Night Howl (26 page)

Just as the truck reached the bottom of the driveway and began its turn onto the highway, Phantom shot out of the garage and ran after the vehicle. He leaped onto the rear and landed between an old refrigerator and a porcelain stove. The two men and the boy inside the truck cab did not hear him or see him. They were talking loudly and laughing.

He crouched down and worked his way in between the used appliances, keeping himself well under the canvas as he did so. A moment later, he was out of sight. The truck picked up speed and continued on down the country highway that would take it to Route 17 and east to New York City. They passed a military jeep coming from the opposite direction, but the two soldiers in it did not look at the truck. They thought their mission was somewhat stupid, anyway, and they were involved in their own conversation.

As the truck disappeared down the highway, a group of ten soldiers emerged from the woods. Soldiers also emerged from the forest behind the house. The groups joined up on the road and the soldiers traded jokes and cigarettes. Someone shouted as Candy came trotting back up the road and there was a lot of laughter. Mrs. Wilson came out her front door and stood on the porch.

“What the hell’s goin’ on here?” she demanded. All of the soldiers quieted down quickly and one of the sergeants stepped forward.

“Sorry, ma’am. We’re on a search.”

“What?” She looked at them as though they had stepped out of the evening news.

“We’re looking for a dog, a big German shepherd. Have you seen any?”

“You’re all out looking for a dog?”

“It’s not just any dog, ma’am. This one is kinda dangerous. If you’ve seen one around here . . .”

“Do you know what time of the morning it is? I haven’t even finished breakfast.”

“Sorry. That your dog?” he asked as Candy stopped on the front lawn and gaped inquisitively at the soldiers.

“It is, and it ain’t a German shepherd.”

“Oh, we know that, ma’am.”

“Come here, Candy,” she called and clapped her hands. The dog ran up to the porch. She looked out at the soldiers again, shook her head, and then went inside with Candy.

A moment later, orders were given and the soldiers broke out into new directions. The second helicopter appeared from the northwest and crossed over the field. And then, all was quiet again.

A few miles down the road, the truck bearing used appliances turned onto the entrance to the quickway route to New York. This far from the city limits, there was barely any traffic; but even when the truck rode into some traffic, it was difficult for any of the drivers behind it to make out the large German shepherd neatly settled in the rear. He knew what it was to travel in a vehicle, but what pleased him most was that as the miles ticked off, the sense of danger he had experienced back at the Wilson house lessened and lessened until it became nothing but a memory.

Q
WEN SLEPT LONGER
than he had expected to, but what eventually woke him was the sound of music. He opened his eyes, thought for a moment, and then reached for his rifle and sat up quickly, so quickly that he frightened Sam Cohen; the seventy-four year old man lost his grip on the small frying pan, letting it fall into the sink. Qwen had sacked out on the naked mattress placed on the floor of the kitchen in the two-room shack.

He knew there wasn’t any point in explaining any of the situation to Sam, so he merely told him he needed a place to stay for a while and the old man brought out the mattress. Despite his forgetfulness, he was still quite capable of taking care of himself. He had two sons living less than fifty miles away. They took turns visiting him once a week, but they had given up on all attempts to get their father to leave his primitive living conditions.

The music surprised Qwen because he knew there wasn’t any electricity. He spun around and saw the battery-operated music box on the front windowsill.

“When the hell did you get that?”

“Donald brought it up yesterday. Says it’ll keep me from talking to myself so much,” Sam said and ran the fingers of his right hand through some of the loose, thin
gray hair that still grew in patches over his freckled skull. Qwen remembered when he’d had rust blond hair. He used to keep it long and brushed back over his neck. Whenever he went into town, strangers thought he was a hippie or an older rock musician. “It’s got a clock on it and it just comes on by itself and goes off by itself. I forgot all about it. Sorry.”

“That’s all right. I slept too long as it is.”

“Figured I’d make some eggs. Ain’t often I get an overnight guest.”

