Dogs (10 page)

The cemetery. It's all I can think about.

I go two blocks over and turn right, like the man from Huntley's said, and walk down a street of old brick homes. They all have verandas with bushes at the side, big windows, and a tree near the sidewalk. A few have a cement birdbath. After the fourth street, the houses get shabbier. Some houses have dented aluminum siding. Crabgrass is growing through cracks in the cement sidewalks, and one place has a rusty jungle gym. Then I'm passing a small park.

The farther I go, the foggier it gets. It's like moving through sheets of cobwebs. Finally I come to the final crossroad. On the other side are a spiked wrought-iron fence and a wooden sign by an open gate that says: Wolf Hollow Cemetery, est. 1794.

I follow the road through the gate into a world of tombstones. How will I ever find Mr. McTavish? The road divides in two. The right fork leads to a small building with a garage and toolshed. There's a light in the window. I knock on the door.

“Ya-llow,” comes a voice from inside. The door opens. I'm staring at a short, stocky woman in a bright yellow raincoat and work gloves. “What can I do you for?”

“I'm looking for a grave.”

“Then you've come to the right place.” She winks. “Any grave in particular?”

“Yes. Frank McTavish. He died a long time ago.”

“You're asking me?”

Seriously, what is it with people around here?

The woman waves me into a bare-bones office lit by a panel of fluorescents. There's a wall heater, a desk with a computer, and the kind of chairs you see at garage sales. On the walls are bleached-out pictures of gardens and rainbows, and a large survey map of the cemetery grounds.

“Jean Currie.” She shakes my hand.

“Cameron Weaver.”

“And you're looking for Frank McTavish. He's the one got ripped apart by his dogs, right? I don't need the computer for him. Those dogs, they're a bit of a local legend.” She taps the cemetery map. “He's planted with his parents in Section D, Plot 24. You take the main road up to the second turnoff. After a while you'll come to a big maple tree on your right. Walk a bit on an eighty-degree angle, and there you go.”

I feel like a lost puppy. I must look like one too.

“All righty, I'll take you myself,” Ms. Currie sighs, like I'm her good deed of the day. “Have to dig a hole in Section F anyhow. Gentleman from the nursing home, died the day before yesterday, ninety-six. They say he had a good dinner, then bingo. Hard to complain.”

Rewind.
“You dig graves?”

“Groundskeeper, grave digger, that's me.”

Ms. Currie brings me to the garage and has me sit beside her on the backhoe loader. We drive through the fog.

“You should come when it's sunny,” Ms. Currie says. “Beautiful. In the summer, tourists drop by to do rubbings of the pioneer stones.”

When we get to the maple, Ms. Currie parks the backhoe and walks me over to Mr. McTavish's grave. The marker is a plain gray slab of limestone.

McTAVISH

EMILY (COLE) McTAVISH

March 12, 1899–April 24, 1924

BELOVED WIFE OF

HENRY K. McTAVISH

Jan. 18, 1893–February 16, 1952

PARENTS OF

FRANK H. McTAVISH

April 24, 1924–June 1964

Strange. All the dates have a day, except for Jacky's father. If they only knew the month he died, not the day, he could've been dead for weeks before they found him. I imagine his body in the field with stuff growing up around it. I imagine the Sinclairs knocking at his door, wondering where he is. I imagine them figuring he's off somewhere and leaving, and him only a few hundred yards away, half eaten by his dogs. By the time they found him, how much was left?

“Are you okay?” Ms. Currie asks.

“Sure, yeah.”
Not.
“I just noticed something. Mr. McTavish's mother died the day he was born.”

Ms. Currie peers at the dates. “Say, you're pretty observant. Must have been childbirth. Happened a lot back then.”

“And there's no second wife named, so it looks like his father never remarried. He had no other family?”

“Not that I can tell. This plot has room for six and there's just the three of them.” Ms. Currie pauses. “Don't mean to rush, kiddo, but I have to get digging. You can find your way back?”

“Yes, thanks. I just take the turnoff back to the road.”

“That's the ticket.” She heads back to her backhoe. “See you later, alligator.”

“In a while, crocodile.” I haven't said that since I was five or six with Grandma.

Ms. Currie drives off into the fog. I kneel in front of the gravestone and read and reread the inscription for Jacky's father. He was born in 1924 and died in 1964. That means he was forty. Dad's age. This could be Dad's grave.

I put my hand on the cold stone and close my eyes. I see the picture Dad gave me at our last visit, the one of him and me at the beach, the one I keep hidden behind the picture of Mom and my grandparents on my bedside table. Does Dad still look like he did then? Does he wonder what
I
look like? What if he dies and I never see him again?

Something's behind me. I turn my head. Through the mist I see a large, gray dog staring at me from beside a tombstone.

