Edgar

WHEN HE REACHED THE CREEK, HE PEELED OFF HIS SHIRT and submerged it in the cool shallows and wiped the sweat and chaff from his skin. It was hot, very hot, and the air was sticky-wet and he stood waiting while the beads of water evaporated. Then he walked to the vast dying oak at the far corner of their land, hoping to find Forte there. The tree stood black and vacant of leaves on all but a few high limbs. The moment he settled himself against its gnarled roots, he understood why the place had once appealed to the stray: from where he sat, Edgar had a clear view down the trail both ways. Neither the creek nor the road was visible, but a person approaching from either direction would be, and the trunk of the oak was broad enough to hide behind. But he didn’t think he’d have to worry about that. Claude would have no reason to look for him in that spot over any other. He had never been along when Edgar and his father walked the fence line and he knew nothing of the tree’s significance.

Edgar lay back and watched the mosaic of sky pass through the naked branches. In his mind the image of Doctor Papineau kept appearing, the old man twisted and dying at the bottom of the mow stairs. After all that had happened, it seemed far too much to wish that Doctor Papineau hadn’t fallen, hadn’t died, but Edgar thought how he would like to talk to Glen Papineau. He felt he couldn’t stay unless he did that, but neither could he think of how to put his feelings into words. Regret was too simple. Woe, perhaps, was the closest thing. But it was a woe mingled with anger, and he didn’t know what the word for that would be. And that wasn’t right, anyway.

He thought, too, about what he’d said to his mother, and what he hadn’t said as well. She had to believe he would run again if she didn’t help, so he’d withheld what he knew she’d most wanted to hear-that he’d been so glad to see her; that touching her had nearly overwhelmed him. His memory of her had grown abstract while he’d been gone; the details of her face, the way she smelled, the vast, charismatic aura of her. He’d desperately wanted to tell her what he’d learned from living, working, running with the dogs day and night, about Henry Lamb and Tinder and Baboo, about the sunflowers, the fireworks, about the old man who had spoken from the back of Henry’s shed. The temptation to return to the house with her had been so powerful he’d finally had to run before his resolve collapsed under the weight of his loneliness.

And loneliness was a big part of it: his proximity to the house and the knowledge that Almondine was gone had swept a desolation through him like he’d never known. He thought of the letters between Brooks and his grandfather, all those debates about the dogs and what they might become, how Brooks had said it would be better to imagine how men might become more suitable for dogs and not the other way around.

After the last night, nearly sleepless in the heat, neither the afternoon sun nor the chatter of the squirrels could keep him awake long. He was thinking about Brooks and the dogs when exhaustion and sorrow combined to press him into unconsciousness. The August sun beat down. The cicadas paused their automaton scream when a cloud passed over the sun. Presently the sky cleared and they took it up again.

He woke when he heard a loud rattle approaching in the underbrush along the creek. Before he had a chance to move, Essay burst into the clearing and ran up to him, panting and scenting him frenetically. Someone had collared her and, near the buckle, a span of the collar was crudely wound with gray duct tape.

He sat Essay and removed the collar and peeled the tape away. There, folded in thirds, he found the photograph he had left on the kitchen table beside his note, the photograph of Claude holding Forte in his arms. Inside that, three one-hundred-dollar bills, a twenty, and a ten.

And a key to the Impala.

Glen Papineau

IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON WHEN CLAUDE CALLED THE OFFICE, WHICH made Glen uneasy. Not good to be having such conversations at work, but he didn’t have time to object; Claude’s tone was so obviously rushed that Glen understood their conversation would last only a few seconds.

“What happened last night?”

“Nothing. There weren’t any cars parked around your place. The yard was empty. I walked your fence line a ways, but there wasn’t any point.”

“He hasn’t shown up here.”

“I bet he’s in that barn, Claude. Didn’t you say he’d been sleeping up in the mow before he ran off?”

“Maybe he was there last night, but not now. It’s hot as hell up there during the day.”

“Think he’ll come back?”

“Yeah.”

“To the barn or the house?”

“I don’t know. I have a hunch he’s planning to take the Impala and run. I just discovered the spare key missing.”

Glen thought about that for a second. That would make things easy. He could pursue in the squad car, say he recognized the vehicle but not the driver.

“Okay. I’ll come out tonight.”

“Wait until dark. I’ll make sure we stay in the house. I might even try to get Trudy away up to Ashland. Anyway, if you see a light in the barn, it’s Edgar.”

“What if he comes to the house?”

“Then I’ll put the porch light on. If you see the porch light, forget it. We’ll work something else out.”

“Porch light on means he’s in the house?”

“Yeah. And if you think he’s in the barn, come up from the south field. Use the doors on that end. The dogs are less likely to see you.”

And that had been the end of the conversation. When five o’clock rolled around, Glen went back to his house. The day had been blistering and the evening hadn’t cooled much. A guy Glen’s size had a job staying cool. He sat in his kitchen, drank a beer, and then another. He looked at the whiskey flask standing in the middle of his kitchen table. He’d dumped the ether from the night before onto the lawn when he’d gotten home-the stuff was highly flammable and you didn’t leave it standing around, particularly in a poorly sealed vessel. The spot where he’d dumped it was already marked by a kidney-shaped brown patch.

When it was almost sunset he drove the cruiser to the shop. He took a tin of ether, just like the night before, but this time he didn’t bother opening it, just set it on the car seat and drove out to Town Line Road. He parked his car in the weeds on the far side of the hill from the Sawtelle place. Then he pocketed the rag and the flask and took the rest of his equipment-a church key and a six-pack with the tin of ether wedged in-and walked up the road. A natural embankment rose on the side opposite the Sawtelle property at the very crest of the hill. Glen scrambled heavily up the rocks and settled himself where he had a view of the house and the huge old barn.

The scene before him was awfully pretty. He could see down into the yard and along the hills rolling to the west. Whoever decided to build a farmhouse there had made a smart decision, he thought, nestling it down in a valley like that, protected from the wind yet flanked by open field on two sides. Both the truck and the Impala were parked in the yard. The porch light was dark, meaning Edgar hadn’t gone into the house. It felt like a stakeout, Glen thought, sitting there. He’d never been on one of those-not much need for it around Mellen. The idea tickled him. He cracked a Leiney’s as the twilight drained down the western horizon and stars began to volunteer in the evening sky.

For a long time, he watched the field and saw nothing but creation. He rehearsed in his mind how he would put his question to Edgar, how he wanted to emphasize that he was asking as Pop’s only child, not as an officer of the law. Behind him, enough of a moon had risen that he could see the leaves shiver on the long, thin stretch of maples that jutted into the field, a slim finger of woodland pointing to where they’d buried Gar, an island of birches in the middle of that shimmering lake of hay.