MicroHorror

He planned it every step of the way. He wandered around the zoo for three days methodically checking the layout and formulating an attack plan. Sure, it cost him a few dollars in admission charges but it was going to be worth every penny. Even so, since he only got five lousy bucks per week in allowance, he was glad that he had just turned eleven and thus still qualified for the kid’s rate.

One way or another he’d show those teachers and psychologists who were always on his back that he really could “focus” and see something through to the end. Who the heck did they think they were anyhow? Even his parents bought into the crap they were all selling. Jeez! He had been grounded for ten days after his last report card. And he hadn’t meant to hurt that little twerp next door; all he wanted to do was play with that new game she got for her birthday. Was it his fault that she wouldn’t share? He was tired of being picked on, of being blamed for everything. It seemed like nobody had any faith in him anymore.

He exited the zoo grounds, unchained his bike from the rack and peddled for home. It was Saturday and he knew his folks would be going out with their dweeby friends for the evening. He’d pretend not to be feeling well so he could go to bed early. He’d have no trouble sneaking out of the house past that stupid cow of a babysitter. All she did was eat, watch TV and talk on her phone with her friends … all about boys and stuff. She hardly paid any attention to him. Some day she’d get hers too. But that could wait. This was when it all started… tonight!

The streetlights had been on for a good two hours. He made his way stealthily down the back stairs and out the kitchen door. He was careful to tread lightly on the top step of the rear porch; it creaked like his father’s left knee when the old guy got up from the table after dinner. No that it mattered; inane dialogue from the TV in the family room and adolescent giggling covered whatever noise he made.

Ten minutes by bike to the southeastern side of the zoo. He knew just the spot; he had scoped it out earlier in the week. Wearing a padded backpack full of tools, it took him no more than sixty seconds to scale the wall and drop noiselessly like a big cat onto the other side. With clinical precision he began killing the smaller animals. He bludgeoned some and stabbed others. “What a night,” he exulted as he threw the dead, dying and dismembered carcasses into the saltwater crocodile enclosure. Enrapt by the carnage and the sounds of savage thrashing he had orchestrated, he was oblivious to a slight rustling in the bushes off to his left.

“What a night,” the head zookeeper thought as he raced back to work. Talking to his wife over dinner and a bottle of wine, he suddenly realized that he’d neglected to double-check the status of that damned computerized lock on the tiger cage. It had been giving him trouble all day. He’d gotten so busy at the end of the day that it just slipped his mind. He punched the accelerator and sped through the intersection on a stale yellow light. There’d be hell to pay–literally–if one of those big cats got loose!

“I assure you, Mrs. Crane, we’ll do everything in our power to find your little boy,” FBI Special Agent Miller told the distraught mother. “Speaking bluntly, you understand,” the tall man with the lantern jaw and de rigueur dark sunglasses continued, “the good news is that we didn’t find him hurt, unconscious… or worse… in the pool.”

With that, Mary Crane began sobbing uncontrollably. She tried to respond but, in the place of coherent words, all that emerged was an inarticulate, almost animal-like keening. Her husband, more or less successfully fighting back tears of his own, put his arm around his wife and pulled her in close.

“Robbie was swimming, just like we said,” Mr. Crane offered for the hundredth time. “We looked away for a moment or two, no more, to turn the chops on the grill. The next thing you know, he was gone. We spent almost two hours scouring the neighborhood–knocking on doors, making phone calls–before we notified the police. I can’t understand it. There’s a fence around the yard and the gate was still latched. There’s no way anyone could have gotten in here to take him. Please, please, find our little boy. He’s only five years old!”

“First of all,” Miller replied, “and I know it’s difficult, but you have to calm down. Calling the authorities as quickly as you did makes everything much easier. I’ve been investigating this kind of thing for nearly twenty years. Chances are very good that your son heard or saw something interesting and simply wandered off to check it out and got lost. There are woods behind your house and he’s probably hiding back there now as we speak, afraid that he’s going to get in trouble. You certainly know how children think.”

Miller spoke briefly into his phone and then turned back toward the anguished parents. “Mrs. Crane, I’d like you to stay in the house near your telephone. Agent Benning will keep you company. Use your cell if you want to continue calling the neighbors or any relatives that live nearby. Mr. Crane, it would be best if you came with us while we searched the area. You can call Robbie’s name and try to convince him that everything’s okay.”

Agent Benning, a fit young woman with stylishly short blond hair, led Mrs. Crane gently toward the house. Mr. Crane accompanied the search party out of the yard and into the woods that abutted the rear of his property. Before disappearing from view he glanced back over his shoulder and gave his wife what he hoped was a reassuring wave. She barely noticed.

Meanwhile, late afternoon sunlight turned the Crane’s in-ground pool a scintillating, eye-straining blue. Little Robbie’s inflatable shark bobbed with a gentle poignancy on the ripples that spread across the deep end. If anyone had thought to examine the carcharian float more closely they might have detected an especially contented and well-fed look playing across the exaggerated features of its toothy, smiling face.