I was put on a leave of absence from the paper while my wounds healed and, with the help of a good therapist, started to come to grips with the nightmares and other symptoms of PTSD.
During this period, Doug was a frequent visitor. At first, he stopped by early evenings ostentatiously to help me walk Petey. But, as time wore on, we became closer and, while a full-blown romance was still out of the question for me, I enjoyed his company.
Ben also stopped by occasionally. He and Doug became friends and the three of us would often meet at a local brewery to have a drink and whisper about the growing conspiracy to hide the true facts of what had happened in North Laketon.
Eventually, I went back to work and tried to submit a piece about my experience to the paper. I did this partly because it was newsworthy and partly to try to purge myself of the memories. But my editor refused to print it, saying it was speculation and that, by all accounts, the deaths and injuries that night had been caused by a chemical spill, not by ravenous, mutated rodents.
Frustrated by what was increasingly looking like a giant cover-up, I pushed back and finally got him to admit that he had heard rumors about what happened and that those rumors tallied with the facts in my piece. But, while his resolve cracked a bit, he stood by his decision and said that the gossip exemplified just another Michigan “urban legend.”
After that conversation, I found myself assigned to “fluff” pieces. Anything “meaty” went to one of the other reporters, even if he or she were junior to me. Not at all happy with this turn of events, I began a job search. I wanted to leave Western Michigan anyway but I’d hesitated because I didn’t want to be too far from Larry for Tessa’s sake. Thus, I limited my search to other parts of Michigan and the nearby states of Illinois and Ohio.
In mid-October, I landed a staff position with a literary magazine in Chicago. I would start work right after the Thanksgiving holiday.
I broke the news to Doug over dinner one Saturday evening just before Halloween.
“Chicago,” he said, smiling. “That’s only three hours’ drive. I can do that.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Well, I could come down on weekends or, maybe, you could visit here. If you don’t want to drive, you can hop a flight from O’Hare to the Muskegon Airport.”
I laughed. “You’re always so positive. Don’t you ever have a down moment?”
He grinned. “Yeah, I do. The thought of you being three hours away brings me down. But I know you need to do this. A fresh start in a new town. Something we all could use every now and again.”
18
Chicago
THE NEXT FEW weeks were busy ones. Doug and I took a weekend and drove to Chicago in search of an apartment for me. We finally found one – a two bedroom – close to the magazine’s headquarters. I put down a hefty deposit and, when I returned to Muskegon, arranged for movers to transport my stuff to Chicago.
I spoke with Larry about the move and, while he wasn’t entirely happy, he grudgingly gave his support and confirmed that Tessa would return to my care after the Christmas holidays.
Finally, it was time to leave. Doug insisted on coming along to help and I gratefully accepted his assistance. We filled his truck and the back of my car with all the necessities of life and, with Petey riding shotgun, began the three-hour drive to Chicago.
Doug stayed the weekend helping us settle in. He left late Sunday, promising to call soon. I wasn’t scheduled to start work until the following week, so Petey and I used the free time to explore the city.
To an outsider, it might have looked like everything was falling into place for me – new job, new home, and soon I would be reunited with my daughter. But despite this rosy exterior, inside I was still plagued by demons – memories and occasional flashbacks to that desperate night in North Laketon.
To exorcise these memories, I continued to pursue publication of my story about the incident in Michigan, but no one was interested. Frustrated, I tried to contact the one individual from Laketon whose integrity I respected above all others – my vet. However, when I called his clinic, I was surprised to find that he had sold his practice and the new owners were reluctant to give out his forwarding address.
Disappointed, I tried to contact other neighbors from North Laketon to get their version of events or some sort of collaboration of mine. However, no one wanted to speak to me. I even tried contacting Henry Jaworski, the guy whose wife had had a threatening encounter with a squirrel while pruning roses. His family had moved to Traverse City before the incident in North Laketon, but I thought, with his connections in the area, he might have heard something. I was sadly mistaken. He was either totally ignorant of the events at the lakeshore or was putting on a pretty good act. In either case, it was a dead end for me.
I tried to raise the subject of the squirrels and their aggressive nature to others I knew in the newspaper business, but, once again, no one seemed to care. Finally, I stopped bringing it up, afraid my colleagues were beginning to doubt my sanity.
However, one night on the phone with Doug, I expressed my frustration.
“No one wants to know,” I said. “People died and no one cares. It’s not right.”
“I know, Brooke,” Doug replied, sounding a little exasperated. “They’ve all stuck their heads in the sand and paid off anyone who was there. There’s nothing you can do about it. Don’t torture yourself. And, maybe it really was just a handful of squirrels that somehow got into chemicals and got messed up. It was a dark and stormy night. Maybe you just think you saw dozens of the little buggers. You know, stress can do strange things to a person’s memory.”
I hesitated. Was he disbelieving me now just like everyone else?
“Brooke, you still there?”
