The Dogs of Babel

THIRTY-FOUR

The yard is empty. I look around wildly, but Lorelei is nowhere in sight. I know I latched the gate on my way out; I remember the feel of the metal hook in my hand as I fastened it through its loop, and I remember Lorelei jumping up to nose my hand as I pulled on the door to make sure it held fast. But now the gate is standing wide open. The dog is gone, and I know she did not get out of here on her own.

I sit down on the grass, feeling dizzy. Lorelei is gone, Lorelei is gone—I turn the phrase over in my head, looking for a way for it not to be true. It’s my own fault, I know it is. I put Lorelei in danger. I dragged her back to the site of her puppyhood trauma, and I brought her to the attention of men who meant her harm. Which one of the men in that room took my dog? And then I remember Lucas standing next to me, leaning toward me slightly when he heard that Lorelei was a Ridgeback, peering at me with eyes made tiny by the thickness of his face. I guess this must be my prodigal daughter, he’d said. He must have been the one who took her; he must think he still has some claim to her. Some unfinished business with the one who got away. Maybe Remo was in on it, too. But when did they have the chance? It couldn’t have been after the police arrived; there was no time. It must have been during that first part of the meeting, before they brought Dog J in. I remember Lucas excusing himself, saying he had a few things he wanted to take care of. I remember him reading my address off his clipboard and looking me up and down.

I feel a chill run through me as I try to imagine what they’re doing to her now. I’ve got to get her back—but I don’t even know their last names. I’ll go to the police, there’s no other way. I’ll tell them what I know. And maybe they’ll help me find her.

I get up and go inside the house to look in the phone book—to find out where the nearest police station is. My mind is reeling. Beneath my worry for Lorelei, another thought tugs at me, one I don’t even want to turn my mind to. Dog J. Dog J can’t talk. All these months with Lorelei, the story of Dog J has been a beacon for me: See, it can be done after all. Whenever I started to feel that I was on a fool’s mission, that my work would never amount to anything, I would open up my desk drawer and take out the stack of newspaper clippings about Dog J. And they gave me hope. Now I don’t know what to think. Everyone in that room heard the same garbled noise I heard, and everyone but me interpreted that noise as speech. What did they think he was saying, that poor mutilated dog? And what about the jurors, the ones who convicted Wendell Hollis after hearing Dog J’s testimony? What about the newspaper reporters who printed Dog J’s words? Was it all a case of the emperor’s new clothes, of hearing what you want to hear and believing what you want to believe? No. It can’t be. Because no one wanted to believe more than I did.

As I look through the phone book, I turn on the local news channel. There it is, top story. “The police are calling this the worst case of animal cruelty they’ve ever seen,” the anchorwoman says. There’s footage of animal control people leading dog after dog out of the kennels in Remo’s yard. Some of the dogs seem barely able to walk. I look to see if Lorelei is among them, but she’s not there. “Earlier tonight,” the anchorwoman continues, “acting on an anonymous tip, police raided the home of Remo Platt. They were looking for Hero, the famous talking dog who disappeared last week from his owner’s New York City apartment. They didn’t find Hero, but what they did find was enough to turn any animal lover’s stomach.” The news team cuts to a reporter standing outside Remo’s house, who explains that the police interrupted a meeting of a “bizarre animal mutilation cult,” most of whose members fled when the police arrived. “Upon searching the premises,” he says, “police found a makeshift laboratory where Platt and his associates had apparently been conducting experiments on dogs. Literature found at the scene”—here the reporter holds up a membership packet identical to the one Remo gave me earlier this evening—“suggests that the group had been surgically altering dogs in the hopes of giving them the power of speech. The group members seem to have drawn their inspiration from Hero’s former owner, Wendell Hollis, the so-called Dog Butcher of Brooklyn.”

There’s some inane banter between the field reporter and the anchorwoman, then photos appear on the screen of the three men the police managed to arrest. One of them is Aaron, the red-haired man with the unfaithful wife; the other two I recognize vaguely from the meeting.

