Dogs Read online

  I promised Mom I’d never use Facebook again. I haven’t either, except to see what my old friends are doing. Like, Tony is on the junior football team, which is funny because he used to be smaller than everyone else. And Laurie, who was my “girlfriend” because we held hands for maybe a second, is dating some guy I’ve never heard of. None of them mentions me anymore. Maybe they’re scared to get me in trouble again. Or maybe they’ve just moved on. Either way, it sucks. It’s like I don’t exist. Like I’m a ghost.

  That’s why I don’t check much. Besides, reading their thoughts makes me feel like a stalker, and that makes me think of Dad. Am I turning into him? I should quit checking forever. Who needs friends anyway?

  I remember when Mom told me we’d never be going home again.

  “But what about Tommy and Tony and everyone?” I cried.

  “You’ll make new friends,” Mom said.

  Right. Only whenever I do, we move again and the hurt just gets bigger. It’s better not to have friends. If I need to talk to someone, I should just talk to myself. At least that’s something I’m good at it.

  I put my tablet to sleep, close my eyes, and float to that place where I know I’m dreaming but I also know it’s daytime and I’m safe in my room. That’s why I’m not worried when I hear Jacky’s whisper: “I’m sorry I scared you last night.” He sounds pretty fragile.

  “That’s okay.” I’m not sure if I mumble this or if I just think it.

  “It’s no fun being alone.”

  “No fun at all.”

  “I’ve been alone since Father went away.”

  I picture him sitting cross-legged on my desk. He looks like the kid I thought I saw in the barn, very small and pale, with light freckles on his nose. And he has that cap with the raccoon tail and clothes like in old movies.

  My eyelids flicker. When they’re open, Jacky’s gone. When they’re closed, he’s there again. So I’m just dozing. Good. I sink back into my drift. Jacky is fiddling with the tail of his cap.

  “Where did your father go?” I ask, half bored.

  Jacky looks at his shoes. “I don’t know. He was with the dogs. Where’s your father?”

  “Probably back where we left him.”

  Jacky frowns. “Did he cry when you left?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  “Father never cried.”

  “Why do you call him Father? Why not Dad or Daddy?”

  “Because. He’s Father, that’s all. You ask weird questions.” He scrunches his nose. “Cameron…does your mother have a friend?”

  “She has lots of friends. Had lots of friends.”

  “I don’t mean a friend. I mean a friend.”

  “A man friend?”

  Jacky nods.

  I remember Mom’s fights with Dad and the things he said. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.” And I sure don’t want to think about it.

  “Mine does,” Jacky whispers. “Father said she’d still be with us if it weren’t for him. After she left, he got the dogs. To keep bad people away, people who’d take me.”

  “The dogs in your drawings?”

  “They’re everywhere. Even when you can’t see them. If you’re not careful, they’ll get in the house.”

  I sit up, wide awake. There’s a draft from the window. I pull my blanket up around me and look outside. Clouds blow across the sky. I hear dogs howling in the wind. Correction: I hear a sound like dogs howling in the wind. Because there aren’t any dogs, just my mind playing tricks. Jacky’s dogs are long dead. And the real Jacky isn’t a kid anymore; he’s Mr. Sinclair’s age.

  If he’s alive.

  Why wouldn’t he be?

  People die. Maybe Jacky’s a ghost.

  Get real.

  Look, if Jacky died when he was a kid, he’d look like what I saw: small, pale, with those old-fashioned clothes and that stupid cap. Right?

  Wrong. I don’t know what Jacky looked like. I’ve only seen him in crayon drawings.

  Unless I saw his ghost.

  Stop thinking like that.

  Fine. Stopping now. But—

  I pick up my tablet and start a game of Zombie Attack. Jacky, a ghost? That’s dumber than imagining mutant hoarders in the basement or Dad in my room.

