A figure appeared on the lip of the black hole. Not Griffie, not at all a very small figure, but a very large one. It was Olek. Olek! I hadn’t sniffed a trace of him—hadn’t sniffed a trace of Griffie, either, whose smell was much stronger. There was no time to think about any of that. Hateful looks are usually hot, in my experience, but Olek’s was cold. He drew a gun from a shoulder holster he was wearing, leaned out over the lip, and fired.
The bullet went by my head, oh so close, the whizzing sound and the bang of the gun happening at the same time. I leaped off the ladder, or maybe fell, stuck my landing, and sprang right off the ledge. Bang! Bang! Bullets tore up the steep slope beyond me even before I landed on it. I hit the ground, not caring whether I was on the switchback trail—trails seldom making much of a difference to me—and darted behind a big round rock that looked like it might start rolling down at any moment.
No more gunshots. But was Olek still watching for me? I took a quick glance. No sign of Olek. The rope ladder no longer hung down, at least not all the way. A rung or two dangled from the lip.
I stayed where I was, hearing nothing. The vinegary smell began to fade away. Up above, purple changed to black, and the stars began popping into view. A faint yellow glow flickered at the mouth of the black hole, but no one came in sight. I moved out from behind the rock and was waiting for an idea, even a bad one, when a familiar smell cut through the night air. From the other direction, meaning the back side of this mountain, came Griffie.
I looked down at him. He looked up at me. I looked down at him some more. He wandered off, past the big round rock and out of sight. I gazed at the flickering yellow light at the mouth of the black hole.
Griffie returned. I looked down at him. He looked up at me. He wandered off, past the big round rock and out of sight. This time, I followed him for no particular reason.
A starry night, the stars shining in Griffie’s eyes whenever he turned back to look at me, which was more than once. He headed down, then up, but mostly around the mountain, and so did I, Griffie for reasons of his own and me not because Griffie was doing it. Don’t think that for a moment.
This was not an easy hike, very steep at times, some shifting scree along the way, and a surprising number of small round cactuses, very spiny. Griffie had no trouble with any of it, so neither did I. After what seemed like a long time, we stood at the very top. I went to the front edge and peered out from between two rocky towers. Not far below lay the lip of the black hole, with the coiled-up rope ladder, and below that, the ledge with our backpack, still lying there.
Griffie was not interested in the view. He stood close to the center of this flat little mountaintop, his attention on a hole in the ground. This was a man-size hole of a type I knew well from our explorations—mine and Bernie’s—of old desert mines. Griffie popped down the hole. I stood at the edge. Lots of smells rose up from the hole. One was Bernie’s. I popped down myself.
Bernie always brings a flashlight on our tunneling expeditions, but I don’t really need the light myself. This particular tunnel would have been pretty easy even without having Griffie to follow. And I wasn’t actually following him. He just happened to be ahead of me. We went mostly down but turned sideways at the end, the only tricky part. These bends can get pretty narrow, and sometimes you get stuck, which I did now. The tricky part is not being able to move and the feeling of no air to breathe. But then you hear a voice in your head—namely, Bernie’s—saying, We’re good, big guy, just wriggle a bit. You wriggle and presto! You’re free.
We came to the end of the tunnel, me and Griffie. The end of the tunnel seemed to be fairly high up the wall of a sort of cave. The cave was lit by a camping lantern on the floor—we had one just like it—and by the light of the lantern, I saw Bernie! He lay on his back, asleep on the hard-packed dirt floor, his chest slowly rising and falling. Seated on the floor over to one side, hands bound behind their backs, were two women I knew—Mavis and Johnnie Lee. Mavis’s face had no color in it at all. Johnnie Lee looked a little better but not much.
Olek sat on the other side of the lantern. Between sips from a vodka bottle—the same magical kind he’d given us—he was building a bomb. I was familiar with bombs because Bernie had spent a lot of time studying bombs, and I spent a lot of time studying Bernie. We’d even built a couple for practice, Bernie handling the actual building.
Mavis started to cry. “Why are you doing this if Mickey’s dead? I’ll never tell anyone anything, I promise.”
“Shut your mouth,” Olek said.
Mavis shut her mouth. That was when Griffie decided to leap—well, more of a glide, like he knew how to fly—down to the cave floor. He pitter-pattered over to Mavis, crawled up, and sat on her shoulder.
Olek glanced at the cave entrance. “Where the hell were you, my pretty little souvenir? Come to tato.”
Griffie didn’t move.
Olek patted the floor. “Come!”
Griffie stayed on Mavis’s shoulder. Did his presence there give Mavis the courage to open her mouth again? I had no idea, but that was what she did. Johnnie Lee saw what was happening and gave her head a quick little shake. Mavis didn’t see, or else she ignored her.
