Summoned (15 page)

Sean looked away first. He broke into a clumsy trot. It seemed to pump blood back into his legs; soon he was sprinting, and he sprinted the rest of the way to the supermarket lot and the Civic. Up by the entrance, Joe-Jack was talking to three policemen. Two cruisers idled in the fire lane. A police van,
ANIMAL CONTROL
, pulled up behind them.

Dad joined Sean half a minute later, panting. He waited until they’d both caught their breath before he asked, “Do I have to talk to the police?”

“Do you have something to tell them? Do you know what killed Hrothgar?”

Sean chewed his lower lip. “They wouldn’t believe me,” he said.

“Get in the car. We’re going home.”

Sean obeyed. Seven fifty on the dashboard, and the sun was balanced on the roof of the veterinary hospital across from Shaw’s, about to sink out of sight. As Dad reached to jam his key into the ignition, Sean grabbed his arm “We can’t go to the house,” he said.

“Sean, we’ve got to talk. Home’s the best place.”

It was scary to hear how thin Dad’s patience had already been worn by this shitstorm Sean had landed them in. He couldn’t back down, though. “No! It’s not safe. Please, let’s go back to Aunt Cel’s. God, please, Dad.”

Dad pulled his arm from Sean’s grip and dropped his keys in the change tray. It wasn’t so dark yet that Sean couldn’t see that the glint in his narrowed eyes wasn’t anger but fear, fear for Sean.

Seeing that was what touched off the explosion, the sobs. Sean managed to keep them almost soundless, but his shoulders heaved like he was puking again and the tears sheeting down his face were so hot he dabbed his fingers in them and checked to make sure they weren’t blood. “What, Sean?” Dad demanded. “Why not home?”

Sean swallowed a few times and finally got the words out: “Because the thing that killed Hrothgar might be there.” Yeah, all right. He said “the thing.” He didn’t say
some nutcase I met on the Internet,
because he couldn’t believe in the Reverend in a monster suit, not anymore, not after seeing Hrothgar’s scattered corpse.

The car keys rattled as Dad fumbled with them. At last one chunked into the ignition, and the Civic came to life with its usual mild cough. “Okay,” Dad said. “Okay, Sean. We’ll go to Cel’s.”

11

Sean
slept through the night thanks to his aunt, who’d dosed him with Valium right after the supper he hadn’t eaten. In the morning, still dopey, he lurched downstairs. By now, he hoped, Dad and Celeste and Gus would have decided what to do about the Reverend; the evening before, they’d done nothing but argue, well, Sean and Dad anyhow.

The kitchen was full of early sun and the smell of French roast coffee, empty of Dad and Gus. No Celeste, either, but she’d left Sean a note: “Gone to hospital. Jere and Gus gone to Edgewood house. Don’t go out, your dad’s orders.”

Would Dad count Eddy’s house as going out? Sean considered the question over cornflakes and still-piping coffee from the carafe on the table. The slap of flip-flops on the back porch made the question irrelevant. He opened the door before Eddy could reach it. Good thing: She was toting two pies and a newspaper. “You’re finally up,” she said.

Sean checked the clock. “It’s, wow, eight eleven.”

“I’ve been over twice already. Here, take these. Blueberry. Mom said you guys might want pie for breakfast, like the Amish.”

Why not? The Amish were sensible people who never got mixed up with Internet freaks. Sean cut himself a slice. “Want some?”

“God, no. Did you read the paper yet?”

“No.”

Eddy plunked herself down across from him, and Sean saw that her eyes were rimmed with red. “There’s an article about Hrothgar.”

The pie, still warm, oozed purple juice. Sean ate a couple bites—he had to, now that he’d taken a piece. Eddy was tough, but dogs were like people to her. It killed him to see her bummed, like it had killed him to see Joe-Jack and Beowulf after their discovery in the woods. “You’ve got the article?”

“Yeah.” She dropped the newspaper on the table. “I called Beo last night when I heard. He said you ran up the trail to look.”

Sean was glad Rachel had moved on to blueberries—strawberry goosh would not have been easy eating this morning. “How’d you find out about Hrothgar?”

“Your uncle came over and told me. And he asked for the Redemption Orne stuff. You know, the chat records and the ritual.”

“You gave them to him?”

“I figured if he knew to ask, you were talking. Weren’t you?”

He nodded. Then, shunting aside cereal bowl and pie plate, he dragged the newspaper into range.

