THREE

Larry could not sleep that night. Although his legs ached from the long walk through the snow and his body was tired, his mind was so alive with thoughts he could do nothing but lie quietly on the bed, listening to his wife’s deep breathing. The house was warmly quiet, content, and sometime in the night he got up from bed and walked to the window.

This bedroom had once been his. The walls had since been painted over, the bureau he had carved up with his official scout knife had been replaced, and the special boyish smell that always seemed to hang over the room was gone, but it was still, and would always be, his room. He ran his fingers over the cracking paint on the window sill, his mind seeking memories. Then he squatted down and peered out the window as he had as a child.

The bright, full moon outside made a sparkling path from the sky directly to his window, diamonds of fantasy gleaming off the snow. The big leaning tree on the edge of the wood seemed to have tilted just a few inches more, and Larry remembered the autumn night he had first studied the shadow it cast in the moonlight and become frightened, thinking it to be the shadow of a witch. That thought led to another, and still another, until the memories flooded in. The Christmas he fell asleep standing at this window, waiting for Santa Claus to please bring him the promised bicycle. The summer he had first chicken pox, then measles, and had been forced to lay alone in this darkened room and watch the summer pass him by. The day they buried Uncle Harry, Uncle Harry with a single silly little patch of hair in the front of an otherwise bald scalp, he had watched from the window as they carried his coffin to the car. More memories. Dad coming home in the evening. Deer playing in the yard. Kenny being brought home from the mainland hospital.

Something moved in the yard.

So many thoughts, faces racing in and out of his mind, voices, movement in the yard, children playing.

Again, it moved.

His memory shut down and thrust him into the reality of the night. He stared down at the yard. There was nothing there. Nothing moved. Movement in his mind? Branches blowing in the casual breeze? His eyes carefully explored the yard, from gorge to house. And still he saw nothing.

Finally he looked over to the edge of the woods, beyond the gorge, just above the line of the fence top. Only then did he see the two balls of green fire reflecting the moonlight.

Eyes that seemed to be looking directly at him. His heart started racing, and he strained to see what it was that came out of the forest, but the night shadows made it impossible. The breeze gently pushed the tree branches, shedding more light on the edge of the gorge. And another pair of eyes looked on the house. Then disappeared.

He could not move from the spot. This most horrible fantasy, this boyhood nightmare, was finally coming true. The things of the forest finally coming after him, searching for him.

The eyes began to move. They were coming toward the house.

He saw them plainly only when they crossed the wooden bridge. Two small animals. Dogs? He waited and watched. They moved into the yard, into the moonlight. Dogs. One larger than the other, it was impossible to tell the breed. Cautiously, they walked around the house, seemingly searching. Larry stood absolutely still at the window, transfixed by their presence.

They inspected the house. After examining the front, they moved to the side, near the porch, out of his line of vision. He bent slightly with their movements, trying to follow them, but they had disappeared. He lifted his head and stared out into the yard again.

Eight more dogs had come from the forest and stood across the bridge, staring at the house.

Time passed, Larry had lost the ability to determine how long, and then the two scouts reappeared from behind the house. They stood in the middle of the yard, looking at the other dogs, as though transmitting a message. The other dogs began walking alongside the gorge, away from the forest. They walked in a straight line, almost marching. Twelve in line, plus the two still in the yard. Fourteen.

Their bodies cast black shadows in the moonlight. With the exception of one dog who had to struggle to keep up, they all seemed to be about the same size. The shadows passed by the house, out of Larry’s line of vision. And still, the first two dogs remained in the yard. Finally the smaller of the two rose and trotted across the bridge, following the long line.

The last dog in the yard seemed to be gray, but Larry could not tell if that was his true color or the reflection of the moon. The dog waited until the rest of the pack was well clear of the house, then raised its snout to the stars and loosed a long, chilling howl. The cry tore through Larry.

The dog finished, turned and looked one final time at the house, then left the yard to catch up with the pack.

Larry knelt frozen at the window, staring down into the yard, as if he expected the tracks that now circled the house suddenly to disappear. Gradually, he began to be aware of feeling in his body again. His mouth was parched. His already sore legs were aching. And a single drop of sweat meandered its way down the small of his back.

