Dogs (5 page)

Mom brings home KFC. Over dinner I ask her how things went at C.B.'s office and try hard to stay interested. Mostly, though, I think about Jacky's drawings.

The dogs. What happened to them? Why did Cody ask if I heard dogs at night? He couldn't have meant
them
, could he? Those drawings are fifty years old.

And what about Jacky? Why did he stop drawing his mother? Did something happen to her? And what's with his father's pitchfork, his hammer, his eyes? I think about him holding Jacky up with one hand—and suddenly remember Dad swinging me around in circles when I was little. Mom's screaming at him to put me down. Now we're on the balcony and Dad's dangling me by a leg over the railing. “Shut up. You wanna see him fly?”

After dinner I go to my room and look at the drawings again. I start seeing random arms, legs, and heads in the scribbles around the dogs. I get into bed and turn out the lights.

After forever, I fall asleep…

I'm in the cornfield. It's night and I'm running. The dogs are after me. Paws pound the earth. Barks fill the air. They're getting closer. I fall down, get up, fall down again. Cornstalks snap behind me. They're going to get me.
Help!

“They won't hurt you. I won't let them.” It's a boy. Where?

I blink and I'm in my room under the covers in the dark. I'm sweating. My heart's pounding.

I feel a draft. Something's in the room. Someone.

“Mom?”

Silence. I try to move. I can't.

“Who's there?”

It's me. Jacky
.

I didn't hear that. That was just me talking to myself.

Don't be scared
.

“I'm not scared. You're a voice in my head. That's all you are.”

No. I'm Jacky.
I'm glad you're here. I've been lonely since Mother and Father left
.

“Stop it. Leave me alone. I'm Cameron, Cameron Weaver. Whatever you are, you're not real.”

“Why are you being like that?” Jacky's voice—it's not in my head anymore. It's in the room.

I panic. “I'm still dreaming. That's it. I dreamed I woke up from a nightmare, only I went into another nightmare, this one. Well, now I'm going to wake up for real.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Wake up!” I yell. “Wake up!”

“Don't shout,” Jacky says. “You'll worry your mother.”

Oh no—I'm still here, wherever here is. How do I wake up?

“I thought you'd like me. I thought we'd be friends.”

“Help!”

“Don't you like me?”

“Wake up! Help!”
I try to grab at the lamp on my night table, but I'm tangled in bedsheets, wrapped up like a mummy.
“Wake up! Help!”

Mom turns on the light. “Cameron?”

I can't say anything. I'm panting, freezing, boiling. I look to the desk. There's nothing there. I look at the closet. It's closed. Is he inside? No—there's nothing inside. I've had a dream, that's all. But if I've had a dream, why doesn't this feel like waking up?

Mom sits at the edge of my bed. “You're soaking wet.” She feels my forehead. “You have a fever. Let me get you something.”

“No. Don't go.”

“Everything's fine.”

“It's not.”

“It will be.” She smoothes my hair off my forehead. “I'll be right back.”

“Mom—”

Mom opens my closet door. “There's nothing in the closet,” she says gently. “There's nothing under the bed either.”

“I know that. I'm not a baby.”

“I know.” Mom comes back to my bed. “Cameron, these fears of yours, they're not your fault. It's your father. Every time we move, the nightmares come back. But they go away. They always have. They will this time too. Remember that.” She gives me a kiss on the forehead and goes to get stuff from the bathroom.

Mom's right. It always starts like this in a new place. The nightmares come, but worst of all, they never feel like nightmares. They feel real. I see something like the kids' stuff in the basement, and I start imagining things. Next thing you know, I'm on Planet Psych Ward.

Mom comes back in a minute, sticks a thermometer in my mouth, and pats my face with a cool cloth. She checks my temperature. “Like I thought, a fever.” She gives me some medicine and has me bundle myself in a blanket while she changes my sheets. I'd help but I'm shivering too much.

“All right then,” Mom says. “Back into bed.” She tucks the covers under my chin. “You're staying home from school tomorrow.”

What? I'll be here alone all day? With Sinclair next door and nightmares whenever I close my eyes?

Mom reads my mind. “Don't worry, I'll stay home too. I'll tell Ken you're sick.”

