by Matt Doyle
Hanson pauses, then says, “We’ll do our best. Stay safe.”
On the stage, Castleford says, “Without further ado, let’s get our first combatants out here.”
Someone pulls part of the circle open and I creep to the side to peer through a gap between two larger crates near what’s obviously intended to be the entrance to the makeshift arena. I keep my fingers crossed that the opening act is gonna be humans, but no such luck. The first dog being walked into the circle of boxes is a nervous-looking Doberman. Behind that, and being dragged, is Fish. I swallow hard and dart quietly back to my original vantage point, just in time to hear the boxes being slid into place.
The two dogs start to make noise, with Fish whining pitifully and the Doberman barking and yapping. From the way the sound is moving, I’m guessing that the Doberman’s barking is aimed at the people up above rather than the other hound. Castleford shakes his head and says, “Looks like these two aren’t up to fighting today. But that’s okay. Mr. Fuerza gave me some clear instructions as to how to get them in the mood to entertain.” I see him lift a large stick up and angle it down in front of the camera. He starts to try to jab at the dogs, and that’s more than I can handle.
I climb up onto the crate in front of me and yell, “My name is Cassandra Tam, and I am a licenced investigator of New Hopeland. You are…”
And all Hell breaks loose.
Castleford seems surprised but not overly disappointed. He does drop the stick at least. Everyone else in the room is panicking. There’s a lot of screaming and shouting, and a couple of people are making a dash for the doors. Then, a loud bang sounds and a bullet hits the crate, inches from my feet.
Bert reacts instantly, soaring up towards the balcony and straight at a man with what appears to be a high calibre pistol aimed towards me. I dive off the crate, barely avoiding the second shot that comes my way, and draw my own Glock. Looking up, I can see that Bert has clamped onto the guy’s wrist and is busy snapping at the fingers still wrapped around the gun. I take aim and squeeze the trigger, catching him in the shoulder. He drops backwards and releases the gun, probably not realising I just saved his hand.
The sound of crates being pushed apart draws my attention, and I turn to see two thugs scrambling through the gap and heading straight towards me. From the pained cries up above, Bert has spotted another gunman too. To my surprise, swinging the Glock towards the closest of the advancing foes doesn’t scare him into stopping, and allows him to get a grip on my wrist. He twists it, and the gun drops noisily to the floor. I respond by slamming a foot into the side of the guy’s knee. It’s not pretty, but it’s effective enough to make him let go and allow me time to swing a right hook at the other guy who’s now closed in, stumbling him back.
The first guy gets back to his feet just as “generic gangster lady with more tattoos than brain cells” sneaks up behind me and grabs my arms. I lash out my foot again, catching the first guy in the jaw, and struggle my way free of the woman’s untrained grip a split-second before the second guy swings a punch, causing him to catch her around the face. She swears loudly at him, and I make a grab for the Glock, but a bullet slams against the floor right in front of it. A loud scream follows, and a beat-up Beretta pistol clatters to the floor. I go for the gun again, but this time, one of the two guys barrels into me, slamming me down onto my back. I can hear some scraping behind me, and my attacker looks up. His eyes go wide, and he scrambles off me.
I roll over and rise to my feet, realizing immediately why the guy ran. Castleford has finished pushing one of the fenced boxes aside, letting what I’m assuming is every single dog he has back there loose into my little area. My three attackers have escaped back over the crates and shoved them together. They obviously forgot I climbed in to begin with. That said, with a mass of very scared dogs running around, some of which are now staring at me with a fair bit of aggression in their eyes, making a run for it may not be the best idea. The last thing I need is to trigger some long-buried genetic predator-prey reflex.
One of the dogs, which unfortunately for me is a large wolf-like thing, makes a dive at me, and I barely manage to step out of its way. If it had been a human attacking me, I’d have met aggression with aggression, but that is not an option right now. These are not criminals looking for a fight, these are scared animals that had no choice about being here.
Some of the dogs have started trying to scramble over the crates themselves now, but the big dog is still trying to get a clear run at me. It darts to the side and growls. In a flash, Bert lands heavily on the floor between us, letting out a loud warning, “Caw.”
