The Pack

by Jason Starr

  He checked to make sure JoAnne had gone back to the bedroom, and then he went online to Yahoo! Messenger again. Damn, Karen was offline, but she’d sent him a final IM:Krenj22: have 2 go 2 good night can’t wait to hear your voice tomorrow love you xoxo

  Tom read the message a few times, not liking it at all. Have 2 go 2? Where did she “have 2 go” at eleven o’clock at night? She claimed she only slept with Richard occasionally—not because she wanted to, but because she had to in order not to raise suspicion—and he wondered if she was in bed with him right now. The thought of her naked with another man disgusted Tom and brought up the taste of acidic chicken cutlet. He couldn’t help it; he wanted her all to himself.

  Trying to not let the disturbing images seep too deeply into his brain, Tom checked his work e-mail—nothing very important, just an update on a couple of accounts from his assistant and a note from HR about Simon Burns’s severance agreement. Tom was glad that Simon had stopped e-mailing him directly because the guy’s behavior was starting to get pathetic. Slamming the door and breaking the picture frame was one thing, but begging for his job back and sending that e-mail was just unclassy. Simon’s position had been eliminated because he’d deserved to have his position eliminated, end of story. Despite the Deutsche Bank deal, his accounts had been down for months and he wasn’t as hungry as some of the younger guns at the agency, like Paul Kramer. Tom liked Simon personally, but someone had to go and Simon had brought this on himself.

  At around eleven fifteen, Tom got into bed with JoAnne. She was on her back, snoring. He nudged her a little until she turned onto her side, away from him. He flicked on the light on his night table and read for a few minutes—100 Simple Secrets of Successful People—but tired quickly and shut the light off and let the book drop onto the floor beside the bed. He started to doze, and then JoAnne turned back onto her back and started snoring again. God, it was so annoying; why didn’t she just get that deviated septum fixed already? Sometimes he felt like he was sleeping next to Seabiscuit.

  Eh, it didn’t matter though. Soon he’d be divorced, living with Karen. He always slept so well next to her. As he’d often told her—it was like they were two puzzle pieces that fit together perfectly.

  He nudged JoAnne again, practically pushing her, but she was sleeping too deeply and didn’t budge. He was afraid if he woke her up she’d go to the bathroom to pee and come back, fully awake, and want to have sex, so he let her go on snoring and turned the other way, one ear pressed against the mattress, the other with a pillow tightly over it to block the noise.

  An animal noise jolted Tom awake, but it wasn’t JoAnne with her horselike snoring. It was Duncan, their cocker spaniel. He was downstairs, barking like crazy.

  “Oh, come on, give me a break,” Tom said. He was always grouchy when he was woken up, especially if he hadn’t been asleep for very long.

  “Can you go see what’s wrong?” JoAnne asked.

  “It’s probably just a deer or something. Let’s just forget about it. He’ll shut up eventually.”

  But the barking wasn’t letting up; if anything, it was getting louder, more shrieking and persistent.

  “Fine,” JoAnne said with that instantly annoyed tone in her voice that always made Tom’s stomach burn. “I’ll go check.”

  “It’s okay, I’ll check, I’ll check,” Tom said, getting out of bed.

  He put on his slippers and headed downstairs. Duncan was really barking like nuts.

  “Cool it, Duncan! I said, cool it!”

  Yeah, like that would work.

  Duncan was in the kitchen, scratching against the back door.

  “What? What is it?”

  Tom peeked through the curtain on the door but couldn’t see anything. He flicked on the light on the deck and checked again. Nothing, but Duncan didn’t let up.

  “There’s nothing there,” Tom said, holding up the curtain. “Look, look.”

  Duncan continued scratching and screeching—Tom had never seen him get like this. He considered locking him in the den for the night, but, knowing Duncan, that probably wouldn’t do much. He’d continue barking, making a racket.

  “Okay, you win.”

