by Terry Brooks
Then the principal moved off as well, and Davis Whitsell was alone.
Elizabeth took a deep breath and walked up to him. When he looked down at her, she said, “Mr. Whitsell, do you think you could do something to help a friend of miner’
The bearded man grinned. “Depends, I guess. Who's your friend?”
“His name is Abernathy. He's a dog.”
“Oh, a dog. Well, sure. What's his problem?”
“He needs to go to Virginia.”
The grin broadened. “He does? Hey, what's your name?”
“Elizabeth.”
“Well, look, Elizabeth.”Whitsell put his hands on his knees and bent forward confidentially. “Maybe he doesn't really need to go to Virginia. Maybe he just needs to get used to living in Washington, you know? Tell me something. Are you planning to go back to Virginia with him? Did you used to live there, too, maybe?”
Elizabeth shook her head firmly. “No, no, Mr. Whitsell, you don't understand. I didn't even know Abernathy until about a week ago. And he's not really a dog, in any case. He's a man who was turned into a dog. By magic.”
Davis Whitsell was staring at her open-mouthed. She hurried on. “He can talk, Mr. Whitsell. He really can. He's a prisoner right now in this…”
“Whoa, back up!” the other interrupted quickly. He shifted into a crouch. “What are trying to tell me? That this dog can talk? Really talk?”
Elizabeth backed off a step, beginning to wonder if she had done the right thing coming to this man. “Yes. Just like you and me.”
⋆The bearded man cocked his head thoughtfully. “That's some imagination you've got there, Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth felt stupid. “I'm not making this up, Mr. Whitsell. Abernathy really can talk. It's just that he needs to get to Virginia, and he doesn't know how. I thought maybe you could help him. I was listening to what you said, about how dogs need proper care and how all of us should involve ourselves in helping. Weil, Abernathy is my friend, and I want to be sure that he's taken care of, even if he isn't a real dog, and I thought…”
Davis Whitsell raised one hand quickly, and she went still. He stood up and glanced around the gymnasium, and Elizabeth glanced with him. The last few students were filing out. “I have to go,”she said quietly. “Can you help Abernathy?”
He seemed to consider. “Tell you what,”he said suddenly. He took out a wrinkled card that bore an imprint of his name and address. “You bring me a talking dog—a genuine talking dog, now—and I'll help him for sure. I'll take him anywhere he wants to go. Okay?”
Elizabeth beamed. “Do you promise?”
Whitsell shrugged. “Sure.”
Elizabeth beamed some more. “Thanks, Mr. Whitsell! Thanks a lot!” She clutched her books tightly to her chest and hurried off.
The minute her back was turned, Davis Whitsell dismissed the matter with a shake of his head.
Miles Bennett, lawyer-for-hire, sat in the study of his suburban Chicago home amid a clutter of Northeast Reporters and ALRs and seriously considered having a drink. He had been working on this damn corporate tax assessment case since Monday a week ago, and he wasn't any closer to a resolution of its multiple legal dilemmas now than he had been when he had first picked it up. He had been working on it day and night, at the office and at home, living it, sleeping it, eating it, and he was sick of it, both figuratively and literally. Yesterday, he had caught the flu, the unpleasant kind that attacks you from both ends, and he was just now beginning to shake its effects. He had spent the afternoon in no small amount of discomfort tramping around the subject properties, a vast office complex in Oak Brook, and he had brought his notes home with him in an effort to decipher them while everything was still fresh in his mind.
If it was possible that anything could be fresh in his mind at this point, he thought dismally.
He leaned back in his leather desk chair, his heavy frame sagging. He was a big man with thick dark hair and a mustache that seemed to have been tacked on as an afterthought to a face that in happier times was almost cherubic. Eyes perpetually lidded at half-mast peered out with a mix of weary resignation and sardonic humor on a world that viewed even hardworking, conscientious lawyers such as himself with unrelenting suspicion. Still, that was all right with him. It was just part of the price you paid to do something you really loved.
