by Dixie Lyle
“Foxtrot,” Caroline said. “Do you have a minute?”
“Sure,” I said. I did my best to say it in a cheerful, positive way, instead of the surly mutter it wanted to be. “What’s up?”
“More like what’s out.”
“Oh, no. It can’t be Oswald—I just saw him.”
“No, not Oswald. That’s just it—it’s not one of ours.”
I frowned. “It’s not one of our what?”
“Snakes.”
My eyes widened. “Snakes? What sort of snakes?”
“Well, snake, actually. Singular, not plural. I’ve been getting calls from people who claim they’ve seen some kind of python on the grounds.”
“Please tell me they’re talking about John Cleese or Eric Idle. Even Terry Jones.”
She shook her head. “No, this is probably closer to Burmese than Monty. Big, multicolored, and apparently very fast. It vanishes whenever someone tries to get a closer look.”
“That’s … pretty weird.” And there was no way I was going to make it even weirder by bringing up Cooper’s dream.
Caroline sighed, brushing an errant wisp of blond hair back from her forehead. “Not as weird as you might think. Snakes, especially the big constrictors, are exactly the kind of pet attractive to people who shouldn’t be pet owners in the first place.”
“True. I blame Alice Cooper. Or possibly the Bible.”
“The thing is, they live a long time, they never stop growing, and they could give Oswald escape lessons. If they don’t manage to free themselves, sometimes their owners just let them go and hope they survive on their own.”
I crossed my arms. “And I’m guessing that usually doesn’t go too well.”
“Not for the local ecology. There are nine particular species of snake that cause the most trouble. They grow up fast, travel long distances, and have lots of little snake babies while chowing down on the local population of wildlife: birds, rodents, amphibians, anything they can catch. They can adapt to a wide range of climates and they don’t mind cities.”
I frowned. “How wide a range of climates?”
“About a third of the country. Florida already has thousands of them. And those nine species include the heaviest and longest snakes in the world. The reticulated python can grow to over twenty feet in length, and the green anaconda can mass over two hundred pounds. It’s a big problem.”
Now even Whiskey was glancing around nervously. “Two hundred pounds?” I said. “That’s big enough to swallow…”
“A person, yes. Attacks on humans are rare, but they do occur. The bigger threat is to the ecosystem. In Guam, an invasive reptile called the brown tree snake devastated the local fauna in just forty years: half the bats and lizards gone, and ten out of twelve native avian species completely wiped out.”
“That’s horrifying. What kind of snake are we talking about here? One of the enormous ones?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. The coloration reminds me of a Boelen’s python, but they don’t get much bigger than ten feet in length—and the reports I’ve been getting are of something much larger. Of course, people always tend to exaggerate these things.”
I had a sudden thought that made me shudder. “Any chance one could get indoors?”
“It’s possible, but unlikely. They tend to avoid people, for the most part.”
She gave me a quick rundown on where the thing had been sighted—several times just outside the graveyard, and once in a tree on the edge of the estate. “Pythons are quite good at climbing,” Caroline added.
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll make sure to point that out to all our guests on the second floor.”
I assured her I’d look into it, and she thanked me and hurried off. “Want to make sure all my animals are accounted for,” she said over her shoulder.
I looked down at Whiskey when she was gone. “I guess I should do the same. Though something tells me even a giant snake wouldn’t give you that much trouble.”
[An ordinary one, no. But this one sounds far from mundane.]
“Maybe it isn’t real. The graveyard acts as a psychic amplifier, right? Could Cooper be broadcasting his dreams?”
[An intriguing idea—but Cooper’s been the groundskeeper for years, has he not?]
“True. Why now? And if his dreams were being beamed around the neighborhood, I’d expect a lot more sightings of giant skeletons in top hats smoking doobies as opposed to rainbowy snakes.” I sighed. “Another thing to look into. You sure you can’t morph into a version of me? Dual Foxtrots would sure come in handy.”
[I’m sure they would. But as you are a most singular creature, replicating you would prove impossible in any case.]
I grinned. “Why, thank you, Whiskey. Despite your duplication abilities, you’re quite the singular creature yourself. Shall we continue along our way in hopes of new adventures, or simply wait here for them to spring upon us?”
[I sense I’m being mocked.]
I laughed. “No, not at all. I love how you talk. Just thought I’d give it a try myself.”
[I see. In the future?]
“Yes?”
[Please refrain.]
“You got it, Toots.”
[That’s hardly better.]
* * *
The one nice thing about being overwhelmed by things you have to do is that it makes it easier to put off hard decisions. And by nice, I mean “attractive yet very bad for you.”
“Hello, love,” Keene said. He was sprawled on a lounger in the middle of the lawn wearing a gold lamé Speedo and sunglasses. His drink had an umbrella in it.
I frowned at him. “Did you know there’s an umbrella in your drink?”
“Ah. I was wondering where that had gotten to. Drat, now the handle’s all wet.”
