“What you growling at, big guy?”
No idea. But whatever I was growling at deserved it. I was sure of that.
Bernie slung on the backpack, and we started down the hill, steep at first, which meant a lot of zigzagging for Bernie and a lot of waiting for me, and then leveling out a bit. We were partway down the easier section, not too far from the bottom of the hill, when a second, smaller roar started up inside the big one. From behind a clump of barrel cactuses—their sharp spines, about which I could tell you plenty, sparkling brightly, what with all the light going on—came a motorcycle accelerating fast, front wheel raised in the air. A woman drove and a man sat behind her, both with long fair hair, streaming out behind them. She drove like she knew what she was doing. He looked like he knew what he was doing, too, if you can say that about a guy just riding on the backseat. What else? He had a silver gun in one hand. This was turning out to be a primo night for open carry. We knew these motorcycle riders, of course: Billy and Dee.
“Chet! After ’em!”
We ran, me and Bernie. Had I ever seen him run faster? I almost had to run myself, just to keep up with him. Did he stumble a bit when we hit the bottom, falling and losing the backpack? Maybe, but he was back on his feet before you’d even notice. Meanwhile, the motorcycle zoomed through one of the tent flap openings and into the golden tent.
“No, Billy!” Bernie shouted, a shout lost in the surrounding roar. I hardly heard it myself. We raced across flat ground, leaping right over—at least in my case—some antler people sitting around a fire, and charging into the tent.
In our business, a lot can be going on all of a sudden, and the trick is to . . . something or other. Bernie says it all the time; maybe he’ll say it again someday. But for now, here’s a clue: when you’re not sure what’s next, watch Bernie. So: I watched Bernie.
He was taking in everything at the speed of light, the fastest speed going, just another thing I know on account of him. When Bernie’s taking things in at the speed of light, you can see the light speeding in his eyes. Who’s more alive than Bernie? Nobody is the answer, amigo. And here’s what we had to take in: a bar and buffet at the most distant part of the tent, with a few people drinking and eating those drinking snacks on tiny napkins, snacks which often, as in this case, include shrimp wrapped in bacon; a bunch of musicians lazing around on some couches, their instruments around them; and a sort of office with a few desks, off to one side; all of this lit by big lanterns that hung from above.
Bernie took all that in in no time flat, figuring out what mattered as only he can do, namely the scene over in that office: Dee on the bike and revving it, and Billy off the bike, gun pointed right at the head of a man who backed away clutching a—what would you call it? A cash box? Yes, a cash box. The man backing away, porkpie hat somewhat askew on his head, and his whole face sort of askew as well, was Clay Winners.
Bernie ran toward all that, me at his side.
“You owe me five hundred grand,” Billy was saying, his voice shaking. When human voices shake, we’ve got big trouble, in my experience.
“Didn’t we put that to bed?” Winners said.
“You really thought I’d be satisfied with a goddamn cactus?” Billy said.
“I thought you’d be satisfied with staying alive.”
“You were wrong.”
Winners held the cash box tight to his chest, like a baby. “Point one,” he said, “there is no five hundred grand.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Billy said.
“Mickles grabbed half right off the top,” Winners said.
“Why’d you let him do that?”
“Figure it out.”
Dee cut the engine, got off the bike. “To save his ass, Billy.” She reached down, slipped a knife out of her boot. “We’ll take the rest—two fifty.”
Winners backed another step, bumping up against a table. “Time marches on—how come you’re still not getting the message?”
“Message?” Billy said. “Fifteen years in the pen and you get a cactus? That’s the message?”
“I’m talking about getting what happened to the twins,” Winners said. “Can’t make it any clearer. How stupid are you?”
