Dogs (11 page)

Mr. Sinclair, executor to Mr. McTavish's estate, is attempting to locate the deceased's widow, Mrs. Evelyn McTavish, and their child, Jacky, who left the area in March.

Mrs. Hannah Murphy, whose cousin is believed to be traveling with Mrs. McTavish, remains in the county sanatorium and is unavailable for comment.

“Poor Frank,” Mr. Sinclair said. “He got the dogs to protect himself, but nothing could protect him from the dogs.”

Who knew old newspapers could be so interesting? Wow. I mean…
wow
! I'd give anything to talk to Cody's great-grandmother, but she's in the nursing home. How could I get to see her without getting into trouble?

Speaking of trouble, what time is it? I did into my knapsack and check my phone. Two o'clock. I'm dead. I dig into my knapsack. Mom's left a dozen messages:

12:15—What's keeping you?

12:30—Where are you?

12:35—Call me.

12:45—You're not at the rec center.

1:00—You're in big trouble, mister.

1:05—Please, Cameron, call. I'm worried.

No way I can just text. I race outside and phone her.

“Cameron!”

“I know, I know, I know, I know. I was in the library. I had to turn my phone off. I got distracted. Sorry. I'm really sorry.”

“Library? What happened to the rec center?”

“I was doing research. I lost track of time. I'm sorry I ruined your lunch.”

“You think I could eat? I was worried sick. You're still at the library?”

“Yeah.”

“I'll be right there.”

The Knotty Pine Inn is an upscale greasy spoon. It basically serves eggs for breakfast and burgers and specials for lunch and dinner, but it has checkered cotton tablecloths and menus with leatherette covers. Mom and I sit halfway back in a booth with red vinyl seat cushions and a fairly clean ketchup squirt bottle.

I know Mom's trying to be positive because she still hasn't yelled at me. All the same, she's way too quiet for comfort. In fact, she hasn't said anything. She's just listened to my nonstop apologizing.

Mom orders the chicken-salad-sandwich special, which comes with fries and a Coke. I order a cheeseburger and onion rings. As usual, she'll give me her Coke and half her fries.

“So,” she says, after the waitress has left, “why were you researching at the library?”

“I had to look up stuff for my history essay.”

Mom has a sip of water and puts the glass back in the exact water ring it came from. She's no good at acting casual. “I know you're interested in the ownership of the farm,” she says carefully. “You weren't researching the Sinclairs, were you?”

“Not exactly.”

“What do you mean, not exactly?”

I twist my water glass back and forth between my thumb and fingers. “The Sinclairs came up in some of the articles, but sort of by accident.”

Mom doesn't buy it. “Mr. Sinclair is our landlord. How he happens to have the farm is none of our business.” She looks at me like I'm supposed to say “sorry” again. I don't. “You weren't planning on putting any of that in your essay, were you?”

“I guess not.”

“Cameron. Promise me you won't say or write anything about Mr. Sinclair,” she says, and starts in on her “character” speech, which manages to include why I mustn't rat out the Sinclairs and also why I need to be where I say I'll be and on time. It's full of words like trust, respect, privacy, loyalty, integrity, and responsibility, but mainly what I hear is
blah, blah, blah
.

Which is fine by me, because as long as I remember to nod and look serious, I can disappear in my head and think about more important stuff, like whether to believe Police Chief Cole or Cody's great-grandmother about the murders.

Chief Cole was probably right. Matthew Fraser told his employer he was leaving town, and since Mrs. McTavish was running out on a violent marriage, she had reasons not to say where she and her kid were going. Besides, Cody's great-grandmother looks nuts.

Not
so
fast. Whacking a cop is pretty out there. But if I thought a cousin was murdered, wouldn't I do whatever it took to get the truth? Wouldn't I look crazy too?

Yeah, but what about Mrs. McTavish's letter about leaving with Jacky?

What
about
it? Mr. McTavish could've forced her to write it. He could've said he'd kill her if she didn't.

Wouldn't she guess he'd kill her anyway?

If
I
had
a
gun
at
my
head, I'd do whatever and play for time. Besides, maybe he beat her till she wrote it or threatened to kill Jacky too. If Dad threatened to kill me, Mom would do anything.

Okay. So she writes it, and when Matthew Fraser comes for her and Jacky, he kills all three of them.

Right. Then he waits till night and drives Mr. Fraser's car to Ramsay, where he abandons it near the bus station, mails the letter, and walks home. He'd be back before sunrise. And when the car gets discovered, well, it's a '48, a junker. Everyone thinks they ditched it and disappeared on a bus.

But Mr. McTavish would still be stuck with the bodies. If he'd moved them off the farm, they'd likely have been found by now. But the cops searched the property and said the ground was undisturbed. Plus it was March, so the ground was probably still frozen. So where did he put them? And what about Jacky? He says his mother left without him and that Arty saw him after she'd gone.

So
maybe
his
father
just
murdered
Jacky's mom and Mr. Fraser, and let him live.

