Marked Fur Murder (25 page)

[I'm fine down here.]

“Haven't seen you all afternoon. What's up?”

[Nothing. Where's the cat?]

“Using her litter box. Anything you need to tell me, Whiskey?”

There was a long pause. [Perhaps.]

“I'm all ears, doggy.”

When he crawled out from under the couch, I knew I wasn't going to like what he had to tell me. He was wearing his Chihuahua form, all big eyes and tiny, quivering body. He looked up at me with that universal look all dogs mastered long ago, the one that says
I know I'm bad but don't hate me
.

I groaned. “Okay, okay. What did you do?”

[I suppose you could say I went on a date.]

“Mmm. I don't have to ask who with, do I? And yes, that
was
a rhetorical question. What did you—”

And that's when the smell hit me.

I bolted up from my chair and leapt for the window. Actually, after getting the window open I considered leaping
through
it, just to escape the stench. No, it wasn't the aroma of skunk—though it might have been a
former
skunk.

“Gaaaahh,” I said. I'm pretty sure it was the first time I'd ever said that particular word. “Oh, that is
ripe
. What
is
that?”

[Badger,] he said miserably. [I'm sorry, Foxtrot, I truly am. Things sort of … got out of hand.]

I kept my head out the window and breathed through my mouth. “Well, that can happen on a date. I've never been on one where I wound up smelling like a zombie locker room, but obviously I've led a sheltered life. Care to explain how this delightful condition came to pass?”

[I went to see Kaci. Her owner was taking her for a walk, and he didn't care for my presence. Kaci disagreed, and bolted. She ripped the leash right from his hand.]

“Very romantic,” I said, trying to breathe as shallowly as I could. “So you two ran off together?”

[I suppose. I intended to bring her back, really I did—but it was just so enjoyable, running alongside her…]

“I get it. The thrill of a new relationship, the flirting, the feeling that anything is possible … and then, of course, the inevitable rotting corpse.”

[It was at the side of the road. Its owner didn't seem to have any further use for it.]

I turned to look back at him accusingly, and immediately regretted it. “Oh, he didn't, did he? Maybe we should stroll on down to the graveyard, find the badger afterlife, and ask him? Excuse me, Mr. Dead Badger, sir, do you mind terribly that my canine associate here writhed around on your discarded, decomposing flesh? See, he was on a first date and really trying to impress her.”

[I couldn't help it. My instincts just took over.]

“Your instincts? You talk like a nineteenth-century butler, you can control your own size and shape, you have no problem conversing telepathically—but one whiff of roadkill and you go all junkyard dog on me?”

He lay down and put his head on his paws. [I know, I know. I'm terribly ashamed of myself. But you have to understand why dogs find that particular experience so … irresistible.]

“Then explain it to me, please. Because you're right, that's something I've never understood.”

[You do understand, though, that a dog's primary sense is that of smell? Our noses are thousands of times stronger than that of a human being. What is completely undetectable to you is blatantly obvious to us. We live in a very, very different world than yours.]

I thought I was getting used to the reek, but the breeze shifted and I got a fresh whiff. I gagged, spun around, and stuck my head out the window again. “Yes, you certainly do. But that still makes no sense. If what you experience is a thousand times stronger than what I'm experiencing now, how is your
head
not exploding?”

[It … sort of is.]

“What?”

[Foxtrot, how much time, effort, and study do human beings put into preparing food?]

“Speaking from a personal point of view, none whatsoever. I've just decided I'm never eating anything again.”

[It's a huge part of your culture. Elaborate rituals and endless variations, all for what is essentially a very simple process. Why?]

“Well … enjoyment, basically.”

[Yes. Which is entirely understandable. But what about the extremes people go to? Creations made almost entirely from sugar, or spiced so severely they cause actual pain, or even foods that are technically poisonous? What is the reasoning behind consuming such things?]

I was starting to see where he was going with this. “Human beings go to extremes like that because human beings are drawn to extremes. Sports, sex, food, drink, art, toys: If there's any way to amp an experience up to eleven, human beings will do so within five minutes of that experience being discovered or created. It's what we do.”

[Rolling around on things that smell really, really strongly is what dogs do. For someone with a nose like mine, it is the most extreme sensory experience possible. About the only other thing that compares is sticking my head out the window of a moving vehicle—but that one's more about variety than intensity.]

That actually made sense. There's something about a really, really intense sensation that just trips the circuit breakers in your brain and shouts
more
. “So the stink is actually … intoxicating?”

[Only in the moment. The feeling wears off all too soon, leaving only guilt and shame behind.]

Talk about morning-after regret. “All right, quit it with the pathetic act. I worked for a CEO once who liked to do a shot of pureed ghost pepper—which is approximately four hundred times as hot as Tabasco sauce—before boardroom meetings. Claimed the pain kept him sharp, but I think he was just addicted to the endorphin rush. I may not approve, but I do understand.”

[I will endeavor to maintain control in the future.]

“Fine. Now let's get you cleaned up—I like my substance abusers clean and shiny.”

*   *   *

Kaci, Whiskey informed me while I gave him a bath, was back safe and sound with her owner. Needless to say, he wasn't exactly overjoyed at the condition she arrived in; I expected to get a very angry phone call from Rustam at any minute. In fact, it was rather strange that it hadn't happened already.