“Bert, stand down,” I command, but Bert doesn’t move. He just keeps tracking the big dog and letting out his own growls in response to the animal’s threats.
The main doors, hidden somewhere at the back of the warehouse, screech open, and a small team of cops flood in, rifles and voices raised, which sends the dogs into even more of a panic. So much so that, the moment one of the cops shoves a crate aside, it’s enough to send them all flooding out into the main warehouse and, from the surprised shouts of my would-be saviours, into the street. Momentarily distracted from his battle of dominance with Bert, the big dog’s ears prick up at the sound of its furry comrades escaping, and it quickly joins them in the dash for freedom, knocking the nearest cop over as it goes.
“We’ve still got one in here,” someone yells, and I turn to see them moving slowly towards a crate at the far end of the room. I snatch the Glock and run, hoping like crazy that it’s Castleford.
But it isn’t.
Huddled in the corner, whimpering sadly, is a mid-sized American Shepherd whose snow-white fur is looking dirty and more than a little ruffled. While I don’t recognise the cop who yelled, I do recognise his aggressive stance as he steps forward with his rifle trained on the poor dog. I step closer and place a hand on his chest, stopping him in place. “Lower the gun, idiot,” I say, keeping my voice low.
Despite looking slightly annoyed about my choice of words, he does so, and replies, “It’s your funeral.”
I roll my eyes at him, making sure he sees me doing so, and start to move slowly towards Fish. As I get closer, I drop to my knees, putting myself at the same height as the dog, and say, in a soothing voice, “Hey Fish. I’m gonna take you home, all right?”
Fish whines and half-heartedly bares his teeth, giving a few snaps. Somewhere behind me I hear the clack-clack of an advancing Familiar and turn sharply, pointing a finger at Bert to tell him to wait. This time, he obeys. When I turn back to Fish, though, he’s pushing himself as tight to the wall as he can, obviously spooked by my quick movement. “It’s okay Fish, it’s okay.”
Fish whines again and I close my eyes, trying to think of a way to calm him down. American Shepherds lack the courage and even temper of their German counterparts, and so are rarely natural working dogs. They can bite out of fear, and they can get aggressive if threatened, but I already know that Fish is far more nervous than violent. Even without my pre-case briefing, his reaction to the fight scenario proved that. He also has an unusually—for the sometimes loyalty-inhibited breed at least—strong bond with Kitsune, which means he is likely now worried about returning to his master. Thinking back to the contract, that may be my best shot here. Okay, let’s chance it .
I slide myself closer until I’m within clear biting range of the scared pooch and whisper Kitsune’s real name to him. Fish stops whining and looks at me with the scared eyes of a child. I whisper the name again, and he stares at me. “Home?” I say, making the word a question, and Fish drops his head and walks nervously towards me. I reach my hand out and give him a gentle rub on the head. He seems wary, but he’s at least decided to take a chance on me.
“Your client’s?” Hanson asks, dropping down next to me, and sliding her protective headgear off.
“Yeah. If you don’t mind, I’m gonna get him back home before I come clear up the paperwork.”
“And if I do mind?”
“Glad to hear it,” she replies with a smile, carefully running her fingers through her short, choppy black hair, and repositioning it into a designer scruff. “Come on, I’ll drop you off wherever you need to go. These guys can deal with cleanup until I return.” She glances up at the guy behind me and asks, “Right?”
“Sure,” he grumbles and starts walking towards one of his fellow officers.
Chapter Seven
I’VE SEEN KIDS picked up out on the streets for everything from loitering to legitimately being suspected missing. One thing they all share in common is that being escorted home in a police car holds a certain novelty for them. They could be scared or hurt but being able to sit in a squad car excites them. I don’t know if it’s a symbol of safety, something they don’t expect to have to ride in again, or just a learned behaviour from television and books, but it happens more often than it doesn’t. It turns out the same cannot be said for dogs, or at the very least not for Fish. I don’t know what exactly was done to him in the time that Castleford had him, and I don’t know if he was kept purely in the warehouse or moved there from somewhere else, but he’s certainly not fond of being cooped up in Hanson’s car, even if he does have the backseat all to himself. Nope, the barking and whining is definitely making it hard to hear and certainly isn’t helping put Kitsune’s mind at rest.
