Night Howl Read online

  “You lost me.”

  “Sorry. I have a tendency to assume that everyone knows from where we come. You taught your dog to do something by using carrots and sticks. If it did well, you gave it a carrot, a dog biscuit or something, but if it did it wrong or did something wrong, you punished it, wacked it with newspaper or something, right?”

  “So?”

  “So it learned by trial and error. Say it urinated in the living room when it was a puppy and you wacked it and stuck its snoot in it. It didn’t have to urinate in the bedroom and have you wack it there to know it can’t urinate there, either. It formed what we call a learning set, an organized set of habits that enables the animal to effectively meet each new problem of similar kind. This second stage is insight, what we call thinking. Humans go through the same process, only faster.”

  “So what the hell’s the difference between us?” he asked. He couldn’t help sounding the note of frustration. This asexual female who spoke with a little nasality and sounded like a talking computer was beginning to annoy him.

  “Language, for one, and as I told you before, self-image.”

  “All right. This son-of-a-bitch can’t talk, can he?”

  “No, but he was making such progress with simple sign language.”

  “How did you find out he understood sign language?”

  “All dogs do to a certain extent, don’t they? If you had Maggie’s attention and gestured for her to come to you, she probably would, right?”

  “That’s nothin’.”

  “Not much, no. We went further with him. Take the simple trial and error selection test.” Her voice rose in pitch. He detected an obvious note of pride and he realized that whatever happened here, they thought they were doing wonderful things. “I had three small containers, two shaped like a square, one like a triangle. In the triangle was a sweetmeat. If he chose that one, he got the meat. It didn’t take more than twice for him to select the correct shape all the time.”

  “He formed a learning set.”

  “Right. Now you’re getting it. I haven’t even discussed this with Kevin,” she added, looking back, “but I’m sure Phantom has gotten to the point where he could read us.”

  “Read you?”

  “Maggie knows when you’re happy with her and when you’re angry—by the sound of your voice, by a gesture, whatever. She might even have reached the point where she reacts to your simple smile, no words, no sounds. I think he read our most subtle gestures and knew when some test result pleased us or got us intellectually excited.”

  “That doesn’t sound as fantastic as some of the other stuff you described.”

  “No, not in and of itself, but he was taking it a step further. I think he reached the point where he was testing us.”

  “What?” He paused and then started up quickly.

  “He would deliberately fail tests to frustrate us, to see what we would do next. I’ve been keeping accurate track of things and some of the inconsistencies point to nothing else.”

  “That’s the deception you were talking about before, huh?”

  “Some of it.”

  “What else is there?”

  “Well . . .” Her free flow of answers suddenly stalled. Kevin and Gerson were drawing closer to them and he thought that might be the reason. It whetted Qwen’s interest and curiosity.

  “Why stop now? You’ve told me so much already.”

  “Because this is very unscientific of me. It’s in the realm of pure conjecture. I don’t have enough evidence, data, to even suggest such a conclusion.”

  “Hey, I’m not giving you a grade, miss. I haven’t decided yet whether I’m going to buy any of this, even the stuff you claim you can demonstrate with graphs or notes or boxes, triangles, whatever you got.”

  She was quiet for a few more steps and he didn’t try to pump her any further.

  “I think,” she finally said, “that he got to the point where he knew what we were about. He didn’t want to let us know just how intelligent he was and he rationed what he’d let us know about him . . . rewarded us in a way not too different from the way we rewarded him. He was conditioning us,” she added. Qwen didn’t say anything, so she looked at him. “Do you understand what I’m implying?”

  “Sure,” he said. “‘That’s why I asked you back there if he was put into competition with humans.”

  “How did you come to such a quick conclusion?”

  “Instinct,” he said and smiled. “I’ve been among animals all my life. I don’t have to read about survival of the fittest. I’ve lived it. Everything livin’ wants to run herd over somethin’ else. There’s nothin’ surpris-in’ about that.”

  “You’re a remarkable man, Mr. Qwen. Now tell me honestly, since I’ve been honest with you, what do you think of our chances of recapturing him?”

  “Well, miss, from what you’ve been telling me, you might better ask what I think of his chances of capturing us.”

  She stopped in her tracks, but Qwen kept walking.

  “What’s the matter?” Kevin called. “What is it?”

  “Nothing,” she said quickly and jogged to catch up with Qwen again. “What do you mean by that?” she asked him.

  “This hunt, this chase, maybe it’ll turn out to be like one of your mazes and tests. Maybe you taught him too well, miss.”

  Maggie’s barking suddenly grew shriller.

  “Pick up the pace,” Qwen called back as he surged forward.

  9

  “MRS. KAUFMAN?”

  Lieutenant Carlson paused in the foyer and listened. All was quiet, but ominously so. He put his hand on the handle of his revolver. He didn’t want to draw it out just yet. The sight of a stranger dressed in a jacket and tie entering a house with a gun in his hand could be quite a shock to anyone. Perhaps she was lying down; perhaps she was in the bathroom or taking a shower and simply didn’t hear the doorbell or his calling.

