Night Howl (7 page)

“I have a very surprising, maybe even very stupid thing to tell you,” Sid Kaufman began. The chief of police sat back in his chair. When Sid asked to see him privately with the door of his office closed, Harry Michaels’s interest was piqued.

“Don’t be afraid to say somethin’ stupid, Mr. Kaufman. I hear a lot of that nowadays.” He smiled at his own sense of humor, but Sid only nodded. “Sit down, sit down. You look awful. That leg acting up?”

“It thumps away, but I wish that was all of it.” Sid took the seat and folded his hands on his lap. “I don’t even know how to start this.”

“Just start it. That’s usually the best way,” Michaels said.

“My son . . . my son, of course, has been having nightmares.”

“Sure.”

“Yesterday, he insisted that King had come to the house at night and sat by his window, whining for him to come out to play. The dog would do that sometimes.”

“King was your dog? The one that. . .”

“Yes. Like I said, Bobby had been having nightmares, so I just assumed it was that.”

“Uh huh.”

“The kid’s kinda bright. Top of his class, reads two grade levels beyond his age.”

“I gotcha, but bright kids can have nightmares too, Mr. Kaufman.”

“Oh sure. What I mean is, he stuck to his story and then took me out to where he claimed the dog had been.”

“A young Charlie Chan,” Michaels said. He took a cigar out of his shirt pocket, unwrapped it, and stuck it in his mouth without lighting it. “Doctor forbids me to smoke, but I like to pretend.”

Sid smiled. “Anyway, I saw a paw print where the earth was soft.”

“Paw print? You mean, a dog’s paw print?”

“Uh huh. Just about King’s size, too.”

“I see.”

“I thought the dog could have made that anytime.”

“Sure. That makes sense.”

“Even though it looked very fresh.”

“Maybe it was another dog.”

“I’m getting to that. This afternoon, when I came home, my wife . . . my wife was quite upset. She told me she heard King barking ...”

“Mr. Kaufman,” Michaels said, leaning forward, “you keep saying King, but that was the name of the dog that was destroyed, right?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good. You’re getting me a little confused.”

“Well, that’s because I am. She also said she came out of the house and looked at the doghouse and saw King in it.”

Michaels stared at him. Then he moved the cigar from the corner of his mouth to the center and back to the corner again before taking it out.

“Saw?”

“My dog.”

“Your dead dog?”

“Of course, I thought it was just another German shepherd.”

“Of course.”

“Even though one dog won’t usually go into another dog’s doghouse. I learned that afterward. I called my vet.”

“You did? So what does that mean?”

“I began to call all the people who live on our street. There are a few with dogs, but no one has gotten a German shepherd recently. I reached everyone but Ken Strasser, so I went down to his place, but he wasn’t around.”

“Old Ken. He’s probably with his son, Charley. You know Charley?”

“Just a nodding acquaintance. I didn’t see any signs of a German shepherd at his place, though.”

“So what’s your point, Mr. Kaufman? I don’t mean to sound rude, but. . .”

“Well, it’s kind of a weird coincidence, don’t you think?”

“What is?”

“Another German shepherd haunting our house.”

“Haunting? Might be a stray. We’ll have the dogcatcher make a few passes on your street.”

“I was thinking maybe it was more than that . . . maybe someone’s playing a sick joke on us.”

“Oh God, Mr. Kaufman. That’s stretchin’ it. I don’t know.”

“My wife’s pretty upset.”

“I can see why. Tell you what: I’ll send a patrol car up there two, three times a day and once or twice at night. He’ll have a spotlight on the vehicle so he’ll be able to keep a good lookout. And I’ll call the dogcatcher for you, just as I said.”

“Thank you.”

“I know you people have been through a mess, but you can’t let it get the best of you.”

“You’re right.”

“And I’ll speak to Charley or Ken later tonight, just to be sure Ken didn’t take on a dog.”

“This one would have to be along in years, at least four or five,” Sid said.

“Okay,” Michaels said. He put the cigar back in the corner of his mouth. “Seems a shame that smokin’ has to be so bad for ya, don’t it?”

“Yes.” Sid smiled. “Thanks for being understanding.”

