“I was lost in thought,” I said. “Wasn’t really paying attention to where we were going. Next thing I knew, Big Steve and I had ended up pretty deep inside the woods. I’d certainly never been where we were before.”
They listened attentively while I told them about the strange piping music, and the stone marker with the weird language—if it was a language—carved into it, and how the rock seemed to throb with a life of its own, and how the trees had seemed so sinister. I paused, taking a long swallow of beer before I got to the next part. Then I told them about that, too: Shelly and the guy in the satyr costume, the guy I’d thought was a statue at first.
I thought they’d laugh at me. Merle at the very least would probably have something sarcastic to say. But when I finished neither one said anything. They just stared at me thoughtfully. Big Steve crawled under the table and sat between my legs. His panting was the only sound. Finally I couldn’t stand their silence any longer.
“Well,” I said. “Let’s hear it. Where are the jokes?”
Merle’s face was serious. “Ain’t a joking matter, Adam. Did you tell Ramirez about this when he stopped by?”
“No, I didn’t see the connection at the time.”
“And now?” Dale asked.
“Yeah,” I admitted, “I guess I can see how it looks suspicious, in hindsight. But I still think she’s probably just embarrassed and staying away from me.”
Dale opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it again.
“What?” I asked him.
“Adam, when you and Big Steve stumbled across Shelly and her…suitor…”
He paused, as if unsure of what he wanted to say next.
I motioned for him to continue. “Yeah?”
“How sure are you that it was just a man in a goat suit?”
I started to laugh, but Dale’s expression was serious. I glanced at Merle, and his face mirrored Dale’s.
“Well…it had to be,” I stammered. “I mean, what else could it have been?”
“Yes,” Dale whispered. “What else indeed?”
“Maybe we should make sure Shelly is all right,” I suggested. “I mean, you guysmight be right. With everything that’s going on, it makes sense to check on her.”
“Do you know where she lives?” Dale asked.
“Sure,” I answered. “Big Steve and I have walked by there before. I’ve seen her out in the yard.”
Merle stood up. “Like to, but I can’t. I’ve got to finish up with some stuff inside the store if we’re gonna helpwith the search this afternoon. You guys go ahead without me.”
“I can’t go either,” Dale said. “Claudine’s sister is dropping off some clothes that she doesn’t want anymore, and I have to be here to let her in.”
I reached down and scratched Big Steve between the ears. “Looks like it’s just you and me then, buddy.”
Big Steve licked my hand. I hooked him back up to his leash and stood to leave.
“Adam,” Dale called, “be careful.”
“It’s just down the street,” I said, taken aback.
“Yes, I know. And you’re probably thinking I’m a crazy old man, but—”
Merle snickered. “I sure do.”
“But be careful just the same,” Dale finished. “I’ve got a weird feeling.”
I studied him for a moment. His brow was creased, and he looked scared.
“What is it, Dale? You know something, don’t you?”
He slowly got to his feet. “Actually, I don’t. Not yet. But I’d like to see this stone marker for myself. Something about your description rings a bell.”
Now it was Merle’s turn to look surprised. “You’re not thinking of going into the woods, are you?”
Dale smiled. “That’s where the search party’s going, isn’t it?”
Merle reached down and petted Big Steve. “They’re going everywhere in town, I imagine. Except inside people’s homes.”
I tried again to get Dale to talk about what was on his mind. “What’s going on? Is the stone connected to all of this?”
He shrugged. “Like I said, I’m not sure. I want to check on something. But in the meantime, be careful.”
“I will,” I promised, wondering what Dale was onto. “Meet you guys over at the Fire Hall.”
After Merle and Dale had gone back inside, Big Steve and I walked down the alley. The firemen had set up bright neon orange sawhorses to block it off at each end, so that the search party volunteers would have more room to assemble and not have to worry about vehicles driving through their ranks. They clustered around the sawhorses, apparently standing guard in case somebody decided to steal them. I nodded and exchanged hellos as we passed through the barricade. A reporter recognized me, asked if he could interview me, and I told him to fuck off. The look on his face brought a smile to mine. Big Steve wagged his tail. He thought it was funny, too.
