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It
was
like
no
sound
I
've
ever
heard
,
but
the
closest
approximation
might
be
a
movie
set
in
the
African
veld
or
a
South
American
swamp
.
It
was
the
sound
of
a
big
animal
.
It
came
again
,
low
and
tearing
and
savage
.
Once
more
...
and
then
it
subsided
to
a
series
of
low
mutterings
.
Then
it
was
completely
gone
.
"
Close
the
door
,
"
Amanda
Dumfries
said
in
a
trembling
voice
.
"
Please
.
"
"
In
a
minute
,
"
I
said
,
and
began
to
yank
the
line
back
in
.
It
came
out
of
the
mist
and
piled
up
around
my
feet
in
untidy
loops
and
snarls
.
About
three
feet
from
the
end
,
the
new
white
clothesline
went
barn-red
.
"
Death
!
"
Mrs.
Carmody
screamed
.
"
Death
to
go
out
there
!
Now
do
you
see
?
"
The
end
of
the
clothesline
was
a
chewed
and
frayed
tangle
of
fiber
and
little
puffs
of
cotton
.
The
little
puffs
were
dewed
with
minute
drops
of
blood
.
No
one
contradicted
Mrs.
Carmody
.
Mike
Hatlen
let
the
door
swing
shut
.
Mr.
McVey
had
worked
in
Bridgton
cutting
meat
ever
since
I
was
twelve
or
thirteen
,
and
I
had
no
idea
what
his
first
name
was
or
his
age
might
be
.
He
had
set
up
a
gas
grill
under
one
of
the
small
exhaust
fans-the
fans
were
still
now
,
but
presumably
they
still
gave
some
ventilation-and
by
6.30
p.m
the
smell
of
cooking
chicken
filled
the
market
.
Bud
Brown
did
n't
object
.
It
might
have
been
stock
,
but
more
likely
he
had
recognized
the
fact
that
his
fresh
meat
and
poultry
was
n't
getting
any
fresher
.
The
chicken
smelled
good
,
but
not
many
people
wanted
to
eat
.
Mr.
McVey
,
small
and
spare
and
neat
in
his
whites
,
cooked
the
chicken
nevertheless
and
laid
the
pieces
two
by
two
on
paper
plates
and
lined
them
up
cafeteria-style
on
top
of
the
meat
counter
.
Mrs.
Turman
brought
Billy
and
me
each
a
plate
,
garnished
with
helpings
of
deli
potato
salad
.
I
ate
as
best
I
could
,
but
Billy
would
not
even
pick
at
his
.
