by Dixie Lyle
Great. Both Rajiv and Zhen took cabs, too. About all I could do was check when each of them returned to the house.
Whiskey and I paid Shondra a visit. I asked her if I could look at last night’s footage from the perimeter cameras, and she pulled it up on her laptop’s screen.
Zhen had come back around ten, Rajiv just before midnight, and Karst around one thirty. We discovered something else, too: Abazu had left the estate on foot shortly after I’d talked to him last night, and hadn’t returned for two hours. When he did, he was carrying a white plastic shopping bag in one hand. It looked heavy.
Maybe heavy enough to contain a gallon or two of antifreeze.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“We need to look in Abazu’s room,” Shondra said.
“Agreed,” I answered. “But we’ll have to wait until he’s not in it.”
“Why would he poison Augustus?”
“To save him from falling into Alvero Peralta’s hands, I’m guessing. But we don’t know for sure Abazu’s guilty.”
“How do you want to do this?”
I thought about it. “Keep tabs on Abazu’s room. Call me as soon as he leaves—he’ll have to go downstairs to eat, eventually. You watch him while I use my passkey to get inside and look around. Give me a heads-up on my cell if he looks like he’s coming back.”
Shondra smiled crookedly. “I get to be the lookout while you break and enter? I was going to suggest the other way around.”
“Not this time. I do plausible deniability better than you.” Plus, I had a partner with an extremely sharp nose.
“Okay, then. Where are you going to be in the meantime?”
“Close by. But you know me—I always have more than one iron in the fire.”
“And usually more than one fire. All right, I’m on it.”
Whiskey and I went downstairs. I wasn’t looking forward to jumping into this particular blaze, but I knew I had to.
“Eli,” I told Whiskey, “is not going to be happy with me.”
[Us. Eli is not going to be happy with us.]
“You got that right.”
We trudged out to the graveyard in silence. I almost wished one of the guests would appear and demand to know if ZZ had made a decision about Augustus’s body, just so I could distract myself from my impending doom by tackling a completely different insoluble problem.
Or maybe it wasn’t so insoluble. I could offer each of them a different part of Augustus’s body, like King Solomon offering to chop a baby in half to appease two different mothers. Sure, because then whoever didn’t want the liger turned into various cuts of meat would be the one who truly deserved him.
[That wouldn’t work.]
“Sorry. Braincasting again?”
[Just a bit.]
“Seems to happen when I get distracted. So what’s wrong with my solution, other than the fact that it’s ridiculous?”
[First, the baby wasn’t already dead. Second, everyone will think it’s a terrible idea and will insist the body not be dismembered at all. Third, everyone will want the head.]
“Numbers two and three kind of contradict each other.”
[Fourth, it’s a ridiculous idea.]
“I know. That’s why I didn’t say it out loud.”
[Well, you certainly thought it quite loudly. I think you need to cut back on your consumption of tea.]
“Quiet. I will not tolerate such blasphemy in my presence.”
We reached the graveyard, paused at the gate, then went through.
I used to come here for the serenity, to just sit on a bench and enjoy the sound of the wind in the trees. It was still pretty quiet—ghosts didn’t usually make a lot of noise—but the serenity had been replaced with a feeling of continual, relentless motion; if before it had felt like a quiet lake, now it was more like the seashore. Parts of the graveyard were more still than others, but right here, in its heart, there was a constant flow of animal spirits flying, bounding, and trotting from one burial plot to another. All of them were either going to visit a human they loved while alive or returning to their own specific afterlife after such a visit. Birds, dogs, and cats predominated, but there were plenty of fish, gerbils, hamsters, mice, and lizards, too. Plus the occasional ferret, snake, potbellied pig, or odder pet: I even saw a three-toed sloth once. He took a looooong time to get where he was going.
Eli didn’t have any particular place he liked to hang out. He always found me when we needed to talk, though, so I figured we’d just wander around until he showed up.
We didn’t have to wander far. But what Whiskey and I found was not what we were expecting.
I crested a gentle, grassy rise and saw Ben Montain standing in front of a full-sized statue of a horse. He was staring at it, transfixed, as if he’d never seen a statue before—or at least not a statue of a horse.
A white crow was perched on the horse’s head.
That, of course, was not what Ben was staring at. Eli was a ghost, just like the other animal spirits in the graveyard—okay, maybe not an ordinary ghost, but invisible just the same. Whiskey, Tango, and I could see and hear him, but Ben definitely couldn’t—
Eli cocked his head at me as we walked up. “Hello, Foxtrot. I was just chatting with your friend Ben, here.”
I stopped, if you’ll pardon the expression, dead. I looked at Eli. I looked at Ben. Ben tore his eyes away from Eli and looked at me.
“Talking crow,” he said.
“Um,” I answered helpfully.
[It’s about time,] said Whiskey.
Ben looked down. “Talking dog,” he said.
“Yes,” I added, even more helpfully.
