You’ll Be Sorry
The locals called him Dog. Nobody knew where the pale-Lab-ish-looking canine had come from. Maybe abandoned by a tourist, or at one time lost on a nearby hiking trail. Attempts to get close enough to check for tags failed. So did the lure of warm shelter and cozy domestic life.
Dog did Dog. Over time, the six hundred residents of the tiny mountain town of Shereford agreed.
Shopkeepers left out bowls of water. Restaurant owners offered up nightly scraps.
Among neighbors, it became something of an honor to wake up in the morning to discover Dog had chosen their front porch for the night.
Of course, there were those who chased him away, worried he’d attack their children—or worse, breed with their own precious four-legged darlings.
Dog did no such thing. Dog did Dog. And as months passed, his staunch independence and regal bearing made him something of a local star.
Tourists started asking about him, hopeful for a sighting or, even better, a photo.
Sometimes Dog was accommodating. Sometimes Dog was not.
No amount of offered treats or pretty words made a difference.
Then, the Dixons returned for the season.
One of the founding families with roots that traced back to the 1700s, the current generation was Dave Dixon; his wife, Janet; and their four boisterous children.
Most of the year they resided in New York, but they spent each summer on the old family farm, which included dozens of acres of prime mountain real estate and one massive timber-framed lodge with breathtaking views.
Half the community eyed the young family indulgently, while the other half muttered “entitled” as the four high-spirited kids ransacked the bins of penny candy at the general store, chased each other around tables at the local diner, and by and large ran amok through the town commons.
Which is where twelve-year-old Henry, ten-year-old Violet, eight-year-old Josie, and six-year-old William met Dog.
Henry, as the oldest, ordered his siblings to stay back. No collar meant stray. Stray meant rabies. Violet, on the other hand, was already making cooing noises while Josie wanted to know what rabies was. William settled the matter by darting forward and throwing his arms around Dog’s neck.
Which is how Dog became a Dixon.
Dave Dixon had magical memories of his childhood summers on the family property, exploring trails, climbing boulders, and chasing foxes with his numerous cousins by day; catching fireflies, roasting marshmallows, and swimming in moonlit ponds come night.
Fortunately, his four kids took after him, happily tumbling out the front door each morning, returning only when it was time to eat.
That made Dave fall in love with his hometown all over again.
Where else in the world could you do such a thing, he’d extol to his wife, Janet.
Especially these days, when stranger danger was everywhere.
But in this quaint little village tucked away at the northern tip of the Presidential Range, with its white-steepled church and four-room schoolhouse, where neighbors knew one another by name and nobody bothered to lock their front doors, this, the tiny town of Shereford, was the perfect place to be a kid.
Not too bad a place to be a parent, either, Janet always thought as she tucked herself into her favorite lounge chair on the front porch, another battered paperback in hand.
With four kids generally off in search of witches and one husband down at the fishing pond, Janet got to spend most afternoons doing exactly what she loved best: reading the latest thriller/romance/mystery/historical novel.
She checked them out from the local library by the dozens.
To complete the merry family: Dog. Dog running with kids, sleeping with kids, eating with kids.
Even tolerating baths by kids (their mom’s condition for Dog to enter the house).
Dog and children, children and Dog, romping through the great outdoors as the hot, steamy days of July gave way to cooler nights in August, as meadows burst with waves of wildflowers while the first sumac bushes turned bloodred with the promise of fall.
Third week of August, Janet closed her final book and turned her attention to the arduous process of packing up the house.
Dave tended to some final maintenance in anticipation of the coming winter, while the children busied themselves with cramming in every last minute of fun before the dreaded return to school.
Even Dog understood the scent of change in the air as he faithfully alternated between Henry and William’s and Violet and Josie’s bedrooms each night, because the Dog who’d belonged to no one now belonged to everyone, which was actually kinda nice.
Until the last weekend in August, when the sky grew thick with roiling clouds and the air crackled with impending lightning.
Henry laughed at the hair standing up on his arms, while William whimpered at the uncomfortable feel.
