Night Howl Page 12

  George Friedman, the president and owner of the company, came out to greet him. He was a short, stocky man with a round face dominated by soft, rubbery lips. He had heavy cheeks and small, dull brown eyes. Sid placed him in his fifties, but imagined the man’s balding, thin brown hair might have begun shedding as early as his late twenties. He was dressed in an opened white shirt with the sleeves rolled sloppily to the elbows. Sid noticed that his shoes were scuffed and his pants were somewhat wrinkled.

  Sid always believed one could tell a great deal about a man’s productivity and success in his work from his appearance. Disheveled-looking people were rarely organized and efficient. Their lackadaisical attitude about themselves often transferred itself to their work. Conversely, people who had pride in themselves, in their appearance, usually took pride in what they accomplished. What they did had their personal stamp on it.

  Friedman shook Sid’s hand and led him into his office. The inside confirmed Sid’s initial impression. Friedman’s desk was disorganized. There were even papers piled on chairs. The room looked dirty as well as messy, a stale coffee cup remained on the windowsill, and a paper bag stuffed with remnants of that morning’s take-out breakfast remained on a small table in the right corner. Sid’s first question, unvoiced, was, “Do you have your managerial meetings in this room?”

  He didn’t offer his criticism at that moment. His technique was to hold everything in abeyance until the report was completed. That way he held everyone’s attention until he was finished with his work. He didn’t know yet if George Friedman was a man who could take criticism. He seemed friendly enough, a man with a jovial personality. If anything, Sid thought, he was too easygoing.

  “Right on time, right on time,” George said. He slapped his hands together, indicated an empty chair, and went behind his desk.

  “Time is money, Mr. Friedman.”

  “Oh, call me George. Everybody does. Yes, you’re right, time is money. So, where do we begin?”

  “Well, I’ve gone over your layout. What I’d like to do first is inspect your plant and then walk through the procedures. I suppose everyone knows I’m here.”

  “Oh, sure, sure. No secrets in this place.”

  “Well then, I’ll get right to it,” Sid said. He reached into his briefcase and took out a folder and a long yellow notebook with lined paper.

  “Cup of coffee first? Some lunch?”

  “Not just yet. Oh,” he said, looking back at his notes, “this coffee break you give your employees in the morning . . . they all take it at the same time?”

  “Pretty much. Started with ten minutes, but it crept into twenty. I’ve spoken to the union reps about that,” he said, putting on his tough face.

  “Any improvement?”

  “Not to my satisfaction, not yet. Maybe after we receive your report...”

  “Don’t look upon my report as a panacea, George. Usually ideas have to be implemented. Attitudes have to be changed, some things done the same way for years might have to change. It’s going to take time and leadership.”

  “I understand. You guys have a good reputation. You come highly recommended.”

  “That’s nice to hear. Thank you. Well, then...” Sid stood up.

  “I’ll go along with you for a while,” Friedman said. “Introduce you to some people.”

  “Fine.”

  “Staying over at the Holiday, are you?”

  “Yes. It seemed convenient,” Sid said and pasued—near the doorway. Looking over at some of George Friedman’s knickknacks on a wall shelf, he saw the pewter replica of a collie. Just the sight of another dog, even a fake one, triggered all sorts of quick associations. He saw King standing over Bobby and threatening him. He closed and opened his eyes, moving out the office door to flee from the memory.

  George Friedman followed quickly behind him. He tugged on the handle of his office door to shut it, but his effort was halfhearted and the door did not close all the way. While George paused to say something to his secretary, Sid stared at the partly opened office door for a moment, and the image of his partly opened basement door returned.

  What was it that bothered him about that? Whatever it was, that was the tickle at the base of his spine, that was what bothered him about the mess. He began to recall what he had done yesterday after Clara had told him about her seeing the German shepherd. He had gone around the house looking for signs of another dog, and he was sure, absolutely positive now that he thought hard about it, that the basement door had been closed.

  Bobby and Lisa hadn’t been down there with King yesterday; King was already gone. And Clara certainly hadn’t been down there. Why was the door opened? Who had opened it?

  “Mr. Kaufman? Mr. Kaufman?” George Friedman repeated. He and his secretary both had puzzled looks on their faces.

  “What?”

  “Hope this place didn’t put you into a daze already,” George said. “That’s what happens to most of the people who work here.” He laughed at his own joke.

  “Oh, sorry,” Sid said.

  “It’s all right,” George said and started out. Sid nodded to the secretary and then made a mental note to call Clara the moment he had an opportunity.

  “Well hello,” Harry Michaels said. Lieutenant Carlson was on the other end and Harry was a little surprised, even a little flattered that the I.D. man had decided to call him so soon.

  “I thought you’d like to know,” Carlson began, “that I followed up on your hunch about that hair we found on the old man and in the barn.”

  “Oh?”

  “You were right. It was German shepherd. Forensics confirmed it for me early this morning.”

  “What do you make of that?”

  “Don’t know yet. I went to see the Kaufmans, the ones you told me had trouble with a dog.”

  “Yes?”

  “There was no one home. I’ll go back later.”