The night was crisp and perfectly clear. The shepherd sat in the yard, watching as the pack passed along the ridge. No food here, he had communicated, we must move on, beyond the protection of the forest. The pack could no longer sleep through the night. Death had touched it. The dogs would have to hunt until they found food.

Whatever food there was.

Larry was unusually quiet during the huge breakfast his mother prepared the next morning, his thoughts still on the dogs that had come in the night. He decided to say nothing to Diane or his mother—there was no need to worry them—but when he was alone with his father, he intended to find out more about this pack.

They worried him. More, he realized, than they should. They were just dogs, and dogs could be frightened away, ignored, or even shot if it came to that. Yet something about the pack was strange. The way the big dog in the yard seemed to command them. They way they marched so perfectly, so organized. And finally, he understood what it was that made him so uneasy. The dogs seemed to have a purpose.

The morning reflected the night before, crisp and clear. A morning to feel alive in. An island morning. Larry had forgotten how beautiful the island could be, one of the penalties he paid for living in the city. His father spent the morning doing small chores inside the house, so Larry didn’t have a chance to speak to him. Twice during the morning he went to the kitchen window to check the yard. The prints were still there, but in the daylight they seemed less threatening.

The opportunity to question his father came early in the sunny afternoon, when they went out back together to chop wood. Larry took the long-handled ax and started biting into the woodpile. At first he said nothing, concentrating on matching each of his father’s blows with one of his own. Only when Tom Hardman stopped to lean on his ax handle and catch his breath, did he ease into conversation. “Those dogs we heard yesterday,” he began, as if asking his father if he remembered the howls, “I saw them in the yard last night.”

Tom Hardman was not a big man physically, but he possessed great strength built from years of driving a sharpened metal wedge into hard wood. He said nothing as he lifted his ax once more and smashed down.

“I was wondering about them,” Larry continued. “Where’d they come from? How long have they been here?”

Chop! Tom’s ax crashed into the log. “They bother you?”

Larry didn’t hesitate. “I guess they did. I guess they shook me up a little.”

Chop! The dull thud boomed through the clear air. “Yeah. They been doing that to some other people on this island too. Some of ’em wanted to hunt them down.” Chop! “I talked ’em out of it.” He rested, leaning heavily on the curved wooden shaft. “Larry, they’re just dogs. Maybe damn hungry dogs, but still just dogs.”

“Are they dangerous?”

The same question. “No,” he said, still convinced they were not. “See, son, these dogs are—” He never finished the sentence.

A desperate scream ripped through the air. Larry recognized it instantly: Diane’s voice. From in front of the house. He dropped his ax and started running. Tom, still holding his ax, followed a step behind.

At first Larry did not understand exactly what was happening. All he saw was Diane, standing coatless in the center of the yard, her fist clenched tight against her mouth. Only when he followed her line of vision to the bridge did he see them. Five of them, the gray shepherd in front, sitting calmly on the other side of the gorge.

And walking toward them, clutching her doll close to her chest, was his daughter.

“Marcy!” he screamed sharply.

The child turned around and smiled at her father, then pointed to the five animals. “Dopey dogs,” she explained innocently, as she walked on.

Diane started after her, but before she took two steps Larry grabbed her arm and held her. “Wait,” he warned, “don’t excite them.”

Tom stood just behind them, and slightly to the right. Slowly, cautiously, making each move smooth and natural, he hoisted his ax and began walking toward the bridge. “Honey,” he sang softly to Marcy, “come to Grampa.”

“Dopey,” she explained again, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, then continued moving toward them.

The five dogs watched the girl closely. Through their color-blind eyes she appeared to be a mass of grays and blacks, lacking distinct edges, running together. They sensed the child more than they saw her, and somewhere inside these senses stirred memories of their pasts, of other children, and games, and warm houses, and food.

Marcy walked closer.

Inside the house Frieda stood silently over her sink, watching as she had watched her own children so many years before. Without even realizing it, she continued to wash and dry the breakfast dishes. Behind her, sleeping contentedly in front of the unlit fireplace with his arm draped around his dog, Josh was oblivious to the scene.

The shepherd rose and advanced to meet the child. As he did, from the corner of his eye, he saw one man moving toward him. Looking directly at Tom, he gave a short, sharp growl. This warning was understood. The man halted.

