Benny: Resurrection

By R. S. Hill

While on surveillance in the frigid slums of Cleveland, Larry McCloud, a frustrated cop, is baffled when his old dog, Ghost, returns from the dead. As McCloud struggles to maintain his sanity, career and estranged family, his turbulent past continues to resurface. Left with no other choice than to confront his past, he follows the dog’s trail to Benny, his long lost and forgotten imaginary friend. So begins the descent of Larry McCloud and the rise of Benny’s nefarious plan. Can a defeated cop and a makeshift intelligence cooperative stop Benny before it’s too late?

• Language: English
• Publisher: R. S. Hill
• Release date: Oct 23, 2021
• ISBN: 9780463929278

R. S. Hill

R. S. Hill was born in Cleveland, Ohio in 1964. His passion for storytelling began while listening to his grandfather spin tall tales about gigantic rats, ferocious sharks, and the man who caught a missile in his teeth.Hill lives in Tucson, Arizona with his wife and two children.

Book preview

Hill's passion for writing began while listening to his grandfather spin tall tales about gigantic rats, ferocious sharks and the man who caught a missile in his teeth. Growing up in a family where he was the second of five children, his craving for solitude eventually cultivated a truly overactive imagination that got him into a lot of trouble. After hearing a sound recording of Poe’s Cask of Amontillado in his junior English class, he knew he wanted write.

When Hill is not writing, he teaches high school English and creative writing in Tucson, Arizona where he lives with his lovely wife and two children.

Visit R. S. @ www.readrshill.com

Reviews

. . . With a cast of characters you fall in love with, a plot that moves and will entertain you for hours, a writing style comparable to the greats of the genre and humor as sharp as a nail, R. S. Hill has proven he is a writer to watch out for ...

-Jonathan Reitan, Cemetery Dance Magazine #48

. . . Horror, mystery, fantasy and suspense-it's all packed in Under the House, a fast-paced and entertaining novel.

-J.L. Comeau

Part I

Resurrection

1

Mr. McCloud snatched his .38 from the rusted tool box on his work bench. He loaded it clumsily, threw back another shot of Kentucky bourbon and marched his ten-year-old son back outside to the swing where his dog struggled to break free.

Hold your weapon steady! Larry pulled the trigger when his father slapped the back of his head.

Don't waste my shells! He groaned. Pull the trigger.

I-I can't.

Do it!

Larry knew that crying would only make things worse. Life in his father's house was hell. So, he did what he had to do in order to save the only thing he ever loved. He dropped to his knees and begged his father for mercy.

Please, daddy, please. I’ll get your jacket cleaned. I-I swear. A-a-and I’m gonna keep Ghost outside from now on so—

Do it!

When his father slapped his face, Larry clearly understood that his father’s rage was stronger than anything he’d ever known. Inside the house hiding, his mother knew her husband’s wrath better than anyone. So, Larry took the gun in his hand and allowed the anger his father had put inside him to swell. He imagined that Ghost was his father and pulled the trigger again and again and again.

Twenty-Four Years Later…

McCloud reached between his legs and shook the empty thermos. Tomorrow he’d bring more coffee. The city of Cleveland and its children were counting on him. This was his chance. Jonathan Lasky should have been in jail. Convicted on two counts of sexual assault against minors, he was released from prison a month ago after serving five of his eight-year sentence. During his first month of freedom, Lasky confessed to his parole officer he had been watching school kids play on jungle gyms with a telescope. So, when two fourth-grade boys from Parma came up missing, Officer Lawrence Danner McCloud, the son of an Irish brewer and a Cuban waitress, was ordered to watch Lasky’s home. If Lasky showed his face or tried to run, his orders were simple. Call for backup and tail him at a distance.

Captain Quint had been clear. He didn’t care how long McCloud had to stay out in the cold. This was his chance to finally make detective.