  “Hello!” She should hear that, he thought. “Hello, Mrs. Kaufman! It’s the police! Mrs. Kaufman?”

  Nothing returned but the echo of his own voice. He took a few steps further into the house. The living room was to his right. He could see that the dining room and kitchen were ahead to his left, and straight on down the hall led to the bedrooms and bathroom. The hallway veered to the left after the entrance to the dining room.

  He surveyed the living room. At first, everything appeared normal, undisturbed; but when he looked to the right of the couch, he saw the overturned end table and the smashed ceramic lamp. This was different; this required more precaution. He drew his revolver from his belt holster and listened more intently for any sounds of stirring within the house. It was still deadly quiet. He went directly to the end table and lamp and knelt down to inspect them. There was a print on the window and it was distinctly the paw print of a dog. The realization sent a cold tingle down the back of his neck to the base of his spine. It felt as though someone had sprayed ice water on him. Still squatting, he turned slowly and looked behind the couch. Nothing was there.

  He stood up and studied the rest of the furniture: the chairs, the larger center table, the reading lamp in the corner, and the bookcase. Nothing else looked touched and nothing was big enough for anything or anyone to hide behind. The bookcase was smack against the far wall.

  It occurred to him that he should probably go outside and radio for assistance, that this was the most intelligent way to handle the situation. He might have done that, too, if he hadn’t heard what sounded like heavy breathing coming from the area of the bedrooms. He thought it was possible that Mrs. Kaufman might be in trouble; she might be hurt. So he started down the hall, pausing only at the door to the basement. He listened for anything or anyone behind it and then opened it slowly to peer down.

  The light that Clara Kaufman had put on when she first went downstairs was still on. Carlson was encouraged by this. He thought the woman was somewhere in her basement and that was probably why she hadn’t heard him enter and call to her. He call
ed again, this time from the top of the basement stairs.

  He waited. There was no response, but even though all was quiet below, he decided he had better go down there first to check before going through any other portion of the house. He started down the stairs and had descended about halfway when he heard the sounds behind him.

  Phantom had been waiting down the hall in the first bedroom, Lisa’s bedroom. He had wanted the man to come further into the house, away from the entranceway and away from the windows that looked out on the driveway. He heard the basement door being opened and he peered around the corner of the bedroom doorway in time to see Carlson begin his descent. Then he went down the hallway, hesitating, out of sight by the doorway. Phantom wanted Carlson to be halfway down before he turned the corner and made the leap.

  Stalking and attacking humans seemed to come as easily to him as stalking and attacking a deer. He anticipated their moves, the way they looked about. He knew the man’s attention would be fully on the basement below; he knew he’d be moving slowly, cautiously, looking from side to side. The sounds the man had made when he first entered the house weren’t threatening, but Phantom had observed him long enough to sense a threat.

  Anyone seeing Phantom move around the corner of the basement door would have thought he was something mechanical. It was as if levers had been pulled and circuits had been connected to permit the flow of violent energy through his body. He moved forward like a computerized weapon. There wasn’t the slightest indecision. It had all been programmed a thousand years before. This time he permitted himself a short growl, but he was already in the air when he did so. He sprang off the top step and shot downward with spearlike accuracy.

  Carlson’s turn seemed timed to fit the dog’s attack. In doing so, he exposed his throat. His left arm was at his side and his right arm, the hand holding the revolver, was about chest-high. He didn’t even have time to think about pulling the trigger. The big dog clamped its jaws on his throat and then threw the rest of its body out and behind him, its force and the weight pulling and ripping Carlson’s throat out. His eyes bulged at the sight of his own blood spurting upward and away.

  The impact of the blow and the bite spun him around and he folded like a broken puppet, collapsing and tumbling the rest of the way down. Phantom had landed on all fours at the base of the stairs, a piece of Carlson’s flesh still in his teeth. He stepped aside as the body rolled past him and came to a stop against the wall. Carlson was on his right side, his feet twisted, legs turned inward. Blood continued to flow freely into the carpet. Incredibly, the pistol was still in his hand, his trigger finger having gotten caught around the trigger. Carlson’s voice box had been torn; there were no final sounds. His head simply slumped a little further down into the carpet.

  Phantom nudged the body with his snoot and then sniffed around the head and face. Satisfied that death had claimed the man, he sat back on his haunches and contemplated what had transpired. The attack had excited him; his heart still beat quickly. He lowered his jaws and let his tongue hang freely to the side. He looked up the stairs and then back at the body of the man.

  Once again he was filled with pride and satisfaction. His confidence bloated. No matter what size, shape, or sex they were, he could defeat them. He remembered how they had treated him back at the laboratory when he completed a test, especially when they had given him a difficult task and he had been successful. He felt the same way now; he needed some reward. It was part of what he had learned and what he had come to expect.

  Before he could think about it any further, the telephone rang. It seemed to be ringing everywhere. There were four phones in the house: one in the kitchen, one in the living room, one in the master bedroom, and one down in the basement, so the ringing was duplicated and amplified.