We turned right, walked a few blocks up Forrest Avenue, and then turned left and went down another narrow alley. I saw a few people that I knew and nodded politely, but didn’t stop to chat. I was in no mood for small talk, especially since it would probably be centered on the disappearances. This was, after all, the biggest news to hit our town since former prom queen Denise Riser’s young husband got killed in Iraq the year before. They’d gotten married out of high school. The marriage lasted six months, which was five months longer than he lasted in the desert, killed by insurgents in an area that Iraqi legend claimed was the original site of the Garden of Eden.
Shelly Carpenter’s house was on the left-hand side of the alley, just across the railroad tracks, a small duplex with dirty aluminum siding and a black-shingled roof in desperate need of patching. A rusty chain-link fence separated the duplex’s yard straight down the middle, and both sides had more dirt and dead weeds than actual grass, along with empty hamburger wrappers and half-smoked cigarette butts that people had tossed from their car windows while passing by. Worse were the bare patches of dirt where nothing grew, littered with stones and broken glass. Despite the run-down appearance and her landlord’s obvious lack of attention, Shelly’s imprint on the place was still unmistakable. On her side of the narrow yard a brightly painted lawn gnome frolicked with a ceramic fawn. A homemade WELCOME sign, woven out of wicker, hung slightly askew on the door. A similar welcome mat lay in front of the door, advising visitors to WIPE PAWS BEFORE ENTERING. One of Shelly’s first-floor windows had a sticker advising firemen that, in case of an emergency, there was a cat inside the house. Her neighbor on the other side of the duplex had none of these personal touches.
Big Steve and I slowly approached Shelly’s half. The shades were drawn, and three days’ worth of newspapers lay on the front stoop. Her mailbox overflowed with junk mail: credit card applications and offers for storm windows on a house she didn’t own and coupon packets and magazine sweep stake entries. I looked away, feeling guilty for peeking at someone else’s mail. A yellow slip of paper was stuck to her screen door, right beneath the welcome sign. I realized that it was a UPS missed-delivery notice. So Shelly hadn’t picked up the mail, the paper, or signed for a package in at least three days. None of these were good signs.
Her empty garbage cans sat on the curb. Trash pickup took place every Monday. This was Wednesday, and she still hadn’t taken the cans back up onto the porch, a code violation, and one that the compliance officer loved to enforce with a nasty letter and a small fine. The cans sat abandoned: another bad sign. They stank the way long-used garbage cans do, but beneath that there was another odor.
I opened the gate. The rusty hinges squeaked. I stepped onto the sidewalk, and the stench hit me full-force: a strong, musky scent, like sardines or ammonia. I’d smelled the same thing in my yard earlier that morning, when Big Steve had acted peculiar, and before that, too—in the hollow, when the guy in the satyr suit had pissed all over himself and Shelly.
It smelled animal. I don’t know of any other way to describe it.
I took another step and the leash yanked me backward. Big Steve refused to budge. He sat down on his haunches and pulled at the leash. His collar slid up his neck, almost choking him, but he didn’t seem to car e.
“Come on, boy,” I urged. “Let’s go.”
Instead he lifted his muzzle, sniffed the air, and howled. The sound gave me chills, reminding me of our last trip to the woods. This was the same behavior he’d exhibited then. Suddenly, despite the bright sunlight and the fact that we were nowhere near the forest, I was afraid.
“Steve, what the hell is the matter with you? Stop it!”
He howled again. Then he gave the leash another tug. I began to worry that he might actually slip the collar and get loose.
As I tightened the collar around his neck, a screen door banged open behind me. Shelly’s elderly next-door neighbor stood on her porch, scowling at us both. She wore a white apron with the words
Praise Him
embroidered on the front, along with two hands clasped in prayer, but her own hands were not praying. One of them gripped the porch’s handrail, and the other waved Big Steve and I away, as if we were mosquitoes.
“Shut that dog up,” she commanded. “He’s interrupting my soaps!”
Big Steve continued to howl. His nose worked overtime, quivering as he sniffed the breeze. Then he squatted and began pissing all over the sidewalk.
“Hey,” the woman snapped. “He can’t do that there! What’s wrong with you? You think our yard is your dog’s personal toilet?”