Dave built up the fireplace while Violet and Josie helped Janet round up the candles for the power outage that was sure to follow.
Trees whipping. Wind howling.
The mountains hunkered down as if the entire forest were holding its breath for the violence to come.
Then, a blinding flash of lightning, followed by a resounding boom of thunder and a giant cracking noise directly outside.
The power flickered, went out.
And the entire Dixon family was never seen again.
Betty Jenkins, Shereford’s postmistress, first noticed Dog as she was locking up at five.
The familiar canine was loping through the village center, stopping at each parked car and business door, whining softly.
Vehicle by vehicle, establishment by establishment, almost like he was looking for someone.
When she turned toward him, he made an immediate beeline in her direction. Now his whine was more pronounced and his distress more apparent. So was the dark red blood drying on his pale fur.
Betty opened the tiny post office back up and invited Dog inside. For once, he followed. Then she called Chief Grady.
Shereford had a three-person police force: one full-time chief, one full-time officer, one part-time uniform.
Just because the town was small didn’t mean things didn’t happen.
Motor vehicle accidents, for one; moose versus car rarely turned out well for either party.
Not to mention petty thefts, domestic assaults, and a fairly constant number of drunk-and-disorderlies.
But policing was more than law and order, Chief Grady liked to remind people.
He and his officers weren’t sitting behind desks waiting for crimes to happen.
They were out and about, interacting with the locals, taking the time to learn about their lives.
It wasn’t just managing a community, it was being part of it.
Which is why Chief Grady immediately understood Betty’s worry. He’d barely pulled up to the post office before Dog was outside, staring expectantly. Chief opened the passenger side door. Dog hopped straight in.
They headed to the Dixon property together.
First thing Chief noticed while making the long, winding drive up to Widow’s Ledge was the amount of debris everywhere.
The power company had worked through the night to get electricity restored, but the storm’s damage had been significant.
Felled trees, washed-out roads, downed branches.
Nearing the end of the Dixons’ snaking driveway, he spotted a massive oak with its trunk splintered and bark scorched. Lightning strike for sure.
Something about the raw violence made it all the more foreboding when he turned off his engine, climbed out of his vehicle—wincing slightly as the motion tugged at the fresh row of stitches in his shoulder—and heard…nothing.
No chirping birds. No buzzing insects. No rustling leaves. Just silence.
Mother Nature was never this quiet.
Slowly, he rounded to the passenger side, opening the door for Dog.
Chief Grady already had his hand on the butt of his service weapon.
It’d been a long time since he’d felt the need to do that.
Probably not since his time with the Manchester PD, when crack ruled the streets and you never knew what was going to happen when you made a traffic stop, served a warrant, or canvassed a city block.
But now…
Nearly six p.m. on a Thursday night, when the sun was just starting to wane and cast the mountains into shadow…
Dog bounded straight up the steps to the wraparound porch. He whined in earnest, interspersed with low huffs, as if he was trying to gain attention but worried about the consequences.
Chief Grady took a few more minutes. Gazed at the property around him.
A ramshackle gray barn turned garage, one of the last original structures from the family farm, was tucked back a hundred feet from the house.
Doors appeared shut, making it difficult to tell if there were vehicles or people inside.
But no flickers of movement. No faint sound of an intruder shuffling about.
He perused the surrounding woods with equal scrutiny. The Dixons had left the property mostly natural, eschewing lawn and paved parking for a crushed bluestone circular drive, accented by a few ornamental shrubs in the middle, while a generous border of native wildflowers framed the house.
Kind of plants and flowers that should be attracting birds and bees and all sorts of random, noisy critters.
Except again, not a single chirp, buzz, or squawk.
Grady had never experienced anything quite like it. And it was fucking freaking him out.
He turned sideways, instinctively making himself a smaller target as he boarded the steps to the main house. Following in Dog’s wake, he approached the front door.
It yawned slightly open. Say, wide enough for a canine to fit through.
He noticed a smear of blood low on the frame, about dog height.