Up ahead I caught sight of one of those fires I’d seen from above. It was burning near a tall flat-faced rock. Human shadows moved on that rock, and as we closed in I saw a familiar nighttime desert scene: humans sitting around a campfire. The smells of pot and burgers grew stronger, also booze and cocaine. Shooter ran on ahead, maybe not the best idea, and I was trying to ramp up my own speed when the chain caught on something behind me. I circled back, got myself untangled, looked for Shooter and found him poised in the darkness just beyond the campfire light, one paw raised in a hesitating sort of way. I caught up with him and hesitated myself.
What we had here were a bunch of youngish humans, men and women, wearing not much in the way of clothing—nothing at all if you ignored what they had on their heads. Not so easy to do, since they were all wearing antlers, some of them really huge. We stayed put, me and Shooter, watching these antler-wearing naked humans smoke and drink and talk, mostly about black holes and what would happen if you fell in. I myself had been in more than one black hole and knew that what happens is you claw your way up, but they were having trouble figuring that out. All in all, a scary sight. The only good thing about it was the platter of freshly cooked burgers set on a cooler at the edge of the light. A man and a woman lay on their backs on either side of the cooler, gazing up at the sky.
“All the black spaces between the stars are the holes?” the woman said.
“Pretty much,” said the man.
Neither of them showed the slightest interest in the burgers, although they could have reached over and grabbed a couple without even bothering to sit.
“So we’d be falling up to the sky?” the woman said.
“According to Einstein,” said the man.
“Wow,” said the woman.
Which was around when I noticed that Shooter had changed his position a bit, now stood on his hind legs, his front paws resting on the edge of the cooler. Whoa! But whoa didn’t seem to be in the little fella’s game plan. With a quick sort of head jab, he snatched a burger off the top of the stack and darted into the shadows. What was I waiting for? This wasn’t like me at all. I moved in on the cooler—
“I hear, like, chains dragging across the desert floor.”
“That’s what we’ve come to cut loose from, babe.”
“Cool.”
—and snapped up pretty much the whole stack. They were cooked right through, which always shows burgers at their best, in my opinion.
• • •
My strength started coming back, like a real big dude waking up inside me. On the other hand—a human expression you hear every day—Shooter seemed to be weakening. I was leading from in front now and had to turn back more than once to prod him along. “If we had three hands, we’d think differently,” Bernie says, a scary idea in many ways. I thought about Bernie as we headed in the direction of that pink glow, thoughts like Bernie! and Bernie! The pink glow came no closer, but I’d been around long enough to know that was just a trick of the wide open spaces.
We went down into a narrow canyon, now beyond all the campfires except for one, a very small fire at the base of a small tree, mostly just a glow with a flame or two flickering up. I wasn’t hungry anymore—a little pukey, if anything—and had no desire to see more antlered humans, but because of the narrowness of the canyon, we had to pass close to the fire, in fact to the very edge of its light. A man and a woman sat by this campfire. No antlers, fully clothed: I thought things were looking up until I noticed that the man was loading a revolver: the rounds glinted as they clicked into the chamber.
“Shh,” said the woman, her voice low. “Do you hear something out there?” She turned toward the man. Her face had been shadowed by the brim of a cowboy hat she wore but now I saw it clear: a hard face surrounded by lots of soft blond hair, a face I knew. It was Dee Branch. Right away I thought of our slashed tires. True, Dee hadn’t done the actual slashing, but she’d been the wheelman on the escape, and that made her a something or other in the eyes of the law. I don’t forget things like that.
The man rose, real quick, flicking the chamber closed. He was a little longhaired dude with lots of ink on his arms. I knew him, too, of course: Billy Parsons. In the firelight I could see that his face looked a lot like his mom’s, if old Mrs. Parsons was his mom, just a guess on my part; plus he didn’t look exactly like her—more like his mom on an unhappy day. Also, old Mrs. Parsons didn’t have a snakehead tattoo on her cheek; I was glad of that. Billy and Dee peered into the night, although with no hope of spotting us, human vision being pretty much useless in the dark.
