The wife is gone; she passed last autumn. Instead, I have a dog. There’s no sex, but then no nagging either, so that’s something. Now if I want to fry my eggs in butter then by God I will, and they’ll be swimming in it. Ernie likes them that way too.

 

Who am I kidding? I miss talking to her; I just didn’t understand her most of the time.

 

Had a visitor this morning, a young fella in a suit. The jacket was open with a pistol in a shoulder holster peeking out, so it was no surprise when he flashed a badge: Detective Winters.

 

I eyed him through the screen door, took my time checking out his credentials (which I hear you can buy on the internet, if you have the internet, which I don’t). The dog growled and I shushed her with a sharp Ernie. She quieted right down. I let the man in.

 

He introduced himself, and I thought he was the finest-looking, best-spoken Black man I’d ever met; and my second thought was it was lucky Ernestine was no longer around. Lucky for us, not her. She’d only confuse him. I introduced him to Ernie, and the dog nosed his hand.

 

“Good girl,” he murmured. “Nice retriever. Hunt much?”

 

So he’d noticed the rifle in the umbrella stand. “Not really. Pheasant, some.”

 

He brushed his hands on his slacks. “I saw the No Hunting signs posted on your property.”

 

“That’s right. Wouldn’t want Ernie here getting shot.” She thanked me with a wag of her tail.

 

“Sorry to hear about your wife. Cancer, was it?”

 

“Yep, a bad one.”

 

“And you requested cremation, according to the coroner’s report.”

 

“Scattered her over the garden. Tomato patch."

 

He grunted and tapped the folder in his hand. “Mr. Shuyler, I’d like to ask for your help, show you these pictures. Is there someplace we can sit down?”

 

“Sure.” I led him into the kitchen; I don’t use the sitting room. “Coffee?”

 

He said no, something about his blood pressure, and we sat. I cleared the breakfast dishes, mine and Ernie’s, and he spread out photos from a folder. They were mostly young fellas, with a few girls; a few older, mostly younger.

 

“Do you recognize anyone, sir?”

 

I sort of frowned and clacked my gums like it was some intelligence test and pointed at one.

 

Detective Winters looked like a dog with the scent.

 

“Yeah,” I said, “isn’t he the fella from that TV show?”

 

The detective smiled and slid the photo back into his folder. “How about the rest?”

 

“I dunno,” I said, and scratched Ernie’s head. We knew them all. “What did they do?”

The detective nodded. “They all went missing over the last decade, from different towns and cities around the Midwest.”

 

“Why you looking here?”

 

“Seems we have some program at the state level, ay-eye, they call it. Pattern recognition. Somebody set it looking for a pattern in the missing person reports, and it spat out this list—what they call a cluster—and directed it to our office. My desk.”

 

“Must be tough, taking orders from a machine. Worse than a wife.”

 

Winters ignored the remark. “Most of them carried cell phones. One of the strategies this machine, as you call it, uses is to analyze cellular traffic. It drew a path for every missing person’s use of their phone, and the paths, over the years, converged on one spot.”

 

“Where’s that?”

 

He gestured out at the road. “The cell tower across your field, past the next farm.”

 

Ugly thing poking over the treetops. “I know it. Makes sense.”

 

“Why?”

 

“There’s a roadhouse not a half-mile from there. Seems likely they visited, seeing as there’s nothing much else around.”

 

“Yes, sir; good point. We interviewed the staff— mostly ex-staff, scattered—not much good. Just one lead. Know what they said?”

 

“No idea.” I got up and refilled my coffee and sipped. It was bitter from too much time on the stove, but I swallowed it anyway.

 

“One young lady of sixty-something years recalled a handsome gentleman who dropped in for a beer—and directions. Looking for Ernestine Shuyler’s place.”

 

Detective Winters laid those solemn, dark eyes on me, even as Ernie fixed him with her best golden-eyed stare. Me, I was staring around the ceiling. The cobwebs were gathering in the corners, something Ernestine would have dealt with. I realized the man was talking.

 

“Hmm?”

 

“I said, would you remember any visitors around—” he consulted some notes in his folder “—April last year?”

 

“No, sir, afraid not. You know, by summer Ernestine was doing poorly. Maybe this visitor came by and just left because we were off at the hospital in Black River.”