“No, don't embarrass me. I'll be fine!”

“You're sure?”

“Of course I'm sure.”
Not.

She gives me a close look. “All right then. But do me a favor: no zombie games. They don't help.”

I wake up Friday feeling as cold and gray as the sky. Mom brings me oatmeal and toast on a tray and leaves me a sandwich and an apple for lunch, plus a pitcher of water. She's really nice when I'm sick.

“Call me if there's a problem. I'll be back no later than five,” she says.

Being sick is boring. I always think I'll have fun watching TV and playing video games, but after a couple of hours I want to be doing stuff. Sometimes I sneak out, but not today. I don't feel like throwing up or anything, but every time I move, I get chills.

After breakfast I pick up my tablet and check out old friends on Facebook. I'm super careful. Mom told me about privacy settings when we first ran away. She said she didn't want me to have an FB account, but sooner or later she knew I'd get one anyway. Telling me now was like Grandma and Grandpa telling her about birth control: “You need to know how to protect yourself so you'll be ready when the time comes.” I guess I wasn't paying attention because she grabbed me by the shoulders. “This is important, Cameron. If you don't pay attention, your father can get into your account and figure out where we are, and we could end up dead. Understand?”

When I turned ten I lied about my age and got my account, using a fake name and a picture of a sci-fi mutant for my profile. I made sure no one could see my page except friends I approved, then I searched for kids I used to play with. A few had secret accounts like mine, a few others supervised by parents. I messaged about why I'd left and told them to call me “Rob Booker” online. Because I had an alias, I thought I could talk about everything.

Only somebody—a.k.a. Dad—went creeping. He created a fake Cameron Weaver account and sent friend requests to kids he knew I'd played with.

Tommy Gee, the idiot, clicked Accept and messaged: “Using your real name again, ‘Rob'?”

And “Cameron Weaver” said, “Yeah, LOL.”

Tommy asked, “You coming back from Wellington?”

When I found out, I told Mom and we were on the run again.

For a while, friends posted “Good luck, Rob” on their time lines, and messages piled up in my inbox, but I was too scared to write back, except to tell Tommy he'd ruined my life.

I promised Mom I'd never use Facebook again. I haven't either, except to see what my old friends are doing. Like, Tony is on the junior football team, which is funny because he used to be smaller than everyone else. And Laurie, who was my “girlfriend” because we held hands for maybe a second, is dating some guy I've never heard of. None of them mentions me anymore. Maybe they're scared to get me in trouble again. Or maybe they've just moved on. Either way, it sucks. It's like I don't exist. Like I'm a ghost.

That's why I don't check much. Besides, reading their thoughts makes me feel like a stalker, and that makes me think of Dad. Am I turning into him? I should quit checking forever. Who needs friends anyway?

I remember when Mom told me we'd never be going home again.

“But what about Tommy and Tony and everyone?” I cried.

“You'll make new friends,” Mom said.

Right. Only whenever I do, we move again and the hurt just gets bigger. It's better not to have friends. If I need to talk to someone, I should just talk to myself. At least that's something I'm good at it.

I put my tablet to sleep, close my eyes, and float to that place where I know I'm dreaming but I also know it's daytime and I'm safe in my room. That's why I'm not worried when I hear Jacky's whisper: “I'm sorry I scared you last night.” He sounds pretty fragile.

“That's okay.” I'm not sure if I mumble this or if I just think it.

“It's no fun being alone.”

“No fun at all.”

“I've been alone since Father went away.”

I picture him sitting cross-legged on my desk. He looks like the kid I thought I saw in the barn, very small and pale, with light freckles on his nose. And he has that cap with the raccoon tail and clothes like in old movies.

My eyelids flicker. When they're open, Jacky's gone. When they're closed, he's there again. So I'm just dozing. Good. I sink back into my drift. Jacky is fiddling with the tail of his cap.

“Where did your father go?” I ask, half bored.

Jacky looks at his shoes. “I don't know. He was with the dogs. Where's
your
father?”

“Probably back where we left him.”

Jacky frowns. “Did he cry when you left?”

“Maybe. I don't know.”

“Father never cried.”

