Backyard Follies

By Marcus van der Heyden

Like many small-town folks, Malcolm Massicotte enjoys a quiet, down-to-earth life with his wife, Marisol, and their young twin girls. Still coping with the loss of a cherished pet cat, the last thing Malcolm ever expected was for a stray dog to wander into their life and quickly form an inseparable bond with the family, especially with his daughters. Secretly already aware of the dog's nasty owner, Malcolm decides to keep the dog, which instigates a rancorous custody dispute. However, things suddenly go horribly awry when Malcolm and Marisol frantically discover that their daughters have disappeared and the dog has been severely injured, prompting state-police detectives of the Vermont Major Crimes Unit to investigate and launch a full-scale search, all while a separate ongoing incident just over the border has the area on heightened alert. With pulse-hammering distress enveloping their once tranquil world, as the detectives try to make sense of baffling clues that trigger more questions than answers, the Massicottes face a daunting future devoid of the two people who matter most. Through it all, Malcolm desperately clings to the hope they're still alive somewhere, somehow, even as the odds dwindle and reality darkens beyond belief.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 12, 2018
• ISBN: 9781641384421

Book preview

Chapter 1

Stretched out in bed, Malcolm stared at the partially moonlit wall adjacent to the bed as the leafless branches of the huge oak tree outside swayed in silhouette like a moving illustration on the wall. He was wide awake, fidgety, and wishing his body would simply surrender to sleep. Instead, he gave up on the possibility of it happening anytime soon. He raised a hand into the light and formed a shadowy bird figure with his fingers, playfully connecting it with the shadowy branches on the wall.

It was after midnight, and Malcolm had been tossing and turning for over an hour, even after a half hour calmly reading a novel while his wife, Marisol, slept undisturbed and cozy under the blanket like a coma patient. He envied her ability to drift asleep within minutes, sometimes even seconds, upon hitting the pillow, just like their young twin daughters, no doubt sleeping contently down the hall in their shared bedroom. Malcolm never really experienced sleeping woes before, not even when he was hectically cramming for finals week back in college during a time in which he also worked nights as a part-time waiter. Now, despite a dose of mystery suspense reading, he was for the countless night in a row having another bout of insomnia and reduced to making animal figures with his shadowy fingers while a barrage of random thoughts volleyed back and forth in his mind, anxiously waiting for his body to finally lose its charge so he could slumber off and dreams could take over. Though to a degree Malcolm had been stressed out in his financial-management business, trying to ease fretful clients grappling with the reality of a downward economy, his sleeping troubles really began following the passing of the family’s beloved orange tabby cat, Velvet, three months ago, triggering nightly bouts of restlessness virtually ever since.

When he first got Velvet as a four-month old kitten many years ago during his sophomore year in high school—long before Marisol and the twins came into the picture—Velvet had always slept on the bed with him, a nightly habit that Marisol, once they had started dating and eventually moved in together two months later during their junior year at Boston University, had been okay with as long as Velvet stayed at the foot of the bed, which sweet, good-natured Velvet had graciously taken in stride, no longer the alpha female. And Malcolm had been cool with the arrangement too, despite no longer having Velvet curled up under his chin or snuggled in his arms every night. Yet if Marisol had gone home to the north shore, up the Massachusetts coast, over the weekend to visit her family, any part of the bed had been game on, as Velvet had taken over as master-in-chief of the house during Marisol’s brief absence. Luckily, the rules set forth by Marisol had been different for lounging or napping on the sofa. Now, dead and gone, however, he would often awaken feeling Velvet nestled at his feet, a fleeting phantom sensation as palpable as anything alive. Or he would struggle to fall asleep, like now and almost every night since Velvet’s passing, heartbroken and missing her, still troubled by the separation. Velvet was ten years old when the twins were born and lived to be nearly eighteen years of age.

