Locust Lane by Stephen Amidon
For Clementine
He has seen but half the universe who never has been shown the House of Pain.
—EMERSON
Prologue
PATRICK
He hit the dog on Locust. It came out of nowhere, a blur of dark motion. He swerved, but not enough—the bumper’s edge caught the animal’s hindquarters, sending it spinning back into the night. Its yelp harmonized with the shriek of braking tires. And then he’d stopped in the middle of the road, his heart racing, thinking that maybe going out for a drive wasn’t such a good idea after all.
It took him a moment to locate the stricken animal. It had fled back the way it had come, but only made it as far as the nearest lawn, where it was now turning in circles, nipping at its flank, locked in futile pursuit of its pain. It finally lay down and began to lick furiously at the point of impact. The dog was big and black. A Labrador, maybe, or a Labrador and something else. Patrick didn’t know dogs.
He checked the nearby houses to see if lights were flaring as homeowners in robes emerged onto front porches. All was quiet. The dashboard clock read 3:11. It was entirely possible the event had gone unnoticed by the residents of Locust Lane. The setbacks here were deep, the windows tightly sealed. Trees shrouded most of the housefronts. Things that happened on the street were a long way off.
The dog continued to nurse its wound, though its movements suggested a recovery was in progress. Patrick told himself to drive on. He wasn’t at fault. Dogs weren’t allowed to run free in Emerson. Everybody knew that. A six-foot leash was required. There were signs everywhere. And he was not necessarily under the legal limit. The last thing he needed was to wind up walking the sobriety tightrope for some yawning cop. Go home, he thought. Finish the bottle, hit the sack. You know the drill. Dawn will come, followed by another barren day.
But he couldn’t do it. He’d injured a living thing. That made him responsible for it. He had to help. He didn’t need another item in the overladen shopping cart of guilt he was pushing around. He’d made a deal with himself not to abandon decency. He could leave behind everything else, but not that.
He pulled the car to the side of the road. The dog remained curled on the grass, although it was fussing with its flank less avidly. Having committed himself to helping, Patrick now understood that he had no idea what to do. Loading a large, frightened, and potentially bloody creature into his M3 and transporting it to an all-night animal hospital was out of the question. And he certainly wasn’t dragging it back home. Whatever he was going to do would have to be done right here. The best he could come up with was to see if there was a tag on its collar, a number to call.
He got out of the car. The dog watched him, waiting for the human being to define the situation.
“Good boy,” Patrick said, although he had no evidence that the dog was either of these things.
It emitted a brief whine, more of a radar ping than a call for help. It was taking the measure of this creature who’d brought the pain. Its tail quivered in an unfriendly way. Patrick held out his right hand as a gesture of peace, palm down, fingers dangling, like royalty expecting a kiss. This was more or less the extent of his knowledge of canine communication. He’d never had a dog.
The wounded animal rose shakily, holding its back right paw a few inches off the grass. Standing was a good sign. No spinal damage; presumably no vital organs ruptured. It could limp back home to be cared for by the idiot who let it run free in the middle of the night. Patrick turned back to his car but froze when the dog growled. Low and ominous, like a waste disposal ready for debris. He turned to face it. Previously flat fur on the back of its neck had risen into a staticky bristle. It took a menacing step forward. That injured leg seemed to be getting better by the second.
Okay, Patrick thought. Time to call it a night. He showed the dog his hand again, this time offering his flat palm, a cop stopping traffic. There was no need for drama. Whoever’s name was on that collar could take it from here. Get themselves a six-foot leash and obey the damned law.
He took a backward step. The dog took a mirroring step forward. Patrick wondered if his hand gestures meant something different to the dog than what he’d intended. He cast a quick glance over his shoulder. He’d left the car door open. That was good. Safety was just five quick strides away. He was pretty sure he could make it there before a three-legged dog.
But then the animal turned its head, its attention drawn to something in a thick copse of trees that separated the residential behemoth directly in front of Patrick from the even larger house next door. Patrick followed its gaze. At first, all he could see was varying degrees of nothingness. The trees were dense, knotted together by a network of vines. But then something defined itself. A man-sized delineation of the darkness. A human being—tall, broad shouldered—watching from a hundred feet away.
What the fuck?
“Is this your dog?” Patrick called out.
There was no response.
“Hello?”
Nothing. This made no sense. Why would the dog’s owner be hiding in the trees? The town’s leash law penalties weren’t that harsh. Unless it wasn’t the dog’s owner. But vagabonds and lurkers weren’t exactly common in Emerson. As far as he knew, the town’s homeless population consisted of a small, ever-shifting squad of men cooling their heels at the Hilton after getting booted by aggrieved wives. He should know, having been one of them last year.