Fantastic Detectives

by Dean Wesley Smith

  One more glance around the kitchen and he saw it. A red passageway beside a dumbwaiter leading down into the depths below the restaurant.

  The maître d’ yelled vague threats after him, but Joseph pushed on into the darkness below, pulling his jacket tighter around him.

  Joseph trudged onward. Man-made steps and hand rails gave way to crusty, uneven earth and misshapen rock formations. As he descended he passed cages with sheep, cows, even a deer or two. Grumpy gnomes eyed him warily as they shoveled hay into the animal pens.

  He guessed he was a good couple stories below the earth’s surface when he spied the first flickering light from the dragon’s fire.

  “Lao Long? Ancient one? A stranger approaches seeking knowledge.”

  The reflected firelight flashed brighter, accompanied by what Joseph hoped was laughter.

  A hissing baritone replied, “Pleasse, son. Ancient one? Thatss my father.”

  Joseph poked his head around the corner of the tunnel, holding the Chinese take-out bag ahead of him. “Does that mean you don’t want the lunch I brought you?”

  A red serpentine dragon lay in a bed of glowing hot coals. “Let’ss not be hasty,” the dragon said. “Jusst ‘cause Ah’ve gone native don’t mean giftss from the old world ain’t acssepted.”

  The dragon blew flame on a side of beef, skewered on a metal pole, before poking it with a claw and giving it a sharp sniff.

  “Medium rare,” said the dragon. “A thing of beauty indeed.” He racked the skewer inside a large dumbwaiter, which immediately began a click-click-clicking ascent to the kitchen above.

  The dragon’s head was nearly as big as Joseph’s torso. Its long whiskers twitched as it sniffed the bag in Joseph’s hand. “Ah ain’t seen nor smelt a thousand-year-old egg in nigh on monthsss,” said the dragon. “A gift like thiss... Tell me, sson, whatchoo got on yer mind?”

  Joseph had never seen anyone—or anything—savor so small a morsel for such a long time. The dragon nibbled delicately on the blackened rot. Joseph choked back his gag reflex more than once as each layer of the egg released a new level of stink into the stale, hot cave air.

  But Joseph did have plenty of time to tell the dragon the whole story.

  “Well, sson. Sseams to me ya gotcherself two choicess. First, y’all can head for the hillss. Ssecond, ya can go for the Hail Mary.”

  “What does that entail?”

  “More than a little luck, an jusst a touch a fate.”

  Joseph shook his head. “I don’t know if that’s deep or obvious.”

  “Look, ssson. Here’ss whatcha know: Yer ex has fallen for ssomeone just might—might—mind ya, have more than a touch a the Old World in his blood. Thiss whole thing, to me, reeksss a one of the oldesst, mossst common sstories ever propigated by the little people.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  The dragon shrugged. “It’s not in mah nature to jusst give it to ya,” he said. “But look at it thiss way. Yer ex, she’ss got more fey in ‘er than mosst men ever come ‘crosst.”

  “Fair to say.”

  “And the fey, they alwayss follow a natural order, even when it don’t make much ssense to you an’ me.”

  Joseph nodded.

  “Well, sson... There ain’t much more natural to a woman than to love the man fatherin’ her child.”

  Joseph nearly protested. He felt the anger begin to rise within him—Maeve had loved him. All the way up until their son disappeared. All the way through the searching and praying and hoping, they’d stood together. Only after Charlie’s death—

  A tumbler in Joseph’s head fell into place.

  “Thank you Lao Long. I know exactly what I have to do.”

  ***

  Joseph led the boys from St. Christopher’s through the jumble of shattered glass atop O’Bannion Tower. Fourteen of them. Orphans, all.

  A moist breeze cut through the cool evening air. Half the sun remained above the horizon, the other half bled into the dark shadows of the earth in rivers of pinks and yellows and greens. Some of the boys kicked at the shards, scraping them between their shoes and the concrete on the rooftop, grinding the glass down to a fine powder.

  Joseph heard the boys whispering to each other. “Where’s the helicopter?” “He said there’d be a chopper.” “Give ‘em a chance, eh?”