A window was open slightly. Though the early April night air was cool, it was unseasonably warmer for a time of year in which northern Vermont sometimes had snow-covered ground and temperatures in the thirties, but not this year. And for the third consecutive night, a dog barked feverishly somewhere in the distance, far enough not to be obnoxious, yet close enough to be annoying with the open window. It had been barking for the last fifteen minutes and further disturbing Malcolm’s ability to drift into the realm of shuteye.

He turned and faced his wife, who had a knack for sleeping through almost anything. A tornado could whip through and shred the roof off the house, and she would slumber on like nothing happened. Though every so often they would be equally startled awake if one of the girls barged into the room, screaming after having a nightmare. He thought about getting up to close the window and perhaps burn off the incorrigible fidgetiness in his limbs by trotting to the kitchen for a glass of water, or read some more on the sofa in the living room. Instead, he tried to calm his racing thoughts by attempting to meditate, keeping very still, hoping he could magically will himself to sleep, despite the restless leg feeling.

Another fifteen minutes went by staring at the wall, still animating his finger birds on the wall, while holding back the urge to spring out of bed and pace around the house. The barking carried on like a dog on steroids as a fed-up neighbor, likely old Mr. Diggins from the nearest home down the road, suddenly shouted out to Shut that mutt up. Needless to say, living in rural Vermont in a town with less than five thousand residents, with homesteads separated from one another by vast acres of croplands, pastures, and woodlands, with a few tightly clustered neighborhoods scattered across the area, aggravating late-night noises were seldom occurrences.

Apparently, sleep had no plans for Malcolm anytime soon. Careful not to generate a rippling motion he knew would not disrupt Marisol regardless, he gently rolled off the mattress, tiptoed across the creaky hardwood floor to the window, and closed it quietly.

#

Malcolm sat hunched over at the kitchen island, with only the glare of the overhead range light, as he drank a glass of almond milk, staring out the window over the sink out to the dark front yard. The barking went on and on. Malcolm soon observed that the top pane of the window was open. That dog must be one miserable animal.

Malcolm polished off the milk, then stood up and went to the refrigerator. He opened it and studied the contents within for a moment when an outlandish idea suddenly came to mind, which he set into motion without deliberation as he took out some packaged sliced meats (turkey, ham, and roast beef) and bottled water. At the counter, Malcolm took a few slices of each, ensuring plenty remained for the girls’ school lunch, wrapped them in a paper towel, and put them into a brown paper shopping bag. Then he grabbed a round plastic to-go container from the cupboard and tossed it inside the bag before quietly tiptoeing back upstairs.

#

Malcolm stood at the edge of the driveway holding the bag of items he had collected. As the near full moon illuminated over the property, he stood motionless, trying to gauge the ballpark direction of the barking, which seemed close yet so far. Wearing dark jeans, a black denim jacket, and dark sneakers—the perfect attire for blending into the night—he was geared up to embark on a middle-of-the-night adventure like a juvenile sneaking out to party with his friends, for whatever reason curious about the barking dog and its location.

In his early thirties, Malcolm was a partner at a small financial-investment firm in Burlington, about a thirty-minute drive south from their home in the township of Georgia. He had to be up in six hours, so sneaking around in the dead of night seemed rather senseless and impractical, yet he was determined to discover the location of the dog. The wife and kids would think he was a weirdo, but he would be in and out without a sign he had ever left, rendering the family clueless about the odd excursion. Regardless, being alone in the middle of the night, the air fresh and the clear sky festooned with galactic opulence and a bright moon, seemed like the perfect remedy to clear his mind and burn off ill-timed energy. With no particular direction in mind, he continued to listen intently to gauge the dog’s proximity, which from what he could now discern seemed to beckon from the other side of dense woodlands beyond the backside of their property. Several trails for hikers and mountain bikers crisscrossed over a wider main trail that led to a parallel street near the northeastern side of a neighborhood consisting of one-story homes clustered on small plots.

