.
“Is there anything else, Mr. Logan?”
“I don’t know. Something stinks in the kingdom of Essex, but I don’t know what, exactly.”
As he went to leave, Logan’s attention was drawn to a rather slovenly dressed man standing in the stairwell just off the foyer. White-haired, with an untrimmed mustache accenting an unshaven face, he was attempting to get Logan’s attention furtively, with a series of convoluted hand gestures. Intrigued, Logan descended the stairs to the landing where the man stood. “I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation with Sergeant McGuire.” the man said. “Perhaps I can help. Follow me.”
Logan followed the man down the flight of stairs. He was elderly, at least seventy, and scurried along at a quick pace. He led them through a double set of steel doors and then down a dimly lit cinderblock corridor painted bland institutional beige. They were out of the police station and in the Town Hall section of the building. “You won’t get any help from the local police,” the man said over his shoulder.
Halfway down the corridor, the man stopped, unlocked a door, and entered. Logan followed. It was a small office and appeared lived in. There was a workstation consisting of a desk, computer, and office chair. On top of a filing cabinet was a coffeemaker littered with sugar packets, mugs, and an opened half-pound bag of ground coffee. A small gold sofa, stained and frayed, was pushed up against the wall. A throw or blanket was balled up on the flat, cushioned seating, as well as what appeared to be a much-used airline pillow. The wastepaper basket was crammed with food packaging and damp coffee grounds. The air had a gymnasium smell. A small refrigerator hummed in the near corner.
“Are you with the cops or those private gunslingers?” Logan asked.
“Neither. And those private gunslingers, as you so aptly named them, have infiltrated into more aspects of this town than you can possibly realize.”
“Who are you and how can you help me?”
“Henry Bock, field inspector for the Department of the Environment. State branch. What’s left of it. I was sent to look into matters concerning the health of the local ecology in the Pine Haven/Essex area. I’m supposed to keep an eye on things as to the environmental situation. The health of the residents and so on and so forth. As I mentioned, you will get little sympathy or cooperation from the locals. They’ll give you the runaround until you become exhausted and eventually give up. Believe me, I have firsthand experience.”
“Which part? The exhaustion or giving up?”
“Clever. Some of both, I’m afraid.”
“Can you tell what kind of animal killed my dog, or why it was taken in the middle of the night and why the cops don’t act surprised or find it strange? Because whenever I open my mouth about it, it sounds pretty strange to me.”
“No. I can’t say right now, but it is something I’ll look into for you. What aroused my interest specifically was what you said about men in space suits burning cattle. Would you care to elaborate? Where was this again?”
“Off the highway at Lennox Farms.”
“How many cows were destroyed?”
“Christ, I don’t know. Maybe a dozen. There was a pile deep in the pasture. The barn was set on fire as well. The guy at the TRT checkpoint said it was hoof-and-mouth. What’s going on? What does it all mean?”
Henry Bock gestured for Logan to take a seat. He did so reluctantly, sitting on the edge of the unsavory sofa. “Good question. An unsettling one. I think I can guarantee the exercise you witnessed had nothing to do with hoof-and-mouth disease.”
“Then what? And what has it got to do with my dog?”
Henry Bock was seated at his desk. He turned on his computer. “Everything is connected around here in a negative sort of way.”
“That’s just great! What the hell else can possibly go wrong around here? In case you haven’t noticed, we’re living in a doomed town here in Essex.”
“Perhaps a doomed planet…a dying one. Some very powerful forces are in play. It is difficult to mount a coherent, let alone an effective, oppositi
on. Time will tell. We will have to work slowly at first. Ah, here it is.”
“What kind of contamination do you think it was? I mean, you’re here because of the temporary low-level radiation site over at Pine Haven, right?”
“Radiation? Highly unlikely, but the cattle probably bore signs of cysts.”
“Cysts?”
“Mutations and other phenomena have occurred within the Pine Haven exclusion zone and now, apparently, outside of it. Amphibians are mutating throughout local riparian areas, rivers, and lakes, and other creatures have appeared.”
