Dark Hollow (13 page)

“Let’s meet in the backyard at seven o’clock tonight,” Dale said. “Everybody okay with that?”

“For what?” Merle asked. “You gonna tell us stories about the time you went to Tijuana as a young man and saw a donkey show?”

“I think you know why,” Dale told him. “We’ve got things to discuss.”

Merle didn’t reply.

“Why not talk about it now?” I asked. “I mean, you’re talking about the woods, right? You think that what I saw is connected to what happened to Shannon and Antonietta?”

“I do, but I want to check on something first,” he said. “When you told us about the stone, it sparked something in my head. I meant to do it earlier today, before the search began, but I got sidetracked. But seeing the marker for myself, I think I remember now why it seems so familiar. Just let me make sure and then we’ll talk. Before we go to the cops, we need to have all the facts.”

“Seven o’clock,” I repeated. “I’ll be there.”

“Merle?” Dale demanded.

“You gonna bring the beer?”

Dale smiled. “But of course. Only the best for you.”

“Then I’ll be there. Ain’t got nothing better to do, and besides, I promised Adam inside the woods that we’d talk later. I’ll see if I can’t round up Cliff and Cory, too.”

“Merle,” I prodded, “do you still think Paul had something to do with this?”

He stopped walking and stared at me long and hard before answering.

“No, Adam. I don’t. And that scares the fucking piss out of me. Scares me even worse than those woods do.”

We went our separate ways, and I wondered what Dale was onto. When I walked inside the house, Big Steve was missing in action. I hollered for him, but there was no answer. Usually when I came home he’d be under my desk thumping his tail, or prancing at the top of the stairs, his nails clicking on the wooden floor.

I walked upstairs and into the bedroom. Big Steve was sprawled on his back in the middle of the bed. He was sound asleep, but his paws twitched, and he whined and growled softly, in the grips of a nightmare.

I sat down on the mattress beside him and gently called his name. He kept whining. I reached out and shook him. His eyes snapped open and his jaws almost clamped shut on my hand. His low growl changed into a vicious bark. I yanked my hand away and jumped up.

“Whoa! Take it easy, buddy. It’s me. You were having a bad dream.”

Still growling, Big Steve glanced around the room. Then he recognized his surroundings and calmed down. He flipped the tip of his tail and gave me his best apologetic look.

Sorry, master. Didn’t mean to almost take your fingers off.

“You’re okay,” I assured him. “Must have been a bad one, huh?”

He wagged his tail harder, in confirmation, and then stretched out his paws and yawned.

“I wish you could talk,” I told him. “I’d love to know what you were dreaming about.”

But deep down inside I already knew. Knew too damn well. And knowing that what haunted my dog’s nightmares was the same thing haunting my own made me afraid all over again. So I patted his head and whispered soothing words and rubbed his belly in little circular motions, the way he liked.

It occurred to me that Big Steve was braver in his nightmares than he was when confronted by the real thing.

We sat there together in the bedroom for a long time and waited for Tara to come home.

And even though I didn’t believe in Him anymore, I thanked God when she did.

NINE

Before we ate dinner, Tara and I sat and chatted for a while. I rubbed her feet and asked about her day and told her all about mine, leaving out my suspicions regarding Shelly, what may have happened to Shannon and Mrs. Wallace, and the emotions we’d felt inside the woods earlier that day. It was funny: Tara was my wife and I trusted her implicitly, but for some reason I couldn’t voice my suspicions to her. Maybe it was because she was my personal and emotional barometer, and I was afraid of what her reaction would be. What if she flat out didn’t believe me or, worse yet, questioned my sanity? A husband never wants his wife to doubt him or the strength of his convictions, because as soon as that happens a little part of us dies inside. And Tara and I had suffered through enough death.

