Into the hole and out of sight! What was going on in that hole? I threw myself against one door and then the other, barking and howling. The jeep rocked back and forth and side to side but didn’t let me out. I needed to be free, and right away!
Bernie! Bernie!
A puff of dust rose out of the hole, turned silver in the moonlight. Then Bernie popped up, his shirt torn almost right off him, and started scrambling to the surface. Two enormous and powerful hands reached up and dragged him back down. I barked, I howled, I pawed. The shovel came flying from the hole, and then the hair-gel dude climbed out.
Except not quite. Bernie rose up, grabbed him by the back of his collar, pulled him down. But on the way down, the hair-gel dude snatched up the shovel, twisted around and jabbed the handle end into Bernie’s chest, very hard. Bernie’s mouth opened, round and black, and he sank from view. The hair-gel dude, his hair now plastered over his forehead and his face like a scary mask of all things bad, raised the shovel high, the blade pointed down, and thrust with tremendous power. At the same time he yelled something I couldn’t make out, a yell suddenly cut off. He dropped out of sight, real fast, like the bottom part of him was no longer there.
Time passed. The night went quiet, except for me. Then I went quiet, too. The only sound was my heart, pounding and pounding.
Bernie! Bernie!
A hand appeared at the edge of the hole, a hand I knew and loved. Bernie stood up, shirtless now and with his nose bleeding. He climbed out slowly, in fact, almost not getting out at all. On level ground he glanced around and … and spotted me! He started walking in my direction, the first step or two maybe of the stumbling kind, but after that he moved like my Bernie, strong and steady. He gave the jeep a quick glance and opened the door. I leaped out and landed in his arms.
“Oof! Easy there, big guy, I’m not quite—”
Or something like that. I was too busy licking the blood off his face to really listen.
“Okay, that should do it.” Bernie smiled. Wow! He still had all his teeth! What great news! “But how did…?” He turned and looked into the jeep, spotted the steak. “Achilles’ heel, huh, Chet?” Bernie said. “Come on—we’ve got work to do.” He closed the door. I never wanted to be in that jeep again, of course, but how come the steak hadn’t ended up on the outside?
We headed back toward the hole in the ground. Achilles? A new one on me, but he had to be a perp. I’ve got a feel for these things. Heads up, Senor Achilles. I hope you look good in orange.
* * *
We stood over the hole. A drop or two or maybe more of blood, black in the moonlight, dripped down and fell on the hair-gel dude. He lay faceup at the bottom of the hole, eyes open but not seeing. That’s an expression you get to know in this business. Whoever has it is gone and not coming back. The hair-gel dude actually didn’t look too bad, not as bad as Bernie.
I pressed against his leg. He closed his eyes and sort of bowed his head. Whatever that was about, I felt glad when it was over.
“Stay here,” he said. “Keep watch.”
He climbed down into the hole. I sat at the edge, ears pointed straight up. That was what they wanted and I didn’t object. The night was still, a big dark world with no one alive in it but us, me and Bernie. Had we solved the case? After solving cases comes a celebration, often involving steak.
Bernie crouched beside the hair-gel dude. He patted the hair-gel dude’s pants pockets, fished out a set of keys. Then he reached around to one of the back pockets, slightly shifting the hair-gel dude. His head flopped sideways, a strange sort of movement that reminded me of the teddy bear Charlie had when he was real little, specifically after that one time I’d had it in my possession. I’m no fan of teddy bears. I dealt with a real bear once. That stays with you.
Bernie pulled a wallet out of the back pocket and looked through it. “Two fifties and a ten,” he said, “but no license, no credit cards, nothing to ID him with.” He laid the wallet on the hair-gel dude’s chest and climbed out of the hole. “Let’s take a look at the jeep.”
What a great idea, even if a little long in coming! We left the clearing, passed a few trees, walked slowly around the jeep, me because Bernie was doing it, Bernie for reasons of his own.
“No plate,” he said.
He popped the hood.
“No VIN.”
He opened the passenger door and then the glove box: empty. He checked the side compartments and under the seat.