  Tom got the flashlight from the tool drawer and went onto the deck. There was probably a deer out there, spooking Duncan. He shined the flashlight at the woodsy area behind the house but didn’t see anything. It had probably taken off already, but Duncan continued barking furiously.

  “Fine, want me to look? I’ll look. Then you promise to shut up?”

  Shining the beam ahead of him, Tom went down the steps to the backyard lawn. He figured he’d take a lap around the house, Bambi would run away, Duncan would stop yapping, and everyone could sleep happily ever after.

  As he went along the back of the house, away from the porch, it got darker, and he had only the beam from the flashlight to guide him. Then he hesitated for a moment, a thought suddenly troubling him. What if it’s a skunk? He’d seen a skunk in the driveway, when was it? Yesterday? Well, that would be a perfect ending to this night, wouldn’t it? Getting skunked and having to soak in V8.

  He was heading around the side of the house, where it was even darker, when he was attacked. It happened so suddenly, he didn’t even realize what was happening until he was already on the ground and the man was on top of him. By the time the idea of fighting back or screaming even occurred to him, he was too weak and dazed to react. He must’ve dropped the flashlight because he couldn’t see anything—just swirling darkness—and all he could hear was the loud growling.

  He scratched at the man’s hairy face, and then he felt the pain in his neck. For a few seconds he didn’t know what was happening, and then it set in that the man was biting him.

  Growling? Biting him? Hairy face? What the hell?

  He tried to free himself, but it was useless. He was too weak and the man was too strong and his mouth was like a clamp. This was it—he was going to die—but he couldn’t die now. What about Karen? He had to see Karen tomorrow. His thoughts were becoming distorted, nonsensical, the way they did when he was starting to dream. He was in a lake, floating on his back, and the sun was so warm, and Karen was there. But why did she look so angry? Why was she walking away?

  Karen, baby, come back to me! Karrrrrrrren!

  TEN

  My head’s killing me.

  That was Simon’s first thought when he woke up. His next thought:

  Where the hell am I?

  He recognized moist rotted leaves, sticks, a large ant crawling by a few inches in front of his face.

  He sat up quickly, his headache worsening, but this was the least of his concerns. Jesus Christ, he was in the woods.

  He got up quickly, light-headed because his pulse was pounding. He tried to think, make sense of this, but his brain was stuck, his thoughts unable to connect in any logical way. He closed his eyes, took a couple of deep breaths, trying to get hold of himself. No luck there. When he opened his eyes, he was even more terrified and confused. He was freezing too, and then he realized why.

  He was naked.

  No, God, no, this wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. He held his hands over his private parts, looking around frantically for his clothes. If he could’ve cried or shown any emotion aside from sheer terror, he would have been wailing.

  Where was he?

  Okay, he had to focus. Panicking wasn’t going to solve anything. He had to stay calm, in control; if he could just find his underwear, everything would be okay. Compartmentalizing his predicament made it more manageable and—at least for the moment—less horrifying. His underwear had to be here somewhere. He couldn’t’ve just been plopped into the middle of a forest naked, right? He had to search, but he couldn’t be frantic about it. He had to search logically. He decided to walk, fifty steps in each direction, then go back to his original spot, and then fifty steps in a slightly different direction, and repeat until he had covered an area stretching fifty feet in every direction. If his underwear wa
s somewhere in this area, he’d find it.

  This was good—he’d formulated a plan, he was taking charge. Soon he’d find his underwear and the rest of his clothes and figure out some way to get out of here—wherever the hell here was.

  He was shivering, his teeth rattling. It wasn’t freezing but it had to be, what, upper forties? He looked up at the treetops, specks of light shining through. It was hard to tell what time it was, but it seemed like morning because he heard birds chirping, but did that really mean anything? Didn’t birds chirp all day long? Why the hell was he thinking about birds when he needed his goddamn underwear?