As snow began to fall, painting the windshield a frosty white, his opportunity to prove to Quint that he was detective material again seemed more than suspect. Lasky was the number three suspect in a possible kidnapping that took place over a week ago. Because no one had seen Lasky since his last screening, the captain was anxious to pin something on the pervert to get him off the streets. Yet Captain Quint, whose reputation for being dishonest preceded him, hadn’t considered that kidnapping wasn't Lasky's poison. On top of that, the Parma kids were older than what Lasky preyed on in the past. With the facts swirling in his mind like a swarm of corrupt bees, McCloud had to admit that life was easier when he just went along.

It was the middle of winter, 1984. Reganomics were squeezing the middle class while compact discs, MTV, and Miami Vice were changing the way everybody thought about nothing. Funky clothes, political Rock n' Roll and Who Shot J.R. were the issues of the day. The media ruled a world where children had to compete with the television for their parent's attention. The country was going downhill fast. Crime was on the rise, kids were selling crack, getting their hands on guns, and the police were powerless. When McCloud reflected on the state of the nation, being on stakeout alone didn’t seem so bad. For once in his life, he had a chance to be alone with his thoughts; something he learned to cherish as a child when his father wasn’t raging.

For the next few weeks, Lasky's campy duplex on Coleman and his shit-brown Camaro were all that should have mattered to Larry McCloud. But McCloud had been working ten-hour shifts that started at 7:00 p.m. He was dead tired and leery about loitering in a depressed ghetto. South Monroe, a blemish on Cleveland’s new image and affectionately known as cockroach heaven, was just a few blocks from Stockyards, the neighborhood where he’d grown up. Littered with crumbling brownstones and rotting Cape Cods—most of which had become fly-by-night crack houses—South Monroe was one west-side neighborhood the city was trying hard to forget.

After midnight the streets were usually deserted, save for an occasional bum and that crazy Asian bag lady who sported a Detroit Pistons starter jacket. Slumped over in the front seat of a primer-and-rust colored Dodge Diplomat filled with garbage and what appeared to be the worldly possessions of a homeless man, McCloud’s cover was authentic.

Then a vicious thought filled McCloud’s mind. The instant Lasky slithered out from underneath his rock, he should shoot that kid fucker dead. Unfortunately, Lasky was a reality the world just couldn’t seem to get enough of. He was protected by the very nature of what he was—a disgusting freak the best minds couldn't explain. Quint had been clear. Lasky’s civil rights had been violated too many times. They needed to catch Lasky in the act or find some real evidence against him. McCloud thought about his father, again. Whenever he investigated a crime against a child, he thought about his family. A part of him wished that things had been different. But all of him knew that being normal had never really been possible.

Two hours later his relief showed up. McCloud hurried home and went straight to bed.

**

While he floated alone in that secret place, he saw them coming—tiny footprints moving across a frozen lake. They came toward him, but he saw no one. He knew he had to escape, but his body was trapped in ice. As the ice moaned, cracked, and caved in, he heard someone giggle. As he sank to the bottom of the lake, what he saw terrified him.

No!

Mindy turned over but didn’t wake. The window on her side of the room was open slightly. Even in the midst of a frigid Cleveland winter, she liked to keep it open. The fresh air helped her sleep. As he felt the cold air caress his chest, his heart continued to pound. His eyes darted trying to focus, to settle on something. He couldn’t shake the fear pulsing inside him. He could still see that frozen lake and feel those footprints coming closer. Circling. Circling.

Mindy. She groaned into the pillow. I-I had that dream. My nightmare.

That’s nice, she croaked.

It was— well—

When he heard her snoring his heart sank. He threw the covers back and went to the bathroom. In the mirror above the sink his eyes were blood red. He found Mindy’s eye drops next to a bottle of perfume he didn’t recognize. As cool liquid rolled down his checks and his eyes stung, he heard a dog barking just outside the window. He tried to look out but a thin layer of frost prevented him from seeing anything. He considered opening the window, but then recalled how difficult the old window was to close. McCloud listened a few seconds, heard nothing, and went back to bed.

**

McCloud crawled out of bed just after noon. Mindy was wearing a suit skirt and making a sandwich for Joshua. On the stove was a saucepan simmering his son’s favorite soup. Something about her was different. It could have been her hair. Had she lost weight? She didn’t seem to notice him at all.

