by Peter Idone
Logan remained on the ground, staring after it for at least a minute, wondering just what had he seen. The creature’s eyes seemed to have burned into his brain like a ghostly afterimage. He got to his feet. Tara hadn’t made a sound. Leaving the bin and its scattered contents on the ground, he walked down the driveway. Tara lay in the sparse pachysandra that lined the side of the house. Her leash and collar had been severed. An explosion of blood stained the white, peeling, asbestos siding; it looked like a Rorschach of murder.
“Oh girl, no, please, no,” he said, getting on hands and knees beside the limp carcass. He flinched. A visceral shudder coursed through his body as he examined the horribly torn throat. Fur, meat, and gristle had been ripped downward as far as the chest. Logan’s hands and clothing were immersed in the blood that had drenched the ground and plantings.
He hunted for a large rock, found one near the base of the maple tree, then ran to the back end of the property, to the fence, found the loose board that he could swivel to the side, and squeezed through the narrow opening. His property bordered a lot filled with mostly saplings and weeds, the thick stumps of old, dead trees, and discarded car parts and machinery. He thrashed wildly through the growth, nearly tripping over a junked dishwasher. He lost the rock but continued unarmed. Then he remembered his gun, hidden up in the attic crawlspace. He knew that dog—that thing—had killed Tara, and he was going to bash its skull in or strangle it with his bare hands. But he wasn’t going back to the house, not now. He would only lose the momentum. His rage choked down the grief that had caused his eyes to well up. He wiped them clear with a sleeve as he came out on the other side of the lot to the street, the old sodium streetlamps blinking. Where to go? Where to look? He remained on the broken sidewalk, past the abandoned lumberyard, toward the railroad tracks. “Come on, I’m right here,” he shouted, piercing the night with his voice. “I’m here, you fucking murderous piece of shit!”
He turned down an alley, a dusty, narrow path that separated long rows of houses. Stockade fences, strangled by vines and bushes, denied access to the backyards. That dog could have leapt over any of these, Logan thought. A wrecked car, stripped of doors, tires, and interior seating, lay in the middle of the path. He approached warily, in case the animal was hiding within.
At the end of the alley, he came to where one of the wider arterials, Lafayette, intersected the railroad tracks. The surroundings were more open here, industrial, small warehouses and factories, some functioning, others closed and crumbling from time and disuse. Dogs were barking. He headed down the tracks. There was a tall, sagging chain-link fence that enclosed the grounds of the tire-reclamation center, at least the factory part. He came to the intersection where a side road crossed the tracks and ended at the front gate.
The long, corrugated building was lit up, but the gate was closed and secured. He could see workmen heaving tires onto the conveyors that ferried them into the building. From the inside came the sound of machinery whirring and clanging noisily. At the other end of the building, a neat, concise bale of shredded tires, bound with wire, slid down a chute to the ground. Two mean German shepherds had spotted him and ran over, barking wildly as he walked the length of the fence.
“You got way bigger problems than me, you fucking crap-hounds,” Logan said to the dogs, annoyed and distracted by their noise.
Forklifts were ferrying the bales of shredded tires into neat stacks lined up at the side of the building. There was an acrid odor of smoke. He had come to the end of the fence, but the tires continued. Hundreds of thousands littered the ground, seemingly endless piles, acres of every make and type from automobiles, trucks, semis, and heavy machinery. High columns of tires made from stacks of four were separated by wide channels in between. The ground was sandy. This organization was far from complete, he realized as he looked beyond the columns to the open field of disarray. There were hundreds of thousands strewn about, and a small, pathetic crew sorted one tire after the other onto the back of an enormous dump truck to be shredded and baled and then shipped to some poor third-world country to be burned as fuel or made into building materials. In the center of the field, a fire burned, the cluster of flames as big as a house. This was the source of the smell.
