Boomer looked up at him. If eyes could kill—was that a human expression? If so, I now understood it.
“The sickest part,” Bernie said, “was making Lotty think she’d killed Hector. Getting her to pay for the cover-up of her supposed crime with the earnings of her whole career comes second.”
Boomer said nothing.
Bernie prodded him in the side with his foot, not hard, just a touch.
“What made you think of that?” he said.
“Drug fiends are the sick ones, not me,” Boomer said. “And that’s bullshit about her whole career—I never touched her appearance money.”
Bernie prodded him again, perhaps more than a touch this time. “What about Wellington? Was the blackmail a one-time event or did you keep bleeding him, too?”
Boomer said nothing. Didn’t he see Bernie was getting angry? That hardly ever happens, but when it does you can’t miss it even though nothing changes except his eyes.
“Answer the question,” Bernie said, his voice not rising even the slightest bit.
“I have the right to remain silent,” said Boomer.
“Not out here you don’t.” And Bernie prodded him again.
Boomer opened his mouth like he was about to answer, but out came a sort of gurgle. Then Boomer clutched his chest and slumped sideways, gurgling and gasping. Bernie leaned over him.
“Nitro pills,” Boomer groaned, or something like that. All the gasping and gurgling made him hard to understand. “Glove box.”
“Why should I?” Bernie said.
Their faces were close. Their gazes met. Boomer gasped and gurgled. His eyes closed.
Bernie rose. “Watch him, Chet.” He rose and ran toward the ATV.
I stood over Boomer. His eyes opened. He no longer gasped or gurgled, in fact, looked much better. I was wondering what I should do about that, if anything, when I caught a whiff of a very important scent coming across the clearing, a scent I knew well from K-9 school. Yes, I’d flunked out, but not because of missing this particular scent. I hadn’t missed it once. I took off after Bernie. And then stopped. Wasn’t I supposed to stay with Boomer? I glanced back at him. He had the keychain in his hand and was doing something with the fobby thing. I looked the other way, at Bernie. He was running into the thick of the scent. Bernie! My Bernie!
I raced after him, hit top speed, and hurled myself at his back. He fell like he’d been hit by some impossibly mighty thing and I landed on top of him. And then: KA-BOOM! A tremendous KA-BOOM and the ATV blew sky high, rising on a fireball and blasting itself into bits that flamed all around us. One even singed my tail, a scary moment.
We picked ourselves up. “You all right?” Bernie said. He patted my sides. I was fine, even better than fine. Who doesn’t like a bit of excitement?
Little fires were burning here and there along the edges of the clearing. In the clearing itself, Boomer was on his feet, no longer suffering from that gurgling and gasping problem. He saw us, turned real fast, and started running. We took off after him. He swerved toward the Hanging Moon trail, but I cut him off, forcing him back into the clearing. I closed in. Boomer picked up speed, not a bad runner at all, especially for an old guy, but he was in big trouble because now I was angry, just like Bernie.
Maybe Boomer sensed that. He glanced back at me, maybe why he lost his balance and went flying. Boomer cried out in midair, a sharp cry but sharply cut off by another sound, this one horrible. Smack went Boomer, headfirst into a corner of the toppled-over gravestone. It happened fast and slow at the same time, and that horrible sound of head against gravestone had something liquid to it, like the inside of Boomer’s head was made of fruit. The stone was just stone, through and through.
We stood together, me and Bernie, looking down at him. The flames didn’t spread, maybe because there was no wind, but died away, dimming to nothing. Up above, the moon was back at its usual strength.
“You’re a good, good boy,” Bernie said.
* * *
“Steak tested positive for cyanide,” Rick said.
Bernie got a dark look in his eyes.
“Plus,” Rick went on, “we got Ronny DNA off that kitchen knife at Lotty’s ranch.”
Bernie nodded. “Ronny had a nasty skill set you don’t usually see—that business with the earring was a nice touch—but in the end he was just an employee. Clint made the mistake of looking into things Boomer didn’t want looked into. Ronny’s job was to put a stop to Clint or anyone else headed down that road.”
“Did Clint think he was on his way to some sort of jackpot?”
Bernie nodded. “But he was clumsy and word got back to Boomer. Boomer replayed the first murder, with variations.”
“As we say in the music world,” said Rick.
They turned to the little stage in the corner, where Lotty was just setting up. This was on the patio at the Dry Gulch Steakhouse and Saloon. We’d taken over the whole place and there was one monster party going down. No actual monsters were in attendance, but just about everyone else showed up. Even Iggy had put in an appearance, although not for long.
I trotted over to the stage. Lotty was pulling a stool toward the mic stand. She peered down at me.
“Stick around, podner,” she said. “I’ve got a surprise just for you.”
Lotty looked way better than she had the day we delivered the news, Bernie doing the actual delivering and me standing beside him, later sitting, followed by lying, and finally dozing. It was a long story, not so easy to follow even for me, familiar with all the people in it: Hector de Vargas—although I was actually only familiar with his bones and skull; Ronny, the hair-gel dude who worked for Boomer; Boomer himself, who never knew he was Leticia’s father, according to Lotty; and a whole lot of others moving in and out of the picture, like they were trying to confuse me. What I remembered best were Lotty’s eyes as she began to understand what Bernie was telling her. Human eyes are often like doors to keep you out, but sometimes like windows to let you in. Lotty’s eyes had turned into windows, and I’d glimpsed something violent inside, like a terrible wreck. After that, her face had reddened, the red rising from her neck to her forehead. Sometimes humans get red when they’re embarrassed. In the nation within our tails droop, not a pleasant sight, but not as bad as the red face, in my opinion. And Lotty’s had been very red, as though she’d gone somewhere far beyond embarrassment.
