Speaking in Tongues

people divorced fifteen years.
    And as for Megan—how can anyone know a seventeen-year-old girl? Her mind was a moving target. Her only report on the therapy sessions was: “Dad, therapy’s for, like, losers. Okay?” And her Walkman headset went back on. He didn’t expect her to be any more informative—or articulate—today.
    As he approached the house he now noticed that all of the inside lights had been shut off. But when he stepped out of the field he saw that neither Megan’s nor Bett’s car was in the drive.
    He unlocked the door and walked into the house, which echoed with emptiness. He noticed Megan’s house keys on the entryway table and dropped his own beside them, looking up the dim hallway. The only light in the cavernous space was from behind him—the bony light from outside, filtering through the entryway.
    What’s that noise?
    A wet sound, sticky, came from somewhere on the first floor. Repetitive, accompanied by a faint, hungry gasping.
    The chill of fear stirred at his neck.
    “Megan?”
    The noise stopped momentarily. Then, with a guttural snap of breath, it resumed again. There was a desperation about the sound. Tate’s stomach began to churn and his skin prickled with sweat.
    And that smell . . . Something pungent and ripe.
    Blood! he believed. Like the smell of hot rust.
    “Megan!” he called again. Alarmed now, he walked farther into the house.
    The noise stopped though the smell was stronger, almost nauseating.
    Tate thought of weapons. He had a pistol but it was locked away in the barn and there was no time to get it. He stepped forcefully into the den, seized a letter opener from the desk, flipped on the light.
    And laughed out loud.
    His two-year-old Dalmatian, her back to him, was flopped down on the floor, chewing intently. Tate set the opener on the bar and approached the dog. His smile faded. What is that? Tate squinted.
    Suddenly, with a wild, raging snarl, the dog spun and lunged at him. He gasped in shock and leapt back, cracking his elbow on the corner of a table. Just as quickly the dog turned away from him, back to its trophy.
    Tate circled the animal then stopped. Between the dog’s bloody paws was a bone from which streamed bits of flesh. Tate stepped forward. The dog’s head swiveled ominously. The animal’s eyes gleamed with jealous hatred. A fierce growl rolled from her sleek throat and the black lips pulled back, revealing bloody teeth.
    Jesus . . .
    What is it? Tate wondered, queasy. Had the dog grabbed some animal that had gotten into the house? It was so badly mauled he couldn’t tell what it had been.
    “No,” Tate commanded. But the dog continued to defend its prize; a raspy growl rose from her throat.
    “Come!”
    The dog dropped her head and continued to chew, keeping her malevolent eyes turned sideways toward Tate. The crack of bone was loud.
    “Come!”
    No response.
    Tate lost his temper and stepped around the dog, reaching for its collar. The animal leapt up in a frenzy, snapping at him, baring sharp teeth. Tate pulled back just in time to save his fingers.
    He could see the bloody object. It looked like a beef leg bone. The kennel owner from whom he’d bought the Dalmatian told him that bones were dangerous treats. Tate never bought them and he assumed Megan must have been shopping on her way here and picked one up. She sometimes brought chew sticks or rubber toys for the animal.
    Tate made a strategic retreat, slipped into the hallway. He’d wait until the animal fell asleep tonight then throw the damn thing out.
    He walked to the basement stairs, which led down to the recreation room Tate had built for the family parties and reunions he’d planned on hosting—people clustered around the pool table, lounging at the bar, drinking blender daiquiris and eating barbecued chicken. The parties and reunions never happened but Megan often disappeared down to the dark catacombs when she spent weekends here.
    He descended the stairs and made a circuit of the small dim rooms. Nothing. He paused and cocked his head. From upstairs came the sound of the dog’s growl once more. Urgent and ominous.
    “Megan, is that you?” his baritone voice echoed powerfully.
    He was angry. Megan and Bett were already twenty minutes late. Here he’d gone to the trouble of invitingthem over, doing his fatherly duty, and this was what he got in return . . .
    The growling stopped abruptly. Tate listened for footsteps on the ground floor but heard nothing. He