“Why do you call him Father? Why not Dad or Daddy?”

“Because. He's Father, that's all. You ask weird questions.” He scrunches his nose. “Cameron…does your mother have a friend?”

“She has lots of friends.
Had
lots of friends.”

“I don't mean a friend. I mean a
friend
.”

“A man friend?”

Jacky nods.

I remember Mom's fights with Dad and the things he said. “I don't know. I don't think so.” And I sure don't want to think about it.

“Mine does,” Jacky whispers. “Father said she'd still be with us if it weren't for him. After she left, he got the dogs. To keep bad people away, people who'd take me.”

“The dogs in your drawings?”

“They're everywhere. Even when you can't see them. If you're not careful, they'll get in the house.”

I sit up, wide awake. There's a draft from the window. I pull my blanket up around me and look outside. Clouds blow across the sky. I hear dogs howling in the wind. Correction: I hear a sound
like
dogs howling in the wind. Because there
aren't
any dogs, just my mind playing tricks. Jacky's dogs are long dead. And the real Jacky isn't a kid anymore; he's Mr. Sinclair's age.

If
he's alive.

Why wouldn't he be?

People
die. Maybe Jacky's a ghost.

Get real.

Look, if Jacky died when he was a kid, he'd look like what I saw: small, pale, with those old-fashioned clothes and that stupid cap. Right?

Wrong. I don't know what Jacky looked like. I've only seen him in crayon drawings.

Unless
I
saw
his
ghost.

Stop thinking like that.

Fine. Stopping now. But—

I pick up my tablet and start a game of Zombie Attack. Jacky, a ghost? That's dumber than imagining mutant hoarders in the basement or Dad in my room.

My screen fills up with the walking dead. They pop out of manholes and lurch out of alleys faster than I can use my flamethrower. I lose three lives in two minutes and have to start over. Next game I get to the abandoned homestead but forget about the zombie hiding in the freezer and the ones behind the couch. What's wrong with me? I'm usually good at this.

I put down my tablet. Jacky can't be a ghost. He doesn't even look sick.

What
if
he
had
an
accident? Say he fell out of that hole in the barn and broke his neck.

Then I'd be seeing him with his head on backward.

Or
got
run
down
by
a
corn
harvester.

He'd be full of holes.

Or
the
dogs
killed
him.

He'd be covered in teeth marks.

Okay
then, what if he was murdered?

Murdered?

Yeah. What if his father murdered him? It's not hard to imagine. Remember the drawings? The hammer, the pitchfork, the way his dad grabbed him?

No. The Jacky in my dream said his father went away. That means he'd have been alive after his father left.

Not
if
he
was
murdered. He'd have seen his father leave, but his ghost would have stayed behind.

I'd better shut up or I'll drive myself crazy.

What
if
I
already
am?

Mom says the best way to stay cool is to be prepared, and the best way to be prepared is to know the facts. I spend the rest of the day googling.

“Wolf Hollow + dogs” turns up lots of hits, but they're all for vets or puppies for sale. The words “Wolf Hollow + murder” turn up stories about a local couple who were killed on vacation in Mexico in 2005. I do a bunch of combinations that include other search words like “Sinclair” and “1960s” and get a link to a Wally Sinclair who used to be an councilman. Other than that, nothing. What a relief.

By the time Mom comes home, I've settled down. It's what always happens. I drive myself bananas over nothing, then out of nowhere, the pressure pops like a blister. Then I'm calm till I think about something else and the pressure starts to build again. That usually happens right away, like now, as I head downstairs for dinner.

It
doesn't matter if a Google search came up empty. Big-city newspapers put their old stories online, but local papers in small towns? Recent stuff maybe, but anything from way back would be in storage somewhere.

The only way for me to stop thinking like a lunatic is to know for sure what happened to Jacky. But how? I can just picture me walking up to the lady at the front desk of the town newspaper, the
Weekly
Bugle
.

Me
: Hi. Did your paper ever publish any stories about a kid being murdered on the farm where I'm living?

Receptionist
: A murder? When?

Me
: I don't know. Maybe half a century ago?

Receptionist
(rolling her eyes): Can you be more specific?

Me
: Not really.

