THIRTY

I don’t have to wait long to hear from Hollis’s friend Remo. Five days after Hollis’s letter arrives, I find a note in my mailbox. It hasn’t been mailed; apparently this man I’ve never met, this man who’s been referred to me by a psychopath, has been to my house. The note is handwritten on lined notebook paper. It reads as follows:

Dear Paul,

I’ve done some checking up on you, and it doesn’t appear that you’re a cop or anything, so I decided to trust Wendell’s recommendation and get in touch with you. We’re always glad to get new members. We’re having our monthly meeting on Saturday night at 7 o’clock. Come a little early, say around 6—that way, I can show you around the facility. Hope to see you then.

Yours,

Remo and The Cerberus Society

P.S. And bring your dog. We want to see what she can do.

I read the letter with some uneasiness. What is this “facility” he’s talking about? Am I getting myself into something I might not want to be involved in? And what do they want with Lorelei? Will I be putting her in danger if I bring her? Underneath these fears, another concern begins to take shape, a concern that has more to do with my own vanity than Lorelei’s safety: If I bring her with me, what will I be able to show them, for all my months of hard work? Lorelei poking at random keys on a keyboard? Lorelei picking out the wrong flash card from the three I offer? If I tell my pathetic story about the time she almost said wa, what will they think of me? I could fake it, I suppose, rub meat on the keys I want her to push. But what would I gain from that?

There’s a map enclosed with the note, with directions to the building where the meeting will be held. It looks to me as though the “facility” is an ordinary house in a neighborhood not far from where I live. I get in my car and take a drive past. It’s a small brick house with a neatly trimmed lawn. It doesn’t look like the kind of place that might contain a basement laboratory or a soundproofed shed where unspeakable experiments might be conducted. We never know, do we, what our neighbors might be doing behind their fences, what love affairs and bloody rituals might be taking place right next door? The world is a more interesting place than we ever think.

But back to the question at hand: Should I go to this meeting? Will they hit me over the head, spike my drink, take my dog away from me? Or will it be like any other meeting—speakers, perhaps, a group discussion, someone jotting down the minutes, coffee and refreshments to follow? The truth is, of course—and I suppose you knew this already—the truth is that I want to go. I’m curious. An underground society of canine linguists right in my very hometown? So close to my house that I could actually walk to their meetings? How can I resist? And the prospect of conversation with other people, people who won’t look at me as if I’ve lost my mind when I speak of what I’ve been working on, well, it fills me with excitement. It seems to me just now that I might find I have more in common with these people than I do with any of my so-called colleagues at the university.

And so it is that on this balmy Saturday night I’ve showered and shaved, clipped Lorelei’s leash to her collar, and set off to join the Cerberus Society.


When Lorelei and I reach Remo’s house, I can see that the driveway is full and the street is packed with cars. It certainly looks like somebody’s having a party. I find a parking space and let Lorelei out of the car. She trots happily along next to me until I start to lead her up the front walk; then something strange happens. She stops and refuses to go any farther. I pull and pull, but she resists.

“Come on, girl,” I say. “What’s the matter?”

As I struggle with the dog—she does, after all, weigh more than eighty pounds, and she’s pulling back with all her strength—the front door of the house opens, and a man steps out onto the porch. He looks to be about my age, maybe a little older. He’s a heavy man with long white hair and a full beard. He reminds me of a king in a pack of playing cards. When Lorelei sees him, she begins to bark.

“Hi, there,” he says. “Having some trouble?”

“A little bit,” I say. “She’s not usually like this. I’m Paul, by the way.”

“That’s what I figured,” he says. “I’m Remo.”

Remo comes down the front steps and walks over to us. Lorelei shrinks away from him and tries to hide behind my legs. She’s still barking, but it’s a different kind of bark. I recognize it as the one I’ve categorized as Frightened Bark #1.

Remo kneels down beside Lorelei and takes hold of her head. Lorelei twists her face toward his hand and snarls, making a move as if to bite him. I’m horrified, but Remo acts quickly, grabbing her snout in one hand and snapping her mouth shut. With his other hand, he fingers a spot just behind her left ear. He parts the fur and exposes the skin beneath. I lean over to see what he’s doing, and I can see that there’s a tiny red dot there. I’ve never noticed it before; I’ve never thought to look.

“Look at that,” says Remo. “She’s one of ours.”

I stare at him, then look back at the dot with a profound sense of unease. “What is that?” I ask.

“It’s a tattoo,” says Remo. He releases Lorelei and stands up. Lorelei retreats behind me, pulling her leash across the backs of my legs. “We do it to all the puppies we use. This one must’ve gotten away. Sometimes they do.”

“I don’t understand,” I say. “We’ve had Lorelei since she was a puppy.”

“Well, it looks like we had her first. The dot doesn’t lie.” He gives me a toothy smile. “This one must’ve gotten out early. Let me think, now—seems to me we had a litter of Ridgebacks maybe seven or eight years ago, and there might’ve been a pup or two who ran. That sound about right to you? Seven or eight years?”

“Yeah,” I say. My head is fairly spinning with the import of what he’s telling me. “That sounds about right.”

“Thought she was making a clean break,” Remo says, “but look where she ended up.” He laughs deeply. “Welcome back, girl,” he says to Lorelei. “Welcome back to the fold.”

I start to back away. “You know, I’m not so sure this is a good idea. Lorelei seems upset. I’ve never seen her like this. I think I should take her home.”

“Nonsense,” he says. “We’re old friends. Isn’t that right, girl?” He extends a hand toward Lorelei, as if to pet her. She shrinks away.

“Well, I’ll tell you what,” he says. “She does seem a little out of sorts. How about we put her in the back kennels while you come to the meeting? Let her calm down a little. She’ll be okay there. You can pick her up afterwards.”

I look at Lorelei, cowering behind me. She’s terrified. I shouldn’t have come here. And to think that this is the secret of Lorelei’s puppyhood. This is what she was running from when she came wet and bloody to Lexy’s porch. Who knows what kind of horror she endured here before escaping? I should just take her home and never come back. I should call the cops on these people.

Remo sees me hesitating. “I think you might be interested in staying,” he says, lowering his voice. “Tonight’s a very special meeting. We’ve got a speaker you might like to hear. A speaker who’s not exactly human, if you catch my drift.”

I stare at him. “You don’t mean —”

He smiles that wide smile again. “That’s right,” he says. “We’ve got Dog J.”

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