Where’s Josh?

Playing with the dog?

What dog?

"Oh, that’s right. You were working. Again."

What dog, Min?

If you were ever here, you’d know what dog.

Pretending to pull his hair out, McCloud shrieked, What dog?

A stray. I already told Josh we couldn’t keep him. Will you take it to animal control tomorrow?

Animal control?! McCloud was stunned. They’ll put it to sleep.

So, you wanna keep it?

I don’t know.

It’s huge, Larry. It looks like a big white wolf?

McCloud’s heart lurched. He stared at Mindy; his gaze glazed over with fear. What did you say?

A wolf. A big white one. Do I fucking stutter?

McCloud tried to dismiss the wild idea that jumped into his head. The fact that his wife had used the exact same words people had always used to describe Ghost made dropping the notion impossible. His mind swirled with panic, confusion followed. It began stringing together recent events. First, he started daydreaming about the family and Ghost. Then came last night’s dream. Now there was a dog in the back yard that looked just like Ghost.

When are you going to take the garbage out? It smells and—

What kind of dog is it?

I don’t know.

What does it look like?

I told you. You never listen to me.

But that doesn’t really tell me much.

Then go see it, Larry! She snapped. And take the garbage when you go?"

No. He stammered.

No, you won’t go see the dog, or, no, you won’t take out the garbage?

McCloud wasn’t going to see anything that was supposed to be dead. Especially something he killed years ago. Did I tell you about my dream last night?

Fine, I’ll take the garbage out before we all get sick. Mindy walked across the kitchen and put Joshua’s food on the table. She opened the back door and called their son to lunch. Before the door closed, McCloud heard barking.

It can’t be! He shrieked.

What is wrong with you?

That bark! It—it sounded just like Ghost.

What the hell are you talking about?

McCloud moved toward the door as a dormant fear bubbled inside him. When he reached the back door, he felt a humiliating spurt of urine escape into his underwear as his hands began to tremble. Mindy hurried out of the kitchen grumbling about being late. McCloud slowly pulled the curtain back. His son was playing in the snow with Ghost. That thin line between fantasy and reality blurred, leaving him standing somewhere in between with piss in his shorts. He had to fight the fear. He had to do something. McCloud took a deep breath and shoved opened the door.

Joshua! You get in here now!

See my dog, Daddy?

Joshua Alexander McCloud, I said NOW!

Are you mad?

NOW!!

As Joshua hurried toward the door, the dog followed. When it spotted McCloud, it bared its powerful jaws and backed away. It was Ghost. One eye was brown, the other yellow. Green, orange, red and blue designs stitched against sandy brown fabric hung around his neck—the bandana his grandfather had given him so many years ago. Once Joshua was inside, McCloud slammed and locked the door.

What the hell is wrong with you? Mindy shouted and, for the first time, shoved him. Why were you yelling at Josh?

That dog— My God! He- he- he’s gotta go.

No, mom. I love, Freddy.

His name isn’t, Freddy. McCloud snapped.

Yes, it is. The boy whined and ran to his mother.

No, it’s not! His name is Ghost! And that’s my dog!

Joshua began to cry. Mindy’s eyes held a disdain he could not hope to rectify. She knelt down and kissed her son. She told him that his father didn’t mean what he said. She helped the boy remove his snow clothes, and led him to the table where his lunch waited. She poured him a cup of milk and told him she would be back from her appointment in a few hours. The boy wouldn’t look at his father. Mindy passed him on her way out as if he weren’t there. When the front door closed quietly, McCloud rushed to the back door and pushed aside the curtain. Ghost was gone.

2

Before heading back to South Monroe to continue his surveillance, McCloud filed his field report with the captain’s office then stopped at the service garage. Earlier that day after Mindy had returned home, she was still mad at him. It occurred to McCloud as he stood in line at the vehicle depot that his relationship was going downhill. Every time they tried to talk, they ended up fighting. Somewhere along the line they’d made a wrong turn and headed in opposite directions. They needed to sit down and talk things out, have some romance. Women had never made much sense to Larry McCloud. They were easy to look at but impossible to please.

