by Lyle, Dixie
And with that, Eli took off and swooped through the wall.
“I hate to tell you this,” I said to the wall, “but I knew you were going to do that.”
“Foxtrot?”
I spun around.
ZZ blinked at me groggily. “Why … are you talking … to the wall?”
Then she got all blurry as tears practically spouted from my eyes, and I was hugging her and laughing and yelling, “Yes! I knew it! I knew it!”
Love is a powerful force.
But sometimes a little faith helps, too.
* * *
Tango took the news of ZZ’s awakening with typical cat indifference, while Tiny actually let out a bark of joy. Then I put them both outside before I broke the news to everyone else—I didn’t want them trampled in the stampede of people into ZZ’s bedroom.
Which was more or less what happened. I stayed right beside the bed for most of it; it might have been selfish of me, but I thought I’d earned the right to see all those hugs and smiles and tears of joy. Tough Shondra was all quivering lips and sniffles, while even stern Victor kept wiping his eyes. Cooper showed up with balloons and a grin a mile wide.
When Oscar arrived, though, I left the two of them alone. Some moments—like those between a mother and son—should be private.
The doctors gave ZZ a clean bill of health. No brain damage, just a little residual dizziness that should pass after a few days’ bed rest. She already had me running around, letting everyone know that she was all right and planning a party to celebrate. First, of course, I had to tell her the whole story while she ate one of Ben’s omelets—she waved off a suggestion she start with tea and lightly buttered toast, insisted she was ravenous.
“… And that’s when Gant was struck by lightning,” I finished.
ZZ frowned at me, her mouth full of egg, cheese, and mushrooms. She chewed, swallowed, then announced, “That is the most preposterous story I have ever heard. Is this some sort of test to see if my mind’s still working?”
I assured her it wasn’t. She still looked skeptical, but told me I’d done my usual expert job. Then she asked for more orange juice, her laptop, all the windows opened, and some uptempo jazz music on the stereo.
“Oh, and Foxtrot?”
“Yes, ZZ?”
“While some people might say that rewarding an employee for saving your life sets a bad precedent, I’m fairly sure you won’t try to take advantage of my generosity. Give yourself a raise—five thousand dollars a year. And thank you.”
“You’re very welcome,” I said with a smile. “Did I ever tell you about the time I fought off a swarm of ninjas coming over the back wall?”
“I have no doubt that you could, dear. Could you bring some strong coffee along with the orange juice? I’m off tea.”
When I was done running errands for her, I went outside to check on Tango and Tiny; I hadn’t had a chance to sit down and talk to them since ZZ woke up. I found them in the gardens, Tango sunning herself on a bench, Tiny sprawled out beneath her. He was in his rottweiler form, because that was the one the staff had gotten used to.
I sat down next to Tango. “Well, guys—it looks like we’re going to be hanging out together for a while.”
[No, Tango. Eli asked Foxtrot if she wished to continue in her duties.]
Tango got to her feet, looking indignant.
[I didn’t overhear it, I deduced it. The Crossroads obviously needs to be guarded, and we’ve demonstrated we can do so ably. It simply makes sense that Eli would ask her if she’d like to stay on.]
Tango stared at Tiny suspiciously.
[Whereas you cats never do. Maybe you should talk to one of your superiors.]
Cats are agile in both body and temperament; Tango demonstrated both as she suddenly sprang into my lap and started purring loudly.
“I’m glad, too. I guess we should figure out some formal living arrangements—”
“I’m not putting Tiny in a kennel. There’s plenty of room for both you at my place.”
Tango wasn’t purring anymore.
“But—I mean, you two work together—”
She got off my lap and marched to the end of the bench, looking back at me over her shoulder.
[About the same length of time it took for him to learn how to avoid you?]
“Hey, come on. We can work this out—”
“I … I guess that’ll work.”
When she was gone, Tiny said, [She loves you a lot, you know.]
“Yeah? Then why did she just ditch me?”
[Because she’s too proud to share you, and too stubborn to admit it. You have to need her, but she can’t acknowledge that she needs you. This way, she keeps her independence and still gets to spend most of her time with you. Plus, with me in the house, you’re better protected while you sleep. She’ll never admit that, either.]
I reached down and scratched him behind the ears. “You got it all figured, huh?”
[Well, I did have some help. Tango was right: I knew we were going to be stationed here for an extended period of time. Dogs are good at networking.]
“And cats are good at being independent. Or at least looking that way.”
[Even cats have to answer to someone. Tango is most likely on her way to receive her marching orders right now.]
“Marching orders?”
[Perhaps that’s not quite accurate. Stalking orders? Marching suggestions?]
“Maybe we should just leave military comparisons out of it.”
[Agreed.]
We sat in companionable silence for a moment. It’d be nice to have someone else around the house—someone to talk to, or just curl up beside me on the sofa while I read.
[So. We should set some guidelines—house rules, as it were.]
