“You got nothing to worry about,” I said. “I really don’t think the silly bastard could choose between us if he had to.”
* * *
On the drive, Silas was an energized mess. He paced restlessly, drooling on my arm whenever he stuck his head through the gap between the driver and passenger seats. I petted him whenever I could and decided some music would calm him down. Flipping the radio to the easy-listening channel – for some reason the music he responded to the most – I heard a saxophone purr out a familiar progression of notes. It took me a moment to figure out that it was an instrumental version of Blood Red Morning. I laughed and then opted for the pop station. I might not have been a big fan of Britney Spears, but Silas tended to act fidgety when I put on hard rock. Not to mention that listening to an elevator-music interpretation of Art Lonnigan didn’t strike me as good for anything but a momentary chuckle.
The Mancuso farm was located at the end of a bumpy dirt road. I parked the Subaru down the street from the farmhouse and stepped out. It was intimidating land, this farm and its surrounding wilderness. The trees were huge, the oldest in the county according to Wendy, forming an impenetrable canopy over the road. I began to grow wary. This place seemed like a different planet altogether, wild and untamed compared to the repetitive normalcy of Mercy Hills. Insects buzzed, hidden in thick foliage, and the leaves behind me rustled. I jumped, fearing for a second that a large animal might be creeping around back there. Then I heard the sound of something rather small scampering away – probably a squirrel, afraid for its life because of this large new predator that arrived in its midst.
Silas bounded from the car and circled me as I walked through a thin, flattened path marked by a telephone pole with a green dot painted on it. “There’s a hiking trail,” Wendy’s aunt had said. “It’s usually empty, and no one should bother you.” Good advice, but a warning about the overabundance of briars would’ve been helpful. They gashed my skin as I treaded through patches of broad-leafed plants. I hoped it wasn’t poison ivy. I was severely allergic and didn’t relish the thought of itching like mad through all hours of the night.
Before too long we entered a twenty-foot-wide conduit that stretched for a quarter-mile in each direction before slanting inward, almost certainly forming a massive circle. In the center was an unused field littered with rotting corn stalks and bunches of freshly-planted evergreens. We started walking the trail, me throwing a stick and Silas happily vaulting after it, when I noticed a pair of flattened marks in the grass, as if a tractor had recently driven over it. Wendy’s aunt said this area hadn’t been used for years. However, there were new trees planted, so perhaps Old Man Mancuso was a bit harder up this year than he’d been in the past.
The sun’s blinding light shone down on us, casting brilliant shadows on the dew-covered pasture. Silas jumped ahead, running in circles, stick-chasing all but forgotten. I pulled his Frisbee from my backpack, called his name, and then winged it. Silas saw my motion, sprinted as fast as he could in the direction I’d thrown the Frisbee, and jumped, catching it between his teeth. After that he dashed back to me and dropped the saliva-drenched disk at my feet. I grimaced and picked it up, coating my fingers with slime.
“You’re disgusting,” I said before cocking my arm and tossing it again. Silas once more chased after it, the eternal retriever fulfilling his life’s mission. I quietly thanked him for being consistent, seeing as there didn’t seem to be much in my life that was.
We spent an hour strolling around that circular path. Silas tired of the Frisbee and moved back to wanting a stick. It was the same routine – toss, catch, return, drop – an act so pure in its simplicity that in a moment of clarity I realized that all my life boiled down to variations on that very theme. Perform the ritual. Go about the day. Fall asleep. Then start over.
After a time Silas’s energy drained. He galloped at a slower pace, more of a strut really. His tongue drooped, but that ludicrous grin never left his doggy mug. Looking at him brightened my mood. I wanted to gobble up some of his innocence, his lust for life, and make it my own, and thought I could do that simply by watching him. But he’d already slurped up all the water I brought, so I figured it was time to leave before he overheated. The last thing I wanted was an emergency trip to the vet for sunstroke.