“No registration. No papers of any kind.”
And only after all that did his gaze fall on the steak, by far the most interesting thing about this jeep. He picked it up and … and sniffed it. That was unusual, and even more unusual was what happened next, Bernie holding the steak under my nose and saying, “Smell anything?”
What a stunner? Where to even begin? This was steak we were talking about, thick and juicy and meaty. Meaty: that was the whole point. Steak was as meaty as it gets. Was it possible Bernie didn’t know that? I looked at him. He looked at me.
“Anything bad, I mean,” he said.
Anything bad? How could that be possible? This was steak, possibly even rib eye or strip, the meati—
At that moment, I picked up one single non-steaky scent coming from the steak, not unpleasant. It reminded me of almonds. In my many—although not nearly enough—dealings with steak, this was a first. Interesting, although not important in the big picture. The big picture was all about that steak and me. My mouth opened nice and wide and—
And Bernie pulled back the steak, out of reach. How awful! Especially since Bernie himself had very strict rules about never ever teasing members of the nation within. My tail drooped right down to the ground.
“Sorry, Chet. It may not be safe.”
Steak not safe? That made no sense to me. What kind of a world would that be, if steak wasn’t safe?
“Tell you what. We’ll take this in for testing and then we’ll chow down on those steak tips at the Dry Gulch.”
My tail rose up, but didn’t start wagging. It was somewhat pleased.
Bernie wrapped the steak in one of the floor mats and we walked around to the back of the jeep. He swung open the door. Inside stood a giant-size cooler, the kind for big picnics. Bernie leaned in, raised the lid, peered inside. For a moment he went still. Then he wedged the wrapped-up steak beside the spare tire, lifted out the cooler, and set it on the ground.
Bernie took the lid off the cooler. We stood side by side, gazing in. The sight of a human skull wasn’t new to me. Don’t forget I’ve had a long career in the desert, solving crimes and exploring abandoned mines, sometimes both at once. This particular skull, yellowish in the moonlight, had a hole in the top, over to one side. I was familiar, too, with skulls that had holes in them, and also with dried bones, of which we had plenty in the cooler.
“He dug up Hector’s remains,” Bernie said. “He—or they—knew we’d be coming to do the same thing. The question, big guy, is what didn’t they want us to see.”
Wow! The “he” had to be the hair-gel dude, but the rest of it? That was Bernie at his best. The moonlight dimmed slightly, maybe from one of those gauzy clouds passing over, and I thought I caught an expression on the face of the skull, a look that said, You’re so right about Bernie.
Bernie crouched down and began sifting through the bones. They clicked against one another, not a loud sound but very clear in the night. “I wonder…” Bernie said, and then his hand, way down under the bones, stopped moving. It closed around something, emerged from the pile, slowly opened.
There on Bernie’s hand lay part of a rusty knife blade, broken off at one end and pointed at the other. Bernie took it by the broken end and gently stuck the point into the hole in the skull.
“The drug overdose was a crock, big guy. Hector was stabbed to death. Dr. Wellington signed a false death certificate.” I could feel Bernie thinking, heavy thoughts that seemed to move like slow birds over my head. “Stabbed to death with a knife,” he said. “
Just like Clint.” He moved the knife around in the hole, trying it this way and that. “Notice the entry point is on the left, and from the angle I’d say Hector was stabbed from in front. I’m no expert, but if it’s true, then…”
Then what? I waited for more, but no more came. And just when I’d been following along pretty well! The only puzzling thing had been the no-expert part, totally wrong. Maybe Bernie was getting tired. I studied his face. He didn’t look tired, in fact looked good, except for the blood. And what was with his nose? Did it seem … somehow better than before?
“What are you staring at?”
Nothing. Not me. Someone else. Nobody. I lifted my leg and marked one of the back wheels of the jeep, my only thought, but never a wrong move in my opinion.
Meanwhile Bernie was on the phone. “Nixon? I know it’s late but I need a favor.”
Even though he wasn’t on speaker, I could hear Nixon on the other end. “Anything,” he said. “I owe you till the end of time.”