“Can’t imagine why not,” Qwen said, and they both laughed. There was an affinity between them, making Qwen seem more like Sam’s son than Sam’s sons did. Qwen understood this; he understood why there could be a warmer relationship between Sam and him than between Sam and his sons. His sons, although they didn’t vocalize it often, were embarrassed by a father who rejected most of what was called modern society. He wasn’t illiterate, but he had little formal education. He’d spent most of his life as a farmer and a hunter, working with his hands. After his chicken and dairy farm had become too much for him, he sold his property but kept the shack used for hunting and fishing trips. It was where he had spent many happy days, so it was most logical to him to hold onto it.

“You’re just an older version of Huckleberry Finn,” Qwen told him.

Qwen got up and went to the hand pump. The cold water shocked him into complete alertness.

“That’s the best cure for a hangover I ever felt,” he said.

“ ’Cept you didn’t have one, so it’s a waste of a cure.” They laughed again and Sam put up the eggs.

Qwen opened the door and stepped outside. Sam had let Maggie out earlier to do her business, and she was sprawled comfortably at the entranceway, soaking
up the early morning sun. There wasn’t any fog this morning; the air was sharp and crisp. Qwen took a deep breath. Memories of the night before seeped into his consciousness with the impact of polluted thoughts. They poisoned his joy. If he hadn’t been alert enough and Gerson Fishman had gotten off that shot. . . .

It made him angry to think about it and also to think that he had become something of a fugitive. If anybody should be a fugitive . . .

His thoughts were interrupted by the voice of the radio newscaster. News headlines were being announced, and the dog story was number one. Qwen rushed back inside and turned it up.

“A military dog has gone berserk in the Sullivan County area,” the newscaster said. “Two men are dead, a woman was badly injured, and she and her children were terrorized for hours by the animal. Fallsburg town police chief, Harry Michaels, reports that the dog was part of a new training exercise carried out by the army in a nearby secret compound. The dog escaped and made its way to the South Fallsburg area where it committed the violent acts. Chief Michaels went on:

“ ’The dog is still loose, but a contingent of soldiers from Fort Drum are searching the area thoroughly. They have two helicopters and a number of vehicles. They expect to either capture or destroy the dog in a matter of hours. They have asked to handle the problem themselves and frankly, I’m happy about that.’

“Government officials are embarrassed by the event, and talks which will result in significant compensation for the families of the dead and injured are already underway. Military officials have declined to make any comments until the situation is under control. In the meantime, any residents of the area who
see a large German shepherd in their vicinity are asked to call the Fallsburg town police, whose dispatcher will forward the information to the army command post.

“On another front, the proposed hearing for the Loch Sheldrake sewer treatment plant renovation has...”

Qwen turned off the radio. Why weren’t they reporting the death of Gerson Fishman? Why wasn’t there a story about him? And what was this fairy tale about a military dog gone berserk?

“I’m scramblin’ ‘em,” Sam said.

“Huh?”

“The eggs.”

“Oh, yeah. I’ve got to get to a telephone,” Qwen thought aloud. Sam looked at him.

“You’ll hafta get back to town,” he said.

“I don’t wanna go back to town. Not just yet.”

“Well . . . I’ll tell ya what you could do. Go down to the river and take my rowboat to Keebler’s Landing. They got a phone.”

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s a good idea, Sam. Thanks.”

The old man smiled. “Still some smoke in the old chimney, eh?”

Qwen laughed. The coffee began to perk and the aroma of it and the eggs awakened his appetite. The food filled him with encouragement. He had seen and spoken with that police chief for only a few minutes, but it had been long enough for him to make an initial impression, an impression, admittedly, heavily dependent on instinct. The man’s too small-town, too honest to be part of all this, he thought. He was being used, just as Qwen was being used. He was the man to whom Qwen wanted to talk as soon as possible.

“So tell me,” Sam began as he poured the coffee and put down the platter of eggs, “what have you been doin’ with yourself lately?”

Qwen laughed, thinking about what it would be like
to tell the story. “I’ve been on a hunt,” he said, “only I think I was after the wrong animal most of the time.”

“No shit. That happened to me once. I was trackin’ a fox with my dog, Mike, when . . .”

“Where is Mike?” Qwen asked, realizing the dog wasn’t around.