“I’m sorry,” I apologized, embarrassed, and almost shouting to be heard over Big Steve’s continued howls. “My name’s Adam Senft, and I—”
“I know who you are.” She squinted at me. “You’re the one what wrote them mystery books.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I smiled. She’d obviously read me, was probably a fan, so it should be a cinch to put her at ease. “I take it you like my books?”
“No, I don’t go for that crap. Only thing I read is the Sunday paper, and books from the Christian Light Bookstore. And my Bible.”
“Oh.” I floundered, unsure where to go next. “I’m looking for Shelly. Is she home?”
“No, she ain’t. Saw her Monday morning, and she ain’t been back since.”
“Are you sure?”
“Course I’m sure. Not in the last few days. I know, because I can hear her at night through the walls, playing that god-awful rap music. She works the afternoon shift at the grocery store, so all morning long and all night long it’s that same crap, over and over again. ‘Yo-yo-yo.’ The bass is enough to make your ears bleed. Nobody listens to real music anymore. Just that nigger noise.”
I cringed, the way I do anytime I’m reminded that there are still small-minded racist assholes living in small-town Pennsylvania—even ones with religious slogans embroidered on their aprons. Big Steve finally quieted down, but I could feel the tension in his body as he strained against the leash. He desperately wanted to leave.
“I’m sorry, Mrs.…” I paused, not knowing her name.
“Snyder. Hazel Snyder.”
I gave her my best smile, the one I used on my editor and Tara when I wanted my way with either of them. “I’m sorry, Hazel.”
“Mrs. Snyder.”
Apparently my best smile didn’t work on her.
“Right. Mrs. Snyder. It’s pretty important that I speak with Shelly. Do you know where she’s gone or how I can reach her?”
“No,” she snarled. “I don’t know. I done told you already, she ain’t been home since Monday morning. No telling where she went. Probably got scared and left town, what with these other two women missing and all. Wouldn’t surprise me one bit.”
“Maybe she has a cell phone?”
The old woman sniffed. “If she does, I don’t know about it. Those things will give you brain cancer.”
I bent to scratch the dog, trying to reassure him. He scrambled away from me, refusing to come near the yard.
“You need anything else?” Shelly’s neighbor asked.
“No,” I said. “Thank you, Mrs. Snyder. I’m sorry to have troubled you.”
Rather than replying, she just sneered at me and then went back inside. The screen door banged shut behind her. I heard her turn the television up loud—
Days of Our Lives
, by the sound of it.
I turned back to Big Steve. He was cowering on the sidewalk, and a puddle of urine spread out around him. He flipped the tip of his tail, which was still between his legs, and gave me a look.
That didn’t go so well, did it, master?
“Well, it’s all your fault. What got into you, howling like that? We’re nowhere near the hollow.”
He did his best to make his big brown eyes look mournful and apologetic. Then he lowered his head and glanced back the way we’d come, signaling that he wanted to go home.
I gave Shelly’s house one last look, debating whether or not I should try knocking on the door. Her neighbor had said she wasn’t home, true, and it looked like the mail was piling up, but I wondered if I should make certain, just in case. Maybe she was sick or injured. A vision of Shelly lying on the kitchen floor with a broken back came to mind. I shuddered. Or what if Dale and Merle were right, and she was missing?
Big Steve pulled with all his might, trying to lead me away. As I turned, something on the ground caughtmy eye.
There, right next to the cracked cement sidewalk, pressed into the soil of the grass less yard, was a single hoof print: cloven, two-toed, about seven inches long and five inches wide. The impression was deep, which meant that whatever had made it was heavy, probably over two hundred pounds. The track looked fresh, maybe from within the last day or two. I’d gone deer hunting with my father every November from the time I was fourteen until he passed away four years ago of prostate cancer, and as a result I was a pretty good tracker. He’d taught me everything he knew, and that had been a lot. It would have been easy for someone less skilled to mistake the hoof-print for a deer’s or a goat’s, except that deer didn’t get that big. Neither did goats.
Unless they were satyrs…
Big Steve howled even louder this time. He lifted his leg and pissed on the fence, and when Mrs. Snyder charged outside to holler at us again, I almost screamed.
I thought about it on our way home. It didn’t make sense. If the satyr had been a statue, then it couldn’t have been stalking Shelly outside her apartment. So they must have returned together after I’d seen them in the woods.
