Woof

by Spencer Quinn

  We glided along the far side of the lake, trees rising high above us. Birdie backed off the throttle. “We’re looking for Lafitte Creek,” she said. “May be hard to spot.”

  I watched the shoreline as close as I knew how, although you really couldn’t call it a shoreline, what with there being no solid ground. All at once we came to a very mossy stretch, with maybe a narrow channel beyond. Did it look kind of familiar? I barked my low rumbly bark.

  “Good boy,” said Birdie, slowing down to almost nothing.

  My tail got going at once, wagging like it had never wagged before. Birdie steered right into the mossy curtain. The bow parted it and we entered a real narrow channel, the boat practically touching on both sides. Birdie cut the motor. And then for sure I heard that other throb-throb-throb.

  She cocked her head to one side. “Hear anything, Bowser?”

  Did I hear anything? Where to begin?

  “I thought maybe … must have been a barge on the canal—they go all night.”

  Barge? Canal? I missed all that. And at that moment the distant throb-throb-throb—maybe not that distant—suddenly stopped. So, nothing to worry about, which is how I like to roll.

  Birdie took out the map, gazed at it in the moonlight. “The X is over on the right. There should be a little bend …” She peered ahead. “Yeah, like that, maybe. And just after that is the spot.” She left the motor off, picked up the paddle, and paddled us up Lafitte Creek. What a quiet place this was! And also full of swampy smells including a strange one: Snaky, but not from a snake. Froggy, but not from a frog. Toady, but not from a toad. Lizardy, but not from a lizard. It reminded me of something in my past. I was considering an all-out effort to remember whatever it was when from up ahead came a soft hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo.

  Birdie stopped paddling. “Whoa! Did you hear that?” Good grief—what a question! “It sounded like …”

  We glided forward, the boat slipping soundlessly through the water. One of those big-kneed cypresses stood on one side, not straight up but on an angle, fallen partway and held up by another tree. And on the stub of a broken-off branch on this half-fallen-down tree stood that chubby owl.

  “Hello, Night Train,” Birdie said. We came to a stop right under him.

  Hoo-hoo went Night Train. A chubby dude, yes, but somehow he looked much bigger at night, and his enormous eyes seemed to burn with their own yellow light. He did some more hoo-hooing. Birdie gazed up at him in a fond sort of way. I was just starting to think Enough with that when she looked down at the map again and said, “It should be right around here.” She walked to the bow—her movements somehow not rocking the boat in the slightest—stood beside me, and peered into the swamp beyond the leaning tree.

  “What’s that?” she said.

  I saw a strange boxy, broken-up sort of dwelling lying half-submerged in the shadowy backwater behind the half-fallen tree.

  “It looks like …” Birdie picked up the paddle. In just one or two strokes we reached the thing, a small lopsided shack with a big window opening, the whole thing tipped at a funny angle. “Yes,” she said, touching a rotting plank, a rusty nail or two sticking out from it and glinting in the moonlight. “A duck blind, Bowser. The remains of one, at least. An old, old duck blind.”

  Duck blind? Had Grammy been going on and on about that quite recently? Maybe I should have paid more attention. All I knew was that I smelled no ducks in the vicinity. But that other smell—not snaky, not froggy, not toady, not lizardy—had gotten much stronger. And so had the moonlight. I looked up and saw that the clouds were starting to tear apart, like it was very windy up there. Down here the air was still. Birdie wound our line around the rotting plank.

  “We won’t need the shovel,” she said. “My great-granddaddy was too smart for that.” Which blew right by me. Then came, “Now, Bowser, I want you to stay right here in the boat. Will you do that?”

  Of course! Hadn’t I been doing it—and beautifully—so far?

  Birdie stepped onto one of the boat seats, reached out to the bottom of the window frame on the shack, and with a little hop pulled herself right up into it. She hooked one leg over the edge of the frame and disappeared down into the shack. One quick spring was all I needed to do the same thing myself. Thump! Did I land on Birdie, maybe a little on the hard side?

  “Bowser! What did I tell you?”

  Not a thing about staying in the boat while she went somewhere else.