Billy made a sound almost exactly like the snarl we have in the nation within. Things happened fast after that, so fast I didn’t pay attention to running footsteps just on the other side of the tent wall, probably a mistake. First, the knuckles of Billy’s trigger finger went white. Then Bernie shouted “No!” and grabbed Billy’s shoulder. The gun went off anyway, but nobody got hit. Instead, an overhead lantern shattered and burst into flames. The flames jumped straight up to the tent roof, licked at it, and got huge. Screaming started up all over the place, a sort of piercing layer above the roar. I was looking up like everyone else, which was how come I didn’t see Vroman until it was a little on the late side. He came bursting into the tent, a shotgun in his hands. Dee saw him first and slashed at him with the knife. But from too far away. He clobbered her with the shotgun barrel, and she went down. Bernie leaped in front of him. The light around us changed to bright red. Bright red burned in Bernie’s eyes. Vroman raised the shotgun, a look in his eyes that meant pleasure was on the way.
He didn’t know Bernie. Bernie stepped inside—so fast! so smooth!—and batted the barrel aside with one hand. With his other, he threw that sweet uppercut. It caught Vroman square on the chin. Vroman’s eyes rolled right up and he toppled over, landing on his back. Next thing I knew I was standing over him, his throat between my teeth. A growl like I’d never heard rose up, drowned out all the roaring.
“No, Chet, no,” Bernie said, not loudly, but I heard. I felt his hand on my collar, very gentle, and let Bernie pull me off. That was when a huge section of flaming roof came floating down, wrapping itself around Winners like an enormous coat of fire. For a moment he just stood there with his mouth open, cash box to his chest. The he cried a horrible cry and struggled wildly inside the burning fabric, which clung to him harder with every move he made. The cash box came flying out of what now looked like a bonfire. Bernie caught it in midair. Winners’s cries faded down to nothing; fire sounds amped up the other way.
Billy pointed his gun at Bernie. “Give.”
Dee rose, her nose bloody and twisted, but steady on her feet. “Enough, Billy.”
Billy looked at Dee in surprise and slowly lowered the gun.
“I should take you in, Billy,” Bernie said. “For the crime of throwing your parents under the bus.” A bit confusing: the only bus I recalled in this case was the school bus with the mean driver, and the Parsonses hadn’t been on the scene. “But I just don’t feel like it,” Bernie went on. He tossed Dee the cash box. “Anywhere you can lay low?” he said to her.
Dee glanced at the cash box like she couldn’t believe she had it. “I’ve got a cousin in Matamoros,” she said.
“Adios,” said Bernie.
They hopped on the bike, Dee cranking the engine, Billy on the back with the cash box.
“Wait,” he yelled to her. He opened up the cash box, grabbed a wad of banded-together money, and flipped it to Bernie. “Make sure they get this.” Then Dee gunned it and they took off, out of the fire and into the night.
Yes, by that time we were in the middle of a great big fire, the whole tent in flames from one side to the other. I could feel my fur getting singed, not a good feeling at all. We ran, me and Bernie, just as more flaming roof came down, falling like a blanket over Vroman and what was left of Winners.
• • •
Outside everyone was running and screaming. We ran, too, but didn’t scream. We don’t actually scream in the nation within, and Bernie’s not a screamer. The whole tent went up with a huge BOOM and we got thrown to the ground. We picked ourselves up, scrambled, rolled, scrambled some more. Fireworks went off in another boom, and the sky exploded in all kinds of color. We came to rest against the base of cactus man, on a tilt now but still strobing away.
Bernie an
d I sat there, side by side, catching our breath, eyes glued to the fire, no longer spreading across the ground, but growing higher and higher. That was when the big, broad man in the white mask stepped out from behind the leg of cactus man. We turned to him real quick, but he was ready, had a gun trained on us before we could get to our feet.
The man spoke. The breeze was right now, carrying his scent, so I knew who he was before I heard the sound of his voice. “Familiar with the word ‘nemesis,’ Bernie?”
Bernie nodded.
“You’re mine.” He took off his mask. It was Mickles, of course, the strobe lighting up and blanking out his face. “So you can imagine how good I’m feeling right now.” He glanced over at the fire. “You’ve actually simplified my life tonight.”
“Because there’s no one left who knows you extorted two hundred and fifty grand from a kidnapper?”
“Winners couldn’t really be called a kidnapper,” Mickles said. “More like a trustee.”
“How did you find out he was holding the ransom?” Bernie said. “By promising Billy and Travis you’d cut them a deal, even let them go?”