This was a confusing moment. Wasn’t the whole case about finding Billy? And now I’d found him! Chet the Jet! Found him, yes, but what next? Was it possible to somehow corral him and drag him back to Bernie? Or would it be better to go get Bernie and bring him here? I was leaning in that direction, especially in light of that revolver in Billy’s hand, when Shooter chose that moment to give himself a good shake. His ears flapped with a sound like gunshots in the quiet of the night.
TWENTY-EIGHT
* * *
Billy—one of those speedy little guys—dropped down on one knee, squinting into the darkness, the gun up and pointed in Shooter’s general direction. Dee was just as speedy, maybe more so. She whipped out a gun of her own from somewhere, rolled away from the fire, and froze in excellent firing position, a move I’ve seen Bernie do to good effect more than once. This was looking like what Bernie calls a live-to-fight-another-day scenario, meaning our move was to back silently away into the night and then hightail it. The problem we had was Shooter’s unfamiliarity with Bernie’s advice. He trotted forward toward the fire.
“Hey,” said Dee, rising and putting her gun away. “It’s a puppy.”
Billy rose, too, the revolver still in his hand, but now pointed down, which was how I like to see weapons, except for ours.
“Look how cute!” Dee said. “C’mere, cutie pie.”
Was there any chance “cutie pie” meant me? A good one, I thought, and stepped into the light. Dee and Billy both stepped the other way.
“Whoa,” Billy said. “This one’s a huge version of the puppy.”
Dee’s eyes narrowed. “Recognize him?”
“Recog—?” Billy began. And then: “The dog who took down the twins?”
“And belongs to that detective buddy of your parents.”
Their guns came up again, pointed not at me and Shooter, but into the darkness, sweeping back and forth like they were afraid of someone—who, I didn’t know. Plus there was no one out there; the breeze was blowing from that direction, totally scentless when it came to humans. Billy knelt, fished around in a backpack, found a flashlight. He switched it on and the two of them walked into the darkness, aiming the beam here and there. I sat and waited. Shooter went over to where Dee and Billy had been sitting and sniffed the ground.
“He’s gotta be out here,” Billy said. “Dogs don’t just drop out of the sky.”
My ears went right up. Raining cats and dogs is something you hear humans say, and it’s a sight I’ve always looked forward to very much. Was Billy saying that it couldn’t happen, at least not for dogs? But it could happen for cats? I didn’t like how this was going.
Billy and Dee wandered around for a while. “Think your parents sent him after us?” Dee said. “To get the money?”
“You know they’re not like that,” Billy said.
“Not everyone’s as nice as you.”
“I’m not nice.”
“Yes, you are,” said Dee. Then came a faint smacking sound, the kind you hear from a kiss on the cheek.
“But they are,” Billy said. “Which is how come I’m paying them back, that’s for sure.”
“What about the reverse mortgage scam?”
“Goddamn you, Dee—it’s not a scam. It’s just good, you know, tax planning.”
Then came some silence. They moved farther away, the beam sweeping back and forth over rocks, bushes, emptiness.
/> “Billy?”
“Don’t start.”
“You don’t even know what I’m going to say,” Dee said.
“You’re gonna say fuck all this, let’s just take off for Alaska or someplace. Can’t do that. No way I’m walkin’ away from what’s rightfully mine.”
“I was going to say Costa Rica,” said Dee. “You know I hate the cold.”
Billy laughed. He had a nice laugh, kind of like Bernie’s actually, but not as deep.
“We love each other,” Dee said.
“I know.”
“So what else matters?”
“Wish it was that simple,” Billy said. He shone the light on his watch.
“Where are the twins?” Dee said.
“Should be on their way.”
“They were supposed to be here at six.”