Receptionist
: Who was murdered?

Me
: A kid called Jacky McTavish, but I'm not
sure
he was murdered.

Receptionist
(eyeballs bouncing off the ceiling): Let me get this straight—you want the
Bugle
to rummage around for stories that were possibly published over half a century ago about a murder that may or may not have happened?

Me
: Yes, please.

Receptionist
: And, if I may ask, why do you think there might have been a murder?

Me
: Because it would explain the ghost.

Receptionist
: The ghost?

Me
: Yes, I saw a ghost. Or maybe I just had a dream. And by the way, could you also check for stories about wild dogs?

Receptionist
: Young man, does your mother know you're here?

I sit down at the table. Mom's made an omelet, with mashed potatoes and peas on the side.

“You're looking much better,” she says.

“Thanks. I feel better too.” I don't feel like eating, but I don't want Mom to think I'm still sick and make me stay home to get creeped out again, so I have a bite. Out of nowhere, I get an inspiration for how to find out about the murder!

“So, Mom,” I say, “would the real estate office know about the farms around here? Like, who's bought and sold them from the beginning?”

“No, but it'd be easy to find out. Property records are at the registry office next to the town hall.”

“Good. Would they say if there was anything unusual about a farm?”

“Well, if there were termites, I guess. Or asbestos in the insulation.”

“But other things?”

“Like?”

“I don't know. Deaths maybe?”

Mom gives me a close look. “In cities, deaths are sometimes mentioned in case a buyer is superstitious. But out in the country, people liked to die at home. It was so common that they probably wouldn't mention it.”

I doodle in my mashed potatoes with my fork. “What if someone was murdered?”

“They might mention that.”

“Great. So can I ask you a favor? If you have time tomorrow, could you please check into this place?”

“Here?” Mom chews slowly. “Why?”

“Because people at a registry office won't want to be bugged by a kid.”

“Cameron, is your imagination acting up again?”

“No.” I want to leave it at that, but Mom's not stupid. “It's for a history project. My teacher wants us to research something local and write about what it means to us. Because I'm new, he said I could write the history of what brought me here.”

She puts down her knife and fork, alarmed.

“Don't worry,” I say quickly. “I knew you wouldn't like that, what with Dad and all. So I suggested I write about the history of the farm instead. I told my teacher it means something to me because since I'm living here, I'm part of its history from now on. Like, I'm its next chapter.”

Mom smiles. “I'll bet he liked that.”

“Uh-huh.” I nod, all serious, like I'm gunning for an A. “And I thought if there was something juicy, like a murder or a suicide, it'd make my essay way more interesting. I know there probably isn't. All the same, I'm kind of hoping.”

Mom looks amused. “Okay, I'll find out what I can. Maybe not tomorrow, but in the next few days. Don't be disappointed when everything comes back normal.”

I hate being sneaky, but I have to say I'm pretty good at it. I fill my face with mashed potatoes.

“Also, don't expect me to do your homework,” she adds. “If I find you the names of the people who owned the farm, the dates it was bought and sold, and anything unusual that might come up—like a murder or a suicide—you have to promise to do some research of your own. Interview Mr. Sinclair. I'm sure he knows lots about what's gone on around here.”

The mashed potatoes stick to my throat. “What if he won't say?”

“Don't be silly. What would he have to hide?”

Oh, things about a murder maybe
.

“Who knows? It's just, I already asked him some stuff when he was cleaning out the basement, and he got all weird.”

Mom laughs. “He is a bit gruff, isn't he? Don't take it personally. He was probably just in a hurry to get the job done. If it makes you feel awkward, I'll make the call for you.” Before I can stop her, she goes to the phone and dials.

“Mr. Sinclair? It's Katherine Weaver… No, no problems, everything's great. The students at Cameron's school are doing a local-history project. He was wondering if he could talk to you about the farm some time. How people cleared the land, harvested, socialized, that sort of thing. He's got the flu at the moment, so this weekend's not so good, but maybe at the beginning of the week.”

Please
say
no.

“Thanks. I'll tell him. Bye for now.” She hangs up, beaming. “You can go over to Mr. Sinclair's Monday evening after supper.”

Me and my big mouth.