The shepherd met the child halfway between the bridge and the other dogs. He sniffed about her, recognizing immediately that this was not the child he once knew. Her smell was different. He pushed his big head hard against her arm, shoving her, demanding she rub him.

She pulled his ear. And laughed.

He jumped back, looked at her suspiciously, then stepped forward again. This time she scratched his head with her free hand.

Larry put his arm around Diane’s shoulders and pulled her close. Her cold, fair skin was covered with small goosebumps. They stood motionless together. Watching. Afraid even to breathe. Afraid to upset the delicate balance. Silent tears ran down Diane’s face and dropped onto her blouse.

The shepherd moved back slightly and began to whine, remembering. He looked past the child, across the bridge, to the shapes standing in the front yard. They blended together in dark shades. Their smells ran together, sweet smells, but they were not odors he knew.

The smallest dog, the dachshund, stood up on its pudgy legs and started its strange waddle toward the shepherd and the child. The shepherd turned and glared, forcing the dachshund to stop in mid-waddle and lower its body to the ground.

Turning to the girl, the shepherd nuzzled her again. She tapped him on his snout and laughed. And tapped him a second time. The dog gave her a playful shove, pushing her backwards. “Nice doggy.” She laughed, tapping him once more. The dog pushed her again, the shoves now becoming firmer, less playful.

Thomas Hardman mumbled something under his breath, too softly for either Larry or Diane to hear. His own private prayer.

Larry stood helplessly. Just dogs, he kept thinking, just dogs. There was nothing he could do to help his daughter. There was nothing he could do but stand in the cold and watch this big shepherd, bigger than she was, push and shove the child. Any move he made at the dogs might cause them to panic, and there was no figuring what they might do then. Better, he knew, to stand, and wait, and suffer. Helplessly.

The shepherd pushed Marcy again, and this time she almost tumbled backwards. Recovering her balance quickly, she managed to stay on her feet. Involuntarily, Diane strained forward. Larry tightened his grip on her arm, pushing deep red welts into her skin. “Bad doggy,” Marcy scolded the shepherd, and hit him on the snout with her doll.

He bared his white teeth for the first time, and a low, fierce growl rose from deep in his throat. It was a threat, and a cry. Then he pushed her again, and only then, finally, Marcy understood what the dog wanted. Taking the doll from under her arm, she held it out for him to see. He sniffed it. Then took it in his mouth, holding it by the rubber arm and shook it violently. The doll’s dress fluttered in the breeze, and crying sounds emerged from the middle of the toy, but the doll stayed intact.

The shepherd put it down in the snow and touched it lightly with his paws, pushing it along the ground. He did not really understand what it was, or where the cries it made came from. It had a different odor from the child. He licked it; it was not food. Yet there was something familiar about it, something he had known before.

He picked the doll up in his teeth and started walking back toward the other dogs, away from the child, away from the bridge.

“Dolly mine!” Marcy cried, starting after him.

A soft voice carried from the kitchen door. “Marcy,” Frieda called, “come and have a cookie.” The child hesitated, looked at the dog carrying her doll, looked back at her grandmother, stood indecisively for a few seconds, then started running happily toward the house. Diane tore loose from Larry’s grip and ran to meet her. A few feet from the edge of the bridge she scooped her up into her arms and ran to the house, holding her cradled to her breast.

Tom and Larry watched as the dog carried the doll to the other animals. Each dog, in turn, sniffed it, touched it, licked it, pushed at it. Eventually the shepherd and the Labrador started pulling the doll open, tearing at it, ripping it, until simultaneously with a final artificial cry, its insides came bursting out.

“Get the gun,” Larry told his father.

“Larry, I don’t—”

“Get the gun,” he ordered. His mouth was dry and tightly drawn, his eyes fixed on the dogs, as they pulled the remains of the doll apart.

The Winchester thirty-thirty hung over the living room fireplace. Thomas Hardman had little actual use for the rifle, but having its protection in the house had always made him feel more secure. He’d used it to teach Larry respect for weapons, and accuracy, and used it again to teach Kenny the same lessons. Twice each year, whether it had been fired or not, he took it down from its decorative perch and carefully oiled each piece.