“As far as I can tell, he’s physically fine,” I repeat into my cell.
“He sounds so upset though,” Kitsune replies, their voice barely audible over the noise.
I sigh. “Okay, look, I’ll give you more detail about what’s been happening when I get there, but he’s going to be shaken for a while. For what it’s worth, your name calmed him down a bit. If that’s any indication, he’ll be a lot better when we get there.”
“Do you mean my real name?”
“Yeah, sorry. I kept my voice down, so I don’t think anyone heard it.” I turn to Hanson, who’s keeping a remarkably good sense of humour about Fish’s outbursts, and ask, “Did you hear what I said to Fish?”
“Nope,” she replies, cheerily.
“No, no,” Kitsune cuts in. “There’s no issue, I was just thinking that it made sense. My real name gets used more around him when we’re relaxing. I think he sort of understands the difference between a public and private face. Can you put me on speaker? I might be able to calm him down a little.”
“Sure,” I say, and tap the speaker button. “You’re up.”
“Hey, Fish,” Kitsune says, using the sort of cheery tone I’ve heard parents use to distract young children. “Are you coming home now?”
Fish immediately stops barking and sits bolt upright, his ears pricking up.
“Are you being a good boy?”
Now fully recognising Kitsune’s voice, Fish starts yipping in response. It’s a happier sound than he’s been making, but it still has an edge of panic to it.
“I know, I know,” Kitsune soothes, choking up a little. “It’s okay. You’re coming home now.”
I hear a quiet pitter-pattering behind Fish’s response and tilt my head around him. “Ah, shit.”
“What’s happened?” Kitsune asks.
“Fish just pissed in the car,” Hanson replies, checking the rearview mirror and screwing her face up at the sight of the expanding puddle.
“Oh, God, I’m so sorry! You make sure you let me know what it costs to clean, and I’ll foot the bill.”
“Much appreciated,” Hanson replies, and I switch the phone back to normal.
“We’re almost with you now. As you can hear, Lieutenant Hanson is with us, so you may want to get your show face on if you haven’t already. Oh, and I’d recommend getting as many familiar things ready as you can too. Give Fish something nice to come home to.”
“Of course. And thank you, Cassie. Truly.”
I smile. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll be with you in five minutes.” I hang up the phone and turn to Hanson, my nose finally catching the smell. “Sorry.”
WHEN WE ARRIVE at the theatre, Kevin Smitt is waiting outside the tour bus, his face full of concern. That’s a new look for him. I open the door and get out, thankful for the clean air, and open the door to the back-passenger side. Fish jumps out of the car with a bark and tears over to Kevin. He jumps up and starts to shower him with doggy kisses, and Kevin gives him a little fuss before pointing him in through the open tour bus door. Tail wagging like crazy, Fish runs straight in to search for Kitsune.
“Sorry,” Kevin says, looking up as I walk over. “We thought it may be better if Fish came home while Kitsune was in private mode rather than show mode.”
“Makes sense,” I say. “Did you want me to come back later to talk through what happened?”
“That would probably be for the best. Look, I caught something on one of the news sites. Apparently, there was a dogfight going on in an old warehouse. Was that where you found him?”
“I can’t believe the press are there already.” I groan. “But yeah, it was.”
“Okay. In that case, it’s definitely a good idea to come back later. Kitsune’s fragile right now, and that piece of information may be a bit of a shock. I’ll make sure the news reports remain off until you get the chance to come back. I’d imagine you have a lot of paperwork to complete at your end anyway. Did I hear that Fish messed in the car too?” I nod, and Kevin waves over to Hanson, who’s been examining her backseat since we arrived. “Sorry about that. To reiterate what Kitsune said, we’ll pay for the cleaning cost.”