By the time we got back to the house, the volunteers had all assembled in the rear of the Fire Hall’s parking lot. It was an impressive turnout, one hundred or so people, mostly men, but women and teenagers as well, an assortment of law enforcement officers from both local and state precincts, medical crews, a few state police K9 units, six different fire departments (ours and five from neighboring towns), television and newspaper reporters, and a few national guardsmen. Seth Ferguson and his buddies had even turned out, and they sullenly eyed the proceedings with mixed looks of derision and appreciation. I wondered why they weren’t at school, and guessed they were playing hooky. Scanning the crowd, I caught sight of Dale and Merle amidst the throng, and waved. They waved back.
Big Steve did not like the crowd at all, and I had to pick him up and carry him because he refused to budge. I lugged him across the alley, grunting with the effort, and put him inside the house. I gave him a bone to chew on, and then came back out to join my neighbors.
Doug Fulton, our fire chief, a paunchy, balding guy in his mid-forties, had climbed on top of a huge ladder truck and was addressing the crowd with a bullhorn. As I weaved my way through the crowd to Merle and Dale, I caught sight of Detective Ramirez standing next to the ladder truck. Even though I’d seen him only an hour or so before, he now looked tired and beaten, and I wondered how much sleep he’d gotten since being assigned to the case. His feet must have hurt from walking around town and knocking on doors all morning.
“Was she home?” Merle asked me, raising his voice to compete with the chief’s echoing bullhorn.
I shook my head, but before I could respond several people in the crowd gave us dirty looks and made shushing sounds, urging us to be quiet and pay attention.
“Sorry,” Merle apologized. His stubbly cheeks turned red from embarrassment.
“We’ll coordinate from here,” Chief Fulton said. “And let me stress again how much we appreciate your help and support, as do the Legerski and Wallace families.”
He nodded toward a silver-haired man standing next to Detective Ramirez. The man looked exhausted. His face was haggard, and there were dark circles under his bloodshot eyes. His clothes were rumpled and dirty.
“That’s Walt Wallace,” Merle whispered to me, quieter than before. “Antonietta’s husband.”
“We’re pressed for time this afternoon,” Chief Fulton continued. “Every minute counts, so I’ll make this quick. We’ve broken the search into a grid pattern, based on a topographical map of the area. We’ll be searching everywhere—the town and the adjoining fields and woodlands, even the golf course. Each of you will be assigned to a search crew, and you’ll be responsible for searching one particular grid. None of you are authorized to enter a residence, so please keep that in mind. Be respectful of people’s properties. Most importantly, stick to your assigned grid. Don’t go off by yourselves, wanting to play detective and search elsewhere. That’s not the objective here. Obviously, we all hope to find Mrs. Wallace and Mrs. Legerski, or even Mr. Legerski. Hopefully alive.”
A murmur of assent ran through the crowd.
“If you don’t know them, or don’t know what they look like, there are pictures posted on that cork board over there. Please study them before you leave, and familiarize yourself with their faces. Also study the signs around you as you search. Are there turkey buzzards circling an area, or maybe an unlocked barn that should be secured? Anything out of the ordinary like that—investigate it. In addition to searching for these three individuals, we’re looking for their personal belongings, clothing, identification, jewelry, or anything that may have belonged to one of them. Possibly even hair, a fingernail—things like that. Each search team will have a radio. If you find anything like this, don’t touch it. You could damage the crime scene. Immediately notify us back here at the command center via the radio. The same rule applies if you find a body.”
The word
body
seemed to hang in the air. Walt Wallace hung his head and began to cry. Everybody stared at him. Another man took him by the arm and slowly led him away.
“Poor guy,” Merle said. “This must be tough on him.”
“What about Paul?” I asked, reminding him that there were two distraught husbands involved.
Merle swept his hand in a circle. “You see him here? His wife’s missing and where is he?”
“Not here,” I admitted.
“So what does that tell you?”
“Quiet, you two,” Dale whispered. “I want to hear what he’s saying.”
“Okay,” the chief called. “Let’s start setting up thesearch teams. I’ll take you in groups of ten. Line up front here so we can assign you to an area.”