  How had this happened? Michael, that bastard. He knew that crazy son of a bitch was somehow responsible for this; what other explanation could there be? Simon’s last memory was of being in the apartment, feeling dazed from that beer. “Family recipe” my ass. Michael was obviously insane, had drugged him and dumped him out here in the middle of the woods. He was furious with himself for not trusting his gut about those guys. Yeah, he meant guys, plural, because Charlie and Ramon were just as responsible. Ramon saying, “It has a kick,” and Charlie was the craziest of the three, coming on as Mr. Supportive and Down-to-Earth when he was just as bonkers. What was this for them, some kind of practical joke? Were they sitting together now laughing?

  Then he had a thought that truly terrified him. Drugged, naked, was it possible that . . . ?

  He didn’t want to go there, but was encouraged because he didn’t feel any unusual pain or soreness. But he knew he wouldn’t have taken off his clothes willingly, no matter how drugged they’d gotten him. The guys must’ve done it; crazy goddamn perverts.

  Fueled by anger, Simon walked faster. He was stepping over sharp twigs and branches, but he barely noticed, maybe because his feet were so cold.

  He counted, Forty-nine, fifty, then returned to his original location. He headed out in a slightly different direction, counting out another fifty steps. After doing this several times he realized he was probably wasting his time. Yeah, he’d cover a chunk of ground, but his clothes could be miles away for all he knew.

  He did what he probably should’ve done right away—he screamed for help. He didn’t know how many times he screamed “Help!” and “Help me!”—probably more than a hundred. He stopped when his voice got hoarse and his throat hurt too much to continue. Then it hit him that this could be it, he might actually die out here. He’d read an article online somewhere about how people could survive without water for something like forty-eight hours. There didn’t seem to be any lakes or rivers or streams nearby. Maybe he’d find one eventually, but what if he didn’t? He had no survival skills. He was a New Yorker, for God’s sake. He knew how to hail cabs and order in takeout, and that was about it.

  He was convinced this was the end. He’d starve or freeze to death—whichever came first. Jeremy would have to grow up without his dad and Alison would be a thirty-seven-year-old widow. Suddenly he felt responsible for all of their recent problems. Losing his job had been out of his control, but he could’ve been a better husband. He’d been distant and irritable, the past couple of years especially, and hadn’t made as much of an effort to improve his marriage as he could’ve. He wished he had a chance, just one more chance, to tell Alison how much she meant to him. At least he’d made that payment two weeks ago on his $500,000 life insurance policy. She’d be able to reduce her hours, spend more time with Jeremy. In some ways, his family would be better off with him dead.

  Then he noticed something. It was a tiny black object, far in the distance, maybe fifty yards away. It was so far away he didn’t know if he was actually seeing it, or if he just thought he was seeing it, but he knew it was there. It was probably nothing, but he walked slowly toward it anyway and then, as he became more encouraged, he walked faster. Then he started jogging and finally running toward it. Maybe it was because he was so excited, or his adrenaline was pumping, but he seemed to be running extremely fast. But it was really there—he wasn’t imagining it. An incredible sense of relief and joy overwhelmed him when he reached out and picked up one of his socks.

  He was so happy he couldn’t hold back and started to cry again. He quickly found the other sock about twenty yards away. Covering his privates with the socks, somehow he knew where the rest of his clothes were; it was almost like he could smell them. Could he smell them? Sure enough, soon he found his T-shirt, and then, thank God, his underwear. He shook some dirt off them and then pulled them on, muttering, “Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you.”

  Suddenly, with some hope returning, his brain seemed to be functioning again. His headache had eased and, although he was half naked, he wasn’t freezing or even cold anymore. His mouth felt funny though, slightly numb, the way it did a half hour after getting dental work. He continued along, searching for the rest of his clothes. Within a few minutes, he found his pants and leather jacket and one of his shoes. Even better, nothing important seemed to be missing. He had his wallet, keys, and cell phone. The money from the wallet—about sixty bucks—was gone, but that was the least of his concerns. Before he put on his pants, he checked the time—okay, it was morning, eight thirty-seven A.M. He figured he drank the beer at ten P.M. last night, which meant he’d “missed” over ten hours. Then he checked the GPS and found his location:

  Mendham, New Jersey.