I popped a frozen pizza into the oven, and when it was done we sat down in our matching recliners and ate pizza and drank water in front of the television, while Big Steve stretched out on the couch and watched the pizza slices hopefully. He wasn’t exactly begging, but he wasn’t making it a secret that he’d love to have some either. I tossed apiece of crust onto the floor, and he leaped from the couch and snapped it up in one bite. Tara hollered at us both, me for putting it on the floor and him for eating people food.

When a commercial for car insurance came on, I flipped to the local news. Sure enough, they were showing footage from the afternoon’s search and interviews with some of the volunteers. I caught a glimpse of Merle, Dale, and myself. Just a quick flash, and then we were gone. Luckily I was just another face in the crowd, and the station didn’t identify me as “Adam Senft, Local Author.” I had a love-hate relationship with our local media, who always seemed to misquote me.

“Hey, look, I’m on TV.”

Tara smiled around her slice of pizza. It was a false smile.

There was still nothing new to report. Paul, Shannon, and Mrs. Wallace were all still missing, the search had turned up nothing despite the massive amount of manpower, and the police refused to discuss the details of the case. Detective Ramirez was quoted as saying that they had some promising leads, but despite the press peppering him with questions, he wouldn’t comment further, since the investigation was still ongoing. He advised the public to remain cautious and alert. The number for a toll-free tip line scrolled across the bottom of the screen. The smiling anchorwoman reminded viewers that the Wallace family, the Lion’s and Rotary clubs, and several other organizations were offering a cash reward for information. Then they followed the report with a public-interest piece entitled “Ten Tips to Protect Yourself from Being Abducted.”

Groaning, I began flipping through the channels, bypassing more news and commercials, two game shows, C-Span, and an old
Highway to Heaven
rerun. I finally settled on an episode of
Seinfeld
that I liked.

“Is this okay with you?” I asked Tara.

She shrugged, and then nodded. Her plate still had half-eaten slices of pizza on it, and Big Steve was parked in front of her, patiently waiting for some.

“I can change the channel if you want me to,” I offered. “We’ve seen this one a million times. They get lost in the parking garage, and then Jerry and George wind up in jail for pissing in public.”

“That’s nice,” she said, not looking up from the program. Her tone was flat, disinterested. She sat the plate on the floor, and Big Steve proceeded to do his best impression of a pig, complete with grunting noises, as he wolfed it down. I started to point out that she’d just finished hollering at me for feeding him table scraps not minutes before, but then thought better of it.

Instead I asked, “You okay, honey?”

She sighed and rubbed her temples. “I’m just still a little depressed. And tired. I’m really,
really
tired. I didn’t sleep well last night. Tossed and turned a lot, and had weird dreams all night long.”

“What about?” I took a sip of water from my bottle.

“I don’t remember all of it. There was somebody outside. It may have been you, but I’m not sure. He had more hair than you, so maybe not. In the dream I woke up and went to the window and he was standing right underneath it, right there in the backyard. I wasn’t scared. I can’t recall his face, though. It’s blurry. That’s all I remember. Oh, and there was a flute or something.”

The bottom fell out of my stomach. I choked on my water.

It was Tara’s turn to be concerned. “You okay?”

“Wrong pipe.” I gasped. “A…a flute? You dreamed about a hairy man and a flute?”

Tara nodded. “Yeah. Isn’t that weird? I’ll have to get out my dream dictionary and see what that means. It must symbolize something. Anyway, when I woke up I didn’t feel rested. You know what I mean?”

I didn’t respond. She’d dreamed about somebody standing outside our window. A hairy man, she’d called him. And she’d heard a flute. I’d heard music too, right before drifting off to sleep, notes from a shepherd’s pipe. At the time I’d chalked it up to the weird dream of my own that I’d been having, the one with naked women dancing around a bonfire inside the forest, while the satyr played his shepherd’s pipe. Was it possible that my wife and I had had the same dream?

“I thought maybe we’d try again tonight,” Tara said. “You know, after what happened last night. That we’d make love and it would be okay this time. Better. But I’m just so tired. I don’t think I’m up for it after all.”