The crowd moved forward, forming a loose line, and the television cameras followed, filming it all. Hushed whispers gave way to babbling conversation. Soon everybody was talking at once, discussing Paul and Shannon and Antonietta, and offering theories as to what had happened. But I also caught snatches of other conversations—gardening and fishing and the Baltimore Orioles and NASCAR racing and who got hurt at the foundry last week. Some people laughed, and others joked and teased one another.
They’re excited,
I realized.
Sure, they’re here to help, but this is exciting to them. This is something different. Something fun. They don’t even realize how morbid that is. After all, it’s not every day they get to search the neighborhood for missing persons. They’re hamming it up for the cameras, hoping to see themselves on the six-o’clock news tonight.
I was filled with a sudden deep and unexpected loathing for my fellow man. I mentioned it to Dale and Merle in a hushed whisper, not wanting anyone around us to hear me. Merle just shrugged it off. Dale suggested that maybe this was their way of dealing with the fear and uncertainty the disappearances had put on our town.
Eventually we reached the head of the line and found out we’d been assigned a section of the woods beyond the park. Upon hearing this my newfound disgust with our fellow citizens turned into apprehension. My stomach twisted into knots. Dale, Merle, and I exchanged glances, but none of us said anything. If the chief noticed our misgivings, he didn’t comment.
There were seven other volunteers assigned to our search team: Seth Ferguson, three other civilian volunteers whom I didn’t know (and who didn’t introduce themselves by name), two search-and-rescue-trained volunteer firemen named Bill and Ned, a K9 officer who introduced himself as Trooper Harrison, and his dog, Honcho. Honcho was a huge, hulking German shepherd that would have easily towered over Big Steve. He seemed friendly enough. Honcho sat quietly by Trooper Harrison’s side, unmoving, but watching everything with attentive interest. I thought about petting him, but decided against it. His formidable size was intimidating. Plus, if I came home smelling like another dog, Big Steve would never forgive me.
After introductions were made among our team, we departed, crossing over the playground and heading straight for the woods. The officer and his dog took the lead, and Seth Ferguson shuffled along behind him, hands stuffed into the pockets of his low-slung jeans, which nearly fell off his hips. Bill and Ned brought up the rear, talking amongst themselves, as did the other three volunteers. Bill carried the radio for our group, and the cop had one of his own. Merle, Dale, and I kept to the middle. They didn’t say much. Merle was already out of breath, and I got the feeling Dale was saving his. I shook a cigarette out of my pack and was about to light it when Seth stopped me.
“Yo, can I bum one of those, Mr. Senft?”
“Don’t think you’re old enough yet.”
“Shit.” Seth sneered, and it made the acne on his cheeks and nose really stand out. “I smoke all the time, dude. My mom lets me.”
Merle frowned. “Yeah, you and your buddies have been smoking out back behind my toolshed. Does your mom know about that?”
Seth shrugged, but wouldn’t meet his eye.
“I didn’t think so. Bet you guys didn’t think I knew about it either, did you? And you ain’t been smoking cigarettes out there either. You’ve been smoking weed. I found a roach.”
Seth snorted in derision. “A roach? Man, what are you, like an old hippie or something? Nobody calls them roaches anymore, dude.”
But despite his bravado, he sneaked a wary glance at the cop to see if he’d overheard us. The trooper hadn’t.
“Shouldn’t you be in school?” Dale asked him.
“Shouldn’t you be in the old-folks’ home?” Seth shot back.
Dale’s face grew red. “Why, you—”
Trooper Harrison cleared his throat. “Nobody is smoking this afternoon, I’m afraid. Not as long as we’re out here. The smoke can throw off Honcho if he catches a scent. I’ll have to ask you all to please refrain.”
He turned away and led the search dog toward the forest. I glared at Seth and put my lighter away. He glared back. Merle mouthed something crude, and Dale chuckled behind us. Bill radioed back to the Fire Hall and let them know we’d arrived at our grid and were commencing the search.
As we neared the tree line, Honcho slowed his pace. Trooper Harrison gave a short verbal command and directed him with the leash, and Honcho stuck to his side—but the dog’s eyes looked frightened and wild, as if he’d caught the scent of something he didn’t like. His behavior reminded me of Big Steve’s. He let out a short, low whine, and then stopped walking altogether.
Trooper Harrison snapped the leash impatiently. “Honcho. Come.” His voice was stern and authoritative, and Honcho obeyed him, but moved with obvious reluctance.