  “Yeah, I saw Mr. Kaufman leaving town this morning. His job takes him away often. They have school-age kids. I guess his wife’s out shopping or something. I know she doesn’t work anywhere. Outside the home, that is,” he added, remembering Jenny. She’d hang him by his short hairs if she ever caught him belittling what a woman did in the home. “Do you think this might be something similar to that case you described?”

  “To tell you the truth, Harry,” Carlson said, “right now I’m kinda puzzled. According to the old man’s son, there’s nothing of any value missing from that house. I don’t have anything to indicate there was a man with the dog, although we’re not finished combing the place, and according to what you, the son, and other people have told me about the old man, he didn’t have any fierce enemies. All I’ve got, if you’ll pardon the expression, is a ‘hairy’ cause of death.”

  The chief almost laughed. Difficulty made this guy Carlson almost human, he thought.

  “Let me know if I can do anything more,” Harry said gently.

  “Thanks. I’ll talk to you later.”

  After Carlson hung up, Harry put his unlit cigar in his mouth again and worked it around. He thought about his weird conversation with Sid Kaufman when the man had come down to tell him what his wife had seen. Maybe the conversation wasn’t as weird as he had thought.

  An idea came to him. He imagined Carlson would think of it sooner or later, but just in case, he thought it wouldn’t be a bad idea to get a start on it. He buzzed the town clerk’s office and asked Charley Cauthers to look up his dog license records and give him a list of anyone who owned a German shepherd.

  “Not everyone who has a German shepherd got a license, you know,” Charley remarked. He started in about the lousy job the dogcatcher was doing and why the police department should become more involved in the problem. Before he was finished, Harry questioned the wisdom of asking him for anything.

  “Whatever you have might be of some help,” Harry finally said and hung up. He thought for a moment and then got up and went out to the dispatcher. “Who’s in South Fallsburg today?” he
asked.

  Benny Berstein looked up. He was a semiretired policeman who was actually two years older than Harry but who had become a policeman much later in life. Now he performed an eight-hour shift at the desk three times a week.

  “Lenny Sidewater,” he said.

  “Raise him for me.” After the contact was made, Harry took the microphone. “Park your carcass on Lake Street,” he said, “close to the Kaufmans and stay there for a couple of hours.

  “Chief? You said stay?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “What for?”

  “I want you to.” He looked down at Benny, who was looking up at him curiously. “I want you to keep your eyes open for a German shepherd dog,” he said.

  “If you spot one, call in right away.”

  “Dog?”

  “You heard me,” he said and handed the microphone back to Benny.

  “I guess the town clerk’s got to you, huh Chief?”

  “What’s that?”

  “About the dog problem.”

  “Yeah,” he said and shook his head. “Dog problem. Dog problem,” he repeated and went back into his office.

  8

  “TO BEGIN WITH,” Kevin Longfellow said, “I wasn’t truthful about our purpose here.”

  “I gathered that much myself,” Qwen said. There was a twinkle in his eye. He, Kevin, and Ann sat in something of a circle on a clearing by the stream. Gerson remained apart from them, leaning against the big rock, looking at them sullenly. The water that rippled around the small rocks and against the banks of the stream maintained a soft murmur that created a dreamlike sound track. Qwen chewed on a piece of beef jerky, but neither Kevin nor Ann ate anything. Gerson took a gulp of water from his canteen and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “In a way you’re forcing us to be unfair to you,” Kevin continued. Qwen saw that he was being very careful about his words, thinking it all out before speaking. He was impressed with that and for a moment he wondered if he should let the young scientist go on with it. “What we are about to tell you is top secret information. I’m not trying to be overly dramatic or anything,” he added quickly, seeing the smile widen on Qwen’s face. “You, yourself, will have to come under a security clearance when we get back and you will have to keep everything we say and everything we do to yourself. You could even be arrested for not doing so.”

  Gerson grunted and they all turned to him. He looked out over the stream.

  “Do you insist that I continue?” Kevin asked.

  Qwen thought a moment. “The thing is,” he said, “do you insist I continue?”

  “Stop playing games,” Ann said. “Tell him and get it over with. You know we need him. Probably more than ever now,” she added.

  “All right,” Kevin said. He straightened up. “I’m going to explain this in the simplest way I can. Not that I think you’re stupid,” he added quickly. “It’s just that it’s complicated.”

  “My father used to say that anything that’s honest and good could be told to a nine-year-old,” Qwen said. Ann smiled.

  “Yes. You know that the major technological-industrial nations of the world are in a race, not just a race of weapons, but a race to win the world’s markets, to do things most efficiently, to make the best use of fuels and energy, to make themselves as self-sufficient as possible.” Kevin paused, but Qwen just took another bite on his beef jerky. “Everywhere, in all sorts of laboratories, scientists are working on projects, on research, trying to discover answers, methods, secrets, if you will.”

  “Don’t tell me the dog is a scientist,” Qwen said and laughed.

  “Jesus,” Gerson said. He spit and took out a cigarette.

  “No, he’s not a scientist, but he’s a product of science.”

  “Product? You mean like a box of tissues?”

  “In a way, yes. The process that was used to create him could mass produce hundreds like him, if we wanted to.”