“What sort of creatures?”
“The Ouroboros. I’ve yet to see one myself, but Response Team officials have captured and taken them away for study. I hear they grow quite large. They’re rare, but sightings have been reported.”
“What does it look like?”
“An Ouroboros, like the myth it originates from, is the snake eating its tail. It looks like a fat snake without head or tail. A looped coil. I don’t know how large they grow. That’s all I’ve managed to find out so far. And then there are the cysts. A walnut-sized growth on the upper haunch of cattle and horses, near the spine. It occurred with some frequency on livestock that neighbored the Pine Haven lab. It’s why the neighboring farms were included in the exclusion zone after the accident. Now extended and prolonged. This is understandable when the nature of the cysts are taken into account. They have proved to be something extraordinary. Bizarre. Repellant.”
“How do you mean?”
“What I know is secondhand and of that, very little. It was brought to my attention shortly after my arrival here several weeks ago. Soon after the accident, about a year or so afterward, these growths were appearing on livestock. A livestock vet was called out to one farm and drained the contents which had grown on a draft horse. After examining the usual degenerate keratin and rotting fatty cells, he discovered a substance within the sebum of the capsule. It was a complex of amino acids, blood, and tissue cells that were not at all compatible with the host organism.”
“Meaning what?”
Bock smiled and with a hand gesture indicated that Logan should be patient. “A cyst was surgically removed. It pulsated. An organism was growing within it. When Air Force officials got wind of it and some government medical people—I’m sure the CDC was involved—the vet was told in no uncertain terms to remain out of it and report any similar incidents with farm animals or pets. He was threatened by government agents, so he stayed away and did as he was ordered. At some point, animals discovered with the cysts were removed, possibly to Plum Island, the animal disease center in Long Island Sound. Once there the cysts were allowed to develop and brought to term. There is no information as to what these organisms growing inside were, but the order came down to destroy every animal exhibiting any signs. Response Team Management and Control and its military wing, the Tacticals, have since carried out this order. But the phenomena seemed to have died down, and only quite recently it has flared up again. Here, come take a look.”
Logan rose from the sofa and stood behind Bock. On the computer screen was an image, a swirl of gray, dark gray, silver, and black. It looked like a nuclear resonance image. Bock traced a finger over the image. “Look, the contents of the encysted material. See the subtle membrane? Do you detect the ghostly arc-shaped cartilaginous form, the quadrupedal appendages not fully developed? Embryonic head, tail, and a pronounced spine? Surely you can.”
Logan was not seeing it, but that didn’t mean anything. Some time ago, somebody had seen the image of the Virgin Mary in a slice of French toast. What do I know? he thought. Aloud he asked, “What about people? Are these cysts growing on people?”
“Good question. To my knowledge no human being has been afflicted. Only animals have been stricken with this…parasite, or whatever it is. Certain measures are in place. I’ve heard rumors that should an individual contract such a growth, they are to be quarantined at an undisclosed location for treatment. Because of their exposure in and around the exclusion zone, Tactical personnel are subject to medical checkups and scanned for any signs of abnormalities. The RTMC has paid informants on the staff at the local hospital to keep a lookout for any patients with unusual symptoms.”
“Why isn’t this information disseminated? The people of Essex have a right to know about this.”
“The people of Essex only have the right to know nothing, to be told nothing other than what is approved. As far as human patients are concerned, there aren’t any. I believe the scientists were shocked by what they discovered when allowing this thing to develop. Who knows what sort of monster lies coiled in that growth?”
“An unknown organism…”
“To be sure. But where has it come from and to gestate in such a medium?”
“Could it have been implanted?”
“A possibility. But why and by whom? Aliens? I’d rather not pursue that line of unreasonable thinking at this time.”
“What sort of research was the Air Force doing over at Pine Haven?” This was a rhetorical question Logan merely uttered aloud.
Bock was quick to answer. “That’s classified. I don’t know. My clearance never extended that far up the chain. Not working for Enviro, it doesn’t. You would be well served to talk to Chris Glass.”