His sudden smile was ironic. Of course, sometimes you loved it more than others.
That made him think unexpectedly of Ben Holiday, formerly of Holiday & Bennett, Ltd., their old law partnership, of when it was Ben and him against the world. His smile tightened. Ben Holiday had loved the law—knew how to practice it, too. Doc Holiday, courtroom gunfighter. He shook his head. Now Doc was God-knew-where, off fighting dragons and rescuing damsels in some make-believe world that probably existed only in his own mind…
Or maybe for real. Miles wrinkled his brow thoughtfully. He had never been quite sure. Maybe never would be.
He brushed the extraneous thoughts from his mind and bent back over the law books and yellow pads. He blinked his eyes wearily. His notes were beginning to blur. He needed to get this done and get to bed.
The phone rang. He glanced over at it, sitting on the end table next to his reading chair. He let it ring a second time. Marge was at bridge and the kids were up the block at the Wilson house. No one home but him. The phone rang a third time.
“Damnit all, anyway!” he swore, lifting himself heavily out of the desk chair. Phone was never for him, always for the kids or Marge; even if it was for him, it was always some ditsy client who didn't have sense enough not to bother him at home with questions that could just as easily wait until morning.
The phone rang a final time as he lifted the receiver. “Hello, Bennett's,”he rumbled.
“Miles, it's Ben Holiday.”
Miles stiffened in surprise. “Doc? Is tiat you? I was just thinking about you, for God's sake! How are you? Where are you?”
“Las Vegas.”
“Las Vegas?”
“I tried to reach you at the office, but they said you were out for the day.”
“Yeah, tramping all over hell and gone.”
“Listen, Miles, I need a big favor.”Ben's voice crackled on the connection. “You'll probably have to drop everything you're doing for the rest of the week, but it's important or I wouldn't ask.”
Miles found himself grinning. Same old Doc. “Yeah, yeah, butter me up so you can toss me into the frying pan. What do you need?”
“Money, to begin with. I'm staying at the Shangri-La with a friend, but I don't have any money to pay for it.”
Miles was laughing openly now. “For Christ's sake, Doc, you're a millionaire! What do you mean you don't have any money?”
“I mean I don't have any here! So you have to wire me several thousand first thing in the morning. But listen, you have to send it to yourself, to Miles Bennett. That's how I'm registered.”
“What? You're using my name?”
“I couldn't think of another on the spur of the moment, and I didn't want to use my own. Don't worry, you're not in any trouble.”
“Not yet, anyway, you mean.”
“Just send it to the hotel directly to my account—your account, that is. Can you do it?”
“Yeah, sure, no problem.”Miles shook his head in amusement, settling down comfortably now into the reading chair. “Is that the big favor you needed, money?”
“Partly.”Ben sounded subdued and distant. “Miles, you remember how you always wanted to know something about what happened to me when I left the practice? Well, you're going to get your chance. A friend of mine, another friend, not the one with me now, is in trouble here, somewhere in the United States, I think—maybe not, though, we have to find out. I want you to call up one of our investigating agencies and have them find out anything they can about a man named Michel Ard Rhi.”He spelled it out and Miles hastily wrote the name down. “I think he lives in the U.S., but, again, I can't be certain. He should be pretty
wealthy, probably somewhat reclusive. Likes to use his money, though. Have you got all that?”
“Yeah, Doc, I got it.”Miles was frowning.
“Okay. Now here's the rest—and don't argue. I want you to check to see if there is any news—anything at all, rumors, gossip, anything, anywhere—about a dog who talks.”
“What?”
“A dog who talks, Miles. I know this sounds ridiculous, but that's the other friend I'm looking for. His name is Abernathy. He's a soft-coated Wheaten Terrier, and he talks. Did you write that down?”
Miles did so hastily, shaking his head. “Doc, I hope you're not putting me on about this.”