“I’ll pay, of course.”
“Goes without saying,” Nixon said.
* * *
We stood by the hole, gazing down at the hair-gel guy. His head was still turned that bad way, like no human head I’d ever seen. Bernie picked up the shovel. “We walked into a trap, big guy,” he said. “What happens if we set the exact same trap ourselves?”
Sounded like a good idea to me, whatever it was. Bernie scooped up a shovelful of earth from the pile he’d just dug out and … and then hesitated. “Chet? Go do something. Play.”
Play? I didn’t get that at all. Weren’t we on the job? Didn’t play come after? Or before? But maybe I was wrong. Maybe Bernie was about to lay down the shovel and produce a ball or a Frisbee, or some new toy I didn’t even know about.
None of that happened. No ball, no Frisbee, no new toy. Instead Bernie took a deep breath and tossed the shovelful of earth back into the hole. The earth landed right on the face of the hair-gel dude, covering it completely except for one silvery open eye. I decided to wander off for a bit, in no particular direction, for no particular reason.
* * *
I sat by a eucalyptus tree, safe in the shelter of its smell. After a while I lay down and watched Bernie at work in the moonlight, filling in holes, not being nearly as interesting as digging them. When he was done, Bernie raised the tombstone, shifted it back into place, and dusted off his hands. Dusting off hands is a nice human thing, a bit like giving yourself a good shake. I got up and did exactly that, and felt much better, even though I hadn’t been feeling the slightest bit bad to start with, certainly not very bad.
Bernie came over and scratched between my ears, a lovely, long scratch and just right. “Okay, big guy,” he said. “Let’s get started.”
Started? Weren’t we finished? Was it possible we had to dig up the hole again? And refill it? Over and over? What a scary idea! I tried to forget it and failed. Then I didn’t try and succeeded.
* * *
We put the cooler in the hair-gel dude’s jeep, plus the shovel and the spade, and drove slowly away from the eucalyptus grove. Soon we came to a rough track which took us to the old Yuma Road, and finally the parking lot at Rancho de la Luna, an unlit parking lot where the Porsche waited in the darkest corner. Also waiting was Nixon, at the wheel of his wrecker.
“What happened to your nose?” Nixon said.
“Still bleeding?” said Bernie.
“I don’t mean that,” Nixon said. “It’s straight.”
“It is?” Bernie felt his nose, looked surprised.
He set the spade, shovel, and cooler down beside the Porsche.
“Whose jeep?” Nixon said.
“Good question,” said Bernie. “It needs to be under wraps. Literally—throw a tarp over it or something.”
“Oh, I can do better than that,” Nixon said. “I’ve got a whole garage over in South Pedroia for just this kind of thing.”
Bernie gave him a look. “You think I’m suddenly into car theft?”
“No way,” said Nixon. “More like a lost and found situation.”
“That’s what your garage is? A lost and found?”
Nixon laughed. “Maybe I’ll write off the mortgage payments as a charitable deduction.”
He hooked up the jeep and drove away. Bernie opened the glove box of the Porsche and took out the .38 Special. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “Closing the barn door after the horses are gone.”
Oh, no. I hadn’t been thinking anything of the sort. But what a nightmare! I listened for galloping hooves, heard none. I sniffed the air: plenty of horse scent around, including Mingo’s, but none of it recent. That was as far as I could take it on my own.
Soon after that, we hit the road—me, Bernie, shovel, spade, and that big cooler with the skull and bones inside, all jammed in together. We followed Nixon’s exhaust trail all the way to the highway. He was out of sight but I thought I heard him, still laughing. The moon slid behind the crest of a black mountain and vanished.
Twenty-eight
“Suppose,” Bernie said, “that Person X knew Dr. Wellington was dealing drugs. That puts Dr. Wellington in Person X’s power. So that’s the leverage, Chet. Now we just need to find Person X.”