What
does
it
want?

Don't think crazy. It's just a dog. An ordinary dog.

Is
it?

The dog's eyes are ice blue. I press my back against Mr. McTavish's gravestone. The dog disappears in the mist. I stay frozen against the stone for what seems like forever. All I see are gravestones, angels, and crosses. I get up slowly and head toward the maple tree at the side of the turnoff.

Something's following me
.
Something's behind the stones
.

I follow the turnoff to the main road. Suddenly, there it is again, right ahead of me, blocking my way: the dog.

“Go away. Leave me alone.”

The dog growls. There's no one to help me. I think of Mr. McTavish. Then I hear a faraway voice: “Don't be afraid. He won't hurt you. I won't let him.”

The dog runs off.

“Jacky?” I whisper. “Are you here?”

“No. At the farm. I haven't left the farm since Mother went away. I told you that.”

I close my eyes. I expect to picture him in the hayloft or the woods. But all I see is a terrible darkness. Is it because he's nowhere except in my mind? No, he's too real. He
has
to be somewhere. I fill with dread.

“Jacky, where are you? Why can't I see you?”

“Because.” His voice goes strange, like he's smiling. Only whatever he's smiling at isn't funny.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing,” Jacky singsongs. “I'm in my special place is all. No one can see me here. No one.”

“What's your special place?
Where's
your special place?”

“Ask Arty. He knows. He's the only one who knows.”

“No. I'm asking
you
. If you're my friend, tell me.”

He doesn't say anything.
Why
not? Is he scared? Playing games?

I concentrate. Where is it so dark no one can see? The coal room, where I found his drawings? Someplace he and Mr. Sinclair played? Not the barn; light gets in through the cracks. But what about a place in the woods?

“Jacky, is there a cave near the boulders? Some underground hideout? Is that your secret place?”

A twig snaps to my side.
Who
is
it? What is it?
I don't want to find out.

I run.

I'm at Main Street in no time. There are people and cars all around. Things are normal, at least to everyone but me. I won't sleep till I know what happened to Jacky.

I check my phone. Ten o'clock. There's time to go to the
Weekly
Bugle
before I meet Mom for lunch. Now that I know Mr. McTavish died in June 1964, I can ask to get specific issues out of storage. Going back to March should cover the time from when Jacky and his mother disappeared and Cody's great-grandmother accused Mr. McTavish of murder.

The
Bugle
is in an old stone building with arched windows. A bell rings when I open the door. Ahead of me, a counter blocks off a wide aisle with office partitions on either side. Beyond them there's a printing press and rolls of newsprint stacked on heavy shelves.

“Hello? Anybody there?”

“You gonna get that?” somebody shouts from an office on the left.

“I'm busy, Gus,” somebody else shouts from the right.

“You're always busy,” Gus grumps and hauls himself to the counter. “What can I do for you?”

Gus is pretty gnarly, with a lumpy nose, a belly over baggy pants, and rolled-up shirtsleeves. His arms are like huge hairy sausages. Even his knuckles are hairy. You could make wigs with the stuff.

“I'm doing a history project for school. Could I please see some of the old editions in your archives?”

Gus looks at me like I've wandered in from Planet Simple. “Our archives?”

“Yes, please. I need to read the issues from March through June of 1964.”

“Does this place look like a reading room?”

Excuse
me? I'm getting attitude from a guy who belongs in a circus?

I smile the kind of cheesy smile I use to drive Mom nuts. “No, sir. I thought this was the
Weekly
Bugle
. And I thought the
Weekly
Bugle
might have copies of the
Weekly
Bugle
. Because I thought the
Weekly
Bugle
publishes the
Weekly
Bugle
. Or maybe I'm wrong?”

Gus glares like I've made his hangover worse. “They're stored at the library.”

The librarian is way nicer, maybe because I'm the first person she's seen in days. She takes me into what she calls “The
Weekly
Bugle
Room” at the back. It's basically a floor-to-ceiling filing cabinet. Issues of the
Bugle
are bound by the month on wooden frames and hung in rows around the walls. At the center of the room is a large walnut table with a hard-backed chair on each side.

Ms. Browning—according to her name tag—finds what I'm looking for in about ten seconds. “Take all the time you need,” she says cheerily and glances at my backpack. “Just a friendly reminder: no food or drink in the library, and cell phones off, please, and thanks.”

I make a big show of turning off my phone and putting it in my no-food, no-drink backpack. Ms. Browning breezes out, leaving the door open. I'm not sure if this is to let in air so I can breathe, or so she can keep an eye on me. Who cares? All that matters is the murder.