As he filled out a maintenance order for the Dodge, Emory Booker and Dale Essex, two good cops he’d known for years, approached him. McCloud didn’t have time to talk. Turning in his report at the captain’s office had taken too long. Though he was running late, they still wanted to talk. After a few minutes of chatting, Booker invited McCloud to come to the Blue Café sometime soon for hot wings and blues music. He claimed they needed to talk about something important. But it was after six. He had to get back to South Monroe.

So, McCloud accepted Booker’s offer and turned in his work order. When he tried to leave, Essex grabbed his arm in that feminine way.

Why are you in such a hurry to get back out there? Essex stuttered and then took two steps back when McCloud yanked his arm away.

Because I’m late, Dale.

Then Booker asked how the family was getting along. It was one of those questions he had to answer. Booker not only knew his family, like McCloud, he was an ex-Marine and a proud family man. McCloud answered Booker’s question quickly and then pushed past him.

Are you sure you’re alright? Booker looked serious. Something was on his mind.

I’m fine. McCloud waved not bothering to look back. Shaken by the mysterious appearance of his dead dog, McCloud was beginning to feel a mounting paranoia creep into his mind. Almost instantly, the sensation of being watched fell over him.

A week of ten-hour survey without probable cause is against policy, Booker warned. Quint’s got no evidence. He ain’t got the right to keep you out. McCloud turned slowly, and Booker went on. And there’s something else. Booker’s firm expression turned gloomy. Before he could explain, Essex was in McCloud’s face and grabbing timidly at his arm again. When Essex recommended McCloud file a grievance with the union and go through IAB to get taken off Quint’s bullshit surveillance, McCloud took a moment to consider his options.

Maybe he should file a complaint. His assignment seemed more like a punishment than an opportunity. He wasn’t sleeping well, had no time for the family, and the surveillance wasn’t helping the investigation. McCloud didn’t even know if Lasky was inside the house. Quint had nothing to justify continued survey. McCloud also realized that going through IAB could create more problems than he was prepared to deal with.

Quint was dirty. He’d been investigated but cleared by IAB before. Several months ago, two veteran officers McCloud had known for years asked him to be a part of a chain of officers by holding copies of incriminating evidence against the captain. They claimed they had accumulated enough evidence to force IAB to file another investigation. A week later, both men retired suddenly.

According to rumors, the captain had pilfered more than his share of seized drug money, made evidence disappear, and allowed private donations from neighborhood associations to dictate police presence. But Quint wasn’t exactly selling secrets to the Russians. His reputation as a problem solver was growing among the city’s politicians and business executives. Trying to take down someone as influential and connected as Quint could be dangerous. McCloud had a hunch that this assignment was Quint’s way of controlling a potential threat. And though taking crap from Quint made McCloud uneasy, when Essex tried to tell him what to do that really bothered him. And as Essex’s whiny voice continued to make his skin crawl, McCloud caught a glimpse of something over Booker’s shoulder. Standing some twenty yards away on the other side of the fence surrounding the service depot, a dog was watching him.

McCloud couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. After tracking McCloud’s gaze, Booker chuckled. It’s just a dog, man.

It’s not real.

What?

It ain’t real. It can’t be.

When Booker put his arm on McCloud’s shoulder, he shoved it away and tried to get as far away from Ghost as he could. Essex grabbed him forcefully. Everything started moving fast. He lost control. McCloud jabbed his forearm into Essex throat. When the frenzy finally subsided, Booker and two officers were holding him against a utility van while Essex, bent over on both knees and wailing like a seasick moose, threatened to cough up a lung. Shaking uncontrollably, he searched frantically, but his old dog was gone.

3

McCloud had no idea where his father had gone. Good riddance had always been the appropriate response when it came to the family, but there he was searching for evidence to prove that it all really happened. After resuming his surveillance, McCloud decided to take a break after a few pointless hours and visit the old neighborhood. The house brought back a flood of memories, more about his estranged mother than anything else. It had been eighteen years since he’d seen her sweet face and looked into those deep brown eyes. She had taken so much abuse. One day, she just vanished.