“Foxtrot,” said Eli, “I thought it was time we brought our resident Thunderbird up to speed. I’m a little surprised you hadn’t done so already.”
“What?” I said. Okay, it was more of a blurt than a said. “But—I thought I wasn’t—I’m not supposed to—you never so I never and he didn’t—”
“It’s not important,” said Eli. “But since we’re going to need him soon, I thought I’d make sure he understood the situation.”
“Right,” said Ben, looking back up at me. He sounded a little dazed. “The situation that needs to be understanded. Understood.”
I thought about saying Um, again, but I was pretty sure I’d already made that point. “We’re going to need a Thunderbird? What for? Is the grass around the burial plots going brown or something?”
Eli extended a snowy wing and groomed it with a sharp beak. “Thunderbirds don’t just control the weather, Foxtrot. But I’ll get to that in a minute, once Ben understands what’s going on.”
“Sure,” I said. “Of course. And how much, exactly, does he understand about what’s going on?”
“Um,” said Ben.
[I think we’ve covered that,] Whiskey added helpfully.
Ben looked at Whiskey again. “Right. You have a dog and a cat you can talk to in your head. The graveyard is actually a place called the Great Crossroads, where animals catch the Dead Pet Express to the Pearly Gates so they can visit former owners. You can see and talk to these ghosts, which is handy because you’re like a security guard for the place. Do you collect subway tokens, too?”
“No, that part pretty much runs itself,” I said. “But I do have to keep an eye on the prowlers.”
“Prowlers?”
“Ghosts that weren’t pets or wildlife. Animals from circuses, public aquariums, and theme parks, mostly. They’re attracted to this place but kind of skittish. Mostly they roam around the periphery.”
“Speaking of which,” Eli said, “we have a new one.”
“Oh?” I said. “What species?”
“Liger,” said Eli.
I blinked.
In retrospect, it was obvious. But for some reason, I never entertained the thought that Augustus would become a prowler. Prowlers were outsiders, beings that for various reasons didn’t quite fit in. Augustus seemed too regal, too wanted, for that.
B
eing an outsider was lonely … but then, so was being royalty.
“Wait, wait, wait,” I said. “We have the spirit of a dead liger prowling around, Ben now knows all those things I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone, and we’re in imminent need of a Thunderbird?”
“Yep,” said Eli, hopping from the head of the horse to the broad back. “Thanks for thumbnailing it. Now, let’s get down to business.”
“Absolutely,” said Ben. “Good old, straightforward, everyday business. Uh-huh.”
“Maybe you should sit down,” I suggested.
I meant on a nearby bench, but Ben just sank straight down to the ground, where he hugged his knees like a ten-year-old and looked bewildered.
[Perhaps,] said Whiskey, [we’re not quite ready.]
Eli squinted down at Ben. “Maybe not. Well, we don’t need him yet, anyway. What we do need is for someone to go talk to Augustus.”
“I think Tango was following him,” I said. “But I haven’t seen her all morning. I thought she’d just gone off somewhere to mourn—”
[She may not have been able to keep up. Ghosts can go places the living can’t.]
“For someone with a pulse she did all right,” said Eli. “Augustus came tearing through here a few hours ago. Scattered a lot of spirits in his way, disappeared over the rise. Tango was a few minutes behind him. They’ve been playing cat and moose ever since.”
“Moose?” said Ben. “There are moose?”
“Well, he’s practically the size of a moose. But even so, he’s managing to avoid Tango; never goes very far from the graveyard, but won’t let her get close, either. Classic prowler behavior.”
“Any idea where they are now?”
“Last I heard he was over by the south fence.”
The Crossroads acted like a psychic amplifier; if Whiskey, Tango, or I was anywhere within its boundaries, we could talk to one another like we were standing a few feet apart. I tried it now: Tango, you there?
I got a reply immediately.
Yes. You have eyes on Augustus?
Well, that would spook anyone, one way or another. Have you been able to communicate with him?
[You must be feeling invigorated. That’s less sleep than you usually need.]
Aaaaaaaaaaand she’s back. Is that true? I asked Whiskey. You can’t track ectoplasm?
[It’s not my fault. You can’t track a scent that doesn’t exist.]
“Foxtrot?” Ben asked. “You’ve been staring into space and making weird faces for the last minute or so. Are you having some sort of seizure? Or maybe I am?”
“Just talking to Whiskey and Tango.”
“Oh. Tango can turn invisible, too. Of course.”
[No, she can’t. We’re just having a private conversation.]
Ben started when he heard Whiskey’s voice in his head. “Don’t do that!”
“Get used to it,” said Eli. “He’s not the only supernatural being you’re going to be having conversations with.”
“I’ll try to work it into the conversation,” I said. “You know, between the dead liger and the invisible cat.”
Ben looked hopelessly confused. “Work what into the conversation between the dead liger and the invisible cat?”
Whoops. Didn’t mean to say that out loud.
[Stop interrupting. She’s trying to have two conversations at once.]