Back in the sixties, issues were just twelve pages each. But with weekly issues from March through June, I still have nearly two hundred pages to plow through. I try to stay focused, but it's hard not to be distracted. For instance, there's this totally weird column you'd never see today called “It Says Here…” about who's coming to town to visit relatives, such as, “It says here that Mrs. Grace McKinnon will be serving a roast-beef dinner on Saturday, March 7, to her brother Mr. Clyde Waterston, sister-in-law Mrs. Bess Waterston, and nieces and nephew Wilma, Bonnie, and Fred Waterston, formerly of Wolf Hollow, now residing in Spruce Grove, Iowa. Save some for us, Grace.”

Then there are the ads. The pharmacy has a sale on Brylcreem and other hair gunk; Kresge's is offering two-for-one hula hoops; and the Co-op has tractors you have to see to believe.

After taking forever with the first couple of issues, I force myself to stick to the headlines. Mostly they're things like: “Roller Rink to Open by End of April,” but on the last page of the third week of March, I see one that makes my eyes pop.

Local Man Reported Missing

Mr. Matthew Fraser has gone missing, according to his cousin, Mrs. Hannah Murphy. “Matthew disappeared two weeks ago,” she told the
Bugle
. “Police Chief Cole has done nothing.”

The police chief denies the allegation. “We contacted Mr. Fraser's former employer at Wolf Hollow Plumbing,” he told the
Bugle
. “Mr. Fraser had notified his employer that he would be leaving town. It is a shame that he failed to inform his cousin of his decision. However, there is no reason to suspect that Mr. Fraser is in any danger.”

Oh
my
gosh. Mrs. Murphy! That must be Cody Murphy's great-grandmother! This is it!

The next issue has a front-page photograph of Mrs. Murphy standing on an egg crate in front of the police station. She's yelling into a megaphone while hoisting a sign that says, “Justice for Matthew Fraser.” She looks pretty crazy, like Cody when he punched me, and they have the same square jaw and bumps on either side of their forehead. The story reads:

Accusations Lead to Arrest

Mrs. Hannah Murphy was arrested outside the Wolf Hollow police station Saturday, March 28, and charged with creating a public nuisance. She was demanding action in the matter of her cousin, Mr. Matthew Fraser, who left Wolf Hollow a little over three weeks ago.

Speaking into a bullhorn on the steps of the police station, Mrs. Murphy accused Mr. Frank McTavish, a farmer on Guthrie Road, of involvement in what she termed her cousin's disappearance.

“McTavish's wife and son are missing too. Where are they?” Mrs. Murphy demanded. “What has he done with them?”

After taking Mrs. Murphy into custody, Police Chief Andy Cole told the crowd that neither Mr. McTavish's wife nor his son has been reported missing. He reminded those present that Mr. Fraser left town several weeks ago of his own accord.

Mrs. Murphy's husband, Mr. Reg Murphy, was unaware of his wife's protest and arrest until he was contacted by police. After a meeting with Chief Cole, the charge against his wife was dropped.

“Hannah hasn't been herself since Matthew left town,” Mr. Murphy told the
Bugle
. “We look forward to hearing from Matthew, and ask that our family's privacy be respected.”

Next issue, the case is on page two.

Police Visit McTavish Farm

Police Chief Andy Cole and another officer dropped by Mr. Frank McTavish's farm on Guthrie Road last Thursday afternoon.

“We had no reason for concern,” Chief Cole said, “but made inquiries to reassure anyone who may have questions arising from last week's disturbance at the police station. Mr. McTavish welcomed us onto the farm. He reported that his wife, Mrs. Evelyn McTavish, left the area with their ten-year-old son, Jacky, three weeks ago. He said he had not filled out a missing persons report because he does not consider them missing.”

Following an inspection of the property, Mr. McTavish gave police a letter that his wife had mailed him at the time of her alleged disappearance, postmarked Ramsay.

“Mrs. McTavish wrote that she and her son are traveling in the company of Mr. Matthew Fraser,” Chief Cole said. “Given disagreements between herself and her husband, she has no wish to disclose her whereabouts. With her husband's agreement, we respect that decision.”

Mr. McTavish told the
Bugle
that he is upset his wife has taken this unfortunate step, but that he will not seek a divorce as he hopes they may one day be reconciled.

“As for my son, I think of him constantly,” he said, “but I believe it's in a child's best interest to be with his mother. When the time is right, I have no doubt he'll be in touch. Until then, with the burdens of the farm, I have neither time nor money to try to force his return, nor to raise him on my own.”

The
Bugle
approached Mr. Ian Sinclair, neighbor to the McTavishes. “Every marriage has its ups and downs,” he said. “The McTavishes are good friends and we wish them well.” He refused further comment.

Police consider the departures to be a private family matter.

My head spins. If Mr. McTavish killed his wife, her friend, and Jacky, he'd have had to get rid of the bodies. The safest place would've been the farm. Anywhere else, he'd have risked being caught moving them. There'd also have been the chance of strangers finding them by accident. Anyway, they would have turned up by now. But if he buried them on the farm, why wouldn't the police have seen the dug-up ground?

