A Ghost for a Clue

by C L R Draeco

  “You got the willdisc ready?” he asked.

  “Yeah. I’ve . . . I’ve got it.” I couldn’t get over the transformation of both man and beast.

  “He ain’t gonna make it through the night.”

  I reached out and stroked the old Labrador. From the dim interior of the garage came the faint sound of footsteps.

  “The vet’s here,” Roy said. “We gotta do it now.”

  44

  What Tromino Had Told Me

  By the dim light of a solitary lamp at the back of Roy’s garage, I did my duty of relaying what Tromino had told me. I wasn’t sure what all of it meant, but it made perfect sense to the vet.

  Roy listened with a blank expression, as though numb. Perhaps it was the only way he could go through with this—by not letting anything change the fact that he’d already made up his mind. “I’ll go set up the iCube,” he said, then left me with the vet to discuss what needed to be done.

  Quince sat on the floor, across from my perch on a stool, and caressed the sleeping dog. The gaunt man, with a chin too long for his face, seemed to be in his mid-thirties, though it was a difficult guess. He looked like a Goth guru from the temple of tattoos with his eyes heavily lined in black. Skin art peeped past his sleeves on the back of his hands and crept up one side of his neck. The piercings underneath his lower lip and over one eyebrow glinted in the lamplight; one earlobe displayed a row of small silver rings, the other a black ear cuff for his iHub. Quince smelled clean, but he looked dirty.

  I broke the long silence. “Mind telling me why you think it makes sense?”

  “The HPA axis in aging dogs. It’s like a siren song in a sad three-part harmony.” Quince’s eyes stayed fixed on the yellow Lab. “It exhibits progressive dysfunctioning.”

  His words were like half prognosis, half poetry. “I don’t understand.”

  “In older dogs, the hormone receptors act up, especially those for cortisol, aldosterone, and ACTH—hormones often produced because of biological stress.”

  “So how does it make sense?”

  “Older dogs get increased basal hormone levels. And there’s a heightened responsiveness. It’s almost like they’re primed to set off the HPA axis faster. Maybe ’cause to them—death comes easy, man. Like the body’s always ready for Code Blue.”

  He sounded like he knew his stuff, but it was difficult to trust the guy after hearing Roy’s weird stories involving him. His grungy appearance didn’t help in any way. “So do you know what you need to do?”

  Quince started grooving to a beat only he could hear, then I realized that was his way of nodding. “Fraught with panic and pain. That would have to be this one’s end.”

  Panic and pain? “Wait, what?”

  “It’s the most efficient way to activate the HPA axis. Just like a violent death, dude. It sends the body’s defenses on hyperdrive.”

  “Hey now, wait a minute.” I got on my feet as a grave unease rolled up my back. “You’re going to hurt the poor fellow?”

  The vet’s expression remained deadpan. “Sudden cardiac arrest induced through an injection. It’ll be quick. Though each second might feel like forever.”

  “Hell, no. There’s got to be another way.”

  “This is the closest to humane, man—though still far from it. But that’s what I need to do if we want the HPA axis playing hardball.”

  I glanced at the aged dog battling just to breathe. Why punish him more? “This is going too far.”

  “Think of me as your echo, man.” Quince held two fingers in a peace sign and tapped it over his heart. “I’ll go explain things to Double R and try to convince him to let the poor guy go. What do you say?”

  I guess I’m your echo too. “I’m with you on that one, mate.”

  I walked over to the resting dog and got down on my haunches to caress him. Though it seemed like a callous thought, I hoped Boner would suddenly stop breathing right then—so Roy’s mad plan would come to an end.

  Quince came back and plopped down on the floor next to Boner. “He said okay.”

  “Okay what?”

  “He says it’s okay for me to do it.”

  “And you agreed?” I got up, stunned. “Why?”

  “It could help other dogs someday. And the people who love them.”

  I shook my head. Would anyone else really want this for their pet? “Think about it, man. What you described—what you have to do. It’s not just illegal, it’s cruel. Precisely why it’s illegal.”

  Quince shrugged. “I’m an ex vet as it is. I’ve stopped practicing.” He placed one hand flat against his chest, all his nails painted black. “I’m a chicken heart in the company of dogs.”