  Mendham was in northern Jersey about, what, an hour out of the city? What the hell was he doing here of all places? He didn’t have any family in Jersey. His old roommate Ivan from college at Cornell lived in Red Bank, on the Jersey shore, but that was on the opposite side of the state.

  Figuring he’d try to unravel the mystery later, he quickly got fully dressed—well, sans one Rockport loafer—and then checked his phone again and saw that he had sixteen missed calls, seven new voice mails, and eight new text messages.

  He called home and heard, “Where the hell are you?” Alison sounded angry but also extremely concerned.

  “Thank God,” Simon said. “You have no idea how good it feels to hear your voice.”

  “Are you okay?” she asked. “I called you so many times, I think I slept an hour last night. I was ready to start calling hospitals.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “But I’m fine. You don’t have to worry.”

  “How come you didn’t call? Where are you?”

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “You don’t know? What do you mean you don’t know?”

  He was suddenly embarrassed and ashamed for allowing himself to get into this situation, and he didn’t want to upset Alison more than he already had. He’d caused enough problems for her lately, what with losing his job and putting a financial strain on the family. He was supposed to be a provider, a father, and now he was unemployed and naked in the woods in God knew where.

  No, this was his mess, and he was going to get out of it alone.

  “I’m in Brooklyn still,” he said. “I guess I had a little too much to drink.”

  “What do you mean, too much to drink? Where did you go?”

  “Just to the brewery. I guess I passed out there.”

  “You guess?”

  “I mean I did.”

  “Why didn’t you call me?”

  “I kind of lost track of time.” He said this confidently. It was the truth, after all.

  “You have no idea how scared I was.” She sounded angrier now.

  “You weren’t answering your phone, I was worried something awful happened to you, and Jeremy got really sick.”

  Simon’s heart raced. “Is he okay?”

  “I got his fever back down to one oh one, but he has a bad rash. I’m taking him to Dr. Leibner at . . . damn it, I’m running late.”

  Simon felt awful. “I promise,” he said, “nothing like this will ever happen again.”

  “When are you coming home?”

  Looking around, realizing he had no idea how he was going to get out of the woods, he said, “As soon as I can.”

  “W
ell, can you pick up milk and toilet paper? And I don’t know if Jeremy’s going to need any medicine—if he does, I’ll text you and you can stop at the pharmacy.”

  “No problem,” Simon said. “Whatever he needs, I’ll get it, just let me know....And I love both of you . . . so much.” It was hard not to get a little choked up, especially on “so much,” but he thought he’d done a good job of hiding it.

  After a long pause—Simon imagined her biting on her lower lip and shaking her head, the way she did when she was very annoyed—she said flatly, “I love you too,” and clicked off.

  Okay, so Simon had his work cut out for him when he got home, but compared to his predicament of just a few minutes ago, when he was naked and thought his life was going to end, being in the doghouse with his wife for a couple of days wasn’t exactly a huge concern.

  He looked around for the other shoe, but he knew he wasn’t going to find it; he just had a hunch it wasn’t there. He looked around anyway for a while, then decided, To hell with it. He could live without a shoe and he just wanted to get home ASAP.

  Without bothering to check the GPS, he started walking very fast. Cognitively, he had no idea where he was going, but somehow he just knew, instinctively, that he was heading in the right direction, toward the nearest town. Just to make sure, he checked the phone and, sure enough, he was walking toward the town center of Mendham. He had no idea where this sudden great sense of direction was coming from. For years Alison had teased him for being “bad with the map.” He was the type of guy who, during family trips, frequently stopped and asked for directions at gas stations and still wound up getting lost.

  He wanted to save time and he had a lot of energy, so he ran through the woods. Even with one shoe he was able to run pretty fast, and he wasn’t getting winded at all. Must have been adrenaline or stress release because the last time he was in the gym—when was it, last month ?—after twenty minutes on one of the elliptical machines, he was gasping.