 

“Your wife operated some sort of counseling service. So she was still doing that counseling, what have you, even though she was ill?” The detective leaned back in his chair, which creaked.

 

“Mind my furniture.”

 

He returned the chair to the floor and slipped another sheet from his folder. This one had a fancy seal at the top and an engraved title. Official.

 

“This is a court order authorizing the search of your property. It’s from a Federal court, you see, and the FBI was kind enough to share it with our office before executing it.”

 

His bland expression had slipped into a bad-smell reaction at the mention of the feds. “So now I’m sharing it with you.”

 

“Seems that way,” I said. “What are they searching for, exactly?” I squinted at the fine print. (All print looks fine, these days.)

 

“Evidence related to the missing persons.” He chewed his words for a moment. “Including human remains.”

 

“So, you’re going to dig up my yard? You just tell them to be mindful of the electric service. And my septic line, the leach field…”

 

Detective Winters raised a hand. “Hopefully they won’t be digging any holes. They’ll bring in cadaver dogs, resistivity detectors, ground-penetrating radar, surface disturbance assessors—a lot of modern tools before resorting to a backhoe.”

 

He waved at the deep expanse of woods and said, “Digging wouldn’t be practical in all that anyway.”

 

At my feet, Ernie stirred, restless. I couldn’t help but glancing outside to see if anything was watching. “Well, I can tell you, their time would be better spent chasing criminals and crooked politicians.”

 

“You know, I reached out to the coroner, Jack Fourier, but couldn’t locate him.”

 

“He retired shortly after Ernestine passed. Moved away.”

 

“So I’m told. No forwarding address. Seemed rather young for retirement…”

 

If he expected my opinion he didn’t wait for it. Detective Winters stood. “They’ll arrive in the morning. I’ll be in touch if we need anything before then.”

 

“Be safe,” I said, and walked him to the door.

 

Ernie watched through the screen door as his car pulled away. I closed the front door and locked it, and she recommenced staring at me.

 

“What?”

 

~ * ~

 

Took a walk in the afternoon, keeping an eye out for nosy snoops. Ernie led the way, by scent, first to where I’d stashed the clothes a good twenty-minute walk from the house, then farther along, up a ridge.

 

We came out of the pine woods into a little meadow leading to a drop-off. The man was seated on a log at the overlook, staring off across the North Woods. Ernie ran up to him. When he turned and smiled, she barked and bounced a bit like a pup.

 

He smiled, said, “Ernie!” and let her slobber on his hand, tail signaling her excitement.

 

“Owen—how you been?”

 

“Chas,” I said, “not bad,” and offered him my hand.

 

He hadn’t changed a bit since the last I’d seen him in the fall, looking thirty-five or -six, big round face and fine frizzy hair, built like a brick shit-house. He tugged at the baggy pants stretched tight at the waist.

 

“Can’t you come up with some new clothes? These sweats are like a fashion disaster.”

 

“Never know who’s going to need ‘em,” I replied. “One size fits all. Listen, we got trouble.”

 

I spelled out Winters’ message about the feds coming.

 

“You have to spread the word through the woods,” I said, “lay low, don’t try to come back for a while.”

 

“You know I can’t promise much. It’s hard to communicate at all, much less between species.”

 

“Well, damn it, try!”

 

Chas raised his eyebrows but kept his cool. “Okay, old codger, don’t stress yourself.”

 

“I am an old fool, for getting caught up in Ernestine’s nonsense! You lot have your freedom, and I’m left to deal with the nosy bastards…” I shook my head. “Sorry; I like to keep myself to myself, and this FBI nonsense…”

 

“We’ll stay out of sight.” His face clouded right up. “We’ve had enough tragedy for one season.”

 

“What’s that?”

 

“We lost one—Juliette. Killed on the highway.”

 

Ernie whimpered, and Chas stroked her golden head. I thought back to a small figure at the edge of the woods, staring back at the house, watching, then disappearing. The last I’d seen her.

 

“Juliette—girl in her twenties, just a slip of a thing, cute as a button. Fox, right?”

 

Chas smiled ruefully. “In more ways than one. I carried her body back and buried her in the woods.”

 

I stared at him. “You didn’t…” I worked my jaws.