  “What?”

  “I lost my own dogs in a fire. All five of them in one freak accident. The only thing I could do to get me through it was commemorate them with tattoos. The pain of the art became part of the grieving. You wanna see?” Quince unzipped his jacket.

  “No, no. It’s okay.”

  “I opened a tattoo shop instead. Now, I can lose myself in the stories of the people who come in to get their stamp. You could say—Ink became my liquor. My business is my catharsis.”

  “I see.” I settled back uneasily into my seat.

  “Double R’s ex, Karen, you know her?” Quince asked.

  “Never had the pleasure.”

  “She comes around once in a while. Just to visit—and wow my customers with her gift. You know about it?”

  I nodded.

  “Karen says those who embrace their death go straight into the light. She keeps telling me my dogs are still around because they died trying to get out, fighting to survive. People always say that about those who die unprepared, and it’s been acting like a jackhammer on my mind. It’s hard for me to believe they never left because I don’t feel them. I can’t tell if they’re really there.”

  Quince’s words struck a chord, and I lowered my gaze. I’d gotten to thinking about my parents’ death again lately. Had they really been incapable of lingering in any way? Or did they try to transmit to me, but like Roy, I just didn’t have the “antenna” to receive it? Did I lack a gene—a gene neither of my parents had? And unable to connect, their messages just . . . faded away? A cold wave coursed through me, and I shoved aside a sudden throb of grief.

  “Boner’s my last patient. I never did stop looking after him. So I think it’s only right that I be the one to do this.”

  Roy hustled in. “Okay, I’m all set. You guys know what you gotta do?”

  Quince rose to his feet, letting Roy take his place on the floor by Boner’s side.

  “Hey, man. I gotta make sure you understand what we have to do to get your gadget to work.” Quince shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and rolled his shoulders once to loosen them. “I’ll need to deliver an intracardiac injection that will induce extreme stress and, eventually, cardiac arrest. It’s a far cry from peaceful, so this procedure doesn’t fall under the definition of euthanasia.”

  Roy kept his eyes on his pet. “He really likes it when you stroke ’im on his forehead, just between ’is eyes.” He scratched the dog’s brow, and Boner gave one feeble thump of his tail.

  “Listen, mate,” I said. “You’re not just asking me to play along with ideas anymore. You’re asking us to help kill your dog. To experiment on—Christ.” I raked a hand through my hair. “I don’t even know why you’re considering this. It’s not just about the law. It’s downright cruel.”

  Roy kept stroking the dog’s pale coat as though trying to memorize what it felt like. “What would you have done if you had the chance to save your parents?”

  “It was impossible.”

  “Well, what if it fuckin’ wasn’t? What if they were sick and old and dyin’? What if you had a willdisc and—”

  “I still would’ve given them a bloody choice, Roy. I would’ve made sure they understood. Your dog isn’t capable of understanding. All he’d want is for all the pain to go away.”

&
nbsp; Roy looked at me, his eyes a mixture of anger and sorrow. “Do you think doctors should stop treatin’ babies ’cause they don’t understand why it’s gotta hurt before it gets any better? I’m tryin’ to save ’is fuckin’ life, man. He’s a dog, and I’m ’is best friend, and I have no goddamn way o’ tellin’ him why. Why, why, why!”

  Boner whimpered, and Roy held back a sob.

  “Hey, listen, man,” Quince spoke in a calming tone. “If I’d been there, I would’ve done anything, too, to save my dogs from the fire. But the thing is—based on stuff Karen’s told me—some spirits get trapped in their moment of death. We don’t know what it’s going to be like for Boner.”

  “He won’t be trapped. He’s gonna remember everythin’.”

  “You don’t know that,” I said.

  “Yes, I do. You proved it to me.”

  “Me?” I recoiled at the statement. “I never—”

  “Your simulation.” Roy hauled himself up off the floor. “You showed us that at the moment o’ death, we could capture a complete soul. And if we keep it safe, we could keep it from breakin’ up into solitons.” He strode to the table, grabbed my sketchpad, and shoved it in my hands. “It’s somewhere in there. Your proof that we could save my dog’s life. Not ’is body. But everythin’ he remembers about ’is life.”