The story about Hrothgar was on the front page. The headline read: “Mystery Killer on the Pawtuxet: Man or Beast?” There were pictures on page 4, where the story continued. The biggest was of the clearing with the fallen maple, but all that remained of Hrothgar was some dark patches on the sandy bank. Otherwise, it looked like a travel brochure, the Pawtuxet at sunset, a place you wouldn’t mind visiting.

The second picture Joe-Jack must have taken a while back: Beowulf hugging Hrothgar and getting his face tongue-washed. The third was of two police officers on the trail, one pointing at webbed footprints. Sean flipped back to the front page and started reading:

Yesterday afternoon Joseph Douglass and his son, Beowulf, were searching the Pawtuxet River Trail for their chocolate Labrador, Hrothgar. On the Warwick side, near the defunct Dawtuxet Industrial Park, they found the remains of their dog. He had been decapitated and dismembered. It appeared the attacker had also eaten part of the corpse.

The killing may be linked to recent animal disappearances in Pawtuxet Village. Several residents have reported missing dogs and cats, and last week Douglass found a mutilated raccoon corpse on the trail. Warwick animal control officer Peter Annunziato was among the policemen who responded. “This was a big, strong dog,” he told the
Journal
. “It took a powerful animal to kill him. There are coyotes along the river, but we haven’t seen any attacks like this.”

Annunziato knows of no bears or zoo escapees in the area. “Sometimes you get private individuals keeping dangerous exotics, but mostly in isolated places. Around here, it’d be hard to hide a big predator from the neighbors.”

Annunziato did not comment on tracks found at the site. However, the
Journal
showed photographs to Dr. Angela Mercado, a wildlife biologist at the University of Rhode Island. “The triangular webbed marks are superficially like the footprint of an aquatic bird,” Dr. Mercado said. “However, all birds have four toes, and these prints show five. Also, some of the prints are compound. They show the webbed toes, an arch, and a heel.”

Asked to speculate, Dr. Mercado said, “My best guess is you have a hoaxer. The impressions resemble the print of a human foot in a shoe designed to make the webbed tracks. The wearer seems to be trying to walk on the balls of his feet, so only the webbed tracks appear, but sometimes his heels come down.”

Footsteps on the porch jerked Sean out of the article. Dad and Gus came in, Gus looking sober enough, but Dad— Sean knew from experience how to read the muscle jumping in his jaw: He was down to the bone pissed and trying to swallow it.

“Glad you’re up, Sean,” Gus said. And, “Hello, Eddy. Bearer of pies again?”

“Like always, Professor.”

“Eddy,” Dad said. “No offense, but we need to talk to Sean.”

In other words,
beat it.
Eddy began to get up, but Gus told her, “Wait.” He looked over at Dad. “Jere, Eddy’s had the same contact with Redemption Orne as Sean. If he’s a target, she may be, too.”

It looked like Dad would argue. Then he shook his head and moved toward the counter. “Is there any coffee?”

“Over here, Dad.”

“Grab a cup for me, Jere,” Gus said.

Eddy gave Sean a furtive thumbs-up. “I brought Sean the paper, Professor Litinski. Did you see the article about Hrothgar?”

“We read it earlier. What do you think of it, Sean?”

He watched Dad carry two mugs to the table. “I didn’t finish it yet. Did you see the stuff at the house?”

Dad took the fourth chair. “We saw the torn screen, dead cat, slimed pillows, fake footprints outside the gate.”

Even though Eddy had already verified that the evidence was real, Sean was relieved Dad and Gus had seen it, too. “Anything new?”

“I don’t think so,” Gus said. He poured coffee. “Why don’t you finish the article? Then we can have a war council.”

Dad took a slug of coffee like he really needed it. Probably he’d been up all night; Sean doubted Celeste could have forced any Valium down
his
throat.

Sean opened the newspaper.

The Warwick Police Department has released no statement on the killing. An unofficial source remarked that human agency is being considered.

Authorities warn residents along the Pawtuxet to stay away from the river trails. Residents should keep pets indoors and not allow young children to play outside unattended. They should report any suspicious animal or human activity to the police.

Joseph Douglass spoke to this reporter last evening. “People better be careful,” he said, looking over the fence that separates his yard from the river. “Anything that could kill Hrothgar could kill a man; don’t even think about a kid. People better look out.”