“Maybe he wants a cigarette,” Dale joked.
Trooper Harrison didn’t laugh. He turned to face us. “Okay, spread yourselves at least thirty feet apart. Stay within sight of each other, but keep enough distance between yourselves so that you don’t cover each other’s ground. Go slow, and remain alert. I’ll let Honcho off his leash so he can track. If he smells something he’ll start barking and take off like greased lightning. Don’t let it startle you, and try to keep up.”
He bent over and unclipped Honcho’s leash. Then he lightly slapped the dog’s hind end.
“Honcho. Go.”
The dog stepped into the tree line, sniffed the ground, and then backed out of the woods completely. He lifted his muzzle into the air, howled, then turned tail and ran away.
“What’s it mean if he does that?” Seth asked.
Trooper Harrison’s face turned red with anger and embarrassment. “Honcho! Come!”
Bill peered into the forest. “Looks all right to me. Wonder what spooked him?”
“Shit,” muttered his buddy Ned, “these woods spook me, too. I won’t let my kids play here. You ever hear the stories?”
“Local ghost stories,” one of the other civilians said. “If you believe them, I’ve got a bridge in Brooklyn I’ll sell you.”
“Oh, yeah?” Ned shrugged. “Let’s see you spend the night out there, buddy.”
The other man turned away and studied his shoes.
I watched Trooper Harrison chase after Honcho, and thought about Big Steve’s similar reaction back at Shelly’s house. He’d been scared of something, possibly a scent. And he’d done this on Monday morning too, when we first discovered the hollow. Before that Big Steve had never minded the woods. Ever since Monday he’d seemed terrified of them.
Now this police dog was acting in the same manner.
And I didn’t feel that good about the woods either. Nor, apparently, did Merle or Dale or our volunteer firemen.
Trooper Harrison stopped running and cupped his hands together. “Honcho! Get back here right now! Stop!”
Honcho reached the edge of the playground, then turned around and faced us. He stood there panting, but refused to return. When Trooper Harrison started toward him, he darted off again back to the parking lot.
“Goddamn it!” The cop sighed, exasperated. “I’m sorry, folks. I don’t know what’s got into him. He’s never done anything like this before. You’ll have to start without me. Meanwhile, I’ll see if I can get another K9 unit over here.”
He trudged off after the dog and radioed for another officer-and-dog team. We heard the chief respond that none were available. none were available.
We all looked at one another. Nobody moved.
“Well,” Dale finally said, “I guess we should get started.”
Bill nodded. “Yeah, time’s a-wasting.”
The volunteer firemen stepped into the forest, spacing themselves about thirty feet apart. We followed along behind them. The sinewy tree limbs closed over our heads, and the gloom surrounded us. My heart beat faster. Leaves rustled overhead. I told myself it was just a squirrel.
“Yo, Mr. Senft?” Seth tapped me on the shoulder. “The dog is gone, and so is five-oh. Can I get that cigarette now?”
I thought about it for a second. “You know what, Seth? I can’t believe I’m saying this, but that’s not a bad idea.” I pulled out the pack and tried not to let him see that my hands were shaking. I gave him one and cautioned him not to tell his mom, even though I knew she wouldn’t care. Stacy Ferguson worked nights at the Foxy Lady strip club in downtown York, and pretty much let her son get away with murder.
“So, seriously,” I said in a confident tone, “why aren’t you in school today?”
He made a face. “Fuck school. People are missing and shit. This is my ’hood too, dog. Know what I’m saying?”
“Not really,” Dale muttered, “because you talk like a two-bit drug dealer from Baltimore.”
Seth’s ears turned red, and he stalked away.
I chuckled at Dale’s comment, but secretly I was impressed that our local delinquent cared enough about the neighborhood to skip school and help with the search.
We slowly went deeper into the woods, picking our way through the undergrowth. The smell of rotting flora hung thick, yet once again I could see no source for it. The forest was quiet and had that same oppressive atmosphere I’d felt before. There was no wildlife moving about. No birds or squirrels or rabbits. Even the insects were quiet. The silence was infectious. None of us spoke as we searched. We remained spaced apart but proceeded at the same pace. Dead leaves crunched under our feet.