  I clutched the ream of calculations—the foundation of Roy’s faith. It felt heavy in my hands. I laid it down on the table over a small pile of tools. It slid and hit the lamp, toppling it over, casting the room into deeper gloom.

  “Yo, listen, I get what you’re sayin’. But Boner—he’s more than a friend. He’s family. Maybe it’s hard for you to get that.” Roy trudged towards the table and righted the lamp. “If you don’t wanna stay, I understand.”

  I kneaded my temples with my hand, overwhelmed and overpowered by the profound bond between a man and his dog. All I had was a robot—but one thing was for sure, if I got on Mission Pangaea, I’d be damned if I didn’t try to bring all of Diddit’s data along with me.

  “All right. Fine.”

  “Fine?” Roy asked.

  “Bloody fine. If I’m the cause of all this madness, then I ought to see it through.”

  45

  A Frail Old Friend

  Roy bent down and kissed his pet on the ear. “You ready, boy?” His fingers clutched Boner’s coat, as though trying to stop the sick, immobile dog from going anywhere.

  “Listen,” he said, leaning close to his best friend. “I know you’re gonna get damned scared. But it’s just gonna last a few seconds.” He glanced at Quince. “Right, doc?”

  The vet nodded in his groovy way then reached out to detach Boner’s collar.

  “See? And I’m gonna be right here, waitin’ for you to get back.” Roy hugged his dog as tightly as a man could hug a frail old friend. “I need ya, boy. A man needs ’is best buddy ’is whole life.” He caressed the dog’s muzzle, and Boner’s tongue flicked out to give his most precious human one last lick.

  Roy sniffed loudly as he got up. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

  As Quince helped Roy lift Boner into his arms, I squeezed into the modified Faraday cage, ignoring the burning sense of wrong eating into my gut. Squatting on my heels, I deposited the willdisc into the iCube; the machine sucked it in with a swoosh, a click, and a faint, melodious hum—a sound that contrasted starkly with how everyone felt. I backed out of the cage and helped push Boner and his basket in.

  Roy sat inside the chamber for a while, the quiet shaking of his shoulders telling us to leave him be.

  I glanced at the vet, who seemed completely unaffected by the prospect of dealing his last patient a dreadful death. “How’re you doing, mate?”

  “I’m cool,” Quince said with clinical indifference. “They say old dogs never die. We’re just making it real.”

  Roy crept his way out of the chamber and wiped his face on his sleeve. With a forceful exhale and a shudder, he looked Quince in the eye. “Okay. Do what you gotta do.”

  Quince grabbed him by the arm. “I think there’s something else you can do to help make this work.”

  “What?”

  “You need to keep calling out to him.”

  My gaze darted to Quince’s face. “What? You can’t—”

  “Okay.” Roy said like a soldier grimly accepting his orders.

  “Command him to stay,” Quince said. “Instinct would tell him to end the agony and run to the light. You need to make sure he doesn’t.”

  This is cruelty to both man and dog.

  “For how long?” Roy asked.

  “I don’t know. But Karen believes that ghosts can hear us better than they can read our minds. And what I know for a fact is that hearing is the last sense to go. So for as long as the brain can accept auditory data, there’s still a chance you can call him back. Keep him fighting against his own death.”

  Roy looked dazed.

  “Be brave—for the both of you,” Quince said.

  I laid a hand on Roy’s shoulder. “Listen, mate. I . . . I’m right here.”

  He thumped my hand and nodded, letting me know he understood what I’d really meant to say.

  He walked to the side of the chamber and knelt down, leaning in as close as he could to his dog lying inside, and rested his hand on the glass. “Hey, Boner. I got your back.”

  I held the chamber door open as Quince crept in with his equipment. Roy watched, unmoving, as the ex-vet attached electrodes to monitor Boner’s vital signs. When Quince held the syringe aloft, Roy spoke in a voice that quivered. “I love you, buddy.”

  A soulful howl emanated from the chamber, and it was as though the entire place suddenly grew icy cold.

  “I’m right here, boy!” Roy cried. “I’m right here.”

  Monitors beeped wildly as Quince hustled out of the Faraday cage. I shut the door and worked fast to seal the gaps with mu-metal tape.