The shells were hidden in a cardboard shoebox at the top of the bedroom closet, far beyond the reach of any child. In fact, Tom had to strain to reach them himself. After a short struggle to get the box down, he selected six steel-jacketed bullets and carried them out to Larry.

His son took the weapon and ammunition without a word, slid one bullet into the chamber and hefted the rifle to his shoulder. It had been at least ten years since he’d held the Winchester and he was surprised that he’d forgotten how heavy it was. He pushed the stock securely into his shoulder, adjusted it for comfort, and sighted down the long barrel on the gray shepherd, the leader.

There was nothing more for Thomas Hardman to say. He still refused to believe the dogs were dangerous, but understood his arguments would have no effect on his son. His only thought was, get it over with.

The shepherd moved to the right. Larry shifted his aim slightly to the left, until the dog’s head was once again in the middle of the cross hairs. He waited, held his breath, then gently squeezed the trigger.

The bullet pulled just barely to the right, much more than Larry had allowed for, slid by the gray shepherd and smashed into the head of the smaller shepherd who stood beside him. The dog’s head exploded, showering bits of blood, brain, skin and fur onto the other dogs. The headless body collapsed, and its last few involuntary heartbeats pushed a small stream of bright red blood out of a severed vein into the snow.

The crash of the rifle sent the other dogs scurrying into the forest. All but the shepherd. The gray dog stood, ears erect, tail high, staring at Larry, almost disbelievingly. Then he let out a desperate howl of betrayal.

For a few seconds Larry was incapable of firing again. Then he pushed another shell into the rifle, quickly took aim, and squeezed off another shot. Again, he missed. The shepherd stood, coldly immobile, staunch, impregnable. Finally he turned and defiantly trotted to the protection of the woods. Larry’s final shot, which landed just a few feet behind him, did not cause him to break his gait.

Larry lowered the gun and watched the dog disappear into the forest. “Bastard,” he cursed quietly. His stomach churned with excitement and, although he would never admit it, he felt great satisfaction. He had protected his brood, proven himself. An island thing.

His first shot had been accidentally perfect. The force of the bullet had almost completely severed the battered head from the body, then driven the body backward. It lay where it fell. From the front yard neither Larry nor Tom could see the pool of blood forming just above the dog’s neck, where its head had been.

The gray shepherd stopped just a few yards into the trees and turned for one final look at the body of his mate. His gaze went from the dead shepherd up, across the gorge, to the hunter. He would gather his pack quickly and they would forage again. But differently this time. This time they would be free of their memories, released from their early obedience training, finally free to hunt every prey. The single, shattering bullet had severed all human bonds.

Larry poured a spoonful of hot gravy over his meat. The day had built him an appetite, and he was determinedly working through a fourth slice of roast. “You know,” he said with his mouth stuffed half full, “I’ve never seen anything like the way that shepherd took that doll.” He was still burning excess energy. “Think they’ll come back?” he asked his father.

Diane cut in. “Please, Larry,” she pleaded, “please don’t talk about it.” She hadn’t changed clothes for dinner, something she always did.

“We have to talk about it,” he informed her in his most knowing voice. “We have to find out what’s going on.”

Tom had no real answer. “Animals are unpredictable,” he said, his head bowed over his plate. “It doesn’t make any sense for them to come back.”

“So?”

“Nobody said dogs got any sense.”

Frieda tried to change the subject, mentioning something about the children being sound asleep. When no one followed her lead, she left the table and started to wash the dishes. Diane stayed at the table and watched her.

“Are you still against hunting them?” Larry asked. “Now, I mean.”

They were sitting at opposite sides of the table, facing each other, but neither of them looked up as they spoke. “I’m not sure,” Tom answered. “They didn’t hurt her, you know.”

“This time!”

“This time,” Tom agreed, finally looking at his son. “But, Larry, these aren’t wild dogs. They’re abandoned pets. City dogs, mostly. I think the reason they didn’t harm her is because they know children. These dogs have lived with people, they’re not hunting dogs.”

“You think that makes a difference?”

“Yes, I do. They were raised to trust humans. To obey them. The harder we make it for them, the more difficult they’re going to be to control, assuming some of them manage to survive the winter.” He added pointedly, “Which I doubt.”

“So you think I did the wrong thing today?”

Tom said nothing.

“Don’t you?”