“I'm dead serious. Abernathy was a man who was turned into a dog. I'll explain it all later. Get what you can on either subject and catch a plane out here as quickly as possible. Bring me whatever sort of file the investigators can put together. And tell them you need it right away, no delays. First of the week at the latest.”He paused. “I know this won't be easy, but do what you can, Miles. It really is important.”
Miles shifted himself, chuckling. “The part that's going to be hard about this is finding a way to tell the investigators that we're looking for a talking dog! Christ, Doc!”
“Just pick up whatever bits of information there are about any sort of dog that's supposed to talk. It's a long shot, but we might get lucky. Can you break away to fly out?”
“Sure. It'll be good for me, actually. I've been working on a tax assessment case, and it's about to bury me in a sea of mathematics. So you're at the Shangri-La? Who's with you?”
There was a pause. “You wouldn't believe me if I told you, Miles. Just show up and see, okay? And don't forget to wire the money! Room service is the only thing keeping us alive!”
“Don't worry, I won't forget. Hey!” Miles hesitated, listening to the static in the line. “Are you all right, Doc? I mean, other than this thing? You okay?”
There was a pause at the other end. “I'm fine, Miles. I really am. We'll talk soon, okay? You can reach me here if you need me. Just remember to ask for yourself—don't get confused.”
Miles roared. “How could I possibly be any more confused than I am now, Doc?”
“I suppose. Take care, Miles. And thanks.”
“See you soon, Doc.”
The line went dead. Miles placed the receiver back on its cradle and stood up. How about that? he thought, grinning. How about that!
Humming cheerfully, he went over to the cupboard and took out a bottle of the Glenlivet scotch Ben Holiday liked so much. Damned if he wasn't going to have that drink after all!
Abernathy lay in his darkened cage and dreamed fitfully of Landover's sunshine and green meadows. He hadn't been feeling very well the past day or so, a condition he attributed to a combination of his confinement and the food— mostly the lack thereof. He half suspected that something in the environment of this land in general was having a debilitating effect on his system, something apart from his present circumstances, but there was no way to test his theory. In any case, he spent most of his time dozing, finding what small refuge he could in his dreams of better times and places.
Elizabeth hadn't been to see him in more than two days now. He noticed that the guards had been checking on him more frequently, and he assumed that her failure to appear was due in part at least to fear of discovery. Michel Ard Rhi had come once. That, too, had been at least two days ago. He had looked at his prisoner quite dispassionately, asked him once if he had anything to give him, then left without another word when Abernathy advised him in no uncertain terms that he was wasting his time.
No one else had come at all.
Abernathy was beginning to grow frightened. He was beginning to believe that he actually was going to be left there to die.
The thought stirred him from his sleep, his dreams faded away, and the reality of his situation intruded once more. He grappled momentarily with the prospect of dying. It might not be so frightening if he were to confront it directly, he decided. He considered his choices in the matter of Michel Ard Rhi and the medallion. There were none. He certainly could not relinquish the medallion; his conscience and his duty would not allow it. Such a powerful magic must not be allowed to pass into the hands of so evil a man. Even death was preferable to that.
Of course, once he was dead, what was to prevent Michel from just taking the medallion off his lifeless body?
He was despondent all over again, thinking of that possibility, and he closed his eyes once more in an effort to escape back into his dreams.
“Hsssst! Abernathy! Wake up!”
Abernathy's eyes slowly opened and he found Elizabeth standing outside his cage. She was gesturing impatiently. “Come on, Abernathy, wake up!”
Abernathy rose stiffly, straightened his soiled clothing, fumbled in his waistcoat pocket for his spectacles, and slipped them over his nose. “I am awake, Elizabeth,”he insisted sleepily, shoving the spectacles carefully into place.
“Good!” she whispered, fumbling now with the cage door. “Because we're getting you out of here right now!”
Abernathy watched in befuddlement as the little girl located the lock, inserted a key, twisted it, and pulled. The cage door swung open. “How about that?” she murmured in satisfaction.
“Elizabeth…”
“I took the key off the rack in the guard room where they keep the spares. They won't miss it right away! I'll have it back before they know it's gone. Don't worry. No one saw me.”
