Night Howl (27 page)

The odors in the hallway of the building weren’t all appetizing, but his hunger had grown now, and he was willing to ignore everything but that. He trailed the scent of the food to a door at the far end of the hall. He stopped, sat back on his haunches, and tried the doorknob. It didn’t turn. Frustrated, he growled and then pawed the door. Moments later, an elderly black man, dressed in a pair of white pants and a plaid flannel shirt, opened the door. He stepped back in amazement.

“Holy shit, where’d you come from?” he said.

Phantom didn’t hesitate. He shot through the opening and entered the run-down apartment. He went right through the living room, jumped over the worn couch, and trotted into the kitchen. The old man had put out a plate of bacon and eggs for himself.

“Hey, what the hell—” He came up behind the dog as quickly as he could, but Phantom didn’t hesitate. He leapt onto the table and attacked the plate of food. “Get the hell outta here. Hey!” The old man lifted a kitchen chair and swung it at the dog. Phantom took the blow as though it had been delivered by a five-year-old. He didn’t let it interrupt his wolfing down of the food. The man struck him again and again.

When the food was gone, he turned his attention to the man. The old man saw this and suddenly realized the size of the animal he was attacking. He had seen dogs before in the neighborhood, but most of them looked mangy and underdeveloped. This animal was healthy and strong, and unlike the other dogs, this one didn’t cower and slink away when chastised or threatened.

He was first puzzled and then terrified by the calm way in which the dog looked at him. He told himself
that if he didn’t know better, he’d think the animal was trying to decide whether or not he was worth the effort.

Actually, that was exactly what Phantom was thinking. He sensed no danger from this man. The man carried no terrible weapon and exhibited very little physical strength. Arrogantly, Phantom turned away from him and scrutinized the kitchen. The old man saw this as an opportunity to effect an escape. He stepped back and ran out of his own apartment, screaming for help, first in the hallway and then from the stoop of the building.

No one opened a door in the building. Cries of help weren’t unusual in this neighborhood, even in broad daylight. Out on the stoop, he attracted the interest of some passersby, but it was a group of three teenagers who crossed the street to listen to his story. The youngest was fifteen, but they all wore a streetwise look that made them appear older. The fifteen-year-old was white, and the two older boys were black.

“What the fuck’s the matter with you?” the bigger of the two black boys said.

“There’s a fuckin’ monster dog in my apartment, dammit!”

“No shit.”

“I can’t get it out.”

“What’s it worth?”

The old man looked back through the building’s hallway and then at the teenagers.

“All I got is two bucks,” he said. He reached into his pants pocket to show it.

“Two bucks? To get a monster?” All the boys laughed.

“You got any cigarettes?” the fifteen-year-old asked.

“Yeah. There’s a pack in the kitchen on the counter. You can have it,” the old man said. The boys sensed
that he was lying, but their curiosity about what was in his apartment got the better of them.

“Take the two bucks, Tutu,” the big black boy commanded. Tutu scooped it out of the old man’s fingers and the three boys went into the building. They stopped at the opened apartment doorway and listened. Phantom, unable to open the refrigerator, had opened a cabinet door and was pawing out all the contents.

“Maybe we’d better forget this,” the white boy said.

“Take it easy. The old man might have something in here worth something.”

They entered and paused in the living room. Phantom heard them and stopped his foraging. He took a few steps to the left and watched the kitchen doorway. The bigger black boy inched forward and put his head around the corner of the doorway. Phantom lowered his body and moved forward, more like a cat than a German shepherd. The boy didn’t see him to the left and stepped fully into the doorway. The moment he did so, Phantom sprang forward and up. He clamped his jaws firmly on the boy’s throat and tore into it, his razor-sharp teeth slicing the arteries and the neck muscles like a hot knife through butter. The boy tried to scream but gagged on his own blood, instead.

His two friends, seeing the attack, ran from the apartment. In a moment, Phantom was after them. They shot out the front door and rushed past the old man. When they got to the sidewalk, they split up, the smaller, white boy going to the left and the other black boy, Tutu, going to the right.

