The Dogs of Babel (21 page)

I looked at Lexy. She had turned very pale. “I thought you were someone else,” she said finally. “Your hands were so cold.”

The woman looked at Lexy curiously. “Were they?” she said. “Well, anyway, I just wanted to tell you I was sorry.” She looked down at the mask Lexy held in her hand. “What a great mask!” she said. “Put it on, and let me see!”

Lexy put the mask over her face. She didn’t say a word.

“Oh, that’s just beautiful!” the woman said. “Wherever did you get it?”

I stepped in for Lexy. “My wife makes them,” I said. “I have one, too.” I put it on.

The woman exclaimed over our masks, and then she stood by us, making small talk until it was our turn in line. When she’d finally walked away after apologizing to Lexy one last time, I took Lexy’s hand. “Are you okay?” I asked.

“Fine,” she said, and I couldn’t tell by her voice whether she meant it or not. “I guess you were right.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I wish I wasn’t.”

We walked out into the noisy street. It was a warm night, and I began to feel hot under the mask almost immediately. Lexy didn’t speak as we negotiated our passage through the crowds. What was she thinking as we pushed our way through those packed streets, the sweat running down my face beneath my mask? I don’t know. I couldn’t see her face.

We stayed out late, walking through the festivities without really joining in. Lexy didn’t take her mask off once. When we finally returned to the quiet of our hotel room, I lifted the mask from her face.

“Are you all right?” I asked. I took her in my arms, and she rested her head against my chest.

She shrugged.

“You know,” I said, “just because that woman wasn’t Blue Mary doesn’t mean she doesn’t exist. We could go out and look for her right now.”

She shook her head and put a finger to my lips. Then she took my hand and led me to the bed. Slowly, she began undressing me.

“Oh,” I said. “I see.”

When I was naked, she pushed me down gently until I was sitting on the bed. She leaned down and kissed me long and soft. Then she held up one finger, indicating that I should wait a minute. She went into the bathroom.

I settled myself underneath the sheets. It was dim in the room, but when Lexy came in a moment later, I could see that she was wearing a white nightgown and that she had her mask on.

“Ooh,” I said. “That’s unusual. Should I wear one, too?”

She didn’t answer me. She got into bed next to me and pulled the sheet off me. I closed my eyes as she rolled herself on top of me and began to move against me. I could feel the stiff edge of her mask against my face as she lifted herself up and guided me inside her.

“Hey, slow down a little,” I said. “What’s your hurry?” I opened my eyes, and in the moonlight from the window, I saw that Lexy wasn’t wearing the lioness mask. She was wearing Jennifer’s mask. The mask of the smiling girl.

I started to pull away. “No, Lexy,” I said. “Take that off.”

She held me down on the bed and shook her head no.

I could have resisted more. If I could go back to that night, I would. If I could take that moment back, I would lift the mask from her face and kiss her own soft lips. But I didn’t. I let her go on. She made love to me wearing the mask of a smiling girl, and I lay there and let her do it. When I came, I felt as if I had betrayed us both.

That was March. Lexy died in October. We were already running out of time.

T
he yard is empty. I look around wildly, but Lorelei is nowhere in sight. I know I latched the gate on my way out; I remember the feel of the metal hook in my hand as I fastened it through its loop, and I remember Lorelei jumping up to nose my hand as I pulled on the door to make sure it held fast. But now the gate is standing wide open. The dog is gone, and I know she did not get out of here on her own.

I sit down on the grass, feeling dizzy. Lorelei is gone, Lorelei is gone—I turn the phrase over in my head, looking for a way for it not to be true. It’s my own fault, I know it is. I put Lorelei in danger. I dragged her back to the site of her puppyhood trauma, and I brought her to the attention of men who meant her harm. Which one of the men in that room took my dog? And then I remember Lucas standing next to me, leaning toward me slightly when he heard that Lorelei was a Ridgeback, peering at me with eyes made tiny by the thickness of his face.
I guess this must be my prodigal daughter,
he’d said. He must have been the one who took her; he must think he still has some claim to her. Some unfinished business with the one who got away. Maybe Remo was in on it, too. But when did they have the chance? It couldn’t have been after the police arrived; there was no time. It must have been during that first part of the meeting, before they brought Dog J in. I remember Lucas excusing himself, saying he had a few things he wanted to take care of. I remember him reading my address off his clipboard and looking me up and down.