  A chance, indeed. That was all they had. All any of them had.

  Maeve lay on the rooftop, prostrate at the feet of Lothario. Waiting for Leroy’s release. Joseph chewed on his lip, licked them to give them moisture. If this worked, if they really could avert the zombie plague, he hoped beyond hope it would free Maeve from whatever power held her in its grip.

  Roger O’Bannion entered from the hallway, tucking a fresh button-down shirt into the back of his Levi’s. The boys pointed and whispered among themselves.

  Roger turned his back to the boys so they couldn’t see and whispered in Joseph’s ear.

  “What are you thinking? This is ground-zero.”

  Joseph returned the whisper. “I know. But trust me. Please. This is the last chance we’ve got.” Then, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Mr. O’Bannion’s already called for his chopper, boys.”

  Roger raised an eyebrow. An expression that said, I have?

  Joseph winked. “We’ll get you out of here faster than anyone down on the street can even dream of right now.”

  That much was true, no matter what happened. The city streets were a snarl of traffic and frustration. Government check-points at the outskirts just slowed things down further.

  The sun continued to sink. Any moment now Lothario would awake and stretch his wings toward the heavens....

  And they would see what they would see.

  Joseph sank down on one knee, looking each of the boys in the face. “Did I tell you, boys, how much Mr. O’Bannion loves singing? I hear you have an excellent choir over there at the orphanage. Would you mind singing something for him while we wait?”

  The boys glanced back and forth at each other. Some looked incredulous. But soon enough one of them took charge and cleared his throat. “Sure. I mean, I guess so. What would you like us to sing?”

  “Doesn’t matter at all. How about Row Your Boat? Hard to go wrong with the classics.”

  Besides, Joseph truly didn’t think it mattered. At least, if it did, it wouldn’t as soon as the flesh-hunger took hold.

  He watched the boys carefully as they began to sing, wondering which one it would be.

  Row, row, row your boat

  Gently down the stream

  The oldest stories always were the ones with the most truth. Lao Long cued Joseph in on that.

  Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily,

  And the oldest stories of the fey revolved around one thing. A child. A Changeling, specifically. Taken from his parents to the home of the fey. Replaced by animated driftwood that lived for a while, then died in its mother’s arms.

  Life is but a dream.

  And for a twisted creature like Leroy Star, a poor thing half of the world of men, half of the Old Country, when he took a child, replacing it with whatever twisted magic he possessed, what would home be? Where would the real child be taken?

  St. Christopher’s orphanage. The place he was raised. The charity he donated all his earnings to.

  The boys took up the refrain again, breaking into parts.

  Joseph searched their faces as they sang. Could their child, their little Charlie possibly be among them? Had he really lived as an orphan all this time? That boy, in the back. Does he have Maeve’s eyes? Or the small one on the end—did he share the shape of Joseph’s father’s earlobe?

  He was suddenly aware that Maeve stood by his side. The clean crisp scent of her flooded his head. She glanced at him. Her lip trembled.

  The rooftop shook as Lothario awoke and involuntarily stretched his arms and wings toward the heavens.

  The creature that had once been Leroy Star charged toward them with lightning speed. He took three steps
—

  —And froze.

  A single note, pure and clear, pierced the air. A tall boy with curly red hair and a thin face stepped forward. The note expanded from his throat, its purity filling the expanse of the penthouse suite, spreading into the night beyond the shattered windows.

  The zombie shook once, struggled through another step, and collapsed.

  The note faded into silence.

  Roger spoke first. He disappeared into the penthouse and reappeared with a landline phone to the ground floor below. “O’Bannion here. Send up some fire imps, please. There’s some hazardous waste here we need incinerated.”

  Joseph pulled the tall, red-headed boy away from the rest of the group. “I imagine you’d like to know what’s going on,” he said.

  “Y-yes, sir. If you don’t mind.”

  “My name is Joseph,” he said. “What’s yours?”

  “They call me Theo.”

  Joseph glanced back over his shoulder where Maeve stared at them, nervously chewing her fingernails.