“Also, you’re drinking out of a fishbowl.”
“Of course I am. The umbrella wouldn’t fit in anything else.”
Whiskey lay down at my feet with a resigned look on his face. What do you think you’re doing? I thought at him.
[Getting comfortable. You and Keene tend to go on a bit.]
“Hello, Whiskey,” Keene said cheerfully. “You know, I really love that one-brown-eye/one-blue-eye thing. Been considering doing it myself for my next tour. What do you think?”
[Hmm. Not really your style.]
“Yeah, you’re right. Bit too Marilyn Manson for me. But I could rock an early Bowie look.”
Keene can’t actually talk with Whiskey telepathically like I do. But he’s one of those people very attuned to animals in general, and his side of their pretend conversations is often eerily accurate.
“Awfully glad I ran into you, Your Foxiness. Or you ran into me. Or trotted into me, I suppose.”
“I thought you were going to stop calling me that.”
His grin was wide and bright as a sail on a sunny day. “What, Your Foxiness? But it’s a title. We Brits are big on titles. Anyway, it beats the alternative I came up with.”
“Which would be?”
“I refuse to say. It’s filthy and disgusting and you deserve better.”
“Tell me or I’ll have the maid short-sheet your bed.”
He chuckled. “You would, wouldn’t you? But really, I can’t. Though I could give you a hint and have you work it out for yourself.”
“And how’s that better than just telling me?”
“Plausible deniability, love. Plausible deniability.”
I shook my head, but I was smiling. “Okay, hint away.”
“Try to imagine your nickname as said by Elmer Fudd.”
I did, and understood immediately. He giggled maniacally at the look on my face. “Now, now—before you go planning my murder, I should tell you that I’ve divulged that particular phrase to no one. Take it to my grave, I will.”
“That’s not exactly a sterling reason to keep you alive.”
He appeared to consider this while sucking on the straw jutting from his fishbowl. “Ah. Perhaps you’re right. I
shall have to take steps to ensure my safety. Explicit instructions in my will, coded messages in a safety deposit box, legal counsel sworn to secrecy. If you’re going to kill me, you’d better do it before teatime—I’ll have it all locked down by then.”
“By then you’ll be on your third fishbowl and will have forgotten your own middle name.”
“Good point. Maybe I should put that in the coded message as well. Important to be prepared.”
“Is that a new tattoo?”
“I’m flattered you noticed. Yes, I had it done by this chap in Amsterdam. Brilliant artist, does all my stuff. You like it?”
I squinted. “Um. I’m not sure. It’s definitely … unique. Never seen an angel doing that before.”
“It came to me in a dream. Or possibly a stupor. Hard to tell the two of them apart, sometimes.”
“Not for me. I can always tell when you’re in a stupor. Speaking of which—what were you up to last night?”
“Oh, the usual. Working on some new material in the study, mostly. Was going to go for a dip in the pool but decided against it. Now I wished I had.” His smile shrank. “Poor woman. If there’d been someone else there, maybe she’d still be alive.”
There was, I thought to myself. But who?
I heard a meow from the bushes beside the front door, and Tango emerged a second later. “Hello, kitty,” Keene said. “I’d offer you a lap, but I’m covered in sunscreen.”
[Let’s see. ZZ explained why she lied to Ben and Foxtrot has agreed to inform her before telling Ben. There may or may not be a giant snake loose on the grounds. Teresa Firstcharger claims she’s also a Thunderbird, and can communicate with us the same way Ben does. Also, Mr. Keene has acquired a new tattoo.]
[Teresa Firstcharger is a Thunderbird—]
[Giant snake, actually. Some sort of escaped python.]
“You’re staring,” Keene said.
I blinked. “Am I? Sorry.” Sometimes I tended to zone out a little when listening to Whiskey and Tango’s voices in my head, and when that happened my eyes fixed on a single point. In this case, it was Keene’s abdomen—which was in pretty good shape for a guy who spent his days lying around sipping from booze-filled fishbowls.
“Don’t apologize on my account,” Keene said. “I quite like it when you stare at me, Foxtrot. Here, look what I can make the angel do.”
[No, I’m quite in earnest. Possibly an anaconda.]
“No, really, you don’t have to—huh. That’s interesting.”
“Isn’t it? Looks like she’s really playing that accordion.”
“Sticking out of my trousers,” Keene said. “That was my first choice for location. But that really only works if the angel’s playing a trombone.”
[In a bush, I believe.]
Tango glanced back at where she’d just come from.
“Not your bush,” I said.
“Whose bush?” Keene asked.
[Oh, dear. Now you’ve done it.]
“Nobody’s,” I said quickly. “I was just thinking out loud.”
“About your bush?” He raised his eyebrows.
“No! Forget about my bush.” I realized what I’d just said and tried to change the subject. “What was that about your trombone?”
“I didn’t get a trombone. I went with the accordion, see?”