“Please,” she said. “I’m begging you.” She sobbed. “We’re so young. How will you live with your conscience if—”
“Come!” Olek shouted. “Come!”
Griffie did not come.
“You don’t obey?” Olek said. He whipped the gun from his shoulder holster, aimed at Griffie, and shot him right off Mavis’s shoulder. Well, almost. Just before Olek pulled the trigger, Mavis screamed a terrible scream and the gun barrel wavered the tiniest bit. The sounds of the shot and the scream and the ricochet of the bullet off the rock wall echoed and echoed. Griffie leaped into the shadows.
Bernie moaned and sat up. There was dried blood in his hair, but not a whole lot.
“Now look what you’ve done,” Olek said. He rose, fished plastic cuffs from his pocket, and moved toward Bernie. I sprang out of the tunnel and soared through the air, striking Olek with all my strength and power. He fell and—
But not quite. It was mostly a stagger. I bit his arm with everything I had, our faces so close. Did he hate me? Oh yes, and I hated him just the same. I shook my head back and forth, trying to rip that arm right off him, trying to throw him to the ground, but none of that happened. Instead, Olek raised his other arm. He still had the gun. Olek pointed it right at my face and—
And that was when Bernie tackled him, so hard he swept Olek right out of my grasp. They landed on the ground, crushing a metal canister, from which rose a huge invisible vinegary cloud. Bernie and Olek rolled over and over, ending up near the lantern with Olek on top. He drew back his huge fist and grinned a horrid grin at Bernie. Taking the time to do that was a mistake. Bernie grabbed the lantern and swung it against the side of Olek’s head. The horrid grin froze on Olek’s face. Bernie hit him again, much harder. Olek toppled over. The lantern went out, and we had total darkness in the cave.
I heard Bernie rise. “You okay, Chet?”
I was fine. Maybe not quite back to fine and dandy, but fine.
I heard Bernie go over to Mavis and help her to her feet. I heard Johnnie Lee coming the other way. She stopped nearby. I heard her stomp on something, very hard.
* * *
“Griffie? Griffie?”
There was a lot of calling for Griffie—more than necessary, in my opinion—but Griffie did not appear. The rest of us hiked out of the forest by starlight, and toward the end, we had moonlight, too. I was first, Bernie last, Mavis and Johnnie Lee in the middle. Mavis cried a lot.
“It’s all my fault! None of this would have happened except for me.”
“You’re being ridiculous,” Johnnie Lee told her. “Like he’s some wallflower? The asshole’s old enough to be your father—grandfather, even.”
“That’s what I mean! I’m just a stupid no-good whore.”
Bernie spoke up, although not loudly. “
You’re none of those things. And here’s how we’ll handle this. No one’s going to find out from us. I’m talking about your involvement, Mavis. If they find out, they find out, but it won’t be from us, and it won’t be easy to prove, not without those pictures, which I’ll send you today. My advice is to destroy them.”
Mavis touched Bernie. “I should have trusted you.”
“Well,” said Bernie. “Um.”
We walked on. After a while, Johnnie Lee said, “So he ends up getting away with it?”
“Who?” said Bernie.
“Wray,” Johnnie Lee said.
“Depends what you mean by getting away with it,” Bernie said. “And I’m not so sure he was the one in charge.”
There was a lot of silent walking after that. Then Johnnie Lee said, “The bumper-sticker-on-the-butt pic should be on the cover of every poli sci textbook in the country.”
Bernie laughed. Mavis laughed, too, although it quickly led to tears. And back again.
“I turn out to be the funny one,” Johnnie Lee said.
But maybe she was wrong about that, Griffie ending up as the funny one after all. There was certainly a lot of delighted laughter when he popped up out of nowhere and glided onto Mavis’s shoulder. On Mavis’s shoulder, yes, but giving Bernie one of those adoring looks—completely unacceptable from a certain point of view.
“Should I keep him?” she said.
“Why not?” said Johnnie Lee. “The bastard gave him to you.”
“And he seems pretty happy where he is,” Bernie said.
So Griffie would be living with Mavis from here on in? I felt a quiet and quite relaxing moment of—what would you call it? Relief? Something like that.
* * *
Suzie called. “Your name is coming up.”
“Yeah?” said Bernie.
“Supposedly, you were up on stage with Senator Wray the other day.”
“Kind of weird.”
“So I hear,” said Suzie. “From multiple sources. The retiring Senator Wray, as it turns out. He won’t be running after all.”
“No?” Bernie said.
“Allegedly for health reasons. What do you think of that?”
“Well, he is getting on, and—”
“Bernie, please. It’s crap. What’s going on?”
“I didn’t even know he’s retiring until you just told me.”