“No problem. Just take care of yourself and tell your wife we’ll be cruisin’ along your street.”

“I will. Oh, one other thing,” Sid said after he reached the door. “No one else on the street has seen such a dog about. You’d think that if it was a stray, someone might have seen it, too.”

“That’s a thought, Mr. Kaufman,” Harry Michaels said. He took the cigar out and used it as a pointer. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Thanks again.”

After Sid Kaufman left, Harry Michaels sat back in his chair again. People sure can get wacked out of joint, he thought. This was one for the books.

“I’ll meet you back at the institute at the crack of dawn,” Qwen said. “Just the two of us is all we need. That is, unless this here dog of yours returns tonight,” he added. That twinkle was in his eyes.

Keven knew the trapper was playing with him. “About six then?”

“That sounds right,” Qwen said as he got out of the car. He lived alone in a small two-story house just outside of Margaretville. Kevin thought the seclusion fit a man like Qwen. A hound dog, tied near a doghouse on the side, began to bark a greeting.

“You going to bring your dog along?”

“I am now. Somethin’ tells me we’re gonna need all the help we can get. Bring something of the animal’s—a collar, piece of bedding, somethin’ Maggie can sniff and get a hold of.”

“Okay.”

“See ya,” Qwen said and closed the car door. Kevin watched him walk toward his home and then he backed up, turned around, and headed for the institute.

There were no signs announcing what it was; there were only signs warning intruders away. The building, which had once served as a home for the elderly, was bleak and unattractive. Nothing had been done to the landscape except for the construction of a twelve-foot-tall chain-link fence all around the grounds. The agency had chosen the place because it was ideally adapted to what they required. Rooms had been redesigned to fit their needs, and equipment had been brought in. By the time Kevin had arrived, it was ready for the research and the experiments. When he saw how isolated the structure was and how deliberately obscure it had been kept, he was impressed. It gave him a renewed sense of the importance of their work, of how much their value had increased because of the success with the mice. If what they did could become transferable to people, human progress could take a giant leap forward. Everyone knew that a major ramification of that leap was power. Their discoveries, his discoveries, would be as important as the discovery of nuclear fission.

The security guard at the gate came out of his booth. As soon as he recognized Kevin, the guard opened the gate and Kevin drove up to the parking lot by the front entrance. He could see the lights were still on in his laboratory, and he imagined Ann was feeding the animals. His twenty-four-year-old assistant had taken the security breach rather personally. She was a perfectionist, a brilliant mathematician and logician who usually became emotional only over her work. The others had nicknamed her “Mrs. Spock,” after the
fictional character in
Star Trek.
Kevin couldn’t blame them for it. He didn’t really like Ann; there was nothing feminine about her. Her hair was cut shorter than his; her skin was sickly white. She never wore makeup, and the only time he had ever seen her out of that antiseptic lab robe was when she had first arrived. He thought it was possible she slept in it. But she had come highly recommended, and now she was an enormous asset.

After he got out of his car and entered the institute, Kevin walked through the lobby and went directly to Dr. Bronstein’s office. The director had said he’d be waiting in his office. Kevin knocked and then entered. The fifty-five-year-old scientist looked up expectantly from a folder on his desk. His thin, graying hair looked disturbed again and Kevin smiled to himself, thinking how the director often ran his fingers through his hair nervously whenever he became engrossed in a new thought. It was as though he would stroke his brain into becoming more efficient. And wasn’t that what it was all about?

“We’re going to start again in the morning,” Kevin said. “Just Qwen and me.”

“Why just the two of you?”

“He wants it that way.”

“Do you trust him?”

“I think we were told right. He looks damn authentic. He’s pretty smart, too. He’s figured out that we’re not after just any lost dog.”

“How much did you tell him?”

“Practically nothing, but I don’t know how long I can keep him in the dark. Besides, once we find him . . .”

“You have to be careful, Kevin. Can’t expect a layman to comprehend what we’re about.”

“I know.”

Bronstein thought for a moment and then sat back.

“Maybe you’d better take Gerson with you,” he said.

“Qwen wants only two of us.”

