Turn to Stone by Brian Freeman Page A

killed his father?”
    The girl’s eyes flitted everywhere except Stride’s face. She was like any twelve-year-old, bubbly until the world got hard, surrounded by a wall as fragile as an eggshell. He didn’t think she was going to answer, but then she put her cupped her hands around her mouth and her voice croaked like a wind-up doll.
    “ The Devil ,” she whispered.

7
    No one in the town of Shawano had forgotten Jet Black.
    Homegrown monsters lingered like ghosts long after they were dead. Jet had been born and raised here. He’d become what he was right here. In the schools. In the parks and campgrounds. On Main Street and the dirt roads. Nobody liked it. You could blame evil on bad-to-the-bone genes, but somewhere in the back of everyone’s mind was an unwelcome thought: Was it us?
    Did we make him who he was?
    Stride found the Black house on the west end of Old Highway 29, two miles from town, where land was cheap. The driveway was rutted with mud and snow. The old rambler was dwarfed by soaring trees. Near the street, the mailbox had been knocked off its post and lay on the ground, dented and open. He got out of his car, and he heard a mournful baying, like a wolf pack under a full moon. It was dogs, locked inside the house, howling. From the different pitches, he guessed at least five.
    He trudged up the driveway and saw that Jet’s family was still paying the price for his sins. The yard was neat, but vandals came regularly in the night. Windows had been shattered into starbursts by rocks and taped over. Venomous profanity had been spray-painted across the garage door. Frozen chocolate-colored smears clung to the white siding. Feces.
    Leaning against the garage, parked in the dirt, was Mike Black’s red moped.
    Stride heard the front door open and then the bang of a storm door. A young woman emerged into the sunlight. Behind her, a furry pack of dogs pawed and jumped at the glass, and the howling became a frenzy of barking. He shaded his eyes and saw that the woman held a shotgun cradled in her arms. It was aimed directly at his chest, and her finger was poised near the trigger.
    Stride stopped immediately and held up his hands.
    “Who are you?” she called.
    He explained, but it took another minute—and the sight of his police shield—before she tilted the shotgun toward the ground.
    “Sorry,” she said, but the apology didn’t sound sincere. “I have to be careful about strangers. Usually, they’re not here for anything good.”
    “I can see that,” he told her.
    “It’s mostly drunk kids who do this shit, but you never know.”
    Stride approached the porch. “And you are—?”
    “Ginnie Black.”
    “Jet was your husband?”
    “Unfortunately.”
    “Do you mind if I ask you few questions?” He added: “Preferably not at gunpoint.”
    “If you like.” She disarmed the weapon, looking like someone who had done it many times before. “I don’t have much time,” she told him. “I have the middle shift today. Come on, we can talk inside.”
    Dogs surrounded Stride as he followed the woman into the house. He’d undercounted. He saw two Rottweilers, a golden retriever, two black labs, a white standard poodle, a sheltie, and a miniature schnauzer who appeared to be the meanest and toughest of the lot. The cacophony of barking was deafening, but when Ginnie snapped her fingers, the dogs fell silent.
    “They’re well trained,” Stride said.
    Ginnie shrugged. “That’s my son Mike. He’s like a whisperer or something with animals.”
    “Is he around?”
    “No.”
    He thought of the moped outside and knew she was lying.
    Stride studied the living room of the small house. The dogs were only part of the menagerie. He counted seven cats sprawled on furniture, four rabbits sleeping in a cage, and one iguana enjoying the sunshine on a coffee table. Despite the animals, the house was impeccably clean. He saw no dust or clutter on the surfaces, and fur hadn’t gathered on the sofa cushions.