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By the time Calvin arrived home, sometime after eleven, he had all but purged himself of BiOmega. Waite said nobody had found anything when they built their house; and the DPW had given their well a clean bill of health. Case closed. It was a twenty-three-year-old false alarm. Whatever was affecting Matty's system, thank God, didn't have Calvin's name on it. Nor did the dogwood and tulips. Maybe Terry was right about the ozone holes. |
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He pulled up the driveway. The only light in the house came from the kitchen. Matty's room, which hung over the driveway, was black. So was their bedroom. Terry had probably crashed before it got dark. |
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Calvin took his briefcase and got out of the car, feeling as if cement were flowing through his veins. He wanted to sleep for a week. He pressed the door button and the garage door rolled down with a rusted groan. The backyard and pool lay before him, as Matthew Arnold said, like a "land of dreams/So various, so beautiful, so new." |
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The night was idyllic. Not even the barking of that jerk Gretchen. (Funny, he hadn't heard her for a few days. Maybe they were out of town.) The only sound was the cozy racket of crickets. He dragged himself toward the back steps, guided by the light from the kitchen windows. |
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It was the acrid fecal odor that hit him first. |
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The ground by the back steps was covered with blood and scraps of flesh and viscera. There wasn't anything big enough to identifyjust scattered lumps of meat and fur, all so small and matted with |
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