“Somethin’ caught his attention a few days ago. He went off trackin’ it and he ain’t been back since. Probably after a bitch in heat. Which just goes to show you what a piece of tail could do to a good friendship,” Sam said.

Qwen laughed, but he couldn’t help wondering how close the German shepherd had come during his zigzagging away from the institute and if Mike had crossed his path. There was no sense in bringing it up. It would only lend an element of darkness to a world the old man still saw as bright and alive.

“Sam,” Qwen said, “the more I see of the world, the more I think you’re smart stayin’ out here in the lap of Nature.”

“Well,” the old man said chewing his eggs slowly and thinking about it, “I got no complaints about the landlord.”

Phantom awakened when the truck was halfway across the George Washington Bridge. The sound of traffic hadn’t bothered him. In fact, the monotonous sound of the truck’s engine and the tires whistling over the highway had lulled him into sleep. What stirred him back to consciousness was the scent of the sea water. It intrigued him. He stood up and shook himself quickly. Then he peered out between the used appliances and saw the line of cars and trucks. The sight amazed him. Some of the drivers saw him, too, and stared back with almost as much amazement. He backed up as the truck exited to the Cross-Bronx Expressway and picked up speed. Twice when the
truck slowed down behind traffic, he was tempted to jump off, but he hesitated because he was disoriented.

From the Cross-Bronx Expressway, the truck turned onto Webster Avenue and headed south. He peered out again and saw the people and the traffic and the hubbub of the city world. The sight was both fascinating and frightening. He alternated between growling and whining. As he stepped farther forward, people along the sidewalks and the streets began to see him. Most accepted him as some kind of guard dog taken along to protect the merchandise, even though it was used appliances.

He turned his head from side to side to catch the origin of the sounds of horns, squealing brakes, a whistle, people shouting, and the terrific sound of a wrecking ball as a crane operator sent it crashing into the side of a partially demolished building. The activity and noise were abusive to his nervous system. He had experienced nothing like it in the laboratory. He longed to be back in the forest, traveling through the shade of trees, moving through a world that was so silent at times that he could hear himself breathing.

The truck turned off the avenue and continued down a side street. The reduced activity was welcome, but the closeness of the buildings and the overall sense of being entrapped within stone and steel angered him. He went to the edge of the truck bed and when the truck slowed down to squeeze between a double-parked car and another vehicle, he jumped into the street.

For a moment after the truck began moving again and started away from him, he had the impression that he had made an error. The truck was, after all, his only contact with the world in which he felt secure and dominant. Here he was so unsure and confused that he was nearly in a panic. He took a few steps toward the
departing vehicle and then stopped. It had picked up speed and gone on to the end of the block, where it turned left and then disappeared.

He looked about. The line of apartment houses on his right ran uninterrupted to the end of the block, but to his left they were broken up by a vast lot of demolished buildings. At this point, the pile of rubble was more attractive to him than the houses. He went to it and sniffed about, looking for some signs of other wildlife. His inspection brought forth some rats that scurried in and out of the chunks of concrete and stone. He didn’t chase them.

Across the street two men came out of a doorway but paid no attention to him. He watched them walk off and then he went out to the street again. He started to cross it, but an oncoming vehicle, being driven too fast by the teenagers inside, drove him back. They shouted at him from the car windows. He stood on the side and watched the car squeal around the turn at the end of the street.

For the first time, he noticed a man lying on the sidewalk twenty feet or so ahead of him. The man was curled up on a piece of cardboard. There was an empty bottle of gin in a paper bag beside him. When he went up to the man and sniffed his face, the man’s eyes fluttered, but he only groaned and turned over; he was no threat and of no interest.

There was nothing to do but go on exploring. He reached the end of the street and turned down the direction the truck had gone. When people on this street saw him, they either stepped aside or crossed to the other side. He noted how no one wanted to confront him directly. This was encouraging to him and he sped up. Now his interest was in finding something to eat. He picked up the scent of food being cooked nearby and stopped when he reached a stoop. Without
hesitation, he ran up the steps to the pale brown door of the aged brownstone. He had no problem with it; it opened when he merely pressed his head against it.