McCloud got out of the car. Whoever owned the house had put a lamp by the walk. Packed with snow and ice, the gutters along the front of the house had been replaced. The shoveled and salted drive had been repaved. His father’s 1956 Chevy had always been parked in the drive whether it was running or not. All of his love had gone into that damn car. McCloud should have hated that car. He wanted to, but as long as the Chevy was running Dad was happy. McCloud knew he should get back to work. He couldn’t afford to lose his job and no telling who might be watching him. Instead of leaving, McCloud approached the lamp.

Its purpose, to shine light into darkness, was important, though McCloud wasn’t exactly sure why he suddenly felt so strongly about the idea. On a few occasions, his mother had talked to him about the darkness. She used to sit in the dark by herself and sing quietly. She had a beautiful voice. And though her English sounded like a warped old record, when she sang, it was perfect. She loved jazz and blues music. She had all of Billie Holiday’s records. All her boy had to do to cheer her up was to ask her something about Billie. On lonely nights when the man of the house was out drinking, McCloud would find her alone in her room singing soft and sad. He’d climb into her lap and melt in the softness of her soothing voice. She’d stroke his hair and gaze into his heavy blue eyes.

One windy summer evening on Lake Erie man years later, his grandfather told him his parents’ story while they searched the depths for lost treasure and worthless salvage. Adrianna Lavinna Mendoza, the granddaughter of Cuban refugees who came to the states in the 1930s after Batista had been overthrown, had been a dancer at a downtown club called the Rio. Her dream, to become a jazz singer, wasn’t going so well.

"Your mother’s English was so bad, club owners wouldn’t listen long enough to hear the gal sing." As grandpa told the story, he laughed so hard he had to steady himself on his grandson’s shoulder to keep from falling over-board. The two had been searching the lake for most of the summer. McCloud was fifteen, on his own, and feeling free for the first time. Two years later, the Perota, an experienced Norwegian salvage vessel that had commissioned his grandfather for six months of heavy salvage labor, vanished somewhere in the South Pacific.

She wound up doing show girl routines. She done burlesque, I suppose, until she met Henry David, that is. Your father was at the club peddling homemade spirits when he seen her. Now your father certainly ain’t never been no romantic type. But she told me that she fell in love with his big blue eyes. She really ‘dug his accent.’ Now, your father and me come from Belfast by way of Scotland. That’s Northern Ireland, aye. You knew that, right, boy?

Yes, sir. McCloud nodded. He recalled his father’s drunken rants about his homeland. Surrounded by mountains, windy moors, crumbling old castles, and breathtaking seascapes, the north was a lovely place to drink, while the docks and shipyards in and around the Port of Belfast where they built the Titanic had been the families’ livelihood for years.

…She also said the idea of a white man calling on her was exciting. Suppose that blinded her to the truth about Henry David. He couldn’t handle his drink.

Do you think she’ll ever come back, sir?

Would you?

I was just hoping that—

Pipe down, boy, I’m losin' me thoughts. Let’s see— Oh, yeah. So, they dated a few months. And just when they started to die out cause Henry David’s friends didn’t want him messin’ with no brown-skinned gal, she got pregnant.

With me?

Your father had no choice but to marry her. He explained as they dropped anchor in the vicinity of yet another alleged shipwreck that was going to make them millions. He hated having to marry that gal. And you! Well, you was a part of her.

McCloud got back in the car. For some reason, he didn’t want to leave. He yearned to be in her arms. Reassured by her singing, he’d reach up, grab hold of the St. Jude necklace around her neck, and fall asleep. The sensation of falling whenever sleep approached had been terrifying, but holding on to that necklace slowed his descent into the darkness.

The more his father drank and rampaged, the more McCloud retreated into darkness. That was where he found Benny. A true friend.