  My screen fills up with the walking dead. They pop out of manholes and lurch out of alleys faster than I can use my flamethrower. I lose three lives in two minutes and have to start over. Next game I get to the abandoned homestead but forget about the zombie hiding in the freezer and the ones behind the couch. What’s wrong with me? I’m usually good at this.

  I put down my tablet. Jacky can’t be a ghost. He doesn’t even look sick.

  What if he had an accident? Say he fell out of that hole in the barn and broke his neck.

  Then I’d be seeing him with his head on backward.

  Or got run down by a corn harvester.

  He’d be full of holes.

  Or the dogs killed him.

  He’d be covered in teeth marks.

  Okay then, what if he was murdered?

  Murdered?

  Yeah. What if his father murdered him? It’s not hard to imagine. Remember the drawings? The hammer, the pitchfork, the way his dad grabbed him?

  No. The Jacky in my dream said his father went away. That means he’d have been alive after his father left.

  Not if he was murdered. He’d have seen his father leave, but his ghost would have stayed behind.

  I’d better shut up or I’ll drive myself crazy.

  What if I already am?

  12

  Mom says the best way to stay cool is to be prepared, and the best way to be prepared is to know the facts. I spend the rest of the day googling.

  “Wolf Hollow + dogs” turns up lots of hits, but they’re all for vets or puppies for sale. The words “Wolf Hollow + murder” turn up stories about a local couple who were killed on vacation in Mexico in 2005. I do a bunch of combinations that include other search words like “Sinclair” and “1960s” and get a link to a Wally Sinclair who used to be an councilman. Other than that, nothing. What a relief.

  By the time Mom comes home, I’ve settled down. It’s what always happens. I drive myself bananas over nothing, then out of nowhere, the pressure pops like a blister. Then I’m calm till I think about something else and the pressure starts to build again. That usually happens right away, like now, as I head downstairs for dinner.

  It doesn’t matter if a Google search came up empty. Big-city newspapers put their old stories online, but local papers in small towns? Recent stuff maybe, but anything from way back would be in storage somewhere.

  The only way for me to stop thinking like a lunatic is to know for sure what happened to Jacky. But how? I can just picture me walking up to the lady at the front desk of the town newspaper, the Weekly Bugle.

  Me: Hi. Did your paper ever publish any stories about a kid being murdered on the farm where I’m living?

  Receptionist: A murder? When?

  Me: I don’t know. Maybe half a century ago?

  Receptionist (rolling her eyes): Can you be more specific?

  Me: Not really.

  Receptionist: Who was murdered?

  Me: A kid called Jacky McTavish, but I’m not sure he was murdered.

  Receptionist (eyeballs bouncing off the ceiling): Let me get this straight—you want the Bugle to rummage around for stories that were possibly published over half a century ago about a murder that may or may not have happened?

  Me: Yes, please.

  Receptionist: And, if I may ask, why do you think there might have been a murder?

  Me: Because it would explain the ghost.

  Receptionist: The ghost?

  Me: Yes, I saw a ghost. Or maybe I just had a dream. And by the way, could you also check for s
tories about wild dogs?

  Receptionist: Young man, does your mother know you’re here?

  I sit down at the table. Mom’s made an omelet, with mashed potatoes and peas on the side.

  “You’re looking much better,” she says.

  “Thanks. I feel better too.” I don’t feel like eating, but I don’t want Mom to think I’m still sick and make me stay home to get creeped out again, so I have a bite. Out of nowhere, I get an inspiration for how to find out about the murder!

  “So, Mom,” I say, “would the real estate office know about the farms around here? Like, who’s bought and sold them from the beginning?”

  “No, but it’d be easy to find out. Property records are at the registry office next to the town hall.”

  “Good. Would they say if there was anything unusual about a farm?”

  “Well, if there were termites, I guess. Or asbestos in the insulation.”

  “But other things?”

  “Like?”

  “I don’t know. Deaths maybe?”

  Mom gives me a close look. “In cities, deaths are sometimes mentioned in case a buyer is superstitious. But out in the country, people liked to die at home. It was so common that they probably wouldn’t mention it.”