“How about one more time?” I asked on our way back up the trail, heaving the mangled stick as far as I could. Silas pursued it as it tumbled through the air. The stick hit the ground with a thump and bounced another five feet before finally falling still. Silas, however, didn’t stop. He bolted past the stick and darted into the woods. I heard the telltale sounds of snapping twigs and crushed leaves. For certain I figured he’d emerge with some new trinket to add to our collection.
I cupped my hands around my mouth. “C’mere, boy!” I yelled. He didn’t return, didn’t even bark in reply. “Silas, come!” Still nothing. I imagined him stepping into an unseen ditch and breaking his leg. This thought brought along with it more than a small amount of fear.
After a long three minutes of silence, my boy reappeared. His grin had vanished, and in its place was an expression of lock-jawed seriousness. His eyes narrowed and his lip curled up, exposing his teeth. He stood there and stared at me, and a chill ran up my spine. I’d never felt even the slightest amount of fear around him, but right then and there I realized how much damage he could do to me if he really wanted to.
“What’s the matter, boy?” I asked in a tentative voice. Silas growled and swiveled his block-like head in the direction of the surrounding trees. I approached him on shaky knees, only feeling relief once I knelt beside him, placed a hand on his back, and realized that whatever had drawn his ire wasn’t me, but something just beyond my line of site.
Something large moved deeper in the forest. I remembered how coyotes, due to suburban expansion, had taken up residence on many of Connecticut’s farmlands. The last thing we needed was a run-in with a bunch of hungry, wild dogs. “C’mon, Silas,” I whispered, lightly tugging on his ear. “We gotta go.”
Silas snarled and glanced at me sideways, but wouldn’t budge.
I tugged on his pelt. The sun had already started its descent, prime time for the emergence of predators. I took the leash from my backpack and slipped it over his head. It looked like I was going to have to do this the hard way.
I tugged on the leash with all the strength I could. Eventually, the stubborn dog’s feet began to move. Inch by painful inch I made my way across the grassy field, Silas in tow. He still kept on growling and barking, even throwing in a few whimpers for good measure. It took fifteen minutes of Herculean effort to get him back to the dirt road. I breathed a sigh of relief while I panted. At least we were back in a safe spot now.
Getting Silas into the car was its own struggle. I pushed and shoved his hindquarters, straining a muscle in my shoulder in the process. He eventually relented and climbed in, flopping down on his belly in the back seat. I slammed the door and walked to the other side, making sure to pay attention just in case Silas decided he’d make a dash for it again. He didn’t. He simply lay there, head resting on his crossed front paws. It was a decidedly human pose.
“It’s okay,” I said. “We’re going home now.”
Silas snorted and closed his eyes.
I stepped on the gas and tore down the street. I needed to get as far away as possible, to get the weight of dread out of my stomach. My nerves and fingers longed for a cigarette. Too bad that wasn’t an option any more.
14
Local newscasts can be maddening. I don’t know how many times I’ve sat in front of the television while anchors flashed their polished, phony smiles, reading off the day’s tragedies with all the emotional attachment of a vacuum cleaner. This detached style created who knows how many variations on the same joke. A perfect example would be something like, “A fifteen-car pileup in New Haven this afternoon has killed at least six people and seriously wounded many others. Authorities on the scene are still in the p
rocess of clearing the wreckage. Traffic on I-95 is backed up because of this. In other news, the heat wave continues, so keep those bathing suits handy.”
And so on. I think you all know what I’m talking about.
But sometimes, in between disinterested reporting of otherwise horrific disasters, a story comes out that strikes at the heart of both those covering it and those paying attention at home. A story that yanks the heartstrings and makes you realize how much we need each other in order to survive in this sometimes discouraging world of ours.
Monday evening, two days after our walk on the farm, one of those stories was told.
I sat on the couch with Wendy, tapping away at the notepad in my lap with a pencil, pretending to be in the midst of plotting out a new idea. It was ten o’clock, top of the early news hour. The news began and the anchor appeared on the screen, her face a twisted mask of severity. The words she spoke…haunting.