  She picked herself up, looked around. Moonlight came through holes in the roof of the duck blind. We stood on a sort of bench by the window, a bench that slanted up on account of the duck blind being so lopsided. The whole thing looked ready to fall apart, planks sticking out every which way, the smell of rot very strong, and just below the level of the bench the water, making gentle lapping sounds.

  “What’s that?”

  Birdie pointed to the side wall, or what was left of it. Hanging up there was a round metal picture, the colors faded, that showed a kid drinking a soda.

  “Looks like an old thermometer,” Birdie said. “See those numbers on the rim? And what’s left of the arrow that would have pointed at them?” She moved up the bench, crouching because of the slant, and I followed. Outside, Night Train did some more hooing, maybe louder than before.

  “Do you think …” Birdie said, wedging her fingers behind the metal disc. She tried to pull it off, but it wouldn’t come. She put her hand on what was left of the arrow and pushed down. It moved. Birdie began turning it, round and round. “A screw, Bowser. No one would ever think …” All at once the metal disc came free and fell with a soft splash into the water below the bench.

  Hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo.

  Behind where the old thermometer had hung we now saw a small space cut into the wood. And in that space lay the kind of box ammo comes in, as I knew from my time in the city. Birdie reached in, took out the box, and started to open it. As she did the clouds finally parted way up high, and the moonlight came pouring down. It lit up the necklace in that box with a light I’d never seen.

  “Oh, Bowser!” Birdie said. We both gazed at the necklace, glowing red and green and gold, couldn’t take our eyes off it.

  Hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo.

  “Come on, Bowser. Let’s go.”

  We moved back down the shelf and came to the window. Birdie raised one leg to start climbing out, and then froze.

  Down below floated a second boat, right beside ours, a similar sort of boat but bigger. Standing in this second boat and pointing a big handgun right at Birdie was old man Straker, his face and shoulder-length hair the color of the moon.

  “I’ll have that necklace,” he said.

  I’d heard that same voice before, and not long ago. Too hot for walking. I’ll give you a lift.

  BIRDIE CLUTCHED THE NECKLACE IN HER hand, the big red and green jewels spilling through her fingers. “It’s not yours.”

  “Of course it’s mine,” said old man Straker. His eyes shone like white stone in the moonlight. “And I’m not here to argue.”

  “How can it be yours? The necklace was stolen.”

  “Everything was stolen at one time or another. Don’t you know that yet?”

  “No.”

  “Here’s a news flash—right now you’re the thief. My uncle Frank … acquired it and sent it home for safekeeping. I’m here to collect.”

  “I’m no thief,” Birdie said. “And what you’re saying isn’t true. Dan Phelps sent the necklace.”

  Straker waved that idea aside. “A technicality. Uncle Frank wasn’t in a position to do the actual mailing at the time. He did some deal with Phelps, doesn’t matter what since Phelps never made it back.” Straker held out his free hand. Hey! There was a bandage on his forearm, nice to see. His other hand grasped the gun, a black gun that was the darkest thing around, now that the moonlight was so strong. “Meaning it’s all mine,” he said. “Give.”

  “Why?” Birdie said. “You’re rich already.”

  “That’s not the point,” said St
raker. “It’s mine.”

  Birdie shook her head. Meanwhile, the strange smell that was not snake, frog, toad, or lizard but somehow a bit like all of them was getting stronger. A few bubbles bubbled up beside Straker’s boat and the smell got stronger still.

  Straker made a little motion with the gun. “Think this is a toy?”

  Birdie looked away from the gun. As for me, I was getting mad. It’s a feeling that starts in my teeth and takes over all of me. Did Straker believe he could harm Birdie without me doing something about it? Standing beside Birdie in the window of the lopsided duck blind, I got my weight all nicely balanced on my back paws, set for action.

  “Because it’s no toy,” Straker said. “Don’t make me use it.”

  Birdie looked him in the face. “I’m not making you,” she said. “You’re making you. And you’ll …” Birdie checked the sky, as though pausing for advice from up there. “… you’ll use it anyway, whether I give you the necklace or not.”