  “It’s okay, Boner.” Roy’s voice rose above the din. “Everythin’s gonna be okay.”

  The dog’s eyes shot open, in panic over a scene that unfolded in his mind. His gaze darted around, frantic. He tried to get up but couldn’t. He yelped and kicked then went into a contorted convulsion.

  “Jesus God!” Roy cried.

  “Command him to stay,” Quince called out. “Make him choose to stay.”

  The dog’s back arched, his body gripped by the paralyzing force of a punished heart fighting to survive. His eyes widened in fear and then, with one last breath, glazed over.

  The suffering was at its end, but Roy had to issue his final command.

  “Stay with me, buddy! Stay, you hear? Come ’ere, boy. Come ’ere!”

  The poor dog went limp and the piercing tone of a flat line cut through the air. “Oh God, no. I’m sorry! I’m sorry.” Roy stared unmoving, with bloodshot eyes, his mouth agape.

  “Keep talking,” Quince said.

  I could barely breathe. How could Roy even speak through this?

  His chest heaved. “C’mon, be a good boy. Stay with me. Just stay, okay?”

  The monotonous note of the EKG monitor maintained its bleak and final pronouncement.

  Roy pressed both hands against the glass. “Don’t you fuckin’ leave me, y’hear? Come back.” His voice went down to a whisper as he gazed at his pet’s lifeless body—eyes still partly open, but empty. “Stay . . .”

  I wiped the sweat from my upper lip and strode to the console, squinting as though walking through smoke as I forced my mind to focus on the task. Settling down into my seat, I thumped a fist against my chest to help ease the tightness inside. Quince was nowhere in sight. I surveyed the computer screen displaying the wave oscillations inside the willdisc.

  The data patterns weren’t shifting.

  “Come on,” I muttered. “You’ve got to bloody work.”

  Quince reemerged, his black eyeliner smeared, and turned off the EKG monitor. He took his jacket off and used it to clean up the black gook from around his eyes. His arms still seemed
covered with sleeves because of the ornate artwork featuring the likeness of several dogs.

  Roy went back to stand by the chamber, his shoulders heavy and hunched. After a long moment of silence, he strode towards the wall, turned off the overhead lights, then knelt by the chamber to peer at the iCube. “See that?”

  In the darkness, a pinprick of light became discernible at the top of the cube, a luminous dot of blue-violet barely visible at the nib.

  “Is that . . . it?” Quince asked.

  Roy shook his head. “It’s just sayin’ we got an electric current goin’—ionizin’ the air molecules for Boner to follow like a trail. It’s like a yellow brick road to ’is new home.” His gaze stayed fixed on the iCube. “The box itself should light up when it starts receivin’ somethin’.”

  Quince took a seat next to me as Roy settled down on the floor. The silence grew thicker by the minute. I kept my eyes on the empty status bar on the monitor and clenched my teeth.

  “Do you want me to go in and . . .” Quince motioned towards the chamber, “. . . carry him out now?”

  “No,” Roy said. “We gotta keep it sealed until the upload’s done.”

  Five minutes went by. Then ten—without a spark in any of the readings.

  When trying to save a life, how does one decide when it’s over?

  Suddenly, Roy let out a piercing whistle, jolting Quince in his chair, his elbow slipping off the armrest.

  “Whatcha waitin’ for, boy? Get your ass in that willdisc!” He pulled out his keychain and blew a dog whistle.

  Quince leaned over and whispered. “Has it been too long?”

  I cocked my head tentatively, caught between an “I don’t know” and a “Maybe.”

  “Boner’s been weak a long time,” Quince said, still in a low tone. “Maybe that’s why it didn’t work.”

  “We’re not done waiting,” I said.

  Quince nodded but managed to muster only enough patience for another minute of quiet. “Dogs don’t really die, you know. They just go to sleep in your heart.” He picked up his jacket and put it on. “Karen says it’s sudden death that drives ghosts to linger. Like, they know it’s not their time, so they fight to stay. But Boner—his mind’s been primed to die. He was ready for it. Just like that sick poodle was.” He zipped up his jacket, the sound of the teeth closing ripping through the silence.