“Platt is still at large,” the anchorwoman says. “If you have any information, please notify the police.”

So Remo managed to get away with Dog J. And Lucas managed to get away with Lorelei. I turn off the TV and pace around the living room for another couple of minutes. I put on my jacket and get ready to leave for the police station, but before I get a chance, the doorbell rings. It’s a police officer.

“Paul Iverson?” he asks when I open the door. I nod. “Come with me,” he says. “We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

It’s nearly daybreak by the time I return home. I’m exhausted; it’s been a grueling night. It turns out that the police have been keeping an eye on me. After Dog J’s disappearance, they did some research into Wendell Hollis’s recent correspondence, and of course my name came up. In fact, they followed me to the meeting tonight. It took some time for me to convince them that I’m not exactly a key player in the Cerberus Society. And the words “I was just on my way to the police station when you arrived” didn’t seem to carry much weight. In the end, of course, I didn’t have any information that could help them. I had no idea where Remo might have gone; I knew nothing about the details of the kidnapping or about Remo’s plans for Dog J. And though they took down a description of Lorelei and told me they’d let me know if she turned up, it was clear it wasn’t going to be a priority for them. She’s not the dog the public wants them to find.

At least they didn’t arrest me. It certainly seemed like a possibility at first, although I was able to establish fairly quickly that I hadn’t had anything to do with the kidnapping. But rarely in my life have I been so humiliated. The detective I spoke to, a great bully of a man named Caffrey, was very menacing until he’d decided I wasn’t a threat. Then he treated me like an imbecile. When I told him the story of Lexy’s death and my subsequent work with Lorelei—it seemed important that I explain the circumstances that had led me to attend the meeting—he actually laughed.

“So should I put the word out that we’ve got another talking doggy on our hands?” he asked, smirking.

“No,” I said quietly. “She hasn’t learned yet.”

“I see,” he said. “She hasn’t learned yet. Well, we’ll certainly let you know if she comes in here asking for help.”

Just then, Detective Anthony Stack, the man who had presided over the scene of Lexy’s death, walked in.

“Dr. Iverson,” he said. I could have hugged him for calling me doctor. “I heard you were here, and I thought I’d come say hello.”

“Detective Stack,” I said. “It’s so nice to see you. I was hoping I might be of some help with the Cerberus Society case, but it doesn’t look like I have any useful information.”

“I was a little bit surprised when I saw your name come up. I couldn’t believe you were mixed up with those guys.”

“Well, I’m not really,” I said. “I was just telling Detective Caffrey, here…”

“The professor here is trying to teach his dog to talk,” Caffrey said. “He’s going to turn her into a police dog. She’s going to solve the mystery of his wife’s death.”

“Dr. Iverson,” said Detective Stack, “you know your wife’s death was ruled accidental.”

“Yes, well,” I said. “I just wanted to… There were some incongruities,” I finished lamely.

Detective Stack gave me a searching look. He nodded doubtfully.

“But as I was telling Detective Caffrey,” I went on, “my dog’s disappeared. One of the men from the meeting took her.” I could hear how I must have sounded.

“And apparently,” Caffrey said, “the dog’s the only one who can figure out those ‘incongruities.’”

Stack shot Caffrey a warning look. “Well, we’ll see what we can do about your dog,” he said to me. His voice was gentle. “Now, why don’t you go home. Do you need someone to take you back?”

For an instant, I saw myself as he must have seen me—shabby, frail, broken—and I felt ashamed. “No,” I said. “Thank you.” I walked out of the police station into the starless night.

Now I’m back in my empty house, and the sun is starting to come up. Late as it is, I don’t feel much like sleeping. So I do what I always do lately when I have a few moments’ time on my hands. I pick up the phone and dial the number I’ve learned by heart.

“Thank you for calling our Psychic Helpline,” the woman on the other end says. “This is Lady Arabelle.”