Malcolm cut across the backyard with the glow of the moon to guide him until he got into the woods, where it no longer penetrated the thick canopy of mature trees, mostly evergreens like red and white pines, balsam firs, eastern hemlocks, and white spruces. He carried a small flashlight in his pocket, though his familiarity of the woods and the main trail he had traversed hundreds of times over the years would guide the way without it. No sense in drawing any attention. Not that he had any concerns other than the infrequent black bear roaming the area. Timid and fairly tolerant of humans, they rarely attacked people yet could be a nuisance if they became accustomed to human food and lingered close to human habitations. Capable of running thirty miles an hour, a lone male startled in the dark and yearning for a meal, on the other hand, would be a nasty encounter, depending on the bear’s mood and wildly unpredictable nature. Needless to say, it was unlikely he would stumble upon one now. It had been years since one had been spotted in the area. He was more likely to cross paths with a raccoon or a skunk, if anything.

He slowly walked the trail, as trees gently swayed like giant monsters in eerie silhouette and twigs snapped and dry foliage crunched at his feet, and thought about Velvet. With memories still fresh, he visualized the many times he had checked on the twins as infants and caught Velvet snuggling between them in the crib, all sleeping peacefully, an interspecies connection at its most beloved.

His seven-year-old daughters, Madeline and Madison, had recently been pleading in whiney kid fashion to adopt another cat. Yet Malcolm was far from ready to welcome another feline into the family; his emotional attachment to Velvet was still too strong. Of course, the girls stopped at nothing trying to persuade him with incessant, yet endearing, rants of Please, Daddy. Please, please, please can we get another kitty? Surely enough, someday they would welcome a new furry friend.

Transfixed by reflection, Malcolm strayed off the trail and nearly walked into a grove of birch trees, recognized by the peeling white bark on the trunk as he pried the brown paper bag from the clutches of entangled limbs. Back on the trail, and once his vision acclimated to the darkness, he began to jog slowly.

The barking had stopped, though he pressed on and was soon on the edge of the path near a clearing along Plains Road, where houses with small front yards were situated along the opposite side. Hesitantly, he squatted beneath some overhangs of a huge sugar maple tree and listened. Within a minute, the barking erupted again, only louder, a sign he was close. With no approaching headlights from either direction, Malcolm zipped across the street and took cover near a mature spruce tree along the curb in front of a ranch home with dark shutters and a massive weeping willow tree in the middle of the yard.

He took a breather as he pondered whether to continue prowling through the night, feeling uneasy about trespassing. No time but the present when already committed. He slowly eased his way to the backyard, blending perfectly in the dark until triggering an automatic light that abruptly flooded the area. He quickly leaped behind some tall shrubs and took advantage of the light to scan the surrounding landscape. Not much to see, though he observed a similar yard next door, where the bright light feathered out halfway across the weather-resistant covering of an aboveground pool. Before long the yard turned back to moon-cast shadows and dark silhouettes.

The barking continued, but now more like a wrenching howl, as if the dog simply felt lonely or dejected or scared. Malcolm figured that the owner was either out late and had left the dog tied out back or was actually home and simply cared little about peaceful nighttime neighborhood etiquette.

From his vantage point, Malcolm surmised that the dog was no more than a couple of houses down. He eased up from his crouched position, pivoted slowly around, and stealthily passed the pool and what appeared to be a decrepit utility shed, then trekked beyond the demarcation of freshly cut grass a few yards away into a thick coppice of vegetation interspersed between mature deciduous trees and young evergreens. Twenty yards ahead, he leapt over a narrow, fast-moving stream and scampered past a bunch of cucumber-shaped bushes on the edge of one property. Then he zigzagged through a patch of overgrown foliage before stumbling on a rock, where he fell awkwardly to the foliage-strewn ground near the corner of a vertically slatted, high wooden fence. He sat up and leaned against it and started to regret the absurd late-night excursion when suddenly the barking got breathtakingly loud, whereupon he realized the dog was only inches away on the other side of the fence. The barking again ceased, and Malcolm tensed up, quiet as stone. He intuitively knew the dog—not just any dog, but a big dog—was aware of his presence. So why did it stop barking?