I feel a chill run through me as I try to imagine what they’re doing to her now. I’ve got to get her back—but I don’t even know their last names. I’ll go to the police, there’s no other way. I’ll tell them what I know. And maybe they’ll help me find her.

I get up and go inside the house to look in the phone book—to find out where the nearest police station is. My mind is reeling. Beneath my worry for Lorelei, another thought tugs at me, one I don’t even want to turn my mind to. Dog J. Dog J can’t talk. All these months with Lorelei, the story of Dog J has been a beacon for me: See, it can be done after all. Whenever I started to feel that I was on a fool’s mission, that my work would never amount to anything, I would open up my desk drawer and take out the stack of newspaper clippings about Dog J. And they gave me hope. Now I don’t know what to think. Everyone in that room heard the same garbled noise I heard, and everyone but me interpreted that noise as speech. What did they think he was saying, that poor mutilated dog? And what about the jurors, the ones who convicted Wendell Hollis after hearing Dog J’s testimony? What about the newspaper reporters who printed Dog J’s words? Was it all a case of the emperor’s new clothes, of hearing what you want to hear and believing what you want to believe? No. It can’t be. Because no one wanted to believe more than I did.

As I look through the phone book, I turn on the local news channel. There it is, top story. “The police are calling this the worst case of animal cruelty they’ve ever seen,” the anchorwoman says. There’s footage of animal control people leading dog after dog out of the kennels in Remo’s yard. Some of the dogs seem barely able to walk. I look to see if Lorelei is among them, but she’s not there. “Earlier tonight,” the anchorwoman continues, “acting on an anonymous tip, police raided the home of Remo Platt. They were looking for Hero, the famous talking dog who disappeared last week from his owner’s New York City apartment. They didn’t find Hero, but what they did find was enough to turn any animal lover’s stomach.” The news team cuts to a reporter standing outside Remo’s house, who explains that the police interrupted a meeting of a “bizarre animal mutilation cult,” most of whose members fled when the police arrived. “Upon searching the premises,” he says, “police found a makeshift laboratory where Platt and his associates had apparently been conducting experiments on dogs. Literature found at the scene”—here the reporter holds up a membership packet identical to the one Remo gave me earlier this evening—“suggests that the group had been surgically altering dogs in the hopes of giving them the power of speech. The group members seem to have drawn their inspiration from Hero’s former owner, Wendell Hollis, the so-called Dog Butcher of Brooklyn.”

There’s some inane banter between the field reporter and the anchorwoman, then photos appear on the screen of the three men the police managed to arrest. One of them is Aaron, the red-haired man with the unfaithful wife; the other two I recognize vaguely from the meeting.

“Platt is still at large,” the anchorwoman says. “If you have any information, please notify the police.”

So Remo managed to get away with Dog J. And Lucas managed to get away with Lorelei. I turn off the TV and pace around the living room for another couple of minutes. I put on my jacket and get ready to leave for the police station, but before I get a chance, the doorbell rings. It’s a police officer.

“Paul Iverson?” he asks when I open the door. I nod. “Come with me,” he says. “We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

It’s nearly daybreak by the time I return home. I’m exhausted; it’s been a grueling night. It turns out that the police have been keeping an eye on me. After Dog J’s disappearance, they did some research into Wendell Hollis’s recent correspondence, and of course my name came up. In fact, they followed me to the meeting tonight. It took some time for me to convince them that I’m not exactly a key player in the Cerberus Society. And the words “I was just on my way to the police station when you arrived” didn’t seem to carry much weight. In the end, of course, I didn’t have any information that could help them. I had no idea where Remo might have gone; I knew nothing about the details of the kidnapping or about Remo’s plans for Dog J. And though they took down a description of Lorelei and told me they’d let me know if she turned up, it was clear it wasn’t going to be a priority for them. She’s not the dog the public wants them to find.