The smoke stung his eyes. He was getting a headache from the strong, tar-like odor. A molten rivulet of black liquid seeped down the narrow furrows in the ground. Through the smoke, the glare of lights from trucks and forklifts made his head swim.
He became nauseous from the smoke, the pursuit, and his raw grief. He’d had enough. Falling to the ground on hands and knees, he vomited forcefully. He’d done all he could for now, which amounted to nothing. It was time to return home.
3
Logan called nine-one-one and waited for what seemed to be forever until the police arrived. He had left everything as it was: Tara on the ground, the blood on the house siding. He had poured a whiskey to help keep the shock at bay. Finally a green, black, and white squad car with the gold Essex Police medallion on the doors pulled into the driveway. There was only one cop. Logan gave him a quick rundown of what had occurred. The policeman shined a flashlight on the carcass lying in the pachysandra. He whistled. “Powerful set of jaws did this. What did you tell the nine-one-one operator? Was it a pit bull?”
Too small.
“At least as big as an Irish wolfhound but not as shaggy.”
Logan hadn’t conveyed or intimated any such thing to the operator.
“Could be a coy-dog. Although they were domesticated at one time, they’ve gone feral since turned loose and running wild in the countryside.”
This thing acted with purpose. Refined, almost. “The face was humanlike. It was big.”
“Maybe a Rottweiler or Cane Corso.”
Was he going to list every large canine that existed? Logan thought with frustration. “This was different. Like something never seen before. Had you seen it yourself, you’d be saying the same thing.”
“Well, I don’t know what you saw or what kind of a dog it was, but that collar of blinking lights you described should make it stand out and easy to find.”
Another car, an SUV, pulled into the driveway behind the police car. Two men got out. “Just a minute. I got to take care of this,” the cop said and walked over to the two men. They were dressed in leather jackets and baseball caps. Scant light glittered on the identity badges they wore. All three looked over in Logan’s direction, but they spoke in low tones. He could not make out what they said. One of the men walked over to where Tara lay and, using a flashlight, examined her wounds. Logan was about to ask him something, but the man seemed to sense this and quickly walked back to the SUV and his partner. After another minute of conversation, they climbed back into the vehicle and drove off. The policeman returned.
“Who was that?” Logan asked.
“We’ve deputized a few TRT people to help out on occasion. Essex’s need for law enforcement is in short supply lately, if you haven’t noticed.”
Logan had noticed, and it had been like that for a number of years, not just lately. The rest of the interview consisted of the officer filling out a case report, identification check, address, and phone number. “If you see this dog again, call us. Don’t go after it yourself. Judging by what it did to your animal, it’s very powerful and dangerous. You would not want to get bit.”
“I’ll call. Are you going after it now, with those Tacticals?’
“They are Essex auxiliary police for the time being, not Tacticals. It’s important that you make that distinction should they show up here again. Do you understand?”
“I think I got the picture.” Why was that so important he wondered? And who was paying TRT to fulfill this role? Those guys didn’t come cheap.
“I can get rid of the remains for you,” said the cop, “if you have an old blanket or plastic to wrap it in.”
“That won’t be necessary. I’ll take care of it.”
“Don’t bury it in your backyard. That’s a health vi
olation.”
That was exactly what Logan was about to do. “I’ll bring it to the vet tomorrow. I’ll keep her in the tool shed overnight, away from the animals.”
“We can get rid of the remains for you now, without any cost to you.”
“I want the vet to see this. My family has used him for years. Maybe he has some insight into what kind of creature did this.”
“I really think you should let me get it off your hands.”
“And you can forget about it. Get a court order if you want it so bad. I’m dealing with it in the morning. I’m not having my dog thrown away as though she was just so much trash.”
“Easy, fella. I know you’re upset and I’m just trying to help. I want to be clear about not burying the animal in your backyard. You will get in a lot of trouble. Someone will be around to check, and the violation comes with a stiff fine.”
“You’ve made yourself clear, officer. The tool shed tonight and then the vet tomorrow morning. I can’t do any better than that.”