So maybe everyone is right. Maybe Mr. McTavish
didn't
kill them. Maybe his wife just ran away with Jacky like Mom ran away with me. I mean, she wrote a letter.

But
why
would
Jacky
say
his
mother
left
him
behind? Why would he lie?

My skin goes damp. Maybe there is no
he
. Maybe Jacky's just in my mind. I plow on. There's nothing in the next couple of issues. Then I turn to the last week of April.

Hannah Murphy Charged with Trespass, Assaulting an Officer

Last Wednesday morning, Mr. Frank McTavish called police to report an intruder on his farm.

Upon arrival, Officer Angus Stebbing discovered Mrs. Hannah Murphy at the back of the property carrying a shovel. When he attempted to remove her, she struck him. She was charged with trespass and assaulting a police officer.

Mrs. Murphy told the
Bugle
that she'd gone to the McTavish farm to search for the bodies of Mr. Matthew Fraser, Mrs. Evelyn McTavish, and Mrs. McTavish's son, Jacky.

“Matthew had been seeing Evelyn for the past six months, and I don't care who knows it,” she said. “He'd been planning to rescue her from a life of hell, but something happened. Matthew and I had no secrets. He would have contacted me. He's dead. They're all dead.”

In an official statement, Police Chief Cole reconfirmed that the McTavish farm has been searched and that there is nothing to indicate foul play. “Mrs. McTavish, her son, and Mr. Fraser are traveling together and are at liberty to do so. Case closed.”

Last night Mrs. Murphy was admitted to the Wolf Hollow County Sanatorium by her husband. She is currently resting.

Things get juicier in the next edition. There are two articles.

Fraser Car Found

Police have found the car of Mr. Matthew Fraser, who is believed to have left town six weeks ago with Mrs. Evelyn McTavish and her son, Jacky. The car, a 1948 Pontiac, was found nearby in Ramsay. It was parked on Elm Street, a block from the bus station. Ramsay was the postmark on Mrs. McTavish's letter to her husband.

“Mr. Fraser's car has been impounded. He has one month to claim it or it will be sold for scrap,” said Police Chief Cole. “Our view is that Mr. Fraser drove his party to Ramsay to avoid being recognized in Wolf Hollow. From there, they proceeded by bus to parts unknown.”

Ticket agent Mr. Harold Robinson reports that he may have seen the three, although he cannot be certain, given the many friends and relations who have passed through Ramsay over the last six weeks.

The second article comes with a pretty scary photograph of Mr. McTavish standing in front of the farmhouse with a dozen attack dogs.

Farmer Buys Dogs for Protection

The
Bugle
spoke with Mr. Frank McTavish Friday afternoon at his farm on Guthrie Road. Mr. McTavish has been the subject of recent accusations by Mrs. Hannah Murphy, who is currently under observation at the Wolf Hollow County Sanatorium.

“I'm at my wit's end,” Mr. McTavish said. “My wife took off with my son. As if that wasn't torment enough, I've been hounded by a crazy woman who has slandered me and trespassed on my property. I've had to get these dogs to make sure she stays clear.”

When Mr. McTavish was asked what he knew about Mr. Matthew Fraser, the man currently traveling with his wife and son, he used words not fit for a family newspaper. “Matthew Fraser runs around the country with another man's wife, and his cousin Hannah Murphy wonders why he hasn't called her? Why, he hasn't the shame God gave a monkey.”

In the event that his wife reads the
Bugle
, Mr. McTavish wants her to know that all will be forgiven if she returns, and that he loves and misses his son, Jacky. “In the meantime, these dogs are my comfort and protection.”

There's nothing else for the rest of May or June. But there's a front-page headline at the beginning of July.

Frank McTavish Killed by Dogs

Mr. Frank McTavish, a farmer on Guthrie Road, has been killed by his dogs. His body was found Wednesday. The county coroner's office believes he died sometime last week.

Mr. Ian Sinclair, neighbor to Mr. McTavish, made the identification. “There wasn't much to identify,” he told the
Bugle
, “but I recognized what remained of Frank's shirt. Frank had kept to himself since his wife and son left him. We got concerned when our boy, Arty, asked why we hadn't been seeing Frank's cows out of the barn.”

“We would have called,” Mrs. Sinclair said, “but Frank had his telephone removed because of all the prank calls he'd been getting. And no one could go on that property since he got those dogs.”

The Sinclairs contacted police when the dogs tried to attack their son in the woods that run along the back of their farm.

Upon arrival, officers destroyed the pack. Mr. McTavish's body was found inside his house. It is believed the dogs killed him when he opened the door to go outside.