  “Theo, huh? Well, Theo... let me introduce you to your mother.”

  Introduction to “Canine Agent Rocky Arnold vs. The Evil Alliance”

  Juliet Nordeen calls herself a “recovering engineer” who loves to eat, which is why she became a runner. She also spends a lot of her time “communing with canines” as this story clearly shows. Her latest fantasy novel, Blue Suede Darlin’, came out last year. She also writes mystery and science fiction.

  She writes that “the regulars at the Bandix Dog Park on the Kitsap Peninsula” inspired her to come up with Canine Agent Rocky Arnold and his pack of furry buddies. She adds, “My two dogs, a German shepherd named Khaleesi and a Rough Collie named Zoey, take me there every day for a couple of laps around the forested trails which gives my noggin lots of time to wonder, ‘What the hell do these dogs say to each other, anyway? And what’s with all the butt sniffing?’”

  Inquiring minds, it seems, write stories to find the answers…

  Canine Agent Rocky Arnold vs. The Evil Alliance

  Juliet Nordeen

  FBI Special Agent Madeline Arnold loves her job, but her life is an unbroken train of stressors from the moment her alarm goes off until the second her head crash-lands on her pillow. There are, of course, the bad guys she has to deal with every day: they yell at her, make a mockery of the justice system, and single her out for special treatment because she’s “a woman under thirty” kicking ass in a man’s world.

  And then there are the criminals.

  On any given day she’s likely to encounter kidnappers, terrorists, pedophiles, and those sons-of-bitches who try to steal old people’s money by phishing their bank accounts with phony e-mails—opportunistic bastards.

  Lovely folks. All of them. On both sides of the badge.

  Stress like that is a killer, and Madeline knows that if she doesn’t do something about it she’ll likely suffer a myocardial infarction at the breakfast table, fall face-first into her Cheerios, and drown in an inch of almond milk. So every day she takes some time to go to the dog park with her beloved 5 year-old German shepherd, Rocky. He’s such a beast. 105 lbs, deep-chested, big-eared. Built from solid muscle. Zero-to-sixty in the blink of an eye. And a total pussy-cat—to Madeline.

  “Come on, Agent Rocky. Get in the truck. Time to go to the park!”

  It’s a promise she made to him when he was just a seven-pound ball of fur with fleeting blue eyes and a proper Buddha belly. Every day. At least an hour. Rain or shine. Richer or poorer. Paper or plastic—well maybe not paper, it wouldn’t do for the poop to seep through before reaching the trash can.

  And Rocky’s dog park is a magical place. Madeline knows this from watching his body language as they approach the twenty-acre parcel of trees and grass and packed-dirt trails planted smack dab in the middle of the metro sprawl. His whining turns to whimpering grows to chuffing then gives-way to the happiest prey bark in the world as Madeline makes that right turn onto the park’s driveway.

  Two thirds of the cars in the dirt lot are familiar, and it gives Madeline the warm feeling of coming home. By the time she parks her truck outside the six-foot tall cyclone fence Rocky is spinning like a dervish in the seat, trying to see and smell and hear everything at once.

  But the silliness he displays in the car disappears the moment his paws hit the ground. Then it’s business, Agent Rocky style. He quickly surveys the parking lot and makes eye contact with each of the dozen dogs that rush the other side of the fence-line—just like a damn cop. His nose drops and he tracks scents Madeline can’t possibly imagine across the packed dirt, stopping at every hearty clump of crab grass between the truck and the gate to check his pee-mail.

  At the outer gate his muscles along his sloping body vibrate with anticipation. He watches her hand reach for the latch, as if to say Dammit woman, open the gate already, there are important things to be done. They enter into the odd limbo-world between the two gates—one leading to the joy of the park where a dozen of Rocky’s dog buddies impatiently wait for him; the other feeling as ominous as gates of hell at her back, holding off the real world and the stress of Madeline’s life for an hour.

  She takes off Rocky’s leash and opens the second gate to let her canine best friend rocket off into a furry frenzy where nobody gives a shit if somebody else’s nose is up their butt, unlike at her office. As he disappears into a mass of ears and tails and paws she walks toward the small group of regulars to see what’s been happening.