“They’re scum,” Mickles said. “You know that. Scum’s owed nothing. That’s not the problem. The problem is you’re wrong about nobody knowing. You know, Bernie.” He pointed the gun at Bernie’s head. Not his poor head! A crazy thought at the time, perhaps, but I knew Bernie’s head had been bothering him. And now this! I got mad. And when I’m mad, I’m at my very fastest. I sprang.
Mickles started to swing the gun my way, but he wasn’t quick enough. I hit him on the shoulder, spinning him around, and the gun went flying. Then Bernie was on him. They wrestled around. And what was this? Mickles on top? He punched Bernie right in the mouth and blood poured out. I charged in. After that came some more wrestling around and a moment later we were all on our feet.
Bernie grabbed Mickles by the collar, got in a couple good ones. Mickles got in a couple of good ones of his own. That made Bernie mad, just as mad as me. We’re a lot alike in some ways, don’t forget. He bent, coiled up all his strength, and threw the uppercut.
Maybe not landing it square on the chin, but close enough. Mickles staggered back against the leg of cactus man, hitting it hard. The strobing stopped and I heard a strange metallic sound from overhead. Mickles hadn’t gone down, something of a surprise, although his face was a satisfying, bloody sight. Except what was this? He was reaching into his jacket, pulling out a little gun? I—but I had no time to do anything, because something cracked high above, and an instant later a huge hat—a porkpie hat, but made of sheet metal—came plunging down, brim first. The edge of that brim sliced deep into Mickles’s head. He went down the way humans do when it’s forever.
Hey! We were getting lots of help from above tonight! That was unusual and very nice. I turned to Bernie. Bernie turned to me. He grinned and said, “Saved by cactus man, big guy. Didn’t that girl ask about the deeper meaning of—”
And then stopped right there. His eyes closed. He—my Bernie—slumped to the ground and lay still.
• • •
There was lots of crying in the next little while. I saw Captain Stine crying and Nixon Panero. Also old Mr. and Mrs. Parsons, and Amy the vet. Lots of cops, perps—and cooks, too, plus bartenders. Plus Leda. And Charlie, which was the worst. Can’t leave out Suzie, who cried plenty but turned out to be the strongest.
I myself was going out of my mind, but finally Suzie got them to let me visit the hospital. They had Bernie in a room by himself. He lay on a bed, eyes closed, pale. There were no tubes or anything like that connected to him. Maybe that was what Suzie was talking about when she said, “What’s going on? Where’s the ventilator?”
A nurse shook her head.
We went to the side of the bed. Bernie’s hand lay on the sheet. He has the most beautiful hands in the world, as I’ve probably mentioned way too much. I gave that beautiful hand a lick. It felt cold.
Then slowly, so slowly it almost didn’t happen, the hand moved a bit. It rose the tiniest height off the sheet, turned the tiniest bit, and came to rest against the side of my neck. Bernie’s hand gripped me, so weakly you couldn’t really call it gripping. But I knew he was holding on tight. I know Bernie.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
* * *
There’d be no Chet and Bernie series without the hard work of my crack researchers, Audrey and Pearl. They show up every day and work for treats. A writer can’t ask for more than that.
SPENCER QUINN is the author of seven previous bestselling Chet and Bernie mystery novels as well as the middle-grade novel Woof. He lives on Cape Cod with his dogs Audrey and Pearl. When not keeping them out of mischief, he is hard at work on the next Chet and Bernie mystery. Keep up with him—and with Chet and Bernie—by visiting spencequinn.com.
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Also by Spencer Quinn
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
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Spencer Quinn
Jacket design by Anna Dorfman
Jacket photographs © Kevin Button/Moment Open/Getty Images (Sunset & Fence),
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Quinn, Spencer.
Scents and sensibility : a Chet and Bernie mystery / Spencer Quinn.
pages ; cm
1. Dogs—Fiction. 2. Private investigators—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3617.U584S29 2015
813'.6—dc23
2015010341
ISBN 978-1-4767-0342-8
ISBN 978-1-4767-0344-2 (ebook)
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