Free Dark Hollow by Brian Keene Page B

sounding nothing like a shepherd’s pipe.
    After finishing with the mowing I brought Big Steve out and tied him to his chain. Then I raked the grass clippings into mounds and put them on my mulch pile. I’d use them as fertilizer in another month or so, after we’d planted our annual garden of tomatoes, cucumbers, sweet peas, parsley, and chives.
    Big Steve started barking, and I turned to see what was bothering him. Out front, a young mother walked by pushing a baby stroller. She paused when she heard the dog, but as soon as she saw him cringing behind me she visibly relaxed. The mother waved, and I waved back. She peered over the top of the stroller, smiled, and made baby talk to her child.
    I was filled with a sudden, overpowering sense of anger. That could have been my wife and child. It should have been. I closed my eyes, picturing Tara pushing the same stroller, hearing her cooing to our child. Imagined the baby’s laughter, the twinkle in its eyes, and the flush of its cheeks. I felt like screaming at the woman. How dare she walk her kid by my fucking house! Didn’t she know what had happened here? Didn’t she know we’d lost ours? It wasn’t the first time I’d felt this unreasonable rage, but it had been a while, and the strength of the emotion surprised me. Immediately after the miscarriages I’d experienced it all the time, anywhere there were children: at the mall, the county fair, down at the gas station, and the park—especially the park. Children playing on the swings and slides. Have you ever noticed that if you close your eyes and listen to a group of children’s laughter, it sounds like they’re actually screaming?
    I’d thought those feelings had passed, but I’d been wrong.
    The woman passed from sight. Big Steve settled down again and busied himself with digging a hole in the yard. Apparently he’d heard there were good bones in China and was determined to find out for himself.
    I checked the time. Three p.m. Tara would be home soon. I took Big Steve for his afternoon walk, and we stuck to the same shortened route we’d taken that morning. He wasn’t his usual self. He seemed sedate.
    When we got back I pulled the grill out of the shed, cleaned it up, and made sure there was still propane left over from last summer. Then I tied Big Steve’s leash around the oak tree and fired up the grill. The dog sniffed around the base of the tree, rooting through dead leaves, while I unwrapped the raw hamburgers.
    I heard the purr of a motorcycle engine, and Cliff roared down the alley on his Harley. He pulled it into our garage, where he stored it, and then walked back outside and unsnapped his helmet.
    I waved and Big Steve thumped his tail, but Cliff didn’t notice us, for at that moment a black-and-white state police cruiser zipped down the alley. Its bubble lights flashed, but the siren was silent.
    Cliff froze, one booted foot in his yard and the other in our driveway. I suppose he thought the cops were after him. He obviously hadn’t been doing the alley’s posted speed limit of twenty-five, and the cops had been cracking down on that lately, what with the playground nearby. But the police car cruised past him without slowing.
    Cliff glanced toward Big Steve and me. His eyes were wide, and he flashed us a lopsided grin.
    “What’d you do now?” I hollered.
    He shrugged. “Wasn’t me, man. I don’t know what the hell’s going on.”
    One by one I placed the hamburger patties on the grill. They sizzled and I breathed in the smoke, savoring the aroma. Meat cooking on the grill is the surest sign that winter is over, in my opinion, even more than the sighting of the first robin of spring. My mouth watered. Big Steve looked hopeful, his eyes darting from the burgers to me. I put the lid down and started toward the alley. Whining, the dog followed me to the edge of his leash.
    “No,” I told him. “You stay here and guard the burgers.”
    He gave me a mournful case of puppy-dog eyes and