  ***

  There was somethin’ wrong. Though everything outside the fence smelled okay, something had gone bad recently inside the fence. Rocky smelled it in the air—tangy tension picked-up by the wind from the packs’ coats and carried to him. Because he was upwind he could not get enough information just by looking. Couldn’t get a handle on who was the most afraid. He could only understand that the pack was glad to see their Alpha because they needed his help and leadership. None of them would be able to explain the details until he’d formally acknowledged each of them in turn. Sometimes the burden of command was a pain in the dew claws.

  Mama-person finally released the tether between them.

  Pushed open the gate for him.

  Rocky dashed over to the yapping pack. It was hard, but he held-back all but a slight sniff at the ground along the way. A trail of urine said great-grandpappy Snoopy had been ambling around earlier and his innards were about to give out. It was nearly impossible to ignore the need to urinate right there so that if Snoopy made it back to the park he’d know that Rocky had gotten the message and wished him Good Journey. That old Beagle was a right-good hound and Rocky would look for his return as a puppy—as long as he didn’t become too obnoxious and lick Rocky’s teeth. Rocky hated to have his teeth licked. It was his human-peeve.

  Buddy Pit-Bull, Rocky’s second-in-command, led the pack’s agitated greeting with their Alpha. Butt sniffs were exchanged, because no matter how things looked to the unaided eye, nothing was real and true until you smelled it for yourself. Though the dog standing before him looked like Buddy and acted like Buddy, Rocky couldn’t be absolutely sure it was Buddy until he smelled the faint traces of tobacco smoke and beer on his short white-and-brown fur.

  “Captain Buddy,” Rocky chuffed in acknowledgement.

  “Yo, Rock-O, you got good timing, my man.”

  “Give me a Sit-Rep,” Rocky commanded as he moved to greet the rest of the pack. He started, as manners dictated, simultaneously greeting his chaste-partner, Cha-Cha Chihuahua, Cha’s house-mate, La-La Pekingese, and their lesbian-lover, Lady. He never understood what Cha-Cha and La-La saw in that over-fluffed Pomeranian, but to each her own.

  “Kaya Golden’s girl-person is missing,” Buddy reported, slobber slinging from his rubbery lips as he barked.

  Rocky stopped in his mid-sniff-hello with Bruiser Dane and his hackles went up in response to Buddy’s horrible news. He turned back to make sure he’d understood his Second correctly.

  �
�Gone? Here at the park?”

  “One second she was chillin’ right here, chuckin’ the ball, and when we all got back...Scooter Husky had the ball...the chick was gone. Just gone, man.” Buddy’s scent said he wasn’t making-up another one of his jokes. The sagging heads and tucked-back ears of the rest of the pack backed his story.

  This was a real and true emergency. Holy Cat Crap.

  Rocky’s stiff body position was contagious across the rest of the pack, especially the six members he had not been able to greet individually yet—he felt badly for alarming them so abruptly without the blessing of personal contact first, but it was time to be alarmed. An important little girl-person was missing. She could be lonely, scared, or hurt. It was just awful. She might even be crying. Rocky dreaded the taste of person-tears on his long tongue, so bitter and salty at the same time.

  As Alpha it was up to him to bring his considerable detective skills to bear on the problem—his mama-person had taught him well. The first thing was to ask Kaya Golden about her girl-person: how did she smell that day, what had she eaten recently, had she been bathed since she last slept?

  Rocky raised up his head to look around for the young Retriever with the crisp new bandanna but didn’t see any sign of her fluffy, curled tail. He saw the wind in the trees that washed the smell of moisture across the bare dirt of the clearing. He saw the Person Pack, including his mama-person, standing next to the bowls of fresh cool water and making person noises. He smelled things that were too distant to see: a dead raccoon, cow meat being heated over open flame, and grass that had recently been mowed down to less-cushiony heights. He heard the hiss of truck-cars in motion far, far away.

  He neither smelled, nor saw, nor heard any sign of Kaya.

  “Where is Private Kaya Golden?” he demanded.