“The murder of a local resident and his family has rocked the Mercy Hills community tonight,” she said, her voice cracking. “At 8:15 this evening the State Police, acting on a tip from neighbors who hadn’t seen the family in three days, entered the home of John and Linda Cormier. Inside they found the bodies of the couple and three of their children lined up on the living room floor. The parents died due to multiple stab wounds to the throat and chest. The children had been strangled.
“Detectives on the scene believe the perpetrator or perpetrators entered the house on Friday. There were no signs of forced entry and no evidence of theft. The couple and their three boys were covered with bed sheets and their youngest child, Bridget Cormier, is now missing. Police have offered no possible motive for this act of seemingly random violence.”
Pictures of the family, smiling and full of life, flashed across the screen as the woman continued. “John Cormier was a contractor for LD Construction, a volunteer firefighter, and member of the town council. Linda, his wife, was the chairperson for the Board of Education. Active in the community, the couple and their four children – John Jr., 16, Max, 12, Julian, 9, and Bridget, 6 – were fixtures at town-run events, such as the annual Fourth of July fireworks display and the Fireman’s Carnival. Tonight, an entire district mourns the loss of this beloved family. There is shock and disbelief among residents, and all, including us here at News 8, will be praying for the safety of little Bridget. Local authorities and civilian volunteers will be working non-stop with the State Police, searching the surrounding areas for clues as to her whereabouts. If anyone has any pertinent information, please contact the authorities as soon as possible. A hotline number has been placed at the bottom of the screen…”
Interviews with neighbors and family friends came next. Everyone spoken to cried out against the horrifying event while tears streamed down their faces. There was no grandstanding or insincerity to be found. Their world had just crumbled and there they were, simple, everyday folk, left to pick up the pieces.
Just like me.
Though we weren’t best friends, I’d known John and Linda quite well. They were regulars at the flower shop where Wendy used to work. John built the shed in our backyard. I saw their children at town events. Max had wanted to be a writer, and I would discuss my favorite stories with him whenever he’d stop by the house on his bike while I was outside mowing the lawn in the warmer months. And now they were gone. I remembered the multiple radio broadcasts I’d heard over the last year, the reports of missing children I’d quickly turned away from because I didn’t want to think about the horror they implied. But now it hit close to home. I couldn’t glaze over the issue any longer.
Wendy squeezed my hand as a picture of Bridget Cormier lit up the screen. Her frozen image stared at us, black hair long and wavy, eyes glowing. Her gap-toothed grin radiated incorruptibility. I shivered. What if this was my daughter? I thought of our neighbor Joe and his precocious Jacqueline. She was around Bridget’s age, and they looked rather similar. It could’ve been her. It could’ve been anyone. What’s the matter with the world? My brain couldn’t come up with an acceptable answer.
A young boy appeared on the screen, most likely a neighbor. He pleaded into the camera for Bridget, promising he’d give whoever took her his entire allowance if only he could play with her again. Wendy lost it. She leaned into me and bawled, her body shivering with each gasping breath. I tensed up. Tears wanted to flow from my eyes, as well, but I held them back. It’s like my father used to say: We have to be strong, it’s the women who’re given the license to cry, let them have it.
Silas, who’d been asleep on the loveseat, woke up. He gazed at us with tired eyes. Wendy sniffled, and he lifted his ears. Placing his front paws on the ground he arched his spine, rear end still propped on the loveseat, and yawned. Then he stepped off completely and moseyed on over.
He sat before us, leaned forward, and licked Wendy’s knee. “Oh, Silas,” she moaned, reaching out to pet him on the cheek. He nuzzled into her thigh and closed his eyes. Wendy’s breathing grew steadier, as if contact with him healed her sorrow like it had my heart.
I kissed Wendy, rubbed Silas on the noggin, stood up, and stretched. My loyal companion then turned away from Wendy, hunched on all fours, and growled. The hair stood up on the nape of his neck. I jumped back, surprised by his sudden aggressive behavior.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, backing away.