  “Whoa there,” Straker said, raising his free hand in the stop sign. His voice got all warm and syrupy. “Whoa there, young lady. Why would I ever do a thing like that? You just hand it over in a nice peaceable way and we’ll both go about our business, no harm, no foul.”

  From above came: hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo.

  “What would stop me from telling everyone what happened?” Birdie said.

  “Just your own good sense,” Straker said. The gun, which had been pointing down a bit, now pointed right at Birdie again. “Don’t do this to yourself.”

  “You’re doing it,” said Birdie. “There’s no way you’ll let me live.” She glanced down at me. “And …” Her voice cracked, and now for the first time I saw her tears. “… you’ll kill Bowser, too, won’t you? And no one will ever find our bodies.”

  Straker smiled. “I actually hadn’t considered the dog. But thanks—he and I have a score to settle.” His smile vanished. “This is your last chance.” Straker’s voice was back to its normal cold and unsyrupy self.

  Birdie started to shake. Tears streamed down her face and the look on it was pure human terror. But she went on clutching that necklace. I got madder.

  “Do I have to do something stupid like count to three?” Straker said. “All right.” His finger curled around the trigger. “One … two—”

  Numbers aren’t my thing, so I really had no idea how long getting to three would take. All I knew was that the gun, and how it was pointed at Birdie, and how Straker’s finger was right about to press on that trigger—all of that suddenly made me boil over inside. I leaped the leap of my life, out of the lopsided window and straight at that gun.

  The things that happened after that were both fast and slow in a way that’s hard to describe. Fast was me getting to that gun, but also Straker turning away so that instead of hitting the gun directly I hit his shoulder, knocking him flat on the deck of his boat.

  BLAM. The gun went off and something hot parted the fur at the tip of my tail.

  Then came a slow part, with me in midair for what seemed like the longest time, until I struck the water. I sank down into warm murkiness, touched bottom almost right away, and pushed myself back up. As I came to the surface I saw Straker rising from the deck of his boat, the gun still in his hand, and Birdie climbing out of the window toward our boat. Crank the motor, Birdie! Scoop me up!

  Was that the plan? If it was, it didn’t happen. Instead, Straker whirled around in Birdie’s direction and shouted, “Freeze!”

  Nothing actually froze but a strange stillness settled over us. Did we all feel some enormous nearby power? I sure did. And then the stillness broke and the waters of the swamp parted and a huge beast—oh! I remembered that smell now, the smell of the Christmas-present gator named Smiley, back in my time with the street gangers—burst above the surface. Yes, a gator, but not like Smiley. Smiley was just a midget compared to this gator, a creature so very much bigger, as long as our boat, or even longer! The gator surged toward me, mouth opening wide. Then came a hiss, an awful hiss that shut down all the other sounds in the world. I opened my own mouth, better believe it, bared my teeth, and barked my most savage bark, letting this gator know what I had in store for him.

  “Bowser! Bowser!”

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Birdie, now on our boat, cock her hand way back to make a throw.

  “No!” Straker shouted. “Are you crazy?”

  But Birdie did. Just as the gator came within chomping range—I felt its swampy breath on my face and got ready to chomp right back—she hurled that necklace, like a strange, glittering weapon, right down that gator’s throat. Then came a pause, me rising up on the wave the gator made, but the gator itself going still. The terrible mouth closed shut. The great tail—so far from the head!—flicked and the gator began to sink beneath the surface.

  “You stupid moron!” Straker screamed. He turned toward the disappearing gator and started firing. BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! And maybe one more blam before the gator vanished from sight. Straker wheeled around toward Birdie, swinging the gun in her direction. “I can’t believe you—”

  All at once his boat got tippy, like it had run into something down below. It slanted to one side, then the other. Straker grabbed for something to hold on to, missed, and lost his balance. His arms started pinwheeling as he fought to get his balance back, but it didn’t come back, and he plunged over the side and into the water, the gun flying free.

  Then things speeded up again. Straker came splashing to the surface and started swimming in a wild and thrashing sort of way, although not in the direction of either of the boats or the duck blind, which would have been my play, but farther up the creek, like he’d lost his mind. Thrash, thrash, thrash, followed by a horrible cry that ended in a gurgle, and then old man Straker wasn’t there anymore. A stream of reddish bubbles hissed up from below.