I blinked. “Um. Sure, I guess. What did you have in mind?”
[While I don’t need to physically relieve myself, I do like to keep abreast of neighborhood news and enjoy a little exercise. Minimum twenty-minute walk, every morning.]
“Ten.”
[Fifteen.]
“Fifteen, with a twice-weekly option to cancel in bad weather.”
[Done.]
“Do you shed?”
[It depends on the breed. But being ectoplasmic in nature, it tends to fade away on its own after a few minutes.]
“That’s handy. Okay, you’re allowed on the furniture.”
[How generous of you.] He paused, looking serious. Rottweilers, it turned out, were good at looking serious. [There’s one other thing. My identity.]
“What do you mean?”
[Your colleagues know me in two forms: a golden retriever, and this one. If I’m to remain here, I should choose a default I occupy the majority of the time.]
“Good point. Something all-purpose, I guess. Not too big to be awkward, not too small to be laughed at. And smart, too—I don’t want people freaking out when you do something intelligent.”
[How about this?]
His outline shifted, becoming less bulky but a little furrier. His colors changed from the black and tan of the rottweiler to an odd configuration that looked as if the
lower half of one dog had been merged with the upper of another: His back, tail, and head were speckled black and white, while his legs, chest, throat, and lower muzzle were tan. To add to the effect, one of his eyes was brown and the other an icy blue-white.
[What do you think?] he asked.
I studied him. “Distinctive,” I admitted. “Is this an actual breed, or some rare hybrid?”
[It’s called a blue heeler, or Australian cattle dog. The breed was established by crossing Northumberland drovers dogs with wild dingoes; they’re highly intelligent and hardworking, respond well to training, and prefer constant companionship. They bond strongly with their owner and are quite protective. They make excellent guard dogs.]
“I like it. It suits you.”
He panted at me happily. [I’m glad you think so. I’ll also need a new name.]
“I guess you will. Too bad—I really liked Zanzibar Buck-Buck McFate.”
[I have one in mind. If it meets with your approval.]
“Which is?”
[I’d be honored if you’d call me Whiskey.]
I stared down at him. He stopped panting and looked back at me, his eyes hopeful.
“I think that’s a perfect name for you,” I said softly, and leaned down and put my arms around him.
Whiskey. Tango. Foxtrot.
Sounded like a nice family to me.
Read on for an excerpt from Dixie Lyle’s next book
TO DIE fur
Coming soon from St. Martin’s Paperbacks
“Whiskey!” I said. “Leave the man alone, will you?”
In my head, though, I said, Smell anything interesting?
[Mmm. Yes. A species of herb indigenous to southern Africa. An industrial cleaner used by many airlines. And quite a wide array of spices, oils, and chemicals common in starchy, deep-fried snacks such as potato or corn chips, which I surmise is from crumbs caught in the cuffs of his pants.]
I wonder sometimes about the olfactory library Whiskey can access. How is it organized? What does it look like? Is it ranked from most stinky to least, or by some other factor? I always wind up picturing a huge room with floor-to-ceiling shelves and rolling ladders that go right up to the top, filled with slender volumes that emit wavy smell lines when you open them. And down below, dogs sit in overstuffed chairs with their legs crossed, books propped open in front of them, tiny smell-spectacles—smellacles?—positioned over their nostrils—
[Foxtrot. Focus, please.]
What? Oh, right. Sorry. “Follow me, please, Mr. Chukwukadibia.”
“I shall.”
“I’ll have your things put in your room,” said ZZ. Abazu nodded and smiled, but he was already moving.
Whiskey kept pace with me, as he usually did. “Did you have a pleasant flight?”
“Oh, my, yes. To see the sunlight on the tops of clouds is both humbling and amazing. I could watch it for hours.”
“I know what you mean.”
[I don’t. Birds are fundamentally insane.]
“How is Augustus?” Abazu asked. “Did the journey upset him? Is he eating well?”
“He seemed very calm when I saw him. Our vet, Caroline, was about to feed him when I left—we can see how it’s going for ourselves.”
It wasn’t a long walk from the house to the liger enclosure, but Abazu peppered me with half a dozen questions before we got there: How long was Augustus on the road? What was he fed while traveling? Had he had a bowel movement since he arrived? I did my best to answer the ones I could and told him Caroline could probably give him information on the rest.
Then we arrived, and Abazu stopped talking.
Augustus’s appetite hadn’t suffered from the journey; he was tearing into a haunch of beef in one corner of the enclosure, trapping it between his paws and ripping great chunks of it out with his mouth. He glanced over at us casually, then went back to his meal.
Abazu had come to a dead stop, about ten feet away from the enclosure. The look on his face was one of wonder. “Oh, my,” he whispered. “He is … magnificent.”
“He is that,” I agreed.
[Hmmph.]
Oscar was nowhere in sight, but Caroline was still there. She walked up to us and said, “He’s settling in well. Hasn’t gone for a swim yet, but he checked out the pool.”