 

“No—hell, man! There’s a little humanity in every animal…”

 

And a little animal in every human. One of Ernestine’s proverbs.

 

“Damn shame,” I said.

 

Chas stood and dropped a big paw of a hand on my shoulder. “We’re all grateful to Ernestine—and you too, for carrying on, in your own fashion.”

 

The caretaker left to clean up after the shindig. “They aren’t going to leave this alone,” I said.

 

“You worry too much, Owen. Let them sniff around, they aren’t going to find anything!” Chas smiled broadly. “Just a forest full of happy critters.”

 

“And you—why are you back? Need anything?”

 

“No…I’m fine. Us bears are getting ready for winter.” He slapped his gut, then looked around. “I can spread the word to stay out of sight. Okay?”

 

I nodded. To look at him, you wouldn’t know the doctors had predicted he’d be dead in a few months, a bad heart. Ernestine had told him they were right, but that she saw a different path; not a cure, just…a scenic route.

 

“Think I’ll stretch these legs,” said Chas. “Give me an hour and you’ll find the clothes at the usual place.”

 

Ernie rose, looking up at Chas with bright eyes.

 

“C’mon Owen—cheer up. Give it a week; someone will check back with you if the woods are quiet.”

 

“How’s Jack?” I asked.

 

“You know, keeps himself to himself. Possums are like that. Why?”

 

I considered asking Jack to come back. “Nothing. Just wondered.” It wouldn’t be fair, not after his kidney failure.

 

Chas lumbered off towards the tree line, Ernie trotting along. I wanted to call her back, get her into the house and safe, but I knew I was just being selfish.

 

“Ernie—straight home after your walk,” I called after them, and she looked back with a toss of her head, then scampered after Chas.

 

I knew I had to do something. They wouldn’t let it go.

 

~ * ~

 

Back in college, Ernestine was sort of a hippy, I guess you’d say, with crazy red hair getting everywhere and clothes from yard sales and always discussing odd books. Lots of Indian lore and beliefs. Claimed an Indian great-grandma: Algonquin. I’d listen to her talk with that sly little mouth and not hear a word, just thinking, that mouth promises a lot and might deliver even more—for the right fella.

 

I was sitting in this little room where the FBI folks put me. Very polite and all, but they leave you with nothing to do. They took away my belt, maybe so I couldn’t run so fast, though my jogging days are past. This was supposed to get me thinking about my misdeeds I suppose, and make me feel the urge to confess. I was never much for confession in church, but I thought I’d better do one this time.

 

So, when you’re my age you don’t need a phone for amusement, you got a whole lifetime to mull, the good and the bad.

 

Ernestine and I met at the community college. I went to satisfy my folks, better myself, and managed to come out with an aggie certificate after two years, barely. Ernestine was whip-smart and strong-willed, especially about caring for nature, and her philosophy.

 

I was enjoying some nice memories of us together, jumping into a cold winter bed, naked and shivering like we’d been shipwrecked, when Detective Winters walked in.

 

“Are you being treated okay? Do you need a drink of water?” He spoke sort of loud, like he had an audience of old people, and I figured he was trying to tell me someone was watching.

 

That Winters, he’d have made a fine train porter, courteous and helpful, neat in his dress. He sat across from me and laid his folder between us.

 

“Just fine,” I said. “No water, thanks; I’d just be a bother and have to go pee.”

 

Winters smiled his understanding and said, “The agent in charge says you offered a confession, but not until we’d spoken.”

 

“I’m worried what would happen to Ernie if I’m put away. I need some kind of…plea deal. Wouldn’t want her ending up in a pound, or…”

 

“Oh, I don’t think that’s going to happen. Just tell me your story in your own words.”

 

I began, “I was jealous of anybody looking at my Ernestine, even after all these years. She didn’t know what I’d done. I put the bodies in acid, and then…”

 

When I finished Winters shook his head. “Pretty wild story. A lot of work, and you know what the FBI found?”

 

“Of course not. Been sitting here twiddling my thumbs, and not a word from them.”

 

“Well, I don’t have to tell you because you already know.” He stared off at the wall, between us, up at the mirror, the unseen audience. “Nothing. No physical evidence the missing persons were in your house, or even your yard. No acid bath or residue. No souvenirs, no clothing…nothing.”