But if Jacky was alive, why wasn't he found after the dogs killed his father? Even if the dogs got Jacky too, there'd have been bones, wouldn't there? That Davy Crockett cap at least?

“Cameron,” Mom says, “who are you talking to?”

“What?”

The waitress puts our meals on the table. “There we are then. Enjoy.”

“Thank you,” Mom says without taking her eyes off me. The waitress disappears. “I was talking to you, Cameron,” Mom continues, controlled and intense. “Suddenly your lips began moving like we discussed the other night. Where were you? Who were you speaking to?”

“No one. I was here. I was listening. You were talking about integrity and responsibility.”

“What else?”

“Punctuality?”

Mom looks at me like she's a teacher and I've just failed a test and she's very disappointed. “You were talking to Mr. Sinclair, weren't you?”

“No.”

“You were asking him how he got the farm.”

“It wasn't about him at all.”

“Then what?”

“You'll flip out.”

“I won't.”

She
will
. “Promise?”

“Promise.” Mom presses her hands on the table so she can concentrate on not being upset.

“Okay. But remember what you said about trust.” I take a deep breath. “You know that kid who hit me?”

“You were having a conversation with
him
?”

“No. His great-grandmother thinks that the man who used to have our farm, the man who got killed by his dogs—she thinks he murdered his wife, his kid, and his wife's boyfriend. I was asking myself stuff like whether he made his wife write a letter before he killed her and where he buried the bodies.”

Mom stares at me like I'm an alien.

“You promised you wouldn't flip out.”

“I'm not flipping out.” Mom presses her fingers into the table so hard her nails turn white. “But you do know this is unhealthy, don't you?”

“You mean sick?”

“All right, sick. You take some old story, and instead of laughing it off—the normal thing to do—you act as if it's real, imaging violence and horror instead of enjoying a pleasant lunch in the here and now. It's disturbing, Cameron.”

I bang my hand on the table. “See, this is why I never tell you stuff. You promise you won't freak out and then you do. It's not my fault I picture things or talk to myself. If I try to keep all the stuff in my head inside, I'll explode.”

“Cameron,” Mom says quietly, “please keep your voice down. The woman two tables behind you is staring at you.”

I turn around. “Hey, was I talking to you?”

The woman cowers over her coffee like I'm going to attack her with a spoon or something.

“I'm sorry. He didn't mean that,” Mom says to the woman and then zeroes back on me. “Cameron, we need to have a serious conversation, but not here, not now. Finish your burger. I have to get back to the office. I'll see you at five. Don't be late.”

I'm at the office at ten to five. Mom finishes up, and we say good-bye to Ken and head home. I tell her I'm sorry about the restaurant stuff, especially being rude to that woman, and she says good, but don't let it happen again. Then she smiles and tells me she's pleased I was researching my essay. “That shows real initiative, only next time keep your eye on the clock.”

I smile and nod and say whatever, but mostly I try not to think about the cemetery. I keep seeing the dog appear out of the mist and wondering about Jacky's dark, secret hiding place. It's like that all day. But that's better than what happens when I go to sleep. Tonight's nightmare is especially real.

I dream I wake up and someone's in my room.

“Who's there?”

“Shhh. It's okay, Buddy. It's only me.”

Dad. I sit bolt upright. “Dad, what are you doing here?”

“I live here.”

“Does Mom know?”

“Your mother's gone.”

“Gone? Where?”

“Guess.” Silence, except for the sound of him breathing. “I have a surprise for you.”

“What kind of surprise?”

“You'll see.” Now Dad's voice is in the hall. “Follow me, Jacky.”

“I'm not Jacky. I'm Cameron.”

“Whatever you say, son.”

There's a candle on my bedside table. I light it. Shadows dart around my room. None of the things here are mine. Drawings of dogs are taped to the walls and ceiling. Something tickles my left ear—the tail of the raccoon-skin cap I'm wearing.

“This way,” Dad calls.

I take the candle into the hallway. It's long and dark.

“This way. Don't be frightened, Buddy. I won't hurt you.”

I follow Dad's voice down the hall for what seems like forever. At last, I get to the door of the big room over the kitchen and step inside. It's empty. The trapdoor to the attic is open. There's a ladder.

“I'm up here, Buddy.”

I climb up into the darkness, holding the candle in one hand and steadying myself with the other. As I near the top, Dad reaches down and grabs me under the armpits. He hoists me into the attic and swings me around and around. “Is this fun, Buddy?” My candle goes out.

“Dad! Stop it!”

He sets me down. A kerosene lamp flares up; he's holding it in his hand. Only he's not Dad. He's Mr. McTavish. “Surprise.”

I scream.

“Your mother didn't leave you after all.” Mr. McTavish grins.

“Cameron!” It's Mom. Her voice is coming from behind me. I whirl around. Only instead of Mom, I see Mrs. McTavish. She's taped up in plastic, hanging by her neck from a rafter.