“Caroline, this is Abazu Chukwukadibia. He’s one of our guests.”
Abazu tore his gaze away from Augustus. “A pleasure, madam. You are in charge of his well-being?”
“That’s right,” Caroline said.
“He is healthy? Free of parasites, not injured?”
“I haven’t had a chance to give him a full physical, but he appears to be perfectly healthy.”
“Very good. Very good. A tremendous responsibility. You know this, yes?”
Caroline nodded. “I do, Mr. Chukwukadibia. I take it very, very seriously.”
He studied her for a second, then broke into a wide grin. “Yes, I can see that you do. That is most fine. I shall return later, yes?”
“You’re most welcome to do so.”
“But first, I have a few things I would like to ask.”
As Abazu questioned Caroline, I caught Whiskey’s eye. He seems a little starstruck, don’t you think?
[That’s one way to put it.]
You sound less than impressed.
[Cats in general don’t impress me. The more cat there is, the more there is to be unimpressed by. I am currently confronted by a great deal of cat.]
That’s one way to put it.
When Abazu finished his interrogation, he thanked Caroline profusely and indicated he’d like to return to the house to freshen up. He was very quiet on the way back, apparently lost in his own thoughts, and didn’t even glance around his room when we got there. He told me he’d see me at dinner and closed the door.
The last guest to arrive was Luis Navarro.
He pulled up in a very new, very black Mercedes. ZZ had gone back inside by then, and I was the only one around. I walked forward, Whiskey at my side, to greet him.
He took two hardshell suitcases out of the trunk as I approached. He was tall, broad in the shoulders, with an immaculately tailored dark suit that managed to look casual and dressy at the same time. His hair was shiny and black and cut short. He had that boyish look to him some Latin men have, his lashes just a little too long and his cheeks just a little too round, but he balanced that with a strong jaw and piercing eyes. He gave me an easy smile when he spotted me. “You must be Foxtrot,” he said. His voice was warm and deep. “Hello.”
“Hello. You must be Mr. Navarro.”
“Luis, please.”
“All right, Luis. Everyone else is already here; if you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to your room.”
“Thank you.”
And that was all he said as he followed me into the house and up the stairs. I kept talking, of course, but he kept his replies to nods and polite murmurs and offered no comments of his own. I got the hint and didn’t push; some people are uncomfortable with small talk and trying to engage them is the wrong approach.
“Dinner is at six, drinks at five thirty,” I said, opening the door to his room.
“Thank you very much, Foxtrot,” he answered. He looked around his room with a careful, considering eye as he placed his bags on the floor; it seemed to meet with his approval, because he nodded before turning back to face me.
“You have wireless Internet, of course?” he asked.
“Yes. The password is on a card on the nightstand. You have my number; call me if you need anything else.”
He frowned, ever so slightly. “Really? I would have thought you’d have staff to take care of such mundane tasks.”
“We do. But I’m something of a control freak; everything gets routed through me. You want more towels, I have to okay the color and weave before the maid brings them up.”
His frown turned into a smile. It was a nice smile, one that reached all the way up to his eyes. “That’s very diligent
of you. I’ll try not to take up too much of your time.”
“Not a problem. Just doing my job.” I smiled back, gave him the professional I’m-leaving-now nod, and took a step backward.
He took the same step forward, as gracefully as if we were dancing, and stopped at the precise second I did. His smile stayed the same, but his eyes locked with mine. “And what if I require something a little more … esoteric?” he asked gently.
I blinked. Neither his voice nor the expression on his face had changed, but his body language was subtly different in a way that was hard to explain; poised, somehow, while appearing relaxed. Like some internal gear had shifted, but he hadn’t stomped on the gas yet.
“That depends on what you have in mind,” I said carefully.
He gazed at me for a second before answering. “Tequila,” he said at last. “I have a fondness for it, but only particular varieties. Purely as a sipping drink, you understand; I value a well-made tequila the way some value a good scotch.”
“Give me a name and I’ll do my best.”
“Casa Dragones is my favorite, though a bottle of Milagro Unico will do. One hundred percent blue agave, both of them. The Milagro is flavorful and smooth, yet somewhat playful.”
“It sounds … intriguing.”
“Mmm. The Dragones is delicately sweet, with an underlying fire. And most satisfying—even more so if you have someone to share it with.”
Somehow, I didn’t think he was talking about tequila any more. “I’ll see what I can do … but you may have to wait. These things can take a while.”
Oddly, he didn’t seem disappointed. “Yes, I understand. Hopefully, you will be successful before I leave.” He nodded once more, more formally, and closed his door.
“Huh,” I said to Whiskey as I walked away. “Well, I’ve been hit on aggressively before, but that was a weird combination. Full steam one second, then back down to zero without taking offense. Almost like he was just going through the motions.”
[It could be he had other things on his mind.]
“You mean like Augustus?”
[I mean like the firearms he was carrying.]
It was my turn to stop dead.