By the sound of chain-link metal dragging across the ground in its wake, Malcolm sensed that the dog was pacing back and forth along the fence line. Heavy panting punctuated by a tempered yodel permeated the otherwise quiet night. Then the dog began to bark again, now in a tone suggestive of curiosity, so he imagined. Malcolm maneuvered his head closer to get a peek through two slats but could only see a dim red light shining from a window at the back of the house. Despite this, Malcolm was able to make out the slightly perceptible profile of a moving animal, which appeared to indeed be a big dog of indeterminate breed.

Malcolm tensed up again upon feeling a moist, warm breath against his right eye and forehead; a one-inch thick fence was all that stood between nose-to-nose contact. He whispered, Hey boy, or girl. No worries, I come in peace. Sorry for creeping around in the middle of the night. I couldn’t sleep, and you had me curious with your barking the last few nights. I live not far away. Gee whiz, your bark certainly carries a long way.

The dog yipped three times, as if greeting Malcolm with peaceful understanding, or simply to convey happiness, a thank-you for stopping by and caring. Despite being concealed behind the fence, Malcolm hunkered lower when he heard a male voice yell out, Rambo, enough is enough. I’m not gonna tell ya again, boy. Hush it, or I’ll put the muzzle on you, I swear. One more time and ya gonna get it. Now lay down and shut up, or else.

A window slammed shut, and the dog started to whimper as its chain dragged the earth, eventually crouching down very close along the fence. Well, hello, Rambo. My name is Malcolm. Your owner seems like a complete jerkoff, he whispered coaxingly as he picked up the brown bag at his side and stood up. Then he stretched his other hand and slowly moved it upward along the fence to determine its height, wishing he had grabbed the gardening gloves sitting on the picnic table back home. A splinter embedded deep in his palm or in a finger was the last thing he needed. At five eleven, Malcolm lacked sufficient height to reach the top of the fence, even on his tippy toes, estimating it to be at least seven feet high. He lowered to his knees and took out the bottled water and plastic container, placed them at his feet. Then he tore the bag vertically on one side, crumpled it up slightly for greater density, and tossed it over. Good stuff in there. Yummy cold cuts. Not much, unfortunately. And I have some fresh water too.

As Rambo tore into the bag, Malcolm felt along the bottom of the fence line, again avoiding the risk of a splinter, for any unlikely openings or loose slats where he could pass the water through. Much to his surprise, only two feet to his right, he discovered an irregularly shaped opening where a plank had either broken or rotted away, now blocked off on the other side by a big rock. He squatted lower and leaned against the fence and realized that the plank was shaky and unstable, so he carefully backed off, hoping it would not dislodge and crash down on him. With one hand he pushed the rock inward. Then he poured the water into the container and, with just enough clearance, slid it through. Within seconds, Rambo’s chain hurriedly scraped the ground again before the dog planted his snout in the water, lapping loudly. As Rambo hydrated, Malcolm craned his head down lower to get another tunnel-vision perspective of the yard. Again, it was a scene only a nocturnal creature of the night could make out.

I was hoping to get a look at you, big boy. I suppose I could shine my flashlight, but I don’t want to reveal my presence to your owner. He sounds really mean, Malcolm said, as the dog let out what Malcolm perceived as a somber grunt followed by a surprisingly soft whimper. With no movement on the other side, Malcolm sensed that the dog was now hunkered down, wagging its tail in the dirt, perhaps happy and appreciative for the midnight treat and company.