“Cameron!”

I scream again—because there's another body, a man's, hanging next to her.

“Cameron! Wake up!”

All of a sudden I'm in my bed. The lights are on. Mom's shaking me. “Wake up, Cameron! Wake up!”

“Mom!” I hold her tight.

“Cameron!” She strokes my hair. “What on earth were you dreaming?”

“I can't remember.”

That's a lie. I do, only I can't
say
: the truth is too scary. What I dreamed was more than a dream. It was a message from Jacky. He was showing me his hiding place. And how he and the others got there.

By morning things are clearer than ever. Mr. McTavish found out his wife was about to leave him for Matthew Fraser, the cousin of Cody's great-grandmother. He waited till Jacky was at school, then he made her write the letter saying she'd run off with Mr. Fraser and Jacky. After she wrote it, he killed her.

When Mr. Fraser came by, Mr. McTavish killed him too. He hid the car in the barn, taped the bodies in plastic and hung them in the attic. When Jacky got home, his father told him his mother had left. From now on, he said, Jacky wasn't to leave the farm or see anyone, or something bad would happen. Jacky was so scared of his father that he did what he was told. That night Mr. McTavish drove Mr. Fraser's car to Ramsay, mailed the letter, and was back home by sunrise.

Two weeks later, Cody's great-grandmother went bananas. The cops came by to shut her up. They didn't really investigate because they thought everything was normal. Mr. Fraser had told his boss he was leaving town, and Mr. McTavish had his wife's letter.

But Cody's great-grandmother didn't let up. Mr. McTavish got guard dogs to keep her away, but by then he must have realized Jacky wouldn't stay hidden forever. After all, Jacky's friend Arty lived just one farm over, and kids get nosy. Once Jacky was found, the truth would come out—so Mr. McTavish called Jacky up to the attic, where he killed him too. Seeing his mother and Mr. Fraser's bodies—that's the part Jacky won't talk about, the part he tries to block from his mind.

Anyway, now Mr. McTavish has three bodies taped up in the attic—Jacky's dark, secret hiding place where no one can see. He seals the trapdoor with nails and paint. That and the tape and plastic hide the smells of the corpses. Not that he has to worry. He's always been a loner—even his best friends, the Sinclairs, think he's strange—and with the guard dogs, nobody comes by.

Everything's perfect; Mr. McTavish has gotten away with it. But then one day, the dogs kill him when he opens the door to go outside. By the time he's discovered, people figure any smell is from what's left of him. The Sinclairs lock up the house and farm the land. By the time Mr. Sinclair moves in, it's ten years later and the bodies have all dried up.

And that's that. Until I saw Jacky. But who'll believe me? I could take a hammer and break into the attic to find the bodies, only what if I'm wrong? Mom already thinks I'm crazy. Maybe she'd put me in a mental home for my own good, like what happened to Cody's great-grandmother.

No. Before I say anything, I have to be surer than sure. And there's a way: the man hanging beside Mrs. McTavish in my dream had a broad forehead, a lean jaw, a dark brush cut, and clear blue eyes bugged wide in terror. There were no photographs of Matthew Fraser in the
Bugle
; the only place I've seen him is in my dream. So, if that's what he looked like, my dream was true.

And how to find out? By talking to Hannah Murphy, Cody's great-grandmother, that's how. Even when old people forget new stuff, they're supposed to remember things from long ago. Mrs. Murphy was very close to her cousin. She'd remember what he looked like for sure.

But how do I get to ask her? After all, it's not like I can just barge into her room at the nursing home. I have an answer for that too: Benjie!

Monday morning, Cody and his friends bark at me when I get on the bus, but they don't do much else. Even Cody's too smart to try something right after a suspension. When Benjie gets on, he asks me how I spent my time off, and I tell him it was great—nonstop TV and video games. Then I ask about his weekend, knowing he'll go on about spending another Sunday with his grandpa at the nursing home. Sure enough.

“I don't wanna sound harsh, but it was soooo boring and my church pants itched like crazy.”

I nod and exhale solemnly. The first time I sigh, Benjie doesn't notice. So I sigh again and again, till you'd think I was trying for an Oscar for Best-Ever Performance of Being Upset.

“What?” he asks.

I suck in my breath like I'm hurting inside but being brave about it. “Mom thinks my grandpa can't take care of himself anymore,” I lie. “She's been talking about moving him here and getting him put in that home. Only the way you make it sound…”

“Gee, sorry. Don't worry. It's a nice place. Really.”

I shrug, all gloomy, and look at my shoes. “That's easy for you to say.”

“Seriously, check it out.”

“How?”

“Are you a dummy or what? Like I told you, I go after school on Wednesdays too and meet up with Dad when he finishes work. If you want, I could bring you with me, show you around. You could get your mom to drive you home after.”

“Really? You'd bring me with you?”

“Sure. No prob.”

Mrs. Murphy, here I come.