“We’re paying him. Besides, with the kind of combat training Gerson’s had, he might be of some aid out there in the wilds. I’ll tell him to be ready. What time?”

“About six. This Qwen is a kind of peculiar fellow. It wouldn’t surprise me if he refused to take him along.”

“Gerson’s peculiar, too. That’s why they assigned him to head up our security. Maybe they’ll get along. Be careful out there. I’ve been going over Ann’s report,” he added, indicating the folder on his desk. “Apparently opening a door was quite basic for him and someone must have left that hall window open just enough for him to get his snoot into it so he could push it up.”

“No, he’s not going to have any problem getting out of a building.”

“Which means the opposite is also true.”

“Sir?”

“He won’t have any problem getting into one either,” the director said.

H
ARRY
M
ICHAELS
G
OT
the phone call just as he sat down to have his dinner. Jenny shook the wooden spoonful of mashed potatoes over his plate with a vengeance. He was a half hour late as it was, and everything was overcooked. Even after thirty-one years of marriage, his wife had not gotten used to the unpredictability of their lives. They rarely had a serious fight about it. Her anger was usually directed at other targets: at herself for trying to lead a normal existence; at the community, which had no respect for its public servants; careless automobile drivers who never thought about other people; criminals who were growing in number; and fate, which had something against her serving a meal when it was hot and ready. Harry usually let her go on and on about it until her fuel ran down and she settled into a quiet tolerance. He never put up an argument. After all, she was right.

Jenny slapped the pot of potatoes back on the stove when Harry went to answer the phone. He could hear her mumbling behind him, sounding like a small outboard motor just starting.

“Michaels,” he said. The forkful of potato was still on his tongue.

“It’s Julie, Chief. Charley Strasser just found his father dead in the backyard. Clark went up.”

“Aw, too bad. I’m on my way. Did you call the coroner?”

“Dr. Hamilton’s on the way. The ambulance squad too.”

“All right,” he said and hung up. Jenny saw the expression on his face.

“What?”

“Ken Strasser was just found dead behind his house. His son found him.”

“Oh my God.” She bit her lower lip gently and they stared at each other. “He was the kind you think’s goin’ to live forever. Couldn’t have been a nicer person.”

“Yep.”

“I’ll hold the dinner,” she said.

“Might be a while.”

“Nothin’ new about that. Must’ve been a terrible shock for Charley. I feel so bad for him.”

He said nothing. She watched him strap on his pistol, slip into his jacket, and slap on his hat. Even though she complained regularly, she couldn’t help being proud of him when he donned his police uniform. She knew there were those who sneered at a small town police force for being unsophisticated and simple, but Harry had never let that get to him. Although his men and their operation of law enforcement didn’t seem as spit-polished as some big city forces, there was a quiet efficiency evident. She knew that Harry was respected by the sheriff and the state police. There were all sorts of letters of commendation and thanks in the den. To many, because of his longevity in office and his commanding personality, Harry had become Mr. Fallsburg.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he said.

“Be careful. Tell Charley how sorry I am.”

“Right.”

He headed out to the car. After he started it and
pulled away from the house, he remembered Sid Kaufman’s saying that he had been unable to contact Ken Strasser. Perhaps it was an irrelevant detail, but all his years of police training on the job had taught him never to neglect any piece of information, no matter how small or insignificant it might seem at the time.

Leon Clark, his night patrolman, and Charley Strasser were waiting for him at the front of the house. Dr. Hamilton’s car was parked on the road and the ambulance was right behind it. The three volunteers, Marge Baxter, Tom Singleman, and Corky Wilson were standing beside it and talking softly. With the volunteers dressed in their white uniforms, the ambulance lights blinking, and Clark’s radio amplifying static, the scene took on an eerie, dreamlike quality. It reminded Harry of the nightmares he had been having lately, nightmares that drove him out of his sleep and woke him with a start, leaving him sweating and breathing hard. Fortunately, Jenny hadn’t noticed, or if she had, she hadn’t let on about it. He ascribed it to mental fatigue and thought more seriously about his pension and his retirement.

He offered Charley his hand and condolences.

“It don’t look right,” Charley said.