  I doodle in my mashed potatoes with my fork. “What if someone was murdered?”

  “They might mention that.”

  “Great. So can I ask you a favor? If you have time tomorrow, could you please check into this place?”

  “Here?” Mom chews slowly. “Why?”

  “Because people at a registry office won’t want to be bugged by a kid.”

  “Cameron, is your imagination acting up again?”

  “No.” I want to leave it at that, but Mom’s not stupid. “It’s for a history project. My teacher wants us to research something local and write about what it means to us. Because I’m new, he said I could write the history of what brought me here.”

  She puts down her knife and fork, alarmed.

  “Don’t worry,” I say quickly. “I knew you wouldn’t like that, what with Dad and all. So I suggested I write about the history of the farm instead. I told my teacher it means something to me because since I’m living here, I’m part of its history from now on. Like, I’m its next chapter.”

  Mom smiles. “I’ll bet he liked that.”

  “Uh-huh.” I nod, all serious, like I’m gunning for an A. “And I thought if there was something juicy, like a murder or a suicide, it’d make my essay way more interesting. I know there probably isn’t. All the same, I’m kind of hoping.”

  Mom looks amused. “Okay, I’ll find out what I can. Maybe not tomorrow, but in the next few days. Don’t be disappointed when everything comes back normal.”

  I hate being sneaky, but I have to say I’m pretty good at it. I fill my face with mashed potatoes.

  “Also, don’t expect me to do your homework,” she adds. “If I find you the names of the people who owned the farm, the dates it was bought and sold, and anything unusual that might come up—like a murder or a suicide—you have to promise to do some research of your own. Interview Mr. Sinclair. I’m sure he knows lots about what’s gone on around here.”

  The mashed potatoes stick to my throat. “What if he won’t say?”

  “Don’t be silly. What would he have to hide?”

  Oh, things about a murder maybe.

  “Who knows? It’s just, I already asked him some stuff when he was cleaning out the basement, and he got all weird.”

  Mom laughs. “He is a bit gruff, isn’t he? Don’t take it personally. He was probably just in a hurry to get the job done. If it makes you feel awkward, I’ll make the call for you.” Before I can stop her, she goes to the phone and dials.

  “Mr. Sinclair? It’s Katherine Weaver… No, no problems, everything’s great. The students at Cameron’s school are doing a local-history project. He was wondering if he could talk to you about the farm some time. How people cleared the land, harvested, socialized, that sort of thing. He’s got the flu at the moment, so this weekend’s not so good, but maybe at the beginning of the week.”

  Please say no.

  “Thanks. I’ll tell him. Bye for now.” She hangs up, beaming. “You can go over to Mr. Sinclair’s Monday evening after supper.”

  Me and my big mouth.

  13

  Sunday afternoon, I do my weekly happy call with Grandma and Grandpa, but by Monday morning I’m feeling good for real. Jacky, or whatever that ghost thing was, hasn’t shown up again, so he was probably just in my head on account of my fever. At least I hope so.

  Outside, there’s a light frost. I stomp my feet to keep warm while I wait for the bus and watch the farmer across the road harvesting his corn. I can’t wait for Mr. Sinclair to do the same. Once the fields are cleared, I can stop imagining the cornstalks as a hiding place for night stalkers, bullies, and dogs.

  The bus arrives. I take a deep breath and get on, prepared for Cody’s gang to start barking. Instead they talk about me so loudly that I can hear them from the front of the bus.

  “Look who’s back. Dog Food,” Cody’s buddy Dave says. “Looks like Dog Food didn’t get eaten after all.” Ha-ha, very funny.

  “Dog Food?” Cody grins. “He’s more like Chicken Feed.” Brack-brack chicken sounds come from his crew.

  “I was sick,” I call back.

  “Aww. Cammy was sick.”

  I want to sit far away from them, but that’d only prove I’m a coward. Besides, the kids on the aisle saving the window seats want me away from them like I wanted away from Benjie.