Exhibiting no aggressive intent, it was obvious that Rambo was a gentle dog. All its barking had likely been triggered by the displeasure of an outdoor sleeping arrangement, instead of being cozy snug inside on some soft rug or bed. It was understandable that a dog left alone outdoors at night would bark, relentlessly. Sure, dogs need to be outside running around and exploring, enjoying the simple pleasures of a dog’s life. Yet forced to sleep outside—chained up and alone in the dark, to be on high alert, one eye open, spooked by what may be lurking behind every shadow—was heartless.

Malcolm moved a hand through the opening so Rambo could get a sniff, a passive gesture to acknowledge their friendly, albeit uncanny, encounter. Immediately, a moist snout grazed his knuckles, followed by a slobbery, warm tongue. Yeah, you’re a good boy, Malcolm said soothingly as he stretched his fingers up to rub the dog’s chin, only to receive more tongue slithering across his palm and wrist. I bet you hate being out here all by yourself. Malcolm pulled his arm back through the opening, stood up, and brushed the soot off the bottom of his pants. Then he pulled out his cellphone and shielded the screen and checked the time. It was nearly one o’clock. With work in the morning and finally feeling tired, it was time to head home. The sooner he ninja-hustled back, the sooner he could slip into bed and maybe get a few hours of sleep.

Rambo moaned dolefully as if to say, Please hang out with me longer. Sorry, buddy. I have to skedaddle now. Try to keep things quiet for the rest of the night, okay. Maybe later in the week I’ll drop by for a candid conversation with your douchebag owner. Malcolm slowly walked back in the direction in which he came. After several surreptitious steps, he pivoted his torso toward the fence and quietly uttered, Be well, buddy.

#

Malcolm slipped quietly through the garage side door and into the mudroom where he kicked off his footwear. As he crossed the threshold and into the kitchen, illuminated only by the range light he had left on before leaving earlier, he noticed one of his daughters slumped over the dining table, her head planted on crisscrossed arms, apparently asleep. He knelt down beside her. As identical twins, it sometimes took an evanescent moment, albeit a rare occurrence, to distinguish them apart, especially in right-sided profile or in dim lighting. A tiny birthmark on Madison’s left cheek and one missing upper front tooth distinguished her from Madeline, who had no birthmark and two missing front teeth, one bottom and one top. Other than that, they were virtual clones with wavy blond hair cut inches above the shoulders; big, glistening green eyes like aventurine gemstones; a small nose and delicately rounded chin; not to mention they were precisely the same height by the millimeter, as evidenced by the year-by-year height measurement markups on a wall in the garage. Even the polka-dotted pajamas she wore at the moment revealed nothing of her identity, since both girls had gone to bed wearing matching ones. Whatever one of them had in terms of clothing and shoes, the other had too. They shared the same thoughts and ideas; same sense of humor; enjoyed the same activities like doing cartwheels, somersaults, and handstands in the backyard; bicycling; hula-hooping; playing soccer, and reading fantasy adventure books, or rather having such books read to them from either Malcolm or Marisol. They even had the same friends and loved the same kinds of food, which made daily meal preparations whipped up by Marisol’s masterful hands, easy peasy every time. The twins were essentially two peas in a pod.

He softly touched her head and whispered, Pssst. Hey, sleepyhead. She opened her eyes, turned in slow motion as she uncrossed her arms—oddly revealing a squished banana peel—and propped up, yawning. Malcolm took his jacket off, draped it atop the seat back next to her, and sat down.

It was Madison.

Why are you sleeping at the table, silly? he asked.

A dog barking woke me up before. I got up to shut the window. I couldn’t go back to sleep and got thirsty, she said.

And hungry too, I see. Asleep on a banana peel would’ve been a hilarious photo opportunity, he said playfully. I missed out.

Yeah, I guess I zonked out, she said before unleashing a long, exaggerated yawn. She reached up and grabbed a tiny twig dangling from his hair. Daddy, were you outside?

Uh, um . . . yeah, I couldn’t sleep before either, so I took a walk around the yard. Revealing a truth without the whole truth was a simple approach to skirting all the details and avoiding a lengthy conversation.