“Stop worrying. Think they’d walk away from a payday like this?” The flashlight beam made a few more sweeps and Billy said, “Nobody out here.”
“Then where did the dogs come from?” said Dee.
The beam swept around and shone on me. I rose, just in case—of what I wasn’t sure. But I’ve been around, know a thing or two, such as in dustups it’s better to begin on your feet.
“Sure it’s the right dog?” Billy said, coming closer.
“The detective called him something. What was it? Chet, maybe?” Dee looked right at me and said, “Hey, Chet. What’s doin’?”
That sounded nice and friendly. Nice and friendly makes my tail start up—that’s just the way it is.
“Right dog,” Dee said.
I couldn’t have agreed more. Dee and I were thinking as one: I was the right dog, no doubt about it.
“But,” Dee went on, “he’s in rough shape. Is that a chain?”
“Musta broken free,” said Billy. “I wonder—”
He moved toward me. Even though they knew I was the right dog, meaning everything between us was nice and pally, I found myself backing away.
“What are you doing?” Dee said.
“Maybe we should keep him for now.”
“Why?”
“Might be useful,” Billy said. “Just a hunch.”
“I don’t see how—”
With no warning, Billy shot forward and made a grab for the chain. A quick little dude, as I’ve mentioned, but of course I was quicker and—except for some reason, this one time, I turned out not to be quicker. Billy got hold of the chain, gripped it tight. I tried to pull away. He got dragged along but didn’t let go. I pulled harder, ready to haul little Billy clear across the desert if I had to. During all this I happened to notice Shooter, now sitting by the fire and watching the goings-on with his head cocked to one side.
“Don’t hurt him,” Dee said.
“For chrissake, I’m not hurting him. I’d never hurt a dog. And why am I always the one who—”
I never found out where Billy was going with that one, on account of this small figure who came streaking in and bit him on the ankle. Perhaps not what you’d call a real bite, although definitely more than a nip. In any case, enough for Billy to cry out, “Ow! What the hell?” and let go of the chain. Shooter and I wheeled around in one motion—like we’d been practicing this for treats, had it down cold—and took off into the night.
• • •
It turned out to be maybe the longest night I remember, except I don’t really remember it. Did we come across a mostly buried pickup that reminded me of Ellie? Maybe. Did the chain get heavier and heavier? That sticks in my mind. Did Shooter stop for naps more than once? I’m pretty sure about that, too. Also some blood might have leaked out of one of my ears, blood that I believe Shooter licked off in a companionable sort of way. After that we followed the moon into ranch country—ranch country being kind of obvious from all the horse and cattle smells—but ranches also meant humans, and I hadn’t been having much luck with humans so I kept my distance, plodding along. Shooter, long past the prancing stage, plodded along behind me. From time to time I caught myself letting my head hang down a bit, raised it right back up, and pronto. We weren’t having any of that. Much later, in the darkest part of the night—the moon having disappeared, who knew where—I glanced back and noticed that Shooter’s head was hanging, too. I turned and nudged it back up in its proper place. We weren’t having any of that from him, either.
My mind began shutting down, not an unpleasant feeling. I grew less and less aware of my body, on the move and never stopping, except for Shooter’s naps. Plod plod, big plods and little plods, like PLOD PLOD plod plod and then there’d just be PLOD PLOD, which was when I’d turn and find him zonked out on the ground. I stayed on my feet during those naps, standing over him, not totally sure that once down I could get back up again. How strange was that? So this was the situation: mind shut down and body out of touch. All that was left was a heartbeat, boom booming away.
The sky grew misty, and the stars disappeared. We moved through a sort of cloud, nothing to see but stony ground, all cracked and thorny. Then the mist began to clear and in the distance I saw the downtown towers. And not too long after that, I spotted the airport tower. The canyon that backs onto the end of the last runway just happens to be the same canyon that backs onto our place on Mesquite Road, which you might not know, just one of the helpful discoveries I’ve made in my career.