  The gang clucks me to my seat, where I close my eyes and wait for it to be Benjie’s turn. When he slumps beside me, he asks where I was Friday. I tell him and he blinks. “Hey, don’t breathe on me. I don’t want to catch your germs.”

  Worry about your own breath. It could kill the whole school.

  As the bus pulls into the parking lot, I get up the nerve to say, “Benjie, something’s bothering me. My first day on the bus, you asked if my place was haunted. Why? Was there a murder there?”

  “No.” He laughs. “I asked on account of the dogs.”

  “What dogs?”

  “You know—the dogs. It’s why Cody barks at you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Benjie blinks. “Years ago, the farmer at your place got killed by his dogs.”

  “Seriously?”

  Benjie grins. “Cool, huh? Ripped apart and eaten! Ask anyone. The story’s famous around here.”

  The door opens. Cody’s gang pushes up the aisle. Benjie hunkers in till they’re past us.

  “They say when the wind’s up, you can hear them,” he says as we grab our backpacks and follow everyone out. “Some parents tell their kids if they’re bad, the dogs will get them. But everybody knows that if you hear something, it’s just coyotes.”

  I relax. “So you asked because of the dogs, not because of a murder.”

  “Are you kidding? Nobody gets murdered around here. We’re too boring.” He looks over at Cody’s gang on the side of the road. “Don’t say that to Cody though.”

  “Don’t say what? That the town is boring?”

  “No, that there wasn’t a murder on your farm.”

  “Why not?”

  “Just don’t.”

  Cody looks our way. Benjie takes off.

  I wish Benjie hadn’t added that last part. Why does Cody think there was a murder? How can I talk to him about it without him going mental on me?

  I think about that all day. At dinner I hardly hear anything Mom says except, “It’s time for you to head over to Mr. Sinclair’s.”

  I put on my lined jacket.

  “Where are your gloves? And your hat?”

  “Mom.”

  “We’re nearing the end o
f October. It’s cold and you’ve been sick.”

  “I’ll hardly be out that late.”

  “Cameron, it’s already getting dark. Which reminds me—give me a call when you’re done, and I’ll drive over to pick you up.”

  “What? I’ll just be one farm over.”

  “There are no streetlights. It’ll be hard to see.”

  “Mom, stop!”

  Mom sighs. “Fine. At least take this flashlight.” She fishes it from the drawer, and I slide it into my jacket pocket. “And don’t forget to walk on the left side of the road, facing traffic.”

  “Yeah, like I’m too stupid to know that.” Actually I would’ve forgotten.

  By the time I head out, Mom has me bundled up like I’m on an Arctic expedition. I take off my hat and gloves as soon as I’m down the lane, but it really is cold. I put them back on again and walk fast to keep from freezing. The neighbor on the other side has harvested half his field. It’s like it’s had a buzz cut; you can see forever. I try to forget what could be hiding in Sinclair’s fields to my right and speed up even more.

  Mr. Sinclair’s place is nicer than ours. The potholes in his lane are filled with gravel, and the house is yellow brick instead of tar paper. There’s something strange though. All the curtains are closed and I don’t see any lights, except for a lamp on the porch and one out at the barn.

  I head up the stone walkway to the front door. How will I get Mr. Sinclair to talk about Jacky and his family? How do I ask if Jacky got murdered?

  I bang the heavy brass knocker three times. Silence.

  Remember Benjie’s story about Sinclair’s meat grinder and ending up in a meat pie?

  Don’t be stupid. Mom knows where I am. Sinclair can’t do anything to me without getting caught.

  Unless he kills Mom right after.

  Yeah, like that’s going to happen, except in a movie. I bang the door again. Nothing.

  The only light left in the sky is deep purple to the west. I take out my flashlight and go around to the back of the house, pressing my face against the windows and shooting the beam through the cracks between the curtains. Inside is a clutter of sofas and knickknacks.