What would we find, I asked myself, when we returned to camp? The rain was letting up now. It was starting to get light. Would the Monroes be stirring in their tent, surprised and happy to see us coming home? Would Toby run out and throw his arms around my neck and tell me how he’d worried about me all night long? Would Mr. Monroe pat my head and scratch the spot between my ears? Would Mrs. Monroe wipe me down with a big, soft towel?
“There it is!” I heard Dawg call out. In the distance, I saw the campsite. And all my thoughts turned into dreams.
It was deserted. The Monroes were gone. And so were Bud and Spud.
We ran down the slope past the charred remains of a fire. The Monroes’ tent, a tarp once held up by poles and clothesline, had collapsed and was now a muddy landscape of canvas peaks and puddled valleys. I sniffed beneath it and was overcome by the scent of wet rubber and mildew. I thought I detected the odor of Mr. Monroe’s sourballs (cherry, I think) and Pete’s socks, as well, but those faint aromas were mere traces, shadows of another time darkening the doorways of my nasal passages.
“Boy, they sure must have left in a hurry,” Howie said. His words were somewhat garbled by the piece of clothing he carried in his mouth. As he came closer, I recognized it as one of Toby’s T-shirts.
“Where’d you find that?” I asked.
“Over by that log,” Howie said, dropping the T-shirt. “And look, Uncle Harold, it’s ripped.”
Chester’s eyes grew wide. “A struggle,” he said.
“Nonsense,” I said, not wanting to believe what my eyes were telling me. “The Monroes aren’t here because … because … because they’re somewhere else.”
“I love your mind, Harold,” said Chester. “Let’s take that logic a little further, shall we? Their tent is collapsed, their belongings are strewn about the place, their clothes are torn, everywhere you look there’s—”
“Blood!”
Chester and I jerked our heads to see Howie staring down at the ground. “Blood, Pop,” he said. “Uncle Harold, blood!” Could the pool at our feet really be what it seemed? Our eyes followed the reddish trail that led off into the woods.
We looked back at each other, too stunned to speak.
“I know where they are,” a voice said. It was Dawg. In all the excitement, we’d forgotten all about him. “I know where they are,” he repeated. “Follow me.”
Chester and I regarded each other uncertainly. How did Dawg know where the Monroes had gone, unless Bud and Spud were with them? If we followed him, where would he take us? If we didn’t follow him, would we ever see home—or the Monroes—again?
And, in the end, what choice did we have?
Chapter 9
Trail’s End
TRAILING DAWG, we wound our way along a well-worn path among the trees. It was barely raining now; the sun was beginning to shine through the clouds. Every few steps we would find another pool of water tinted pinkish-red. Even though the faint odor wasn’t exactly bloodlike, we knew we were on a trail of evil. We just didn’t know where it would lead.
Howie, as usual, was well ahead of us. Suddenly, he called out, “Pop, don’t come any closer! Stay where you are!”
Chester arched his back, his hair rising straight and tall like a Mohawk Indian’s. I suppose I should have been alarmed, too, but there was something about Howie’s warning only Chester that made me brave enough to run ahead.
Howie stood beside an empty bottle. Dawg was sniffing at it. “Uncle Harold,” Howie whined, “the blood ends here. Pop isn’t safe. They’re going to make him into … into soup!”
“Soup?” I said. I was completely at a loss as to what he meant until I read the label. “Catsup,” I read aloud, though of course I pronounced it “ketchup.”
“That doesn’t say cat soup?” Howie asked, surprised.
Chester was now close enough to hear our conversation. “And there we have it, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “Further evidence of the damage to the brain caused by chewing on bones and chasing sticks.”
“I believe,” Dawg said, “that yer friend is making a crack about dogs.” He growled.
I was about to step in, when Howie yipped loudly. “Pop!” he said. “Dawg! Uncle Harold, wait a minute! I don’t understand. If the trail of blood—”
“Ketchup,” Chester interjected.
“Whatever,” said Howie. “If it doesn’t lead to this bottle, then where does it lead?”
“There,” Dawg said matter-of-factly, forgetting his anger toward Chester. We looked ahead, and in a clearing was the house from the night before. It seemed less forbidding by day, but I couldn’t help remembering Chester’s name for it—an American House of Dr.E.A.D.
“You’ve brought us full circle,” I said. I was beginning to believe that there really was something to Chester’s suspicions. “Why?”
“Because that’s where you’ll find Bud and Spud,” Dawg said. “And if I’m not mistaken, you’ll find your family there, too.”
“What are they doing there?” Howie asked Dawg.
“Well, if it’s Bud and Spud you mean,” said Dawg, “they live there. As for yer kin, I couldn’t say. All I know is this is where the trail is leading us.”
Chester eyed Dawg coolly, doing a pretty fair imitation of Humphrey Bogart on the late show. “So,” he said, in a low voice, “if Bud and Spud live there, that means you live there, too.” Dawg nodded, the ribbon of drool bobbing up and down with his head. “Why didn’t you tell us that last night?”
Dawg shrugged. “You were so shook up by the place,” he said, “I didn’t have a chance. Besides, I liked yer story better’n the truth. Listen fellas, it looks like it’s gonna start comin’ down again. What’d ya say we move this conversation indoors?”
Somewhat reluctantly, we agreed. “A trap,” Chester muttered as we crossed the clearing and drew nearer to the house. “We’re doomed, Harold. Have you any last words?”
“When’s breakfast?” I said, taking hope from the light in what looked to be a kitchen.
Dawg headed in that direction and scratched at the back door. I heard footsteps. They sounded familiar. Like those of …
“Erda!” Chester squealed, as the door opened and an eagle-eyed, hawk-nosed woman peered down at us. “The housekeeper, Harold. My worst fantasies are coming true. Bud and Spud are really Fritz and Hans. There’s a laboratory somewhere, a laboratory where experiments are done on innocent, little—”
Before he could finish his sentence, the woman at the door grabbed him up into her arms and held him tight. “Nice kitty,” she said. “Why, Teufel, who’ve you brought home? Oh, I know, these must be our guests’ lost pets. Now, won’t they be happy to see you?”
Chester looked at me wildly. “Bark,” he hissed.
“Oh, Chester, you know how I feel about—”
“Unless you have something better to do this morning than live, Harold, bark!”
“Well, since you put it that way,” I said, and set about woofing for everything I was worth.
Howie joined in with some high-pitched yips of his own. Without thinking, the woman put her hands to her ears, and in so doing dropped Chester to the ground. He lost no time in bolting for the door, but found it closed. “No escape,” he snapped. Dawg, meanwhile, just sat back and watched as if the three of us had gone completely mad.
“Stop this!” the woman cried. “Stop this racket at once, hear? You’ll raise the dead!”
“Too late for that,” Chester cracked and started for a door leading to the rest of the house. Howie and I ran after him, barking all the while, only to be stopped by the shadow that fell across the threshhold of the room.