You couldn’t sleep either cause of the stupid doggy? she asked.

I wouldn’t say the dog is stupid, sweetie. If fact, they’re pretty smart animals. Sometimes they bark because they’re scared or nervous or unhappy. And barking is their way of vocalizing, letting people know how they feel.

She leaned her left elbow on the table, palm-supported her chin, and asked, But why would they be any of those things if they have a family that loves them and takes care of them?

Not sure. Sometimes people don’t respect them or know how to take care of them properly, he replied. And that’s putting it mildly.

You mean not like the way we took care and loved Velvet? I still miss her so much, Daddy, like when she used to snuggle at bedtime and sleep with me all night. Smirking ever so slightly, Malcolm gave his daughter the one-eye. Very true, Madison. But only until you’d fallen asleep and Velvet made her way to our room.

Do you think Velvet is in heaven?

Malcolm eyed her curiously. You know your mom and I don’t believe in that kind of stuff. What makes you ask?

Lenny, a boy at school, was sad the other day because his rabbit died. Our teacher said all God’s creatures go to heaven and that Lenny and his rabbit will see each other again one day.

Malcolm contemplated whether to go to the girls’ elementary school to have a discussion about the impropriety of preaching religious beliefs to kids in a public-school setting. At least he would talk with Marisol about it first. Honey, Velvet remains only a memory now, something you’ll always cherish. I guarantee, Madison, years from now you’ll still have fond memories and a special place in your heart for her. I know I will.

I’ll never forget Velvet. I really miss her so much, Daddy. Madison started to choke up.

Oh, sweetie. I miss Velvet so much too.

A tear rolled down her tiny nose. She was so super-duper special, Daddy.

I know. Remember, I had her for years before you girls were born. In fact, I had her for a long time even before I met your mom. I wish you could remember when Velvet used to sleep in your crib when you girls were babies.

Madison sported a half smile. I wish I could remember too. I’m glad we have photos.

Definitely plenty of those. And videos too, he proudly said.

They sat in momentary silence before Madison sprang up and fell into her father’s arms. Oh, Daddy. Can we please get a new kitty soon? If we get one, Madeline and me will stop begging. Malcolm smiled. His girls could sometimes say the funniest things without realizing. Pretty please. I miss having a cat, and so does Madeline.

Malcolm hoisted his daughter onto his lap and shifted her bangs away from her eyes. I know. I guess I’ve been afraid of replacing her with a new feline friend. They call it separation anxiety, I think.

What’s that?

Oh, we can talk more about it another time. It’s very late and you’ve got school in the morning. And I’ve got a bunch of meetings starting in less than seven hours.

Have you at least been thinking about getting another cat?

Listen, I promise you we’ll make it happen soon. We’ll all go to the shelter together and choose one we know will love being with our family as much as Velvet did. Hokey dokey?

With an inescapably cute smile accented by a newly missing baby tooth, Madison said, Thank you, Daddy. You’re the best. Yowza, I can’t wait, like maybe this weekend?

Malcolm chuckled. You’re relentless, you know that.

Chapter 2

As expected, the entire next day dragged on like a ball and chain attached to a squirrel climbing up a massive sycamore tree. At the end of the day, after several client meetings, an hour-long internal manager’s workshop, and hours spent analyzing financial statements for a new client, Malcolm was relieved to finally be home before sunset, the first time in two weeks. At precisely six thirty he entered the open kitchen and dining area. The aroma of meat lasagna presented a warm, delectable welcome as Marisol placed the piping-hot pan on the stovetop and the girls took a seat at the table. To sweeten the deal after a long, laborious day, a tall glass of iced lemonade awaited Malcolm’s place at the head of the table.

Life was grandiose, nearly perfect in fact. And he loved and cherished his family more than anything else on the planet.

Following a splendid dinner highlighted by conversation about