Hanson waves gratefully and nods back to the car, signalling that I need to come over. “I’ll call later,” I tell Kevin and make my way back. “The press is there already,” I say when I reach Hanson.
“So I’m told. That’s not Kitsune, is it?”
“No, that’s Kevin Smitt, Kitsune’s manager. The fox is in the bus, but without their mask, so they can’t come near the public. Ironclad contracts, right?”
“Fair enough. Did you need to stick it out here, or do you fancy giving me a hand?”
“Smitt’s sent me away until later anyway, so sure. I should warn you, though, I don’t have a clue how to clean car seats.”
Hanson smiles and rolls her eyes. “Nah, we’ve got people for that. I just had a call from the station saying that, given the suspect’s escape from the scene, we need to go fishing for him. We’re pretty close to his apartment anyway, so I said I’d go check it out. It shouldn’t be a problem, but you know what they say in the ads; you never know what you’ll find in New Hopeland. Backup wouldn’t be a bad idea, just in case, right?”
“Whaddya reckon?” I ask, glancing up to Bert, who is perched quite comfortably on the roof of the car. “You up for one more?”
Bert gives a caw of consent and I smile at Hanson.
CASTLEFORD LIVES IN a mid-price second-floor studio apartment a few blocks from North Main Street that appears to be run by a small team of in-house dogsbodies and handymen. If he’s been working for a lot of people like Charlie said, then he’s either not getting paid the standard Underground rates or he’s decided to live comfortably but save his money. Either way, the staff has no issue with confirming that there are windows into the room on the East wall of the building and seem to have no problem with the idea of me sending Bert scurrying up the outer brickwork. With Bert heading upwards to glare menacingly through the thin glass just in case Castleford is already there, the caretaker escorts us up the stairs and tries less than subtly to prise the main purpose of our visit out of Lieutenant Hanson. Hanson is about as receptive to his digging as vampires are to sunlight. On the positive side, he still opens the door for us, even without our telling him what he wanted. Saves me having to add another notch to my doors-kicked-in-post.
Seeing that he’s beginning to get under Hanson’s skin with his constant jumping between questions and tales of how he should be paid half the staff’s wages, I dismiss Mr. Fixes-Everything-In-This-Place with a nod towards Bert at
the window and a, “We’ll take it from here.”
“Well now,” Hanson says, tossing me a pair of standard issue rubber gloves. “Looks like someone’s been a bit careless, doesn’t it?”
She’s right. The room is tidy, almost abnormally so. The bedroom area features an immaculately made bed and two cheap clothing units that are essentially thin metal frames hidden inside coloured plastic covers. The kitchen has everything in its place, and a glance into the only separate room, the bathroom, shows a similar degree of crazy cleanliness. The living room features a single couch in front of a large television, with only a coffee table to bridge the gap between them. And therein is the one bit of apparent carelessness: a hybrid laptop tablet with the screen darkened but the standby light flashing, sitting next to a small wad of papers.
“It’s very…obvious, isn’t it?” I ask.
“Yeah. Which begs the question, is it intentional or was he just in a rush?”
“My guess? Everything on there directly incriminates Allen Fuerza.”
Hanson sits down on the couch, picks up the top sheet of paper, and smiles. She waves it towards me and says, “Score one for Cassie. Message print, instructing Castleford to move ahead with the event .”
“But we know that’s not true.”
“No, in fairness, what we know is that Fuerza says it’s not true. He could be covering his tracks, or he could be trying to set Castleford up for some reason. That he won’t come in to talk to us himself doesn’t help dispel the idea.”
I sit down next to Hanson and start reading through the sheet of paper myself, adding, “I said I got the impression he wouldn’t come in to talk it through himself, not that he definitely wouldn’t. If the stuff here puts him in the picture, I don’t see that he would have much choice.”
“True enough,” Hanson replies, and she reaches out to power up the tablet. The screen flashes into life, not password protected, and opens up straight onto a file containing what appears to be directions. “Probably for the Gloves,” Hanson mumbles.