Sean refolded the newspaper. Had the others been watching him, trying to gauge his reactions? Good luck. He felt numb, and the only comment that came to him was, “The reporter didn’t write about the smell.”

“There was a smell?” Eddy asked.

“The same smell as on the cat and pillows.”

“I bet the police told the paper not to mention it. So if someone calls claiming they know about the killing—”

“Exactly,” Gus said. “If he doesn’t mention the smell, no credibility.”

Dad shifted in his chair, as if Gus and Eddy’s CSI chatter chafed his already-raw nerves. Sean cut in quick. “What if Joe-Jack’s right? What if the Servitor goes after a kid next?”

“Sean,” Dad said. “There isn’t any Servitor. No familiar, no monster. Someone’s hoaxing us.”

Two days ago, Eddy had nearly convinced Sean of that, but after Hrothgar he didn’t dare bank on a hoax. “I don’t think so, Dad.”

“Sean, you’ve got to be reasonable.”

“That’s what I
am
being. We both saw Hrothgar—”

Dad shoved his mug away. It struck Sean’s cereal bowl, which sloshed milk and sodden flakes onto the table. “The police saw Hrothgar, too. They think a man did it.”

What was the line in the article? “Human agency is being considered.” “They’re not sure.”

“They will be when we tell them how someone broke into our house, our
house
, Sean. Some lunatic you met on the Internet, and you let him get your name, let him get drugs into you—”

This time Gus cut in. “We went through this last night, Jere. We said we’d start fresh in the morning.”

Dad scraped his chair away from the table. He went to the counter and leaned on it with his back to them. Sean sucked in his lower lip. It cracked, and he tasted blood.

“The war council needs to proceed in an orderly fashion,” Gus said. “Do we agree?”

“Agreed,” Eddy piped up.

“Agreed,” Dad said, turning around. “If we can keep it sensible.”

“Contrary to popular opinion, I’m always sensible.” Gus went into the dining room and came back hefting a folder. “The printouts Eddy lent us. Did she tell you, Sean?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve read through them. So have your father and Cel. So we’re all familiar with the material.”

Like she was in class, Eddy nodded. Dad nodded, too, but he didn’t wait for the teacher to continue. “Sean, I can’t believe you and Eddy talked to Orne. Talked to him twice. Couldn’t you tell there was something wrong with him?”

Eddy’s face went splotchy red—if there was one thing she couldn’t handle, it was an adult she respected chewing her out. Sean was used to it, so he tried to draw Dad’s fire: “Eddy didn’t like how he wouldn’t break character, but I thought he was just messing around.”

“And you lied about the ritual, Sean. You told me you got it from a book. You promised you were done with it after Mrs. Ferreira complained.”

“Jere—”

“Just a minute, Gus. Sean, what I want to know is why.”

It hurt Sean to swallow, as if a shard of piecrust had lodged in his throat. “I don’t know, Dad. I wanted to do the ritual; I really wanted to try and do it right.”

Dad lowered his head, so all Sean could see was his rumpled hair and crooked part.

Gus took advantage of the silence and produced a sheet of notebook paper covered with his spiky handwriting. “Last night I worked out some theories. Here’s Number One. Whatever’s killing animals along the river is unrelated to what happened at your house Saturday night.”

“Can’t be,” CSI Eddy said. “The MOs are the same. Shredded corpses, and the smell, and the prints.”

Dad looked up.

“I agree,” Gus said. “One’s out.” He slashed a pen across his notes. “So, Theory Two. It’s an animal doing the killing, either on its own or under human supervision.”

Eddy opened her mouth at the same time Dad cleared his throat. She deferred to him, and Dad said, “What would be strong enough to rip a Lab’s head clean off? A bear, maybe a tiger?”

“Those are big, conspicuous animals,” Gus said.

“Well, what about the human supervision? Orne. He’s got a wild animal hidden, and he lets it run on the river trail at night. It starts killing pets. Orne thinks that when Sean finds out, he’ll connect the killings with the spell he did. He’ll get more and more scared, and then Orne will pull the big scare of coming to the house in his costume.”

“The prints aren’t from a bear or big cat.”

“There’s what the biologist said. Orne’s wearing shoes that make a webbed print. He follows his animal and steps on any tracks it leaves.”

“A lot of moving parts in that story. How would you control a bear or tiger? Even substitute a huge dog, like a mastiff. You could control the mastiff, but you’d still have to cover up hundreds of paw prints, in the dark. You’re bound to miss some.”