“No biggie.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” I gave her my best smile. “I’m getting together with the neighbors tonight anyway. We’re supposed to meet in Dale’s backyard at seven.”

Despite her fatigue she looked curious. “What about?”

“Merle’s having trouble with Peggy again,” I lied. “She wants more alimony. He’s really depressed about it, so we’re going to drink a few beers, cheer him up.”

“Don’t drive anywhere if you’re drinking,” she warned. “I’ll probably just go to sleep early, if that’s okay.”

“Sure. I think that’s a good idea. You need your rest. I won’t be outside long, and when I come in we’ll both get a good night’s sleep. And no bad dreams.”

“No bad dreams,” she repeated.

My smile faltered at the corners.

Yawning, Tara stood up and gave me a good-night kiss. Then she went upstairs. Big Steve trotted along behind her. I heard her shut the bathroom door, followed by the sound of running water. Within five minutes she’d be wearing her pajamas and crawling into bed, and would probably be sound asleep within another ten.

I put our plates in the dishwasher and then headed outside. The sun was just starting to set, and the sky was on fire with red and orange hues. A cool breeze chased leaves across the grass. Some teenagers in a Mazda roared down main Street, the bass in their car stereo turned up loud enough to rattle the windows of the houses they passed. Out back, the media encampment was still present, but there were fewer of them now than there had been before. Most of the reporters had moved off in search of the next big story.

Thinking about Tara’s dream, I stopped underneath our bedroom window. Our motion-detector light clicked on as I walked by it, and the beam illuminated that section of the yard as if it were daylight. The musky smell was gone. I bent down and looked at the grass beneath the window, remembering how, earlier in the day, Big Steve had barked at this particular spot.

Now I saw why.

There were two cloven footprints in the grass. Whatever had made them had stood directly beneath our second-floor bedroom window. Stood there and gazed upward while we slept. Tara hadn’t been dreaming. Neither had I.

Panicking, I whirled in a frantic circle, cursing over and over again and trying to keep from screaming. I didn’t want Tara to hear me, didn’t want her to come outside and see this.

Next door, Dale had just stepped out onto his patio. He held a thick stack of papers in his hands. When he saw my agitated state he rushed over.

“Adam?”

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!”

Dale grabbed my shoulder and stopped me in my tracks. “Adam, calm down. What’s wrong?”

Rather than responding I just pointed at the ground. Dale bent down and examined the grass. I heard a sharp intake of breath and then he slowly backed away.

“It’s real,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm. It was a struggle. Instead I wanted to run and scream and pull my hair out.

Dale closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“The damned thing is real,” I repeated. “It wasn’t a guy in a suit, Dale. The satyr is real and it was right outside our fucking house! We need to call that detective. Ramirez. We’ve got to tell him right away.”

Dale slowly shook his head. His eyes were still closed.

“What do you mean, no?” My voice rose in pitch, and I was very close to shouting. “You saw the hoof print. That
thing
was right here, man, playing its pipe and stalking my wife. That’s who’s taking the women!”

Dale’s eyes snapped open. He held up a finger and silenced me.

“Get a grip on yourself. We need to talk about this—this and other things. Yes, something weird is happening in our neighborhood. But we can’t go off half-cocked. If you called nine-one-one and told Detective Ramirez that you think a satyr is abducting women from their homes for unknown purposes, they’d not only put you in the hospital for observation, but you’d rise to the top of their list of suspects as well. We all would.”

I fumbled for my cigarettes. “You’re right. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.”

We grew quiet, and the click of my lighter sounded very loud in the silence.

I inhaled. My hands were shaking.

“Dale, I’m fucking scared, man.”

“I’m scared, too,” he admitted. “And for what it’s worth, I think you’re right. Claudine had a dream last night. Said she heard music outside our window.”