  He turned around and looked at Carlson again. Despite the fact that the man was dead, he almost expected him to get up in response to the sound. It rang and rang and rang. Even when it stopped, he felt the sound lingering in the air. There was a hum in his ears.

  He shot up the stairs quickly and went back into the living room. He liked the view of the driveway and the road from there. As before, he hopped onto the couch and peered out. When a car went by, he put his paws on the sill and the pane to see where it went. It disappeared down the road and things became quiet once again.

  A great thirst came over him, so he went to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator door, and pulled out a container of milk. The cool white liquid spurted freely from the top after he dropped it hard to the floor. He lapped it up greedily and then, impatient with the flow, tore open the container and finished what remained.

  This was good; he felt good about everything in here. There was so much to please him, and he hadn’t really gone through all of it. There was more to explore. He trotted down to Bobby’s bedroom and nudged open the door. The scent of the other dog was still in the room; indeed it was still throughout much of the house, only humans wouldn’t sense it as keenly as he could. He thought about that dog for a moment and remembered how defenseless it had been against the man with the gun. The man he had just killed had a gun, too, but it hadn’t seemed to matter.

  He hopped up on the little boy’s bed and sprawled out against the quilt and the pillow. This was even more comfortable than the couch. He lowered his head between his two front legs and closed his eyes. For a few moments he saw nothing; all was dark. He could sleep. Then, as though a shock passed through his body, he jerked his head up and listened.

  There was no sound. Nothing that anyone could hear, but there was something ... his sixth sense, his instinct, had begun the first in a series of upcoming small warnings. They came in the form of a quickened heartbeat, a stirring in the blood. His eyes widened and, without willing himself to do it, he growled. The rumbling died slowly in the base of his stomach and then all was quiet with him once more.

  But a thought was born in his brain. He could do more with his instinct: he could bring it to a fruition, envision things, realize things concretely enough to give them lasting power. He looked in the direction from where he had come and he understood that his pursuers had not given up. They were still out there, moving toward him. This instinctive knowledge provided him with the first real pangs of fear since he had escaped. He had almost forgotten what fear was like.

  After a while his heart slowed again; the pace of his blood went back to normal. He returned his head to the comfortable spot he had found and closed his eyes. For now he was safe; it was good here and there was more he wanted to do yet. He would have time to flee.

  Downstairs, in the rear room of the basement, Clara Kaufman stirred. Her first movements were a kind of spasmodic jerking in her hands and feet. The twitching served as a preface to her regaining consciousness. She opened her eyes and confronted the unfinished basement room. She was completely disoriented and confused. How had she gotten here? Why did she have all this pain—pain in her wrist, pain in her lip, pain in her side, and an aching in the back of her head?

  She put her hand on the pipe of the water heater and tried to boost herself into a sitting position. When she turned her torso however, the sting from her broken ribs sucked the breath out of her. She gasped in disbelief and fell back to the cold, concrete floor. She remembered now that she had been struck by something. The image of it in her memory was blurred, but it was something large and hairy like a . . . like a dog.

  The thought nearly brought a scream to her lips. She wanted to raise her voice, but the expectancy of agony that would result from the extra effort kept her from doing so. It was a dog, she thought. The colors, the shape ... it was like King. It was the dog she had seen near King’s house, the dog Sid had labeled the ghost dog of Bobby’s nightmares. Oh God, she thought.

  She felt around her right wrist. Blood on the punctured skin had clotted, but the pain was still there. The bone felt bruised. She raised her arm slowly to catch a view of it in the afternoon light that penetrated the one basement window and saw what looked like t
eeth marks in her skin. She was sure of it—they were teeth marks. The dog had bitten her.

  She had a fantastic thought after she saw what had been done to her wrist. She was almost happy about it because now, she told herself, she could prove that this dog existed.

  Her head was spinning, but she fought to keep consciousness. She had to put intelligent thoughts together; she had to realize all that had happened and deal with it. She was not one to back away from crisis, no matter how horrible it seemed.

  Something terrible had gotten into the house, she thought. This dog, be it King’s ghost or whatever, had done the damage in the basement, and Sid hadn’t seen it—or it hadn’t seen Sid when he was first down here this morning.

  This morning, she thought. How long have I been down here? She lifted her left arm and turned it to the light too, trying to get a clear view of her watch. Damn the small face, she thought, hating it for being so elegant and so dainty. The numbers were blurry. She focused and refocused and finally came to the conclusion that she had been down here for hours.

  She had to get out and get to a phone. The closest one was behind the bar in the playroom. She took hold of the water heater and used it to brace herself into a sitting position. Even that simple action brought excruciating pain, and she had to rest and catch her breath before attempting any further movement. One of her cracked ribs pressed dangerously against her lung. A puncture was more than possible. Any abrupt, hard move would guarantee it.

  She thought about Sid, miles and miles away by now, working on his job in Boston, concentrating in his inimitable way, blocking out all the bad memories until the work was completed. Never in his deepest imagination could he envision her the way she was now—crumpled up in the basement, barely able to stir, strapped down by pain and probably still in great danger.