“Elizabeth…”
“Come on, Abernathy! What are you waiting for?”
Abernathy couldn't seem to think, staring vacantly at the open cage door. “This seems awfully dangerous for you to…”
“Do you want out of here or not?” she demanded, a trace of irritation in her voice.
From down the hall, beyond the passageway door, the imprisoned dogs suddenly began barking, yelps and howls of dismay. “Yes, I do,”Abernathy answered quickly and crawled through the open door.
He stood erect in the passageway beyond for the first time since his imprisonment, feeling immediately better. Elizabeth closed the cage door once more and locked it. “This way, Abernathy! Hurry!”
He followed her across the passageway and through the break in the wall to a stairway beyond. Elizabeth turned and pushed the hidden door in the wall section closed. The sounds of the barking dogs died away into silence.
They stood there in the blackness a moment until Elizabeth clicked on a flashlight. Abernathy was pleasantly surprised to discover that he still retained sufficient faculties to remember reading about flashlights in one of the little girl's magazines that first afternoon he had hidden out in her room. He guessed he wasn't as debilitated as he had imagined.
Elizabeth led the way up the stairs, Abernathy dutifully following. “We don't have much time,”she was saying. “The Coles are already here to take me to the school chorus program. You remember my friend Nita? They're her parents. They're visiting with my dad while I finish dressing.”
Abernathy noticed she was wearing a ruffled pink and white dress. “That's what I'm supposed to be doing now. Nita's up there in my room, keeping watch, pretending she's helping me. When we get back, she'll go down and tell her parents and my dad that 1*11 be right there. While she's doing that, I'll sneak you downstairs the back way to a door that leads out to the yard. The Coles’ car is parked there and we can hide you in the trunk. The release is on the dash. It's perfect! The guards won't bother to check the Coles—not with my dad with them.”
Abernathy started. “An automobile, one of those mechanical… ?”
“Shhhh! Yes, yes, an automobile! Just listen, will you?” Elizabeth had no time for interruptions. “Once at the school, we'll all go in to get ready, but I'll tell the Coles I have to go back out for my purse, which I'll leave in the car. When I come out, I'll open the trunk and let you out. Okay?”
Abernathy was shaking his head doubtfully. “What if you cannot get me out? Will I be able to b
reathe in there? What if I…?”
“Abernathy!” Elizabeth turned, exasperated. “Don't worry, all right? I'll get you out. And you can breathe just fine in a car trunk. Now, listen! I found someone to help you get to Virginia.”
They had reached a landing where the stairs stopped at a door. Elizabeth turned, eyes bright. “His name is Mr. Whitsell. He's a dog trainer. He goes around to the schools and talks about animal care and things. He said if I brought you to him, he would help you. Now wait here.”
She pushed open the door on the landing, handed the flashlight to Abernathy, disappeared through the opening, and pushed the door shut again. Abernathy stood there pointing the flashlight at the wall and waiting. Things were happening much too rapidly to suit him, but there was nothing to be done about it. If there was even the slightest chance that he might escape Graum Wythe and Michel Ard Rhi, he had to take it.
Elizabeth was back almost at once, bundled in a coat, scarf, and gloves. “Put this on,”she instructed, handing him an old topcoat and brimmed hat. “I took them from the storage closets where they keep the old stuff.”
She took the flashlight from him while he struggled into the hat and coat. The coat felt like a tent on him, and the hat wouldn't stay in place. Elizabeth looked at him and giggled. “You look like a spy!”
She led him through the wall opening into a closet filled with brooms, mops, and buckets. She paused, peered through the door leading out, then beckoned him after her. They slipped quickly down a hallway to a back stairs that wound downward to the ground floor and a set of double doors that opened onto the back yard.
Abernathy peered through a glass panel in the door over Elizabeth's shoulder. An automobile was parked close against the castle wall. Lights bathed the yard in their muted yellow glow, but no one was about.