“There’s also talk that he and Caroline are splitting,” Suzie said. “And that she might run herself. Any thoughts on that?”
“Um, she’s a formidable person,” Bernie said.
“Can I quote you?”
“I don’t see why not, but—”
“Bernie! For god’s sake! What’s going on?”
“Can’t say.”
“Can’t or won’t?” Suzie said.
“Yeah,” said Bernie.
“What about the Ukrainian thing? I told you Jacques and I are working on that. Do you think it’s worth pursuing? Is there a McGregor angle?”
“Try a guy named Scott Kyle, in that order.”
“What else?” Suzie said.
There was a long silence. Then Bernie said, “For you, anything, Suzie, but not this.”
* * *
We had some other calls, all sent direct to voicemail, one before lunch from the chief of Valley PD, one after lunch from the new chief of Valley PD, and one from Les Erlanger.
“Bernie Little? Les Erlanger, here. I’m running for Senate, as I’m pretty sure you know, heh heh, and I’d love to take you to lunch anytime at your convenience.”
Bernie gave me a long look after he listened to that. “Heh heh,” he said.
* * *
A diamond ring that looked familiar arrived by messenger. We sold it to Mr. and Mrs. Singh and for some reason failed to pocket the money. I believe it ended up at the South Pedroia shelter. Rick Torres sent a case of the bourbon with the roses on the label that Bernie likes, plus a squeaky chewy for me, unfortunately misplaced by Bernie.
* * *
We took Charlie to Buckets and Buckets o’ Balls, Cheapest Driving Range West of the Mississippi, Come Knock Yourself Out for his very first golf lesson.
“Hold the club like so,” said Shaky Insterwald. “Feet this way. Club head back to right here. Load up your power. Feel your power loading up?”
Charlie nodded a vigorous nod.
“How’s your eyes?” Shaky said. “Work pretty good?”
“I think so,” said Charlie.
“See the dimples on the ball?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m gonna make a red mark on a dimple.” Shaky bent down with a red marker. “With them pretty good eyes of yours, you’re gonna watch that dimple and you’re not gonna look up until I say so. Got it?”
Charlie nodded another vigorous nod.
“Now load up, feel the power, and knock that son of a—son of a gun to kingdom come.”
Charlie swung. Crack. The ball took off.
“’Kay,” Shaky said. “Look up.”
Charlie looked up.
“There’s your ball,” said Shaky.
He pointed. The ball was surprisingly far away, still rising, straight and true. A lovely look appeared on Charlie’s face, an even lovelier one on Bernie’s.
* * *
We went for a nice walk with Weatherly along the bank of the Arroyo Seco, although we could have walked right in it, the Arroyo Seco being dry, as usual. She’d been reinstated and smiled a lot, also gave Bernie more than one kiss on the cheek. After a while, her face got more serious.
“I’ve been looking into the Gail Blandina case a little more,” she said.
“Oh?”
“Officially unsolved.”
“That’s my understanding,” Bernie said.
“There were a number of potential suspects in the early part of the investigation, but none panned out,” Weatherly said. “One was called Melvin Ellis. He didn’t have much of a record—just the one conviction for animal cruelty. The last name caught my eye. Turned out to be a distant cousin of our Ellis. They hadn’t kept up with each other but had lived in the same house as children.”
Bernie nodded and said nothing.
“I tried to track him down,” Weatherly said. “Got nowhere. Like he disappeared off the face of the earth.”
Bernie nodded and did more of saying nothing. Weatherly gave him a close look, then shook her head and took his hand.
Meanwhile, I came upon what looked like a brand-new tennis ball, all fluffy the way I like it, just lying there on the path. I grabbed it and brought it to Bernie. He hurled it far down the arroyo.
I took off after it. And what was this? Trixie taking off after it, too? Did I mention that Trixie, now coneless but supposedly still taking it easy, had tagged along on our walk?
Now comes something you’re not going to believe, so please stop right here.
Trixie got to that tennis ball first! Some might almost say she beat me to it! I knew you wouldn’t believe me.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many thanks to my very talented editor, Kristin Sevick; to Linda Quinton at Forge for her support of this series; to my agents, Molly Friedrich and Lucy Carson; and most of all to the loyal—even passionate—readers of the Chet and Bernie novels: they’re the wind at my back.
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
Heart of Barkness
Of Mutts and Men
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
SPENCER QUINN is the pen name of Peter Abrahams, an Edgar Award winner and the author of the New York Times and USA Today bestselling 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 C
ape Cod with his wife, Diana, and dog, Pearl.
Visit him online at spencequinn.com, or sign up for email updates here.
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Twitter: @ChetTheDog
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Acknowledgments
Other Books in the Chet and Bernie Series
About the Author
Copyright
Tender Is the Bite Page 26