But now was different. She had a smile on her face and her skin was glowing. Nixon came over.
“How’s the Caddy?”
“Driving beautifully, thanks to you,” said Lotty.
Meanwhile music was playing over the speakers and lots of dancing was going on. Myron Siegel—who’d handed Bernie a check the moment he arrived, a check that had Bernie saying, “This is too much,” and me thinking, Oh, Bernie—seemed to be the most energetic dancer in the house. First he’d danced with Rita, but now he was with Nixon’s sister Mindy Jo, who once or twice threw her ripped and tattooed arms around him, picked him right up, and whirled across the floor. Jordan was dancing with Ms. Pernick, our accountant. He seemed a little awkward, but she was the best dancer out there, if I properly understood the importance of shaking that thing in dancing.
Bernie was at our table with Eliza, Rick, Flaco, some lawyer buddy of Myron’s—who was going to handle Lotty’s lawsuit against Western Solutions, if I’d heard that part right—and Oksana. Eliza got up to go to the bathroom. Oksana slid closer to Bernie.
“I have younger sister in Russia,” she said.
“Oh?” said Bernie.
“She is good-looking one in family.”
“Well, I wouldn’t—”
“Also free thinker.”
“Free thinker?” Bernie said.
“Not so inhibited like me.” Oksana adjusted her halter top, a simple garment and not at all big, but she seemed to have trouble keeping it in place. “You will love her. Perhaps a trial visit? Maybe next week?”
Eliza returned, gave Oksana a funny look. Oksana slid over a tiny b
it and Eliza squeezed in next to Bernie, put her arm over his shoulder. At that moment, someone cut off the music and Lotty stepped up to the mic. She wore tight blue jeans, red cowboy boots, a white shirt with red fringe. In short, a lovely sight.
“I’m going to sing a song I wrote this morning,” she said. “My daughter will help me out. Come on up here, Leticia.”
Leticia walked onto the little stage. Applause. Lotty hugged her. Leticia hugged Lotty back, if only a little bit. Lotty picked up a guitar and handed it to Leticia.
“We haven’t had much time to rehearse but Leticia’s a very talented musician, something folks may not know.”
“Where she get that from?” called out somebody at the back, possibly Shermie Shouldice.
There was laughter. Lotty let it die down. She pulled the mic stand closer. Leticia began to play something I liked right from the get-go.
“This is called ‘Song for Chet,’” Lotty said. And then she sang.
Well, you’re the kind that runs around
Can’t stop to think until the ship has sailed
Till the milk is spilled, till the safe is blown
Till the day is done and we’re all alone.
If they were all like you, would there be darkness?
If they were all like you, would there be pain?
If they were all like you, would there be teardrops?
If they were all like you.
When I come undone, you are the one
Who gives me hope, who brings the sun
Your big brown eyes say this each day
I’ll always love you, any way.
If they were all like you, then those tears don’t flow
And though the pain may come, it will always go
If they were all like you.
And I’m the kind that loves you back
From here and now, on down the track
To sunset, where the birds are flown
And the day is done and we’re all alone.
After that came a moment or two of silence. Then clapping started up, the sound rising and rising, and folks were on their feet, hootin’ and hollerin’. I myself seemed to be prancing around. I hadn’t even realized I was doing it, but prancing around seemed exactly right. Sometimes you just stumble into perfection. What a life!
It was while all that prancing—to say nothing of the hootin’ and hollerin’—was going on that I happened to glance over at the patio doorway. There was Suzie, watching with tears in her eyes.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many thanks to Kristin Sevick for her very smart and very supportive editing of this book.
The adventure continues!
Look for the next Chet and Bernie novel
in Summer 2020.
Follow Chet on social media
spencequinn.com
chetthedog.com
Facebook.com/chetthedog
@ChetTheDog
“Song For Chet” by Lotty Pilgrim
is available for download
wherever music is sold!
Other Books in the Chet and Bernie Series
Dog on It
Thereby Hangs a Tail
To Fetch a Thief
The Dog Who Knew Too Much
A Fistful of Collars
The Sound and the Furry
Paw and Order
Scents and Sensibility
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
SPENCER QUINN is the pen name of Peter Abrahams, the bestselling author of the Chet and Bernie mystery series, as well as the #1 New York Times bestselling Bowser and Birdie series for middle-grade readers. He lives on Cape Cod with his wife, Diana—and dogs Audrey and Pearl.
Visit him at spencequinn.com, or sign up for email updates here.
www.chetthedog.com
facebook.com/ChetTheDog
@ChetTheDog
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Acknowledgments
Other Books in the Chet and Bernie Series
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
HEART OF BARKNESS
Copyright © 2019 by Pas de Deux
All rights reserved.
“If They Were All Like You (Song for Chet)” written by Peter Abrahams, Robert Edwards, and Mitchell Watkins, used by permission.
Cover photograph by Shaina Fishman
A Forge Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates
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New York, NY 10010
www.tor-forge.com
Forge® is a registered trademark of Macmillan Publishing Group, LLC.
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-29772-3 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-250-29771-6 (ebook)
eISBN9781250297716
Our ebooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by email at [email protected].
First Edition: July 2019
Heart of Barkness Page 27