Silas looked at the television, where they were showing another photo of the missing Bridget, and then back to me. He did this three more times, as if he was telling me to pay attention. Another rumble ascended from his gullet. It reminded me of the sound he’d made during our walk at the Mancuso farm. It was the only other time he’d acted in such a way.
Then it hit me. Tire tracks. A large creature moving behind the trees.
I shook my head.
“No way,” I whispered. “It’s not possible.”
15
I couldn’t sleep. All night the image of young and innocent Bridget Cormier invaded my thoughts – her toothy grin, those guiltless eyes, that soft skin. Her visage melded with that of Colleen Miller, the other young girl I’d met whose life had come to an untimely end. That thought gave me pause, though, for Bridget Cormier wasn’t dead, or at least it hadn’t been confirmed yet. I got the guilty chills, thinking I may have written her off too quickly.
I also kept thinking of Silas and his strange reaction, both at the Mancuso farm and here at home. Had he sensed trouble in those desolate woods? Did he feel the terror Bridget must have felt, alone and trapped with evil men? Or was my mind grasping at straws, trying to make sense of the senseless violence surrounding us? It was probably just a stray timber wolf or coyote that caught his attention, my mind reasoned, and yet I couldn’t stop wondering.
It’s impossible, I thought. There’s no way he’d know something like that. He’s just a dog. This is what I told myself, but something in back of my mind said to trust my instincts, just as he would.
That left but one possible recourse. I had to go back.
The next day I told Wendy I wouldn’t be going with her to The Spinning Wheel. She protested a bit, wondering why I’d call in like a lazy high-school student. I didn’t tell her the real reason – I couldn’t, she’d think me insane for sure. Instead I went on and on about how I had to fix the leak in the bathroom sink.
“We have the money to hire a plumber,” she said.
“I know,” I replied. “But there’s a certain satisfaction a man gets by doing things on his own that you just wouldn’t understand.”
She rolled her eyes. “Whatever you say.”
I watched her leave at six-thirty in the morning and went about preparing for our journey. The troubled organ beneath my ribcage thudded harder than it had since the heart attack as I packed supplies into my backpack – a sheet, flashlight, compass, Silas’s leash, a cord of vinyl rope, and a survival knife, just in case. I trembled at the thought of actually having to use the knife against some malevolent human predator. Stop being paranoid, I to
ld myself. You know you’re not gonna find anything out there. You’re worrying over nothing.
Too bad I couldn’t make myself to believe that.
I loaded Silas into the Subaru and headed off, watching in the rear-view mirror as he curled up in the back and closed his eyes. He didn’t act his usual way, pacing around tirelessly, poking his head in the front seat and coating my shoulder with slobber. In fact he seemed to be morose, as if he had some precognition about what was to come.
The drive made me nervous. My fingers tapped the steering wheel and my stomach clenched. I tuned the radio to the local classic rock station, catching the end of Let It Be. This helped soothe my frayed nerves a bit, but then the next song came on and I heard the telltale guitar twang and nasal beckoning of Art Lonnigan. Instead of changing the channel as I usually do I turned up the volume. This tune had become so ever-present over that last year that I couldn’t help but think that maybe the lyrics, in all their incoherent randomness, could help guide me.
The numbers of my stranded soul
Rattle through the cages of time
Nine, six, eight, two, four
In my brain without a rhyme
My shoulders slumped and I kept my eyes on the road while trying to decipher Lonnigan’s rambling. The chorus came next:
Five, seven, two, one, in a land once said
And through fields of green, I see the dead
In the shade of a blood-red morning
Which faulty math can’t repent
In the shade of a blood-red morning
With angels swimming ‘round my bed
It made no sense. There were no hidden messages there, no unforeseen guidance to be given. It simply was what it was, a silly tune written by a guy who was probably cracked out on LSD at the time. I lowered the volume and drove on. Silas never budged.
Silas: A Supernatural Thriller Page 6