 

“Well, I was thorough. Gave their clothes to Goodwill. Cleaned up proper.”

 

He leaned in. “You spent a lot of time at the library after I visited. The True Crime section.”

 

“Now you’re spying on me when I’m just educating myself?”

 

I’m educating you, Ernestine once said, We’ll never be the same, but you’ll understand me, at least. Then she’d make one of her outlandish, always accurate predictions, and I’d just shake my head.

 

“Know what I think? Your wild story is just that—a story. You could be charged with wasting the taxpayer’s money, and that’s about it. This, on the other hand…” He slid a printout across the table to me. “…I believe.”

 

It was from Ernestine’s website. I always told her no good would come of the internet, but she was stubborn, at the Library tapping away for hours. I read the headline: You Are More Than You Know.

 

“Interesting reading,” he continued. “All about finding a new life, unburdening yourself of the past. Seeing a course for the future. Did she believe she was a shaman?”

 

I snorted.

 

The detective shrugged. “FBI Cyberforensics will track at least some of her victims’ internet searches to this site, I imagine.”

 

“Clients, not victims!” I snapped. “They were clients.”

 

“No one’s disappeared since she passed,” Winters said. “Well, except for the coroner…”

 

“She only helped people, and if she couldn’t help one she was honest about it, turned them away.”

 

“Helped them…to disappear? That’s a theory, but her clientele, as far as we can determine, were by and large not fugitives, or abused spouses, or people fleeing drug cartels or white slavery rings. Unhappy, maybe; some ill, some sad, some heartbroken.”

 

Detective Winters sat in silence for a little while, another one of those interrogation tricks: bore the perpetrator into confessing. I was daydreaming about our early years together, Ernestine and me, working the farm, when he stirred and cleared his throat.

 

“I thought you might have drifted off,” he said. “If you could just explain what your wife was doing—”

 

“Not my business.”

 

He nodded. “I understand; but if you could just direct us to one of her clients from our list, then they wouldn’t be missing, and there’d be no case to investigate.”

 

I thought of the woods. “Mostly they travel, wander about.”

 

“Off the grid?”

 

“Huh?” It took me a minute to realize he was trying to come up with a story for the FBI fellas.” “Yeah—way, way off the grid.”

 

“Can you contact them? A message drop, maybe online?”

 

“I can try to arrange a meeting,” I said. “But it will have to be with you, at my place. They’re gone for good reasons, and need their privacy.”

 

He nodded, fingers stroking the table like a horse. “Then we’ll just keep your first story out of the files, as it were. Easier all around. No wasted time.”

 

Detective Winters stood. “And you can go home and feed Ernie.”

 

~ * ~

 

Chas may be a grouchy bear most of the time, but he can turn on the charm when needed. He didn’t mention the heart disease, just said that he’d had ‘personal problems’ and needed a fresh start, and that Ernestine had helped him give up his ‘old life’ and become a ‘healthier person’.

 

“She was highly perceptive,” he concluded.

 

There were questions and mulling on the detective’s part. He didn’t like the idea of somebody living without earning a big salary, or driving a car, or using a cell phone.

 

How did people get on, for all those thousands of years before that stuff? Ernestine would have had some clever answer.

 

After Detective Winters shook our hands and declared the matter closed and departed with a backward frown, I invited Chas back for a meal and a beer.

 

“Much as that beer sounds fine, I just can’t. Not much time left for this body; I’m sort of hoarding it. Leave a can for me, though, at the clothes drop?”

 

“I’ll do that,” I said. “Sorry you had to do this.”

 

“No problem. I’ll miss being able to come back and talk with you.” Chas scuffed at the ground in his borrowed shoes, unused to the feeling. “Shame you can’t join us, Owen.”

 

Ernie whimpered and bumped my leg.

 

I nodded and said, “Yeah, well; that’s just the way of it.” Much as Ernestine had tried, I just couldn’t change. Can’t teach an old dog new tricks, I guess.

 

We said goodbye.

 

Back at the house I pan-fried steaks for Ernie and me and thought it through while we ate. I looked forward to another quiet evening, a bit of reading, and a good night’s sleep with Ernie pressed beside me.

 

Couldn’t blame Chas. Don’t we all do it? Horde our last hours, I mean?

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