“Hey,” the old man said, but a moment later the dog went by him.

Phantom paused at the bottom of the steps and watched the faster black boy running down the sidewalk. He turned and saw the white boy cross the street
and head for the corner. When he looked back, he saw that the old man had closed the front door.

Because none of the choices really attracted Phantom, he ignored them all. He didn’t go back up the stairs; there was nothing more of interest back in the apartment, and pursuing either of the boys was pointless now. They were fleeing from him and they had nothing he wanted. He continued on down the block, instead.

Some people along the street, looking out of windows, standing by their own apartments, had heard the commotion and watched the teenagers. No one wanted to come to their aid or challenge the dog. Whatever was happening looked to be over, anyway. Before the old man came out screaming again to announce the ghastly scene in his apartment, Phantom had turned the corner and run up the next block.

Without realizing in what direction he was heading, he found himself back on the major avenue, where the traffic and noise were immense, from his perspective. He could think only of escaping from it, so he charged forward, unused to these many cars and people. Some automobiles had to swerve; others put on their brakes; there was a quick fender-bender behind him. People were shouting; horns were blaring. He ran faster and harder, avoiding the people who waved and gestured in his direction.

Panicked, he headed directly down the avenue, running between oncoming vehicles. Cars continued to swerve, brakes squealed, and more people gathered. Finally, a police car appeared near the traffic light directly ahead of him. The policemen stopped their vehicle and stepped out, looking with amazement at the traffic mess being caused by a large, stray dog. The dog kept coming at them.

It wasn’t in the experience of either of the policemen
to deal with such a situation, but the driver had the instinct to shout for his partner to get the shotgun. He didn’t start to do so until Phantom had gotten within ten feet of them and it was obvious to him that the dog was not going to veer off. He was attacking.

Phantom almost welcomed the sight of the police car and the men in uniform. This was something he could deal with; this was something he understood. He had confronted a man in a similar uniform before, and he knew that the man was a danger to him. He lunged at the men, thinking that they were somehow keeping him in this terrible place, blocking him from escape.

The driver started to unholster his pistol, but he hadn’t cleared the barrel from the holster by the time Phantom was at him. He seized him at the wrist and spun him around. The policeman slammed against the car and crumpled to his knees. Phantom merely reached out with his iron jaws and clamped down on the side of the cop’s neck, tearing away the artery. With the blood spurting freely, the policeman fell forward.

His partner came around the front of the car, his gun drawn. He had nowhere near the time he needed to get the shotgun from the trunk of the car. Phantom did not challenge him, for he was a man with a gun. Instead, the dog, despite his size, lowered his body and slipped under the rear of the vehicle. The policeman was shocked at how agile the dog was. He couldn’t get off a single shot, and his attention had to be directed to his mangled partner, whose bleeding had become life-threatening.

Traffic had stopped all around them. People were gathering in groups. There was general bedlam, but even so, Phantom shot out across the street. The people in his way had seen the commotion. They parted quickly, no one daring to remain in his path or
trying to stop him. He rushed through the crowds and headed blindly down a side street, running as hard and as fast as he could, driven by the fear of what awaited him and by the impact of what he had just been through. He expected more men in uniforms around every corner, but none appeared. He ran on and on, crossing streets, winding around cars, charging past people until he came to a section of rubble and demolished houses. There were empty buildings and long stretches of garbage-strewn lots. He didn’t pause; he went directly into it. There was something about the area that suggested the wild. He saw places to hide and he was encouraged by the emptiness and desolation. In it he saw hope and safety.

He looked back only once. Satisfied that none of the men in uniform had caught up with him, he slipped into one of the half-demolished structures and disappeared into the darkness of its hollow interior. In moments, all was as quiet as before and he found a cool spot. He lowered himself to the floor and listened, but he could hear nothing over the sound of his own quickened breathing and panting. For the moment he cared about nothing but rest.