I took a deep breath. “Yes, I’m here. But I’ve got to get going. I’ve got a deadline to meet.”
Now it was his turn to hesitate. “Okay. I’ll talk to you soon.”
“Yeah, sure. Goodnight.”
And, that was pretty much the end of that. We remained friends, but the time between his visits and phone calls became less frequent and, by the Christmas holidays, I was pretty sure this fledgling romance was over. But that didn’t bother me. I was looking forward to having Tessa home again and was making friends with some of my co-workers at the magazine. As for romance, I was still young – I had plenty of time.
Tessa joined me in Chicago a few days before New Year’s. We spent the holiday at home, playing Monopoly, and at midnight toasted each other with a glass of sparkling cider.
Ben kept in touch and, when he was in town covering a story, always stopped by. One night just after New Year’s, he took me out to a local watering hole for dinner and, as we waited for our food, brought up our experience in North Laketon.
“I’ve been doing some research,” he said. “About animal behavior and pollution. There’s a group that’s working on mapping incidents like the one in Michigan. I may go work for them.”
“Really?” I questioned. “You’d leave the station?”
“Yeah,” he responded. “It’s important work and I’ve got some money saved. I’m thinking of getting a camper and just taking off. You know, interviewing people across the country who’ve had experiences like yours.”
“Sounds interesting. But do you think you can get folks to talk? Whenever I bring up what happened in North Laketon, people look at me like I’ve just turned purple or something. Some days I think I should just write it up like a Stephen King novel. Then perhaps people would pay attention!”
Ben laughed. “You know, that’s not a bad idea. Fictionalize it. No one can stop you from doing that. Then, when we have solid evidence, you can come clean and tell the truth.”
I leaned back and took a sip of my wine, thinking. “Maybe you’ve got something there. I used to write stories and poems in college. Nothing serious, but people said I was good. I bet I could do it.”
“I’m sure you could and I’d be happy to help, if
you needed any investigative research or anything.”
I grinned. “Sounds like a plan.”
Our food came and we ate quietly for a while. Then Ben looked up at me, a concerned expression on his face.
“I’m sorry things didn’t work out with Doug,” he said. “Are you okay?”
I smiled. “I’m fine. How did you know anyway?”
“I saw him at an event I covered. I asked him about you and he told me you two were no longer an item. He didn’t say what happened.”
“Good old Doug. We just didn’t see eye to eye on some things.”
“Things like what happened in North Laketon?”
I pursed my lips. “How’d you know?”
“He was pretty much spouting the party line at this conference. You know, the need to protect against chemical spills and events like that. I brought up the squirrels and he laughed it off as just another Michigan urban legend. He’s really invested in his job, you know, and I think to keep it, he’s had to readjust his point of view.”
“Yeah, I think you’re right about that. But I’m glad you haven’t abandoned me. You go on and fight the good fight. Make your mark as an investigative journalist and get the evidence. I’ll be here if you need me.”
We continued to talk, mostly about his plans. Later, when he dropped me at my apartment, I made him promise to stay in touch.
At home, feeling tired, I sat on the sofa, tucking my legs up underneath me. Petey joined me and snuggled close to my side. I leaned back and closed my eyes, thinking about Ben’s suggestion. Could I write a book?
I nodded and smiled, running my fingers through Petey’s silky fur. “I’m going to do it, Petey,” I said. “Your mother’s going to be a horror writer.”
Thus, I began to write about my experience in North Laketon, transforming the event into a fictionalized account. I worked at home most evenings and found the process to be cathartic. My nightmares were fading and I no longer broke out in a cold sweat if I chanced to see a squirrel running in the street.
Having my daughter back helped, too. I enrolled her in a private school close to my apartment and she seemed to thrive. She had gotten involved in gymnastics while living with Larry and thus my weekends were full of meets and exhibitions.
January flew by and I finished the first draft of my manuscript. Not really knowing what to do with it, I contacted a friend I knew from journalism school who was now a successful literary agent in New York. She said she would be happy to look at my work, but advised me to find an editor first and go through that process to make sure the book was as good as it could be. She recommended a couple of people she knew who specialized in horror. I contacted them and settled on one I could afford. The manuscript was sent off and I anxiously waited for the editor’s response.
By the end of February, I had the edits and went back to work rewriting. Soon, I determined the novel was as good as it was ever going to be and I sent the revised version to my friend in New York along with the recommended “query letter.” Then I waited.
19
Waiting
MONTHS PASSED AND my life was full. The only thing lacking was closure on the book and I decided, finally, to take the bull by the horns and give my friend in New York a call.
We exchanged pleasantries, then I jumped right into it.
“Have you read my manuscript?” I asked.
She hesitated for a moment and I could feel my heart begin to sink.
“Yes, I have.”
“Give it to me straight, Barbara. Is it any good?”
She laughed. “Yes, Brooke, it’s damned good. Dark, but good. I have it out to a few publishers who specialize in horror. It’s on my calendar to follow-up next week. Don’t worry. We’ll get your book done.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. We chatted a few minutes longer, the hung up.