At least they didn’t arrest me. It certainly seemed like a possibility at first, although I was able to establish fairly quickly that I hadn’t had anything to do with the kidnapping. But rarely in my life have I been so humiliated. The detective I spoke to, a great bully of a man named Caffrey, was very menacing until he’d decided I wasn’t a threat. Then he treated me like an imbecile. When I told him the story of Lexy’s death and my subsequent work with Lorelei—it seemed important that I explain the circumstances that had led me to attend the meeting—he actually laughed.

“So should I put the word out that we’ve got another talking doggy on our hands?” he asked, smirking.

“No,” I said quietly. “She hasn’t learned yet.”

“I see,” he said. “She hasn’t learned
yet.
Well, we’ll certainly let you know if she comes in here asking for help.”

Just then, Detective Anthony Stack, the man who had presided over the scene of Lexy’s death, walked in.

“Dr. Iverson,” he said. I could have hugged him for calling me doctor. “I heard you were here, and I thought I’d come say hello.”

“Detective Stack,” I said. “It’s so nice to see you. I was hoping I might be of some help with the Cerberus Society case, but it doesn’t look like I have any useful information.”

“I was a little bit surprised when I saw your name come up. I couldn’t believe you were mixed up with those guys.”

“Well, I’m not really,” I said. “I was just telling Detective Caffrey, here…”

“The professor here is trying to teach his dog to talk,” Caffrey said. “He’s going to turn her into a police dog. She’s going to solve the mystery of his wife’s death.”

“Dr. Iverson,” said Detective Stack, “you know your wife’s death was ruled accidental.”

“Yes, well,” I said. “I just wanted to… There were some incongruities,” I finished lamely.

Detective Stack gave me a searching look. He nodded doubtfully.

“But as I was telling Detective Caffrey,” I went on, “my dog’s disappeared. One of the men from the meeting took her.” I could hear how I must have sounded.

“And apparently,” Caffrey said, “the dog’s the only one who can figure out those ‘incongruities.’”

Stack shot Caffrey a warning look. “Well, we’ll see what we can do about your dog,” he said to me. His voice was gentle. “Now, why don’t you go home. Do you need someone to take you back?”

For an instant, I saw myself as he must have seen me—shabby, frail, broken—and I felt ashamed. “No,” I said. “Thank you.” I walked out of the police station into the starless night.

Now I’m back in my empty house, and the sun is starting to come up. Late as it is, I don’t feel much like sleeping. So I do what I always do lately when I have a few moments’ time on my hands. I pick up the phone and dial the number I’ve learned by heart.

“Thank you for calling our Psychic Helpline,” the woman on the other end says. “This is Lady Arabelle.”

T
his is Lady Arabelle,” she says again when I don’t answer. “Extension 43981. I’m going to do a tarot card reading for you, so why don’t you start by giving me your name, your birthday, and your address.”

“Is this really Lady Arabelle?” I ask, though I know her voice by heart.

“Yes, it is,” she says. “And who am I speaking to?”

“Paul,” I say.

“Well, Paul, honey, why don’t you tell Lady Arabelle your birthday, so we can get started.”

“September twentieth,” I say. “But I’m not calling for a reading.”

“Oh, no?” she says. Her voice is smooth as warm caramel.

“No,” I say. I try to figure out where to begin. “I’ve been trying to reach you for weeks. You see, my wife died last October, and then a couple of months ago, I was watching TV, and I heard you talking to her on one of your commercials. She’s the one who said, ‘I’m lost, I don’t know what to do.’ Do you know the one I’m talking about?”

“Well, of course I know the commercial, but I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything about any one particular call. It’s confidential, for one thing, and to be honest with you, I can’t say I remember the details of every call I take.”

“No, of course not. But if you could just think about it for a minute, if you could just try to remember. It’s very important to me.”

She starts to say something, but I interrupt her and go on in a rush. “As for confidentiality,” I say, “I’m sure you have your rules, but do they still apply when the person you spoke to is dead?”

Lady Arabelle sighs. “You know,” she says, “it may not even have been your wife’s voice that you heard. It might have been another woman entirely. Isn’t it possible that in your grief you might have been mistaken?”