Back on the job, McCloud’s mind grew ever weary of worrying about the family, his job, and Ghost. The temperature had dropped. His energy was zapped. The extra coffee wasn’t working. All he wanted to do was to go home and sleep. Sleep sounded so good. So, McCloud shut his eyes. Immediately, he saw those footprints rushing toward him across the snow.

Benny?!

When his eyes snapped open, it was quiet. Too quiet. The frost on the windshield glistened. Steam escaped from a nearby sewer lid and billowed into the air. Then out of nowhere, a white streak raced by the car and headed up Coleman toward Broward. The Diplomat’s lights flashed on and off. The engine sputtered and stalled, then tried to start over and over. His body tingled with a strange exhilarating energy.

Benny? McCloud searched for his old friend.

After more than a week of surveillance, a light came on above Lasky's front porch. McCloud held his breath. Out stepped the five-foot-five, 275-pound pervert. He was wearing an army green parka and white Adidas sneakers. Lasky waddled like a dejected penguin across the frozen lawn toward his car. He opened the door and crawled inside. The vehicle started right up. Lasky would have to let the vehicle run to thaw it out, but it was running. Judging from the size of the duffel bag he’d heaved into the back seat, so was he.

After Lasky waddled back into his hole, McCloud made his decision. He started the car, shifted into drive, and stepped on the gas. Ice held on to the car. The rear wheels spun and spun until the car pulled free. McCloud let the vehicle slide, eased off the gas, and then carefully guided it back in tow. He pushed the unmarked car up Coleman to Broward and made a hard left.

Again, he eased off the accelerator to allow the car to slide on the ice. It fishtailed around the corner and got away from him. SLAM! He wiped out a cluster of mailboxes and the engine stalled.

McCloud struggled to kick over the engine until the car squealed and started. When he finally reached East Hargrove—an emergency route, which had to be cleared of snow and ice—he punched the accelerator for a quarter-mile. There wasn't a soul on the streets.

Seconds eased into minutes. His fingers, numb with cold, drummed nervously on the steering wheel. Doubts teased his conviction. He'd made the biggest, most idiotic mistake of his life. What was he thinking? He looked around hoping to find something to justify his irrational act and save his job. There was nothing but dying houses lurching along East Hargrove. Once bright and happy homes, they'd become dark, lonely eyesores. Crowded together like matches in a pack, their decaying wood frames and smoldering chimneys were three-alarm fires waiting to happen. Behind those old homes he'd known since he was a boy, the infamous Hargrove project and Cleveland’s luminous skyline filled the night.

Where the hell did it go?

McCloud finally thought about notifying dispatch. That very simple act had been a priority. But what would he say? He was not insane. This was happening.

So, when that same white streak came rushing toward the car once again, McCloud became a believer. Watching that streak of white chaos transform into Ghost made him feel like a boy watching his favorite cartoon. McCloud told himself that he wasn’t afraid anymore. Even though he thought he might die, he was not afraid. When it appeared that Ghost was going to ram the car head on, McCloud stood on the brake. The Diplomat screamed, turned sideways, and stalled.

In the alley between East Hargrove and Richter, Ghost turned and moved away from him. McCloud rolled his window down; in rushed the bitter cold. As he directed his flashlight, the light cut open the darkness and captured Ghost in a magnificent pose that was as beautiful as it was terrifying. Those menacing jaws summoned a primordial fear and the guilt McCloud had struggled with for years.

Stained with drooling saliva, its jaws glistened. The huge dog tilted its head and turned back toward Richter as if it might leave. Instead, it came full circle to gaze, once again, at Larry McCloud. To a city cop who'd patrolled the streets of Cleveland for the past four years, it did look like a white wolf. To Larry McCloud, it was miracle; a chance to make amends for betraying an old friend. McCloud opened the car door and stepped out into the night club drawn. A powerful bark sent chills through him. It couldn't be.

Easy, boy.

Ghost barked, growled, and kicked the snow. He took a few steps forward. Getting back into the car and calling animal control was an option. But this was his problem—his dog. He wasn’t exactly sure what it might do. If he shot from where he stood, he— For a moment he’d forgotten his train of thought but then realized that something else had happened. Before the idea of wounding the dog had completely revealed itself, the thought slipped from his mind, not forgotten but intercepted. Like snowflakes dancing on the wind, his thoughts glided over the frigid pavement crossing that unseen barrier between confused cop and canine apparition.