Three weeks later, I heard back from her.
“There’s not much in the way of an advance, but it’s a good publisher,” she advised. “You’ll have to do a lot of the promoting yourself, but that’s the way things are now.”
I nodded. “Yup, I know and I’m willing to do it.”
“Good. I’ll get the contracts to you overnight. You sign and return and we’re on our way.”
It took a while, but my book got published and, surprisingly, did well. My PTSD was finally under control and I began to feel truly blessed. I had it all – a career that was satisfying and a daughter who was my pride and joy. North Laketon had become a distant memory.
20
Ben
I HADN’T HEARD from Ben for several months. He’d made good on his threat to leave broadcasting and, as far as I knew, was traveling around the country looking for clues or evidence to support his animal behavior/pollution theory. I tried to contact him several times by phone or text, but it appeared he was no longer at the number I had. I worried that something had happened to him – that perhaps he had rattled a few too many cages and unleashed some dangerous form of retaliation. He was my friend and we had a bond from that August night in Michigan that nothing could sever.
On a snowy evening in mid-December about a year since I’d last seen him, I was surprised by a phone call.
“Hey, Brooke. Guess who?” he asked.
Surprised to hear from him, I was at a loss for words.
“Ben? Is that you?”
He laughed. “Yeah, it’s me.”
“It’s been a long time,” I answered.
“Yeah. How you doing?”
“I’m good. No, I’m great. How are you and where are you?”
“I’m in North Laketon,” he replied. “Got here yesterday. I’ve been all over the country, but thought I needed to come back to where it all started for me.”
“North Laketon?” I asked, surprised. “What’s it like now?”
“You wouldn’t believe it. It’s idyllic again. Mostly new families – professional types. Lots of dogs and kids.”
“What about the wildlife?” I asked.
Ben hesitated.
“Go on, tell me.” I urged. “The squirrels – have they returned?”
“Yeah, they’re back. But not the old ones. They eliminated – exterminated – all of them. No, these new ones are imported.”
“Imported?”
“Yeah,” he said, laughing. “They trapped several breeding pairs from someplace near Flint and moved them to your old neighborhood. Rumor has it that the powers that be were convinced that squirrels were vital to the eco balance of the area. Don’t ask me why. I haven’t the foggiest idea what they contribute.”
“Flint?”
Ben laughed. “Yeah. Go figure. If you were looking for contaminated animals, you couldn’t go to a better place. Wildlife drink the water, too.”
I sat silent for a moment, absorbing this. “But what if these animals mutate like the others? You know, if the old squirrels were somehow changed – genetically altered – by environmental pollution, what’s to keep these new ones from traveling down the same path?”
Ben paused before answering. “I don’t know,” he finally said. “The establishment seems to think everything will be just hunky-dory.”
“Have they done anything about cleaning up the old paper mill?”
“The place where you believe it started?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s still under consideration. The real estate community is hot to develop that area, but no one wants to pay for the cleanup. So, it sits there, probably getting worse every day.”
Our conversation shifted to what he had been doing since we’d last met. Ben had been everywhere talking to people who had experienced odd or violent contact with urban animals. Some of the stories were gruesome and I shuddered remembering my own harrowing night in North Laketon. Before he hung up, I made sure I had his new number.
“I’m going to be hitting the road again tomorrow,” he said. “A friend of mine is putting together a program that correlates sources of pollution with frequency
of animal incidents. Hopefully, we’ll find some common denominators.”
“Where does this guy live?”
“Out in the wilds of Montana. I’m told it’s a pretty remote place so I’m not sure if I’ll have stable cell coverage. If you need to reach me, try texting.”
“Okay, I’ll do that. Good luck and stay safe. Some of those feathers you’re ruffling may belong to some pretty vicious birds.”
21
Déjà Vu
I DIDN’T HEAR from Ben again that year. I texted him several times, but never got an answer. Hoping he had simply moved on to something else, I put him on the back burner of my mind. I had plenty to occupy myself with my work, the book, and, of course, my daughter.
One lazy October afternoon, I was in the kitchen starting to prepare dinner while Tessa did her homework in front of the television. I checked on a casserole that was in the oven and walked to where she sat hunched over her laptop.
“Anything I can help you with?” I asked.
She shook her head and went back to ignoring me.
I grinned then turned my attention to the television, which was tuned to the local evening news. A “breaking news” banner appeared across the screen, then the anchor began to speak.
“This afternoon in Lakeside Park a young child was attacked while playing in a sandbox. The attacker was, according to eyewitnesses, a red squirrel. Let’s switch to reporter, Molly Ginsburg, who is currently on the scene.”
I stood frozen as the camera focused on a pretty blonde holding a microphone. Behind her sat a children’s playground – swings, slide, and the aforementioned sandbox.
The Night of the Sciurus Page 8