“Accordion, right. Don’t they call that a squeezebox?”
[I can’t believe you just said that.]
“I believe they do,” Keene said. “Are you trying to tell me something, Your Foxiness?”
“Absolutely not,” I said. “I have to go.”
And then I ran away, while attempting to look casual instead of panicked. Whiskey followed me, and after a moment so did Tango.
[Well, that was disturbing.]
“We don’t even know if there is a python,” I said under my breath. “And even if there is, I have more urgent things to deal with.”
[Hypothetical crushing death. Though there’s nothing hypothetical about Foxtrot’s crush.]
[Stating the obvious isn’t wordplay.]
“There is nothing obvious about my crush!”
Silence. I could almost hear crickets chirping inside the quiet shocked emptiness of my skull.
[Yes, of course. The snake.]
[Oh, it’s practically right next to us. The giant snake we’re not supposed to talk about.]
The hair on Tango’s back stood up.
“Nowhere,” I said. “Cut it out, Whiskey—you’re terrible at metaphors. There’s no elephant in the room or giant snake in the pants. I do not have a crush on Keene.”
[That’s still uncertain.]
Tango darted ahead, then turned and glared at both of us.
I stopped and sighed. “Okay, okay. You’re concerned, I get that. But there’s a lot going on right now, Tango. Tell you what—why don’t you do some investigating on your own and report back? Ask around the graveyard and the zoo, see if any of the ghosts or animals have spotted the thing?”
Tango considered this.
She scampered off, steering well clear of the bushes. Whiskey and I watched her go, and I had a sudden pang of guilt. “She’ll be all right, won’t she?”
[Don’t worry about Tango. Any snake that tries to eat her will suffer her wrath.] He paused, then added [And mine.]
I smiled. For all their jabs at each other, each of my partners cared deeply about the other. Any telepathic cry from Tango would produce an enraged ectoplasmic dog in the time it took him to sprint from here to there. And having seen some of the breeds Whiskey could transform into, I doubted there was a snake alive he couldn’t face down.
Of course, that was assuming the snake was alive in the first place …
CHAPTER EIGHT
I knew I had to tell Ben about Firstcharger, but I didn’t know if I should do the same for Fimsby. He hadn’t even admitted he knew Anna and Ben were Thunderbirds, so telling him Teresa was one too didn’t make much sense. But if Ben was in danger from whoever killed Anna, then so was Teresa.
Unless she was the danger, of course.
Sometimes when you don’t know what to do, a little fresh air and exercise can clear your head. Well, I’d been out and about all morning and things had only gotten worse. Time to try the opposite approach—I was going to hole up with some tea and my computer. When in doubt, do research.
I hadn’t had much luck learning about Thunderbirds online, but maybe I’d do better checking out Teresa Firstcharger herself. A little digging turned up a history that seemed to confirm what she’d told me: While her family name was indeed from a Great Plains tribe—the Blackfoot Confederacy—her maiden name was Hwitsum and she was a member of the Cowichan tribe. The same one that the Thunderbirds supposedly married into when they gave up being weather spirits and took on human form.
She’d been active in First Nation politics since she was a teenager, beginning with her local tribal council; s
he’d spent a few years agitating for reform in the reservation where she’d grown up, then developed bigger ambitions and started to travel.
She’d met her first husband at a powwow in Washington State. He was a mover and shaker in the aboriginal rights movement, and catapulted her onto the US federal stage. Her marriage hadn’t lasted, but she’d kept the name and the political connections that went with it. Her interests seemed to lie mainly in ecology—no surprise there, considering her heritage—but she wasn’t above attaching herself to higher-profile issues if it would get her some press. There were numerous photos of her with celebrities ranging from real estate moguls to movie stars, and in every one of them she was dressed like she’d been born on the red carpet. She was glamorous and ambitious and obviously very smart. Even without the ability to call up typhoons at whim, she was a major player.
I’d known some of this before I started—I research all of ZZ’s guests before they arrive—but I hadn’t really grasped just who Teresa Firstcharger was. I’d mentally slotted her in with ZZ’s activist friends, most of whom were well-meaning enviromentalists with idealistic goals but little real clout. She was a different creature entirely; her modus operandi seemed to be to find an opportune climate, zero in on the most prominent alpha male and then roll over him like a hurricane.
I shook my head. “I could never do that,” I muttered. “Not in a million years.”
Whiskey lifted his head from the carpet. [Do what?]
“Chew through relationships like they were potato chips. I understand ambition, but using people the way Firstcharger does? No way.”
[Using people is the inevitable result of ambition, is it not?]
“Depends on how you’re using them. Making friends, trading favors, manipulating events? Sure. But romance is a different game, as far as I’m concerned. Sleeping with someone for political advantage is just wrong.”
[Humans have such convoluted mating rituals.]
I leaned back in my chair. “I guess. We’re convoluted beings. Must be a lot simpler, being a dog.”