  “Oh my god. Bowser! Come! Come! Quick!”

  But for some reason I was a bit confused. I stayed where I was, treading water, watching Birdie. What a lovely sight, although she seemed sort of frantic at the moment.

  “Bowser! Bowser!”

  Birdie jumped in the water, swam over to me. “What are you doing?”

  Another one of Birdie’s good questions. I tried to come up with an answer. Meanwhile, she grabbed my collar and started pulling me toward the boat.

  “Bowser! You’re not helping!” She glanced up the creek, a very scared look on her face.

  Not helping? That was bad. My job was to help Birdie. What did she want me to do, again? Swim, maybe? I swam, and in just a few strokes we were alongside our boat. Birdie got her hands under me and gave me a boost. I scrambled on board and she came scrambling up right after me. Then we were back on normal time.

  We both gazed down the channel to where old man Straker had disappeared, Birdie for reasons of her own, me because she was doing it. She put her arms around me. I squeezed up against her. She was shivering, even though it wasn’t cold. Hey! So was I! We huddled shivering together, just the two of us.

  Hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo.

  Plus Night Train. No leaving him out, even if someone wanted to. He flew high overhead, the moonlight shining on his wings.

  Don’t rely on me if you want to know what happened after that. I was so sleepy the next day! Mostly I just lay around in Grammy’s kitchen, eyes closed sometimes and open at others. People came and went, lots of back-and-forth going on, none of it easy to follow even if I’d been trying, which I was not. Did I get petted? Quite a lot, if memory serves. Even by Grammy, believe it or not. I’m actually not sure I believe it myself.

  Did the sheriff show up? Did he say something about Wildlife and Fisheries going up Lafitte Creek and netting some gators, all of them much too small? And had he asked Birdie if she was sure about the size? Causing Grammy to snap at him, something about Birdie being a Gaux and knowing the swamp better than he ever would? I believe all that happened. Grammy might even have gone on to mention that there were still some monster gators around, and that our
particular gator was almost certainly long gone, headed down the barge canal to the big swamps down in the oil fields. She was back on her feet, all better from the dehydration—whatever that might be—but looking a little pale.

  Next time I woke up, Nola was in the picture. She gave Birdie a big hug and said, “Wow. Just wow.” Rory stopped by with a food basket from his mom. They had a little picnic in the kitchen. The sheriff came by again with some story about Frank Straker ending up in the brig in France—which was why he’d gotten Dan Phelps to ship the necklace—and Phelps dying soon after in the Battle of the Bulge. The bulge? A complete mystery to me, as well as to Birdie, Nola, and Rory, to judge from the looks on their faces. Also there was something about Donny Spires lawyering up back in Biloxi.

  “DA says it would be hard to convict him on the Black Jack theft. Might not even charge him.”

  “What?” said Birdie and Grammy together.

  “But I’ll do my best to persuade her,” the sheriff added quickly.

  Then came some lovely shut-eye, and when I woke up I was all by my lonesome in the kitchen. I much prefer to be with Birdie, but at that moment, being by my lonesome was just fine. That was on account of the food basket, up on the counter. One quick sniff and I knew that BLTs were in that basket. BLTs were an odd human invention, sandwiches filled with weird tasteless stuff no one in their right mind would be interested in—except for the bacon. In case you missed that, I’ll mention it again: bacon! In a flash I had the food basket down on the floor where I could sort through those BLTs in comfort, eliminating what anyone in their right mind would eliminate. No way ol’ Bowser’s not in his right mind. You can take it to the bank.

  Many, many thanks to my wonderful team at Scholastic: Rachel Griffiths, Bess Braswell, Whitney Steller, and Sheila Marie Everett, who never let me bark up the wrong tree, and Alan Boyko and Jana Haussmann at Scholastic Book Fairs, who had noses for Woof from the beginning. And there’s no leaving out my crack researchers, past and present: Bailey, Gansett, Charlie, Clem, Audrey, and Pearl—plus Willow, the new intern in the West Coast office. Without them there would be no Woof at all.