Qwen stepped out of Sam Cohen’s rowboat and tied it to the dock at Keebler’s Landing. Since he had last been here, the owners had built on to their small motel, adding rooms that were mainly used by trout fishermen who drove up from the city. They could walk up or down the river to stake out their lucky spots. He had seen a few on his way down and now saw that the motel was almost full. He walked up to the office where he knew there was a pay phone. They had a small sporting goods store in there, as well.

It was a beautiful spot, shaded by tall pines. If one approached it from the highway, he traveled for a good
mile and a half down a hard dirt and gravel road. It was an ideal escape for the devoted fisherman. There was really nothing else to do here.

Qwen didn’t know the owners personally—a couple and the husband’s brother—but the woman, a salt-and-pepper-haired chunky lady in her mid-fifties, gave him a warm hello and smile when he entered the office. He explained that he was there only to use the phone.

“Help yourself,” she said. He thanked her but saw that the phone was on the wall, just to the right of the counter. He wished he could have some privacy for the call, but it was either this or head back into town. He asked the operator to connect him with the Fallsburg police department and then looked back over his shoulder. He couldn’t tell whether the woman was listening or not. As soon as the dispatcher answered, he asked for the chief.

“Tell him it’s Qwen, the trapper who was with the dog group,” he said, thinking that was the best way to describe himself. He wondered if there was an APB out on him for shooting Fishman. The dispatcher hadn’t acted excited when Qwen mentioned his name, and when Harry Michaels came on, he sounded quite nonchalant.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Qwen? If you’re calling to find out about the dog, I got nothin’ to tell you. They haven’t located him yet.”

“And they won’t,” Qwen said. He figured he might as well be direct, as quickly as possible.

“I don’t know about that. There are an awful lot of men out there with some pretty good equipment. Shouldn’t be much longer.”

“It’s more than a dog, Chief. You remember me? No one’s lookin’ for me?”

“For you? Yeah, sure, I remember you. Who should be lookin’ for you?”

“That so-called security man who was with us last
night tried to kill me. He and the driver, I should say. To make a long story short, I killed him.”

“Huh?”

“What I really want to tell you, though, is they gave you a bunch of bullshit about that dog. That dog is no military dog in special training. It’s an experimental animal, created in a laboratory.”

“What is this, a joke?”

“I wish it was, Chief. You and me got to get together right away.”

There was a long pause, during which the operator came on to demand more money. Qwen was out of change.

“Charge the remainder of this call to this number, operator,” Michaels said. “This is a police matter.” She said she would. “Qwen, I never really got to talk to you last night. Who the hell are you? What do you have to do with all this?”

“They hired me to find their dog. They told me a cock n’ bull story too, at first. Then I began to realize things about the dog and they were forced to tell me the truth. That’s why they tried to get rid of me.”

There was a long pause before Michaels spoke again.

“What was that about killing someone?”

“I told you, they tried to kill me on the way back to the institute.”

“Institute?”

“They probably called it a training center. Look, don’t you think it might be better if we met?”

“Who’d you say you killed?”

“The guy’s name was Fishman, remember?”

“The big guy?”

“You got it.”

“Where are you now?”

“I’m at Keebler’s Landing. It’s about two—”

“I know it,” Michaels said. “My oldest boy fancies
himself a trout fisherman. You stay there. It’ll take me a little over half an hour.”

“I know. Only, Chief, I wouldn’t advise your telling anyone from the institute that you’re going to meet me.”

“All right,” Harry said. “You stay put.”

After Qwen hung up, he turned to the counter and saw that the woman was gone. He imagined she had either overheard his whole conversation and had gone back to tell her husband and brother-in-law about it, or she hadn’t listened in at all. He smiled to himself and went back out and down to the dock, where Maggie waited obediently in the boat. There wasn’t much for Qwen to do either but wait to see whether or not Michaels would arrive. He still believed in his instincts, and his instincts told him that the police chief was a down-to-earth fellow who was as overwhelmed by all this as he was.

He sprawled out in the boat, put his hands behind his head, and looked up at the bright morning sky. There was no sense in being tense and nervous about it. Maggie seemed to sense his mood. She got up, shook herself, and then lay down again, planting her head over his stomach. The two of them often slept this way on the rug in the living room of his home.