Tom pushed his dessert around in the small china bowl as he spoke. “I don’t know. I don’t think we’ll ever know. It’s done, so there’s no use wondering about it.” As the low-key argument continued, Diane did her best to shut out any thoughts of the island. Instead she concentrated on New York, making mental lists of things to be done as soon as they returned to the apartment. They would have a party, she decided, a big party, she would find some excuse for it. This argument, the dogs, the island, none of it interested her. It was something for the two men, father and son, to talk out, and they might have continued a good part of the evening if Frieda had not looked up from her dish drying and seen a blood-covered face pressed against the kitchen window.

“Oh, my God,” she said in a voice no louder than a whisper, “oh, my dear God.” A china platter slipped from her fear-frozen hands and smashed on the floor.

The face began slipping away, sliding down the window. A bloody hand reached up and searched for something to grasp, but found nothing, then slid away, leaving only a thin line of blood on the pane.

Diane looked up when the platter smashed. She saw the face just before it disappeared, falling eyes open in terror, and tried to scream, but there was only silence.

Larry and Tom saw the face an instant after Diane. “Jesus,” was all Larry could say.

Tom reached the kitchen door first, tore it open and ran outside, Larry trailing a step behind. The body had collapsed directly under the window, and they reached it even before it had fully settled in the snow. Long dark hair, matted with blood, partially covered the face, so it took Frieda a few seconds to recognize her friend. “Cornelia?” she asked. “Cornelia?”

Cornelia Cornwall opened her eyes, a grimace on her face, her lips caked with dried blood. She managed to utter one word.

“Dogs,” she said.

Larry and Tom half dragged, half carried her into the house. Frieda hurried in behind them, bolting the door. By the time she wet a clean cloth, her husband and son had managed to lay the blood-covered woman on the living room couch.

The blood flowed from two slashes, one on her forehead, the other high on her scalp. Tom did his best to stop the bleeding, which by then was little more than a trickle. Cornelia lay quietly on the couch, staring straight ahead, her eyes wide open with terror.

As he pressed the cloth against her cuts, Tom bent close. “Corny,” he said in his soft, calm voice, “it’s Tom. Tell me what happened. Where’s Charlie?”

She looked at him blankly. “Dogs,” she repeated.

“I know,” Tom whispered, “I know, Corny. But you have to tell me, where is Charlie?”

She smiled. “Charlie? Coming from town.” She stopped, and remembered. The strange smile faded, and her mind saw everything happening all over again. “But the dogs . . . the dogs . . .” Suddenly she bolted upright and grabbed Tom tightly around his neck. “Help Charlie. Please, Tom. Help him.” Her voice rose. “Help Charlie.” And then she screamed. “Help him! Help him! They’re hurting him! Oh, no, no! Stop it, please stop it!” She tore at invisible attackers with her hands.

Tom slipped his arms around her, pulling her close. “It’s all right, it’s okay, Corny, we’re gonna help him now.” The woman’s body shook with sobs, until finally she leaned against him and began to cry.

At a glance from Tom, Frieda replaced him on the couch, and held Corny as tight as she could.

Rising from the couch with a tired sigh, Tom said anxiously to Larry, “We better get over there.”

Larry nodded. “What do you think?”

“I don’t want to,” his father answered. For the second time that day the Winchester was pulled down from its hooks over the fireplace. The shoebox of shells had been left on the mantel and Tom stuffed a handful into his pocket.

“I better have a weapon,” Larry said.

Tom gazed about the room, his eyes finally stopping on the long, steel-pointed fireplace poker. “Here,” he said, picking it up, “take this.”

The poker was almost a yard long and made of black steel. Near its tip a short, sharpened, gold-colored curved spike protruded. Larry swung the rod with his right hand, testing its balance. “It’ll do.”

Diane had retreated into a far corner. At the sight of Cornelia, the full horror of what might have happened that afternoon had overwhelmed her. But now she moved forward. “You’re not going out there,” she told Larry. It was an order.

Larry ignored her as he pulled his heavy ski parka on over a bulky sweater.

She unbent slightly. “Don’t go over there, Larry. Call the police, call the other people on the island. You don’t know what’s outside.”

Larry looked over to his father. “Let’s go.”

Diane moved between the two men and the kitchen door. “Please, Larry. We don’t even live on this island.”

