to the bathroom.
Lulled by the rush of the tires over the pavement and the rhythmic swish of the windshield wipers, the dog had curled up on the rear seat and settled down to nap, secure in its new position as a claimed possession, he thought. From the accepting way it had responded to both leash and car, he guessed that the animal probably had been someone’s pet, either lost or abandoned by the roadside. People were bad about abandoning pets out in the country, where they apparently expected some kindhearted farmer to give the forsaken creatures a home.
Human beings were, at heart, an intrinsically stupid species. Or intrinsically cruel, which amounted to much the same thing in the end.
Only one vehicle passed him en route, an eighteen-wheeler driving far too fast for the conditions. It nearly blew him off the road as it went by, and it splashed water all over his windshield. Those big trucks had no business off the expressway, he thought disapprovingly, and speculated that this one must be looking for gas or food. If so, the driver was out of luck. Just about everything hereabouts closed up shop around ten.
Reaching his destination, he pulled off the road and bumped through the woods and down a hill. There he parked where he always did, at the edge of Bob Toler’s cornfield. Removing a flashlight from the glove compartment, he got out. The dog was ready for him, standing eagerly on the seat as he opened the rear door. It jumped out without resistance even though the sky was, by now, pouring rain. Thunder crashed and lightning zigzagged overhead, lighting up the thick mass of tall, post-harvest cornstalks for an instant so that they looked like an audience of pale, slender ghosts.
Ghosts—he didn’t believe in them. But if ghosts existed, they might well be standing there, waiting silently for him to add to their numbers.
The idea amused him, and he was smiling faintly as he splashed across the shallow creek toward the perpendicular rock bank on the other side, the dog close on his heels. The bank was fifteen feet high in this particular spot, and heavily covered with vegetation that had grown undisturbed, except for his occasional visits, for years. Reaching the place he sought, still standing ankle-deep in water, he carefully lifted aside the heavy curtain of vines that hung over the bank. Beneath the vines, perhaps some three feet off the ground, was a hole in the rock that looked like it had once been an animal’s lair. It was, in reality, the mouth of a rather unique cave. He had discovered it as a child, and had made use of it ever since. Of course, since he’d grown older and bigger, fitting into the doorway to his subterranean world had become more difficult. But he could still do it if he slithered inside headfirst then scooted on his belly until the passage widened. The dog offered no resistance as he picked it up and set it inside the opening, and then wriggled in himself. It was dark as a grave in the passage, but he saw no particular reason to turn on his flashlight yet. He was as familiar with this route as he was his own bed.
Pushing the dog before him, he traversed the twelve or so feet that the passage retained the dimensions of a large animal’s burrow with practiced ease. Then, abruptly, he was there, wriggling through the hole after the dog and standing up with some care. He had cracked his head on the low ceiling more than once. The dog, clearly uncertain in this new setting, pressed nervously against his legs as he turned on the flashlight.
“Good dog,” he praised the animal, pleased that it trusted him enough to turn to him for protection. Holding on to the rope although the dog seemed perfectly willing to follow him without it, ducking his head, he walked along the ancient, stone-paved tunnel that had once been used to smuggle slaves to safety as part of the Underground Railroad. Shortly he came to an iron door. Although the door was well over a hundred years old, the padlock that
Lulled by the rush of the tires over the pavement and the rhythmic swish of the windshield wipers, the dog had curled up on the rear seat and settled down to nap, secure in its new position as a claimed possession, he thought. From the accepting way it had responded to both leash and car, he guessed that the animal probably had been someone’s pet, either lost or abandoned by the roadside. People were bad about abandoning pets out in the country, where they apparently expected some kindhearted farmer to give the forsaken creatures a home.
Human beings were, at heart, an intrinsically stupid species. Or intrinsically cruel, which amounted to much the same thing in the end.
Only one vehicle passed him en route, an eighteen-wheeler driving far too fast for the conditions. It nearly blew him off the road as it went by, and it splashed water all over his windshield. Those big trucks had no business off the expressway, he thought disapprovingly, and speculated that this one must be looking for gas or food. If so, the driver was out of luck. Just about everything hereabouts closed up shop around ten.
Reaching his destination, he pulled off the road and bumped through the woods and down a hill. There he parked where he always did, at the edge of Bob Toler’s cornfield. Removing a flashlight from the glove compartment, he got out. The dog was ready for him, standing eagerly on the seat as he opened the rear door. It jumped out without resistance even though the sky was, by now, pouring rain. Thunder crashed and lightning zigzagged overhead, lighting up the thick mass of tall, post-harvest cornstalks for an instant so that they looked like an audience of pale, slender ghosts.
Ghosts—he didn’t believe in them. But if ghosts existed, they might well be standing there, waiting silently for him to add to their numbers.
The idea amused him, and he was smiling faintly as he splashed across the shallow creek toward the perpendicular rock bank on the other side, the dog close on his heels. The bank was fifteen feet high in this particular spot, and heavily covered with vegetation that had grown undisturbed, except for his occasional visits, for years. Reaching the place he sought, still standing ankle-deep in water, he carefully lifted aside the heavy curtain of vines that hung over the bank. Beneath the vines, perhaps some three feet off the ground, was a hole in the rock that looked like it had once been an animal’s lair. It was, in reality, the mouth of a rather unique cave. He had discovered it as a child, and had made use of it ever since. Of course, since he’d grown older and bigger, fitting into the doorway to his subterranean world had become more difficult. But he could still do it if he slithered inside headfirst then scooted on his belly until the passage widened. The dog offered no resistance as he picked it up and set it inside the opening, and then wriggled in himself. It was dark as a grave in the passage, but he saw no particular reason to turn on his flashlight yet. He was as familiar with this route as he was his own bed.
Pushing the dog before him, he traversed the twelve or so feet that the passage retained the dimensions of a large animal’s burrow with practiced ease. Then, abruptly, he was there, wriggling through the hole after the dog and standing up with some care. He had cracked his head on the low ceiling more than once. The dog, clearly uncertain in this new setting, pressed nervously against his legs as he turned on the flashlight.
“Good dog,” he praised the animal, pleased that it trusted him enough to turn to him for protection. Holding on to the rope although the dog seemed perfectly willing to follow him without it, ducking his head, he walked along the ancient, stone-paved tunnel that had once been used to smuggle slaves to safety as part of the Underground Railroad. Shortly he came to an iron door. Although the door was well over a hundred years old, the padlock that
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