David Morrell - The Totem

They scrambled out. "Where's Slaughter?"

"I'm not certain."

Even as he said that, Slaughter came out from the mansion, standing on the porch, the glare of headlights on him, staring at them. He and the parents approached each other, the parents hurrying.

"You shouldn't be here," Slaughter told them. Dunlap saw that he was angry. "How'd you know?"

"We have a neighbor with a police radio. Have you found him?"

Slaughter pointed toward the upper stories. "He's in there. That's as much as I've been told. I'm asking you to go back home and wait to hear from me."

Dunlap thought that Slaughter, standing in the headlights' glare, seemed to age a dozen years, his cheeks sagging, dark lines underneath his eyes.

"But why should he be hiding? Let me go inside and talk to him," the woman said.

"No, I don't think so." Slaughter looked down at the ground and scraped a bootsole in the dust. "I think that you should let me handle this." He looked at them.

"You heard my wife. She's going up to talk to him," the husband said.

"I'm sorry. I can't let you."

"That's what you think."

The husband and wife moved forward. Slaughter stepped ahead to cut them off.

"Those headlights, those police cars. Hell, you've scared him half to death," the husband said.

"I didn't want to tell you, but you evidently haven't heard the rest of it. Your son attacked again. A man this time. The man was bitten in the throat."

The wife froze, her mouth open. "Oh, my God."

The husband gasped.

"The man is over in that ambulance. Go take a look, and then you'll know why I can't let you in there."

They turned toward where Slaughter pointed as the two white-coated men stepped from the back of the ambulance and shut the doors.

"We've done all we can here," one of them shouted.

Slaughter nodded, and the two men rushed to get inside the front. The siren started as the engine roared, the lights went on, and they were swerving in a circle, speeding down the gravel driveway.

Dunlap watched until he couldn't see it anymore. He turned and saw the woman crying.

"Please. I think that you should leave here," Slaughter said.

"I want to stay," the woman sobbed.

Slaughter raised both arms and let them flop down loose against his sides. "At least stay in the car. The best thing you can do is aim your car lights toward the house. And please, don't get in the way. We've got too much to do. I promise, we'll watch out for his safety."

She wept as her husband held her, both of them nodding.

"Thank you," Slaughter said.

They moved weakly toward their car.

And then they heard it. Everybody did. They all turned, mother, father, Slaughter, Dunlap, the policemen by the house, staring toward the upper levels.

Deep inside, above there, from which floor wasn't certain, something, someone started howling. It was like a coyote or a dog, a wolf up in the mountains, worse though, mournful, hoarse and hollow, rising, baying, howling, then diminishing, then rising once again.

It went on two more times like that, chilling, echoing from somewhere deep above there. Dunlap felt his backbone shiver. Then it ended, and the night, except for idling engine motors, finally was quiet.

"What the hell was that?" a man blurted from the right side of the mansion.

"I'm not sure I want to know," another shouted back.

And Slaughter started racing toward the front door of the mansion.

The state policemen huddled frightened by the fire. They had planned to reach the lake by sunset, but the dogs kept holding back and whimpering, and the men had traveled slower than they'd wanted. Soon dusk was thick around them, and they never could have seen Bodine even if he'd been ten feet away from them. They had struggled through the underbrush, their arms and legs scratched by bushes, and the dogs had held back so fiercely that the men were forced to grab the dogs and carry them.

"These dogs of yours are really prizes," one man told the sergeant.

"I don't understand it. They don't act this way without a reason."

"Sure, they figure they've gone far enough today. They figure it's about time we carried them."

"A cougar maybe."

"Down this low?"

"A bear then."

"Come on, Charlie. These dogs just gave out on us. Admit it."

But the sergeant didn't want to. He was speechless for a moment, a dog held in his arms as he worked through the underbrush. "All right, what about those wild dogs we've been looking for? Maybe they're what my dogs are smelling."

And everybody else apparently had thought of that already because no one spoke then, and their lack of banter was self-conscious as they struggled through the bushes.

One man tumbled, breaking branches, groaning as the dog yelped in his arms beneath him.

"Watch my dog."

"Your dog? For Christ sake, what about me?"

"Well, I know plenty of guys like you, but I'll never get another dog like that one."

"Thanks a lot."

"No, what he says is true," another said. "He'd never get another dog so lazy."

And that seemed to bring their spirits back. They laughed a little, waiting as the fallen man got up and struggled to lift the dog.

"Well, the dog isn't stupid anyhow," someone said. "He figures why walk if someone'll carry him."

And that helped even better. They were laughing freely as another trooper ordered, "Quiet."

"What's the matter?"

"Listen to those noises. Off there to the right."

They wrestled with the dogs to keep them silent, staring toward the darkness, and they heard it. Branches breaking, fir-tree needles brushing. Not a lot of noise and not too loud, not even close, but there was something nonetheless that they heard moving through the murky forest to the right.

And then it stopped.

The dogs struggled harder in their arms.

"It could be nothing."

"Well, I don't intend to wait here until I know. That lake can't be too far ahead."

The sergeant chuckled. "Some tough bunch I brought with me. A little noise, and you boys start to panic."

"You're the one who mentioned those wild dogs."

"But think about it. Five of us. Our own dogs. Nothing's going to bother us."

"So you agree then that those wild dogs could be out there watching us?"

"No. I agree to nothing. Except that it's late and I'm tired. Let's get moving."

"That's exactly what I said. Let's get the hell out of here."

Someone snickered then, and they continued through the underbrush. They glanced from side to side, and when another noise came louder from the right, they increased speed.

"Heavy pine cones."

"No, the sky is falling. Don't you know that?"

"Just shut up."

At last they were in the open, staring at the murky ripples on the lake. They had a distance yet to go, about a hundred yards, but there were hardly any bushes, just a few trees by the lake, and even in the darkness, they were more at ease now, walking with less tension toward the lake.

They heard a branch snap behind them, and they turned but kept on walking. As they reached the lake, they sensed the glow before they saw the moon begin to show above the mountains.

Their inclination was to build a fire, but they had to stake the dogs first, to take care that their leashes were secure. Then they had to feed the dogs, but only one man was required for that, so they let the sergeant do that while they looked around for firewood.

There wasn't much. People often camped up here, and there weren't many trees by the lake, the dead wood long since gathered, so the men, despite their apprehension, had to go back to the forest. They used flashlights, scanning the trees and bushes first before they stepped in, gathering dead branches, pine cones, fallen leaves, going back, their arms full, toward the sergeant and the dogs beside the lake.