The policeman completed filling out his form, tore a copy from his leather booklet, and gave it to Logan. “Use the case number if you call with any questions. You need that or else nobody will be able to help you.”
Logan thanked the officer for his time. He would be polite, but basically he was unimpressed with the response. It took far too long, and why did those TRT goons show up? Maybe they were the ones hunting down the bizarre creature while the locals did the paperwork. The Station was always crime ridden, and god knows Essex Police could use the help. But still, who paid the bill? The cop returned to his car but remained in the driveway for a while.
Logan found an old, moth-eaten quilted blanket in the basement and wrapped Tara in it. Dealing with the abused carcass was difficult, and he tried to keep from looking at the horrible wound. He placed her on the floor of the prefab tool shed and locked the hasp on the door with the master lock. Having winterized the garden hose weeks ago, he dragged a twenty-five-foot length from the basement, attached it to the faucet, and washed the blood off the side of the house, the ground where Tara had lain, and the back porch steps. She knew something was off the whole time, he thought, remembering her erratic behavior but not cluing into it. He noticed his stained hands and washed the blood off. The water was achingly cold. He drank, in an effort to loosen his constricted throat. He drank down mouthfuls that tasted like hose.
4
Logan woke up not knowing where he was. Evidently he had passed out on the sofa in the den. The bedroll and sleeping bag were still stacked neatly in the corner beside the lounger. On the small coffee table was a glass with a thimbleful of whiskey and melted ice and an ashtray with two cigarette butts. He never smoked in the house because of Jill and Tara. Christ, Tara, he thought, she’s dead. He remembered: after finishing up with the Essex cop, he’d wept and downed a couple of shots to calm his overwrought nerves.
He made to go outside to the back porch and have a smoke and then remembered it didn’t matter anymore because he was alone, utterly, completely alone. On the digital display on the TV recorder, the time was 3:20. “Fuck, I’m wasted,” he said aloud.
Earlier that night, after the cop left, he had gone upstairs to the master bedroom closet. Standing on a short, plastic stepladder, he’d lifted a small section of ceiling panel and retrieved a box within arm’s reach that was kept in the attic. It was a compact plastic case with molded foam containing a .38 Ruger and ammunition. He loaded the weapon and shoved the case under the unused bed. He wanted to load up, get into the truck, and drive around. Maybe he’d get lucky and find that creature; find it and blow it to pieces. He’d lost all common sense earlier, running after that thing with just his bare hands. He finished off his glass of whiskey, threw on a jacket, and went outside. The cop car hadn’t gone very far; it was parked across the street. Logan wasn’t going anywhere just yet. His movement in the driveway must have caught the policeman’s attention. The liquor had made him lightheaded, and he got paranoid about having an unlicensed weapon tucked in the waistband of his jeans. He wasn’t about to pull his pickup out of the garage and go on some field trip with a gun in his possession. He did the next best thing so as not to arouse suspicion. He remembered the garbage and recycling and carried each container, one at a time, out to the street. What was he waiting for? Logan wondered as he watched the cop, interior light on, glancing down, over at him, speaking into the radio mic. He returned to the house and poured another drink. He went to the front window and watched. A Tactical armored patrol carrier pulled up behind the cop car, an old Stryker vehicle. A contractor got out wearing a leather coat over urban camo BDU’s. He leaned over, talking to the cop, and turned and looked every now and then toward the house. Logan had shrunk back from the window. “What the fuck do they want?” he’d said aloud. For the rest of the night, all Logan could hear were the heavy, powerful motors of armored patrol carriers gunning through the neighborhood.
Now, as he struggled to get off the sofa, his leg and back muscles aching from stress and overuse, he noticed the scant reflection of blue flashing light dancing across the walls and ceiling of the den. Getting up, he looked out the front window, not caring who saw him. He was being deprived of sleep, harassed by authority, judging by the lights. Something was parked at the head of the drive, an ambulance or some kind of emergency vehicle. He unlocked the front door and pulled. It would not open. The door had become warped over time and always needed some arm to tug it open, but this was ridiculous; it felt as though the door had become fused to the jamb.
