The marina was dark, utterly deserted.
He shipped the oars, drifted to a stop, and tied his skiff to a cleat. “Shhh,” he said to the dog. “Wait.” He stepped out of the boat, bundle in hand.
The old dog sighed and put his head back down.
Nobody was there to see him, nobody who might call the police. The town was empty and dark, except for the glow of streetlights.
One streetlight — which seemed brighter than the others — shone down on the ramp at the end of the dock.
Logan shuffled up the dock, cradling the bundle as if it were an infant in swaddling clothes.
The light shone down on a massive wooden piling by the ramp.
And on a white piece of paper stapled to the piling.
Logan edged closer to the light, closer to the paper. LOST CAT.
Jesus had heard his prayers. “Follow Jesus,” he whispered once again.
He pulled the flyer down, then moved up the ramp and onto the street, certain that somehow — if his faith was strong enough — Jesus would use the paper to guide him. A moment later he found another flyer, and took it down, too. He was moving steadily now, from one white flyer to the next, each of them reassuring him that he was doing the right thing.
He followed the trail eagerly, gratefully, the bundle safe in the crook of his arm.
The flyers led him to big glass doors with a silver star on them.
Another flyer was stuck to the glass, on the inside.
The inside, where he couldn’t reach it.
LOST CAT.
This was where he was intended to come. He’d followed Jesus and been led here.
Logan put all the flyers he’d collected down on the black mat in front of the door and laid the bundle reverently on top.
Yes. This was right.
He shuffled back to the boat, where the old dog waited, shoved off and rowed home just as the colors of a false dawn edged the horizon.
“They have to listen,” he said to the dog. “Please, Jesus, make them listen.” He shook his head, trying to dislodge visions of carnage. “If they don’t listen, it’ll get worse. It’ll all get worse.”
The one-winged crow cocked his head at Logan and the dog as they came back through the cabin door, but seeing no food, he ruffled his feathers once, then went back to sleep.
The dog went directly to his corner, and was soon snoring softly.
Logan curled up on his own bed of rags, trying to imagine what the sheriff was going to do to stop it before it got out of control.
He wondered if the sheriff had the power to stop it, or if somehow he himself was going to have to do it.
He didn’t think he could do it. And if he couldn’t…
As early light came through the oily window, Logan closed his eyes, but sleep was as far away as that little bundle on the sheriff’s doorstep.
Blood.
Blood was all he saw when he closed his eyes.
Blood in his past, and more blood in his future.
Blood.
Lots and lots of blood…
MERRILL BREWSTER FELT just plain fuzzy-headed as she nursed her first cup of coffee and watched her children eat their breakfast. She’d barely slept at all last night — every creak in the house had brought her back to full wakefulness, and no matter how many times she’d told herself that nothing was wrong, she still hadn’t believed it. Well, maybe after she took Marci to Summer Fun, she’d catch a nap in the hammock.
The doorbell startled her back to reality, and she put the mug down. “I’ll get it,” she told the kids, then checked her clothes and ran her fingers quickly through her hair before going to the front door.
A man in a police uniform stood on the steps, a small box under one arm. “Mrs. Brewster?” he said.
Merrill nodded, feeling the blood drain from her face.
Seeing the sudden panic in Merrill Brewster’s face, the policeman spoke quickly. “I’m Rusty Ruston, the sheriff?” He made the last two words almost a question, and Merrill nodded.
“Is — Is it my husband? Has something happened to Dan?”
Ruston quickly shook his head. “No, no, it’s—” He hesitated, then blundered on. “Well, I’m afraid it’s your little girl’s cat. It — Well, someone left it — well, what’s left of it, more exactly — on the steps of my office last night.”
“‘What’s left of it’?” Merrill echoed, her voice barely audible. “I–I don’t understand.”
“It appears that it met with some kind of animal — maybe a raccoon or something,” Ruston explained, then reached out a hand to steady her, as Merrill appeared about to faint. “Mrs. Brewster?” he said, his voice rising. “You okay?”
Eric, hearing the alarm in the man’s voice even from the kitchen, had risen from the table, but when Marci started to get up, too, he shook his head. “You stay here,” he said in a voice that was every bit as commanding as the one his father sometimes used on him — the one that left no room for argument. As Marci sank reluctantly back onto her chair, he went to the open door and saw a policeman helping his mother sit down on the front step.
“Mom?”
“She looks a little faint,” Ruston said. “I’m the sheriff — I brought back the little girl’s cat.”
“She’s dead,” Merrill breathed. “Tippy’s dead!”
Eric looked at Ruston, who nodded a confirmation.
“Someone left it on my front step — looks like it was killed by some kind of animal.” He handed the box to Eric. “You might want to just bury it. It’s not a pleasant sight.”
Eric hesitated, his stomach suddenly churning, images of the dream he’d had rising up in his mind. But maybe it was a mistake — maybe it wasn’t Tippy in the box. With trembling hands he lifted the lid.
It was not a mistake. There, resting on a filthy, blood-soaked rag, was what was left of Tippy.
Her eyes were open and glazed, her mouth stretched wide as if she were snarling.
Her fur was matted with blood.
But worst by far was her belly.
Her belly was ripped open, and Eric could see her intestines spilling out of the wound.
He felt his stomach lurch. No wild animal had done this. She’d been cut right up the middle.
Sliced open like she’d been cut with a knife.
Marci’s scream ripped into his consciousness then. “No!” she was beside him now, howling, and before he could react, she snatched the box out of his hands. “No, Tippy!” she wailed, bursting into tears.
Eric pulled the box away from her. “Don’t look, Marci,” he said. “Don’t look at her!”
His mother was on her feet now, grabbing Marci’s hand, easing her down onto the top step of the porch, where she cradled Marci’s head.
“I’m sorry,” the sheriff said. “I can’t really say exactly what happened to it, and whoever found it and left it didn’t leave a note or anything. Just a bunch of those flyers you put up.”
Eric tried to think of something to say, found nothing, then wondered what his father might say. Finally,