McCloud wanted to chase after his mental property and reclaim its exclusivity, but the idea that a dead dog had just read his mind was ludicrous. He was a police officer for God’s sake. He was sworn to serve and protect not ponder and hallucinate. He'd selfishly shirked his responsibility. He was negligent and liable because if Jonathan Lasky snatched another kid, McCloud could not only be prosecuted, he would be branded a traitor for life.

As he stood alone in the cold staring at what appeared to be the dog he owned until he was ten-years-old, a foggy distortion flared up in his head. His thoughts went blank—short-circuited by an odd light he glimpsed in the corner of his eye. Then the dream, more real than ever before, surrounded him. He was trapped between water and ice, floating helplessly while those tiny footprints appeared in the snow. As he began to slip under the calm slushy water, a voice hissed in his ear, Play with me.

When the ice broke, everything changed. Standing alone in the cold, he was suddenly lost in a city he intimately knew. The streets looked different, yet they were the same. The houses on East Hargrove stood proud and unblemished. The roach-and-drug-infested projects were gone. The congested skyline shrank to the faint twinkle of just a few tall buildings. A sloping field of green weeds and grass triggered recollections of a disastrous kite flight and a boy and his dog.

Ghost? The big dog, calmed by the new surroundings, sobbed. Somehow, they’d been sent back in time nearly twenty years. Someone had skillfully manipulated time’s impenetrable barrier. To what end McCloud had no idea. But the best dog in the whole world was alive and happy to see his boy. For the moment, that was all that really mattered to Larry McCloud.

C-come here, boy. Come on!

The rolling, the yelping, and the cheerful barking brought tears to McCloud's eyes. Within that instant of reunion and reverie, the scene around them began to tremble and shake. That odd, time altering light reappeared. The scene before him stretched like putty, and they were back on Richter.

Instantly, Ghost became agitated, tormented. He no longer recognized McCloud as his boy. The man before him was an enemy, a traitor. When Ghost moved toward him, McCloud realized that history would once again repeat itself. He reached for his gun. Upon feeling the nose of his weapon clear the holster in the small of his back, McCloud felt suddenly ashamed. He couldn’t do it. He eased the weapon back inside its holster just in time to see Ghost sail over the hood of the car and vanish into the snow. A half hour later, shaken and stunned, McCloud got back in the car.

Uh— Car 441, over.

Go ahead, McCloud.

Well . . .

4

The wind finally died down. After another hour of waiting, Major Cheik-Shun finally allowed them to leave the ruins at Khara Koto and travel to the restricted area. The Red Army Jeep Dr. Clayton Dawson clung to was crude but effective. From what he could determine, they were making good time. The sun was setting quickly. The temperature was falling about as fast as his faith in the men who’d interrupted his winter sabbatical from Columbia University and sent him to Upper Mongolia to assist in a joint Chinese-Soviet top-secret project.

During his academic leave, he’d been doing some theoretical consulting for an international communications conglomerate that was planning to lay a Trans-Atlantic fiber optic cable in the very near future. The cable project was important work he didn’t want to leave, but a top-secret directive from the CIA, personally endorsed by the chancellor of the university, was hard to ignore.

Glancing through the vague intelligence brief while the jeep bounced him up and down, Dawson was beginning to believe he’d been sent on a fishing trip without bait. His driver, a pudgy Red Army private, spoke little English and didn’t seem to trust Americans though he gnawed furiously on wad of bubblegum probably packaged in New Jersey.

A spectroanalyst and laser optics teacher, Dr. Dawson was not well known. While his theories on data and matter transfer via laser light were plausible sci-fi at best, he had no idea how he could help. Evidently, someone needed a laser guy.

When the rickety Jeep plowed up the sandy, red-orange slope and leaped feebly over its modest edge, Dr. Dawson beheld the first mirror. Standing up and ignoring the private’s