He ran out the back door. From the top of the driveway, he saw figures climbing into the vehicle. They were dressed in headgear with visors and overalls, like the detail that had burned the cattle at Lennox Farms. There was something circus-like about their antics as they scurried in and out of doors and hatches on the vehicle, from the sides, back, and even the roof. The vehicle was shaped like an enormous van, arrayed with long, tubular light panels running along the sides, shining red and amber, almost neon in brightness and clarity. Blue flashing lights were mounted on the roof. Embedded in the top of the rear door panel was an oval-shaped searchlight fixture that shone a bright, defined beam down the length of the driveway, illuminating the garage and backyard. The engine hummed to life, and the van, or whatever it was, shot out of the driveway, made a sharp right turn, and had disappeared before Logan had time to shout, “Stop.”
He stood there, disoriented, wondering how the vehicle could have become mobile in so short a space of time—fractions of seconds—from a stopped position. Plus he hadn’t noticed any wheels on the brightly lit thing. His night blindness was severe after looking into that light. As he made for the back porch, he noticed the tool shed door had swung open. He went over to it. There were scorch marks on the hasp and master lock. The steel loop had been severed cleanly. He looked inside. Tara and the old quilted blanket she had been wrapped in were gone.
This made no sense. Who were those creeps, and why would an operation be mounted just to keep a guy from possibly burying his dog in the backyard? No, there had to be more to it than that, but Logan couldn’t make sense of it. There was something unreal about what had just happened. This was up there in the “all-time worst day of my life” category. What was stranger still was the tinge of absurdity about it all.
“I’m pulling the trigger on the next fool who tries to fuck with me,” he shouted. Nobody could hear. It was almost four o’clock in the morning, and the neighbors who occupied the few houses that hadn’t been abandoned were sound asleep.
5
Police headquarters was situated in downtown Essex in a fortress-style granite building that included the Town Hall and the mayor’s office. Aside from a police cruiser, the only vehicle parked in front of the station was a gray armored patrol carrier. The tactical symbol splashed crudely on the rear of the vehicle depicted skull and crossbones. This was TRT equipment. Logan found the symbol not only distasteful but unprofessional. Who were these guys trying to
emulate, he wondered, the Waffen-SS?
The building’s foyer looked like the inside of a bank, only smaller. A counter and glass partition separated visitors from the rest of the station. There was a metal door that could be buzzed open when necessary, but the real action took place behind the wall. It was at the rear of the building where suspects were taken to holding cells on the upper floors. Inside, to the right of the front entrance doors, was a stairwell that descended into a poorly illuminated dusk.
Logan went up to the window where the duty sergeant sat. He looked like a bank cashier. Logan could see a little way past him to where a squad of Tacticals were divesting themselves of body armor and equipment amid desks crowded in a larger office area. All of them appeared unbuttoned and unzipped, clothing and weapons heaped on an archaic-looking wood office desk. A woman was peeling off her field blouse and standing quite unselfconsciously in a sports bra among her male colleagues. Logan averted his stare when the woman and a couple of the others looked in his direction. He turned to the duty sergeant. “I was wondering if you could help me, Officer,” he asked in his most polite tone.
“Well that all depends now doesn’t it. What do you have for me?”
“My name is Joe Logan. My dog was killed last night.”
“That’s too bad. You’re reporting it now?” asked the duty sergeant, swiveling in his chair to access the keyboard of his computer.
“I already have. Here,” Logan took out the sheet of paper with the case number and placed it in the half-moon-shaped opening of the glass partition. The duty sergeant took it and read. “Oh my…” He turned to his computer and typed on the keyboard. “The weird dog…bounced over to RTMC…Officer York responded.”