I opened my eyes. The first sliver of sun popped up at the edge of the sky, a beautiful sight. The air smelled fresh and … and so did I! Have I mentioned my smell yet? There’s something peppery about it, unusual in the nation within, and highly desirable in the minds of certain she-barkers I’ve run across. But no time for that now. I had to concentrate on what Bernie had just said. I’d been hearing about Dr. Wellington, but had we met him yet? I wasn’t sure about that. As for Person X, I recalled no one by that name. Was this case going well? Not well? We’d started with a dead body, namely Clint, and now we had a cooler containing a skull and a bunch of bones. If they’d killed each other, then we were done and on our way to pick up the check from Myron Siegel. We seemed to be entering South Pedroia. Did Myron Siegel live in South Pedroia? I didn’t think so.
“Was Person X a dealer, too? Is it all about drugs? I just—” Bernie fell silent as we passed our self-storage. Inside was an entire shipment of Hawaiian pants, and another entire shipment on top of that, all those Hawaiian pants made special just for us. I still remember the day, riding in the car just like this, when Bernie had snapped his fingers and shouted, “Hawaiian pants!” Exactly what the whole wide world was waiting for! We’d been so excited! I’d practically peed right there in the shotgun seat—an absolute no-no—and possibly Bernie had come close to doing the same. But that finger snap had ended up cratering our finances, the tin futures play that came later just non-icing on the non-cake, as Bernie had put it, a brilliant analysis and far beyond my understanding.
We turned a corner, the self-storage disappearing from my side mirror. Bernie let out his breath. “Music and drugs—wouldn’t be the first time. Wouldn’t be the millionth. But for that very reason I’m not buying that this is about drugs, not fundamentally. Call me a contrarian if you like.”
Never. That was totally off the table.
We stopped in front of a very small stucco house with a tiny yard and no trees out front. There are blocks and blocks of houses like that in South Pedroia but this was the one where Medic lived. Medic was an old Army buddy of Bernie’s, kind of in the same business as us, except he only worked cold cases, meaning pretty hopeless ones, if I was understanding right, and only those cold cases that could be solved from his computer.
Bernie carried the cooler up to the front door and knocked. A woman in a hospital-type outfit opened up. Her eyes got wide and she put her hand to her chest, like … like she was scared at the mere sight of us. How was that possible? We were harmless, me and Bernie, sometimes for days and days at a time.
“Who’s there?” called a man from inside the house, a man whose deep voice I recognized. Medic had the very deepest voice I’d ever heard.
“A man,” the woman said. “With a cooler.
And a very large dog.”
“Is there beer in that cooler?” Medic called again.
“Tell him no,” Bernie said.
Why wasn’t Bernie raising his voice to tell him himself? That was one of those human mysteries. They cropped up a lot when Bernie’s Army buddies were around.
“He says no,” called the woman.
“Let him in anyway.”
The woman opened the door wide and backed away.
“He won’t bite, I hope?” she said.
“Chet? Never,” Bernie said.
For some reason that was the moment my mouth decided to open way up.
“Oh, dear.” The woman pressed herself into the wall.
“No worries,” Bernie said. “That’s just his sense of humor.”
“I didn’t know dogs had a sense of humor.”
“A dominant trait in some of them.”
We headed down a narrow hall toward the kitchen, me in the lead. Medic was at the table. He closed his laptop and came wheeling over. Bernie put the cooler on the floor and leaned down to him. They hugged and pounded each other’s backs. For a few moments it sounded like we had drummers on the scene.
“You son of a bitch,” Medic said. “I heard you almost checked out.”
“I’m here,” Bernie said.
“Sure as hell better be. Try any premature bullshit and I’ll beat the crap out of you when we meet again.”
Here’s maybe a good spot to mention again about human mysteries and Army buddies.
Meanwhile Medic had turned to the woman. “Consuelo’s my visiting nurse. Meet Bernie. You wouldn’t be here today except for him.”
“Excuse me?” said Consuelo.
“I woulda been a goner is why. Bastard saved my life.”
“Nice to meet you, Bernie,” Consuelo said. “Were you a medic, too?”
“Why would he be the medic?” Medic said. “I was the medic. That’s why they call me Medic.”
Heart of Barkness Page 23