His eyes bored through her.

“I won’t let you go!”

“Get out of the way, Diane,” he ordered firmly.

For just the smallest slice of time they stood seeing each other. The loves, the hates, the ordeals of ten years of marriage compressed into a few seconds. And instantly, both understood that their life together would never be precisely the same. He was reclaiming powers he had so lovingly ceded to her.

She moved out of his way.

“Keep the children upstairs. Make sure all the doors and windows are locked. If you can, get her”—Larry nodded his head at Cornelia—“get her upstairs and stay with her.” He paused. “Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

“But what are you going—”

“Do you understand everything I said?” he repeated in an irritated voice.

She replied hesitantly. “Yes. I think so.”

“Good. Then go do it.” She started to move away. “And, Diane. . . .”

She had known he would stop her. She had absolutely known it. Now he would apologize. “This time don’t let the kids out of your sight for a minute.”

There was no way to answer him.

Tom stood behind his son, listening to him reel off orders. There was nothing to be added, he decided, Larry had covered everything. Temporarily, he shut his great concern for the safety of his friend out of his mind, feeling nothing but pride. Pure fatherly pride in his son. On this day, this hour, he had enjoyed the rare privilege of watching his son finally take control of his life.

Now, he thought, now, when we have some time, we can sit and talk about New York City. Man to man. Families should be together, and maybe it wasn’t the worst place in the world to live.

Diane disappeared upstairs to check the children. Larry didn’t share his father’s confidence. What had been won, he knew, was the first skirmish. Diane was too tough an opponent to surrender meekly. She would wind her way through the battlefield of fashionable boutiques and private schools and sleek parties until the war could only turn her way. And then, only then, if he still wanted this fight, they just might destroy each other.

Tom looked across the long room at his wife. She was busy ministering to Corny and did not look up as her men left the house.

The night was dark and rapidly becoming colder. Clouds, the harbinger of a bad weather front moving off the Atlantic, had smothered the moon and the stars. Tom took his place in front, carrying the loaded rifle at his hip, with his son following five yards behind. They crossed the bridge and walked to the right, passing the ’61 Chevy, which lay partially buried in a mound of snow. “The car?” Larry asked.

Tom shook his head and shouted over his shoulder, “Quicker to walk. Besides, it’s too noisy. We want to be able to hear.” They trudged on, setting out across the open field to the Cornwall house. It was quicker on foot, and gave them a clear view of anything approaching them.

Larry listened intently as their boots crunched rhythmically into the snow. He watched his breath steaming from his mouth, quickly disappearing before him. And he felt good. Not really frightened. Alive and exhilarated by this bizarre adventure. He could feel his heart pumping rapidly. This is what life is all about, he thought. No, he stopped and rephrased the thought, this is what I want my life to be about. Clean air, fresh water, open fields, this island. He remembered the first night in his life he had spent outdoors, an October camping trip with his father. They had set up a small tent in the woods, but slept outside, and he had counted stars until finally falling asleep. They had not been more than a thousand yards from the house, yet they were so alone they could have been civilization’s last survivors.

That fall night, lying in the woods with his father, he had experienced total freedom for the first time. And now, as they tramped across the snow-covered open fields, he felt it once again. It had been a long time.

Tom marched straight ahead, oblivious to his son’s mental wanderings, his mind speculating on the fate of Charlie Cornwall. What had happened? Why had the dogs attacked? And where were they now? He listened for them, but the only sound he heard was the wind swirling across the open field, and the crunch of their boots in the snow. Nothing moved as far as he could see, but he lifted the barrel of the Winchester a few inches and slid his index finger into the trigger housing. Just in case.

They walked straight for the house, two lone figures crossing a field of virgin snow. They saw the house for the first time when they reached the small knoll that overlooked it from a distance of a hundred yards. One light burned dimly in the kitchen, and there seemed to be a second light on in one of the upstairs rooms. From their distance the house looked perfectly calm. They started down the hill.

They stopped. A gust of wind blew the kitchen door open, and it slowly swung back and forth on creaking hinges. The house had been left open. No sound, no hint of movement, came from within. “Ready?” Tom asked uncomfortably.

“Yeah,” Larry answered in a dry voice. He cleared his throat and started walking carefully toward the house. On the way down he discovered the first paw prints.