“Who’s that?”
“Chris Glass arrived in town sometime late last year, about the time activity over at Pine Haven started to ramp up. He’s an Internet journalist, even had his own website for a time before the government shut it down. Apparently Glass had a lot of contacts in the government, mostly the intelligence field. Government contractors, researchers, scientists working in the paranormal field. He writes mostly about the government—UFO conspiracy connection and secret military development projects. Dark projects, you know.”
“Sounds turgid.”
Bock shrugged. “Glass came to Essex to discover the secrets of Pine Haven. Specifically, what was the line of research the Air Force was involved in, and what caused the accident.”
“And has he had any luck?”
“He keeps a low profile. I was interviewed by his protégé, Ms. Schneider. She introduced me to Glass. He lives in that ultramodern villa out in the Hills. That black round thing with the green windows.”
Logan knew of the building. He was familiar with the “Hills,” having worked with a painting and home-improvement contractor a number of years ago. The place Bock described wasn’t that modern. It was built back in the late eighties, although the design was based on an architectural style from the 1930s.
“So you think this Glass chap will have an insight into what happened to my dog? What kind of animal was responsible for tearing her throat out? Because if there are strange creatures growing on the backs of cows, there’s no telling what might be out there.”
“I think it’s worth a try. I believe he would be a good source to start with. Now, without meaning to be rude, I think it’s time you were on your way. It may not be a good idea to be discovered having this conversation in such a hostile environment.”
A police station as hostile environment—that’s terrific, Logan thought. But he understood what Bock meant.
The unkempt state official opened the office door a crack and peeked out. He gave the all-clear sign. “Good luck to you, young man,” he said and hustled Logan out the door.
6
The Hills was an upscale neighborhood about three and a half miles from downtown Essex, a collection of old manor houses and villas, each sitting on an acre of land. Ornamental shrubbery, old maples, and birches lent privacy to the grounds, and open meadows were hemmed in by low-walled fieldstone borders. A two-lane road wound slightly upward. There wasn’t much of a grade for the area to be called the Hills; it was more a series of rises and dips that gradually reached a plateau. At certain vantage points, the gray of the river could be seen through the trees.
Most of the leaves had fallen, and what was left on the trees had very little color: mostly brown, like t
he leathery oaks, except some maples growing near a spring or runoff, which showed a bit of orange and red. Between the unbearably hot summer, ninety-plus to a hundred degrees for weeks at a time, and a warm fall, the sap hadn’t returned to the roots fast enough to produce the riot of color autumn was famous for in this part of the country. The fact that it hadn’t rained in a while, nothing substantial at any rate, hadn’t helped the situation. It seemed to Logan that he lived under a thick canopy of dense gray clouds. There would be some fog in the early morning hours, but no rain. It had been like this since early September.
The house Henry Bock spoke of was an art-deco bunker of smooth-surfaced stucco painted a dark matte gray, with glass brick at the rounded corners; but the really striking detail was the windows: long narrow panes of dark green, like the lenses of sunglasses. The curving, linear walls swooped into a recessed opening, almost a chamber, where a set of tall, formidable brass doors were etched with a geometric, angular design. A rectangular reflecting pool, choked with leaf debris, took up at least a third of the front yard, which was hemmed by rhododendrons. The look of the place always struck him as some miniature corporate headquarters rather than a residence.
Logan turned into the driveway of crushed bluestone that circled around to the front of the house, parked, and went up to the door. The width of the recess seemed narrower than when viewed from the car, as though he were in the outer canal of some orifice. To the left of the doors, embedded in the curving wall, was a small monitor screen, push button, and speaker grill, as well as a tiny bead-sized lens that would transmit his image to a control station on the other side of the wall. He pressed the button repeatedly. The buzz was subtle in signature. Finally a voice emanated from the speaker. “Who is it?” A woman’s voice. The speaker made it sound scratchy. No image materialized on the screen.
“Is Glass there? I want to talk to Chris Glass.”
“What do you want?” The voice was starting to decay because of the lousy amplifier in the grill.