• • •
The sun was shining as we made our way up the canyon. From above, planes came gliding down, one after another, wings gleaming, a very nice sight. How slow and heavy they seemed! I felt pretty slow and heavy myself, and the chain was now gaining weight with every step I took. We climbed a long gradual slope, PLOD PLOD plod plod, the chain getting caught—again!—in a spiny clump of greenish brush. I circled back, tugged a few times, prodded Shooter back on his feet, and pushed on.
From the crest of the slope we had a long view of the canyon, crossed by a dry wash I knew well, and speckled with housing clusters along the ridge tops. We belonged to one of those clusters—I even thought I could make out the big red flat rock that marked the path up to our back gate. But maybe not. Maybe I was wishing too hard. If wishes were horses is a human expression you hear from time to time. Horses are prima donnas, in my experience, so if wishes were prima donnas . . . That was as far as I could take it. My mind drifted to Lovely, the tiny horse who belonged to Summer whatever her last name was, the kidnapping victim, if I’d gotten it right, although she didn’t seem as much like a victim as other victims I’d known, if that makes any sense. I was just on the point of thinking that it did not, when a figure appeared down in a draw not too far ahead, if a draw was one of those strange places where the ground is sloping up in all directions.
Forget draws. The important thing was this figure, who turned out to be a man, a tall man who seemed to be wearing some sort of white headband, and had binoculars around his neck. We keep a pair of binoculars in the Porsche, useful for divorce work, which we hate at the Little Detective Agency, on account of—
The man began to run in our direction. Did I know that run? Oh, yes! A surprisingly fast run for a big man, and if one leg didn’t appear to be working as smoothly as the other, that was only on account of his wound, the poor guy. By that time, I was running, too, the chain a great big nothing, a mere balloon, floating behind me! We came together at the head of the draw, me and Bernie.
He picked me up. Tears flowed from his lovely eyes, not a Bernie thing at all. I licked them up. It turned out Bernie’s tears were the best I’d ever tasted. No surprise there. He patted and patted me. I noticed that his headband was actually a bandage, kind of bloody. Bernie was also noticing things, starting with the chain. His face went harder than I’d ever seen it, even on the night when we’d opened up that broom closet, too late. He unclipped the chain from my collar and hurled it as far as the eye could see, or at least pretty far.
Next Bernie noticed Shooter, at that moment pawing at his knee. Bernie picked Shooter up and held him, too. Not a move I’d tolerate normally, but
this one time I let it go.
• • •
Amy’s our vet. She’s a big, strong woman with big strong hands that know what’s what. She patched me up in no time, good news since even though I like her, I don’t like hanging with her, not in her office. So when it was time to go, I went. As I hopped in the car—not quite hopping, more like climbing, I heard Amy say, “Who did this to him?”
I watched from the shotgun seat. They stood in the doorway of Amy’s office, Bernie looking down at Amy, but not by much.
“I don’t know,” Bernie said. “But I’m going to find out.”
Amy gazed at him. Short hair, no makeup, jeans, and a T-shirt: she was the no-nonsense type. “Glad to hear that,” she said. “But I’ve got a question. You might say it’s none of my business. I think it is.”
“Go on,” Bernie said.
“Have you ever thought about the rightness or wrongness of putting Chet in dangerous situations?”
Bernie stood there, still wearing the bloody bandage, looking a bit pale. “In the beginning,” he said, so quietly I almost didn’t hear, meaning real quiet.
“And?”
Bernie took a deep breath. His voice grew stronger. “And I decided he loves what we do. If he could choose, he would have chosen this.”
“A little on the convenient side, perhaps?” said Amy.
“That doesn’t make it false,” Bernie said.
Amy gazed at Bernie. He gazed back. What was this about? Why the delay? I was ready to peel on out of here. I barked, just getting my two cents in, which doesn’t sound like a whole hell of a lot, so who could mind?
Scents and Sensibility Page 23