“Tara did, too. Did you check under your window for tracks?”

“No,” Dale said. “Wouldn’t do any good. It’s all cement sidewalk there.”

“Oh.” I resisted the urge to go check his yard anyway. He patted the stack of papers in his hand. “But I did check something else.”

“What’s all that?”

“Research. You’d be amazed what one can find out just by using a simple search engine.”

“Like what?”

He held up his hand. “Let’s wait till the others get here. Then we’ll talk all about it. No sense covering the same ground twice.”

We each took a seat in one of his green plastic patio chairs. Dale reached into an ice chest full of beer, and he offered me one. I accepted gratefully and drained the can in four long gulps. My heart rate began to slow down to a normal pace again, and the alcohol took the edge off my fear. But it didn’t dissipate completely. I still felt sick to my stomach every time I glanced over at the hoof print. “Remember when we built this patio?” Dale asked.

Despite my fears, I smiled. “Yeah. Me, you, Merle, and Cliff—spent a whole weekend on it. Why?”

“No reason. Just trying to get your mind off things while we wait.”

“Thanks.” I smiled, took another sip of beer, and tried my best to ignore the hoofprint.

We didn’t have to wait long. Soon enough Merle, Cliff, and Cory joined us, pulling up chairs around Dale’s patio table. Each took a beer from the chest and settled in. Cliff and Cory made small talk and played Hacky Sack, but Merle was silent and dour.

The sun disappeared beneath the horizon, and the dusk-to-dawn lights in the Fire Hall’s parking lot automatically clicked on, bathing the playground, vacant field, and the parking lot itself in a sickly yellow glow that extended all the way to the forest. I noticed that the light did not penetrate the thick shadows beyond the tree line. The treetops swayed in the still, cool air.

I shivered.

Dale cleared his throat, signaling that he was ready to begin. Cory stuffed the Hacky Sack back in his pocket. Cliff and I lit cigarettes.

“So,” Dale began, “some strange things have happened over the last three days.”

“Boy, I’ll say.” Cory chugged his first beer and reached for a second one. “People have been horny as shit at work. It’s like a fucking soap opera in there.”

Merle started on a second beer as well. “That’s not what we’re talking about, dipshit.”

Cory blanched. “Oh, you mean like what happened with Paul and Shannon and that other lady? Yeah, that’s strange, too.”

“How’d the search go today?” Cliff asked. “Any news?” Merle, Dale, and I looked at one another. Merle drained his beer in one long swallow.

“Before we get to that,” I said, “maybe we’d better fill you guys in on everything else that’s happened.”

“I think that’s a good idea,” Dale agreed. “Let’s get all the facts out on the table before we draw any conclusions. Okay with you, Merle?”

Merle shrugged, and then grabbed a third beer from the ice chest.

“Slow down, big guy.” Cory laughed. “Just because they’re free doesn’t mean you have to drink them all in ten minutes. Save some for the rest of us.”

Merle didn’t respond. I watched him as he gulped the third beer, and got the impression that he was trying very hard to get drunk—and failing miserably.

Cliff looked puzzled. “What the hell are you guys talking about? You know something about what happened to the Legerskis and the Wallace woman or not?”

Merle stared at the ground. Dale motioned for me to go ahead.

So I did. I told Cliff and Cory about what had happened that Monday morning; the weather had been unseasonably warm and I remembered thinking it was the first day of spring—the rutting season. I recounted meeting Shelly Carpenter in the alley, and her flirting and my getting turned on, and how uncharacteristic it had been for each of us. I talked about how I’d first heard the phantom strains of the shepherd’s pipe while still in the alley, just after Shelly had jogged away. Big Steve heard it too, and he’d growled, instantly disliking it. And when we heard the pipe both of us got erections.

I continue with our walk into the forest, telling them how Big Steve and I got sidetracked and ended up in a section of the woods that we’d never seen before, a part of the forest where the trees seemed sinister.