“I’m not on a damn cell phone!”
“Okay, okay!” said Ben, looking a little irritated. “I didn’t say you were! I just want to know what’s going on with the liger and the invisible cat!”
“She’s not invisible!”
“You don’t have to shout!”
“You think this is shouting? Wait until you try feeding my invisible cat that crappy new cat food you’ve been buying!”
[Oh, dear God.]
“People,” said Eli, pronouncing the word like it left a bad taste in his mouth, “let’s just calm down. Foxtrot, you and Whiskey go talk to Tango in person. Ben, you and I still need to palaver. Okay?”
Ben stopped glaring at me and turned to look at Eli. His glare faded pretty quickly. “Yeah, sure, okay.”
[Let’s go, Foxtrot.] Whiskey trotted away, and I reluctantly followed him.
As soon as we were out of sight—and, therefore, mind—Whiskey said, [Foxtrot. You need to focus—we have a developing situation here and your hormones are getting in the way.]
“It was a minor disagreement. I was frustrated.”
[That’s not what it smelled like to me.]
I shook my head as we made our way through the graves. An iguana that must have been six feet long gave me a curious look before trudging out of our way. “You know I hate when you do that. Quit sticking your nose in my pheromones.”
[I apologize. But you need to stop thinking about Ben as a potential mating partner and start seeing him as a supernatural creature with supernatural responsibilities instead.]
“Right. What’s that all about? Why did Eli bring him in? What are a Thunderbird’s responsibilities, other than making weathermen look bad?”
[Primarily, they function as—]
He never got to finish.
Tango darted around the bush a second later, in hot pursuit.
[Tally-ho,] Whiskey said as we gave chase.
Our quarry wasn’t headed for Eli, though. Tango gave us updates as we chased her:
We did our best not to get too far behind, but when Tango told me Augustus had stopped, I slowed down and got Whiskey to do the same. “Let’s see if we can sneak up on him without him bolting,” I panted. Tango, you hang back, too.
We crept up to the top of a rise where Tango was crouched. I kept low, below the crest of the hill, and asked Tango what Augustus was doing.
Which grave?
Now, that was odd. Piotr was a Russian circus bear, apparently well known in his native land, and there was a life-sized bronze statue of him on the plot where he was buried. He showed up occasionally, usually riding a unicycle. “Well, he did say he likes bears. Remember, a lot of prowlers are confused; he might think the statue’s a real bear.”
Relevant factoid: While I needed Tango to translate for me if I wanted to talk to living animals, the dead shared a common tongue. To me, it sounded like English, though I doubted that was really true; if French or Spanish or Mandarin were my first language, that was probably what I’d hear in my head when ghosts spoke. Which meant that I could now talk to Augustus directly, if I wanted. I wasn’t sure that was a good idea, but if he wasn’t amenable to a feline voice maybe he’d listen to a human one.
I mentally cleared my throat, and braincast as gently as I could: Augustus?
No response, but I
thought I felt … something. Like he was aware of me.
My name is Foxtrot.
Quiet alertness.
Do you know where you are?
Silence. Waiting.
I want to help you. If you have questions, I’ll try to answer them.
My turn to wait. Patience is more than a virtue when you’re talking to a cat; it’s a prerequisite and a survival condition. So I just got myself comfortable, lying there on the grass with Whiskey beside me. We waited.
We’d been there a few minutes when I heard footsteps on the grass. A pair of worn cowboy boots walked up and stopped a few feet from my head.
“Morning, Foxtrot,” a familiar voice said.
“Morning, Coop.” Cooper was the graveyard’s other caretaker, the one who tended the graves and cut the grass. He was an old hippie, with a graying handlebar mustache and a ponytail that peeked out from under a battered straw hat. He and I were old friends, but he had no idea what the graveyard really was.
“Having a hard day?” he asked. He peered down at me, silhouetted by the late-morning sun.
“Why do you ask, Coop?”
“’Cause normally you sit on a bench. At least when you’re wearing your work clothes.”
“It’s been a little challenging, yeah. Thought I’d take a short break.”
“Mind if I join you?”
“Not at all.”
Cooper dropped down into a cross-legged position and reached out to scratch behind Whiskey’s ears. Whiskey wagged his tail and stretched his neck out; even if he did sound a little like an English butler, he was still a dog who loved skritches.
“Heard about the liger,” Cooper said. “That’s a damn shame. Sorry for your loss.”
“Thanks, Coop.” It occurred to me that, as cliché as the saying was, Cooper was the first one who’d had the decency to utter it to me. Though Augustus wasn’t exactly lost—he was just on the other side of the hill.
“Kind of a strange place for him to drop dead, wouldn’t you say?” Cooper asked. “Right next to an animal graveyard and all.”
[He has no idea.]
I sighed. “It’s strange that he died at all, Coop.” I kept the fact the death was actually a murder to myself; right now, that was privileged information that I didn’t want to spread around.