  “Wait a minute,” Qwen said, “let me understand you. You made this dog in the laboratory? From scratch?”

  “No, not scratch.” Kevin smiled and turned to Ann, but she was stone-faced. “We began with dog genes, genes from a natural dog, and we duplicated those genes and then began to experiment with them . . . what they call genetic engineering, today.”

  Qwen didn’t say anything. He folded the paper over his remaining beef jerky and stuffed it into his shirt pocket. “I’ve heard about that,” he said. “Science changing nature. Sounded very dangerous to me.”

  “Oh, there have been some very good things,” Ann said. “The mass production of insulin, for one. It’s a great deal cheaper. And there have been some very promising experiments with produce—larger vegetables, greater amounts of grain, not to mention bigger farm animals for meat. It’s the way we’ll stop starvation, for sure.”

  “What the hell’s all that got to do with a dog?”

  “Well, it wasn’t just a dog. We’ve used the process on other animals as well. You’ve got to understand,” Kevin went on with more energy and animation, “that what might look grotesque to you now is part of what is necessary for us to gain something very beautiful and very valuable later on. After all, remember Doctor Frankenstein had very good motives for what he began,” Kevin added. Once again he looked to Ann and once again she was nonplussed.

  “So you made a German shepherd in your laboratory and from what I gathered before, you made him larger than the ordinary German shepherd. What does that lead to—bigger and better pets?”

  “No,” Kevin said, smiling. “Not at all. As I started to say, everywhere in the world there are scientists working on problems, trying to discover secrets. Well, what’s the most important ingredient in all that? What’s the most necessary thing?”

  “I give up,” Qwen said.

  “Intelligence. It’s as simple as that. Whoever has the most intelligent people will have the most progress.” Kevin held his hands out as if that explained everything.

  Qwen looked from him to Ann and then back at him. “So?”

  “So what we’ve been doing is working on increasing intelligence. What is intelligence? Why is one person smarter than another? Why is one animal smarter than another? You know, using dogs, that some dogs are smarter than others, even within the same species. Ann and I, and our superiors back at the institute, belong to that school of science that believes increased intelligence can be genetically engineered. Simply put, we believe we will be able to isolate genes that have to do with intelligence and create smarter people. Eventually,” he added. “We’re not there yet, but when we get there ... try to imagine what it could mean. Intelligence is power, power greater than anything that now exists. We can outsmart the enemy, outthink him, outdevelop him, outcreate him. Think what it would mean if the average man, the average man, mind you, had the intelligence of an Einstein.”

  “And you think you’ll do all this by pickin’ and pokin’ around with genes.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you’ve been doing it with animals up to now?”

  “Exactly. With very satisfactory results, I might add. Satisfactory enough to get the kind of financing and support from our government that we get.”

  “So,” Qwen said, leaning in toward them, “you made a smarter dog.”

  “In a matter of speaking, yes.”

  “So smart that it would perform like a human at times?”

  Kevin looked to Ann and both of them looked at Gerson, who had come up behind them.

  “You’ll have to tell him all of it,” she said.

  “Part of our theories, part of what we do required us to perform some unusual experiments,” Kevin said. “In the course of doing one of them, we isolated a gene relating to human intelligence and we . . . we implanted it in the brain of the dog. Before birth, of course. We didn’t expect it to take. There were so many reasons why it shouldn’t, but we’ve made remarkable progress with the problems of rejection. You must remember the transplanting of a ba
boon’s heart into a human baby.”

  “There was the orangutan’s kidney in that man in Australia last year,” Ann said.

  “Yes, not to mention some of the experiments behind the Iron Curtain. As far as we know, though, no one’s ever done what we’ve done. Thus, the importance of secrecy.”

  Qwen looked over at Maggie. The dog had been lying quietly a few feet from him, but she stirred and produced a low growl as she eyed Gerson. The big man’s shadow fell over the group and reached the dog. Qwen looked up at him.

  “What part of our government do you work for?”

  “Oh, what’s the difference?” Gerson said.

  “That’s all right,” Kevin said. “It’s a legitimate question. I’ve asked myself the same one from time to time. I suppose if you trace all the lines back, you’ll reach the CIA.”

  “Had that feeling.”

  “We’re concerned with the research,” Ann said, “not the politics.”

  “Anyway,” Kevin said, “you can understand now why the dog is so important to us. He’s one of a kind and we’ve spent the better part of two years developing him, learning from him and about him, actually.”

  “How did he get out?”

  “He opened a door,” Ann said, “went to a window that was partly opened, forced it up enough, and jumped out. You know how he got past the fence.”

  “Has he been out before? I mean, has he been with people before?”

  “Yes. It was part of his testing program, but we had no idea how far he had developed. We were just learning new things about him when he escaped.”

  Qwen nodded, took a chunk of chewing tobacco out of his pouch, and stuck it between his gums and his cheek. Ann and Kevin watched him patiently, but Gerson turned away again and flipped his cigarette toward the stream. Maggie watched it fly, and then she rose and shook herself. Somewhere in the forest behind them, a crow complained. Its cawing sent a flock of sparrows skywide and to the west.