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Authors: Randy Chandler
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bring me them worms?” The croak in his voice brought to mind a huge bullfrog.
“Yeah, I got ’em,” he said by way of humoring the man. “Get some rest now, and I’ll meet you at the lake.”
“Good boy,” Gladstone said, closing his eyes again. “Teach ya how to bait a hook the right way.”
That was the way Rourke left him. Gone fishing in the Twilight Zone.
And from there, Rourke’s day hadn’t gone any better. When he got back to the office, he learned that Sarah Melton was missing. The young schoolteacher hadn’t shown up for her summer-school classes at Dogwood High, and subsequently the door to her duplex was found standing open, her car in the driveway, but she was nowhere to be found.
Then truck driver Clark Ellroy reported that after a week on the road, he had come home in the middle of the day to an empty house in Widow’s Ridge; his wife Sybil was missing, and he suspected foul play “because she’s a real homebody and she woulda left me a note if she was going somewhere.”
First, Judy Lynn Bowen; then Gladys Gladstone; and now Sarah Melton and Sybil Ellroy. What the hell was going on? Three women missing from Widow’s Ridge, and one, Gladys Gladstone, missing from Dogwood. Did they, Rourke wondered, have anything in common? Were they members of a secret cult? Victims of a mass kidnapping?
Rourke was at a loss; he could come up with no reasonable explanation for the disappearances, and he found nothing to link them except the coincidence of timing. If it
was
coincidence.
He drove up in front of his secluded house as the sun was edging toward the western horizon. Lucy Fur got up from her favorite spot on the front porch and trotted down to meet him.
“Hey there, girl,” he said, dropping to one knee and hugging the wolfhound. “How’s my Lucy?”
Lucy licked his face and made guttural whining sounds, expressive of her simple joy.
“How’s my best girl? Huh?” He grappled playfully with her, then headed toward the house. He paused at the front door, looked back at the cloud-streaked sunset, and for some inexplicable reason, he felt gooseflesh crawling up his back. He shook it off and went inside for a quick shower.
As much as he wanted this long day to end, he dreaded nightfall.
* * * *
“Dr. Knott?”
The voice pulled him back from the monochromatic chaos, but the bizarre slashes of imagery stayed with him, even as he looked away from the wall-drawing above the empty bed and turned toward the person calling his name a second time.
“Alfred Thorn,” said the tall man with the close-cropped hair, short white beard and amiable affect. “From the college?”
“Oh, yes. Of course,” said Knott, stepping forward to shake the robust man’s proffered hand. He remembered the man’s face—it was hard to forget a guy who was the spitting image of Papa Hemingway—but he couldn’t recall ever having spoken to him, nor could he recall the man’s position at the college. “Good to see you.”
“Some of my students still talk about you,” said Thorn. “You made quite a dent on their impressionable minds. Your lectures on abnormal psych are becoming the stuff of legend.”
“Well, that’s certainly flattering. I think.” The man’s grip was powerful and Knott was glad when he released his hand.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” Thorn continued to smile. His Hale-Fellow-Well-Met countenance made it clear that he was not the sort to take offense at being overlooked or forgotten.
“I remember your face,” Knott admitted, “but I don’t recall your department.”
“Anthropology. In fact, I
am
the Anthropology Department. Diminutive but not insignificant.” Thorn chuckled.
“So, Professor, what are you doing in our neck of the woods?”
“I’m here to visit one of your patients, a dear friend of mine. Sharyn Rampling. How’s she doing?”
“I’m sure she’ll be happy to see you.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Thorn, bringing his hand to his mouth.
“Yeah, I got ’em,” he said by way of humoring the man. “Get some rest now, and I’ll meet you at the lake.”
“Good boy,” Gladstone said, closing his eyes again. “Teach ya how to bait a hook the right way.”
That was the way Rourke left him. Gone fishing in the Twilight Zone.
And from there, Rourke’s day hadn’t gone any better. When he got back to the office, he learned that Sarah Melton was missing. The young schoolteacher hadn’t shown up for her summer-school classes at Dogwood High, and subsequently the door to her duplex was found standing open, her car in the driveway, but she was nowhere to be found.
Then truck driver Clark Ellroy reported that after a week on the road, he had come home in the middle of the day to an empty house in Widow’s Ridge; his wife Sybil was missing, and he suspected foul play “because she’s a real homebody and she woulda left me a note if she was going somewhere.”
First, Judy Lynn Bowen; then Gladys Gladstone; and now Sarah Melton and Sybil Ellroy. What the hell was going on? Three women missing from Widow’s Ridge, and one, Gladys Gladstone, missing from Dogwood. Did they, Rourke wondered, have anything in common? Were they members of a secret cult? Victims of a mass kidnapping?
Rourke was at a loss; he could come up with no reasonable explanation for the disappearances, and he found nothing to link them except the coincidence of timing. If it
was
coincidence.
He drove up in front of his secluded house as the sun was edging toward the western horizon. Lucy Fur got up from her favorite spot on the front porch and trotted down to meet him.
“Hey there, girl,” he said, dropping to one knee and hugging the wolfhound. “How’s my Lucy?”
Lucy licked his face and made guttural whining sounds, expressive of her simple joy.
“How’s my best girl? Huh?” He grappled playfully with her, then headed toward the house. He paused at the front door, looked back at the cloud-streaked sunset, and for some inexplicable reason, he felt gooseflesh crawling up his back. He shook it off and went inside for a quick shower.
As much as he wanted this long day to end, he dreaded nightfall.
* * * *
“Dr. Knott?”
The voice pulled him back from the monochromatic chaos, but the bizarre slashes of imagery stayed with him, even as he looked away from the wall-drawing above the empty bed and turned toward the person calling his name a second time.
“Alfred Thorn,” said the tall man with the close-cropped hair, short white beard and amiable affect. “From the college?”
“Oh, yes. Of course,” said Knott, stepping forward to shake the robust man’s proffered hand. He remembered the man’s face—it was hard to forget a guy who was the spitting image of Papa Hemingway—but he couldn’t recall ever having spoken to him, nor could he recall the man’s position at the college. “Good to see you.”
“Some of my students still talk about you,” said Thorn. “You made quite a dent on their impressionable minds. Your lectures on abnormal psych are becoming the stuff of legend.”
“Well, that’s certainly flattering. I think.” The man’s grip was powerful and Knott was glad when he released his hand.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” Thorn continued to smile. His Hale-Fellow-Well-Met countenance made it clear that he was not the sort to take offense at being overlooked or forgotten.
“I remember your face,” Knott admitted, “but I don’t recall your department.”
“Anthropology. In fact, I
am
the Anthropology Department. Diminutive but not insignificant.” Thorn chuckled.
“So, Professor, what are you doing in our neck of the woods?”
“I’m here to visit one of your patients, a dear friend of mine. Sharyn Rampling. How’s she doing?”
“I’m sure she’ll be happy to see you.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Thorn, bringing his hand to his mouth.
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