While I soaped and scrubbed Whiskey, I gave him the lowdown on what had happened while he was off gallivanting with his new lady love.

[I see,] he said. He'd switched back to his usual Australian cattle dog form, and his face now wore the long-suffering look most dogs use while being bathed. [I leave for a few minutes and everything falls apart. It's all Tango's fault, of course.]

“Some of it, anyway. But Ben was going to find out sooner or later—in fact, I was going to tell him. But the timing was awful.” I scooped up some water with a small pail and poured it over Whiskey's back.

[So Keene slept with Anna, Fimsby claims he's on our side though he lied about where he talked to Anna, Theodora Bonkle is set on avenging a dead cat, and Ben and Teresa are dueling at dawn. Have I covered all the major events?]

“I think that's it. Oh, the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse rode through about an hour ago, but they just needed directions. Apparently they aren't supposed to show up
here
until next week.”

[You show a definite tendency toward sarcasm when under pressure.]

“Nice guys, actually. We got to chatting—you know, as you do—and they told me most people aren't all that happy to see them. Not us, I said. We're used to that sort of thing. Why, we can even put you up if you need a place to stay, and I'm sure our stables can accommodate a few more horses, even if one is entirely skeletal and another seems to be on fire. Then I offered to get Famine a snack and everybody laughed. Pestilence has an
extremely
infectious giggle.”

[Have you been drinking?]

“Contact high, I think. Damn telepathy.”

[I assure you, I'm entirely sober at this point.]

“And yet you still smell really, really bad. I'm gonna keep scrubbing.”

My phone rang. I dried my hands, checked the display, and groaned. “Rustam Gorshkov, of course. Stay in there while I try to save your bushy tail. Hi, Mr. Gorshkov! I am
so,
so sorry—”

“Ms. Lancaster. It seems we have a problem.” His voice held no anger, only weary resignation and a touch of wry amusement. That was a lot better than I'd hoped for. “Kaci and your dog—Whiskey, correct?—had themselves a little adventure, yes?”

“It seems so. I have him in the tub right now, and he is
not
enjoying it.” I glared at Whiskey as I said that, and he whined and looked away. “Is Kaci all right?”

He chuckled. “Yes, yes. Very smelly, of course, but otherwise unharmed.”

“Good, good. Listen, there's a great little dog spa in town. I will personally drive Kaci down there and get her all cleaned up at no expense to you. She'll come back cleaned, groomed, and happy.”

“No, no, that's fine. I have washed her in bathroom already. But I think, maybe, you and I should have talk face-to-face, maybe set some, what is the words, ground rules? To keep from more incidents in future.”

“Sure, absolutely. Whenever's good for you.”

“I think sooner is better, yes? I am in my room.”

“Okay, then. I'll get Whiskey dried off and be right up.”

“
Da,
thank you.” He hung up.

I pocketed my phone and grabbed a big towel. “Okay, you. Out of the water.”

Thankfully,
eau de ex-badger
washed off easier than skunk juice, and I pronounced Whiskey stink-free as I dried him off—other than the aroma of wet dog, of course. “All right. I'm going to smooth things over with Gorshkov, who thankfully seems understanding. Then I'll come back and we'll discuss how you're going to act around Ms. Kaci from now on.”

[I assure you, from here on in my intentions will be strictly honorable.]

“It's not your intentions I'm worried about. It's your actions.”

*   *   *

“Come in, please,” Gorshkov said when I knocked on the door to his room.

I went in. He was seated by the window, with the drapes closed, his hands resting on the cane between his legs. A single lamp beside him lit the room. Kaci was nowhere in sight.

“Come in, sit,” said Gorshkov. His tone was neutral.

I closed the door behind me, then sat in the large chair opposite him. The room was large and furnished in ZZ's eclectic style; Picasso and Dal
í
prints hung on the walls, the bedspread was a huge splash of Jackson Pollock colors, the carpet underfoot was a deep black inlaid with a pattern of faithfully reproduced star constellations, while the ceiling was painted with a hyperrealistic undersea scene featuring a tropical reef. The overall effect was a bit unsettling, but the room was popular and often requested by repeat guests.

“Where's Kaci?” I asked, glancing around.

“In the bathroom, drying off. I thought it best we talk alone.”

“Not afraid she'll overhear us telepathically?” I said, trying for a little humor.

“That is not how it works,” he answered. “It is very much a conscious decision between both of us, to share our thoughts.”

That seemed to be how it worked for Whiskey, Tango, and me, too—though sometimes the occasional stray thought slipped out from me to them. “You don't have anything to worry about, Mr. Gorshkov. I promise, Whiskey will be on a short leash as long as you're here.”

“But I do have to worry, Ms. Lancaster. You see, my bond with Kaci is unique. Should something happen to her, I could not simply replace her. It would devastate me.”

“I understand—”

“No. You do not.” His voice was soft, but there was something very sharp beneath the words. He got out of his chair, not using the cane for support at all, and stared down at me. “The life of an artist is always a hard one. Emotionally, creatively, financially. Kaci does not experience this, of course—I ensure her happiness in all things.”

Not
all
things,
I thought.

“
I
am the one who endures the hardships so that Kaci can create. I feed her, shelter her, nurture her. I
protect
her.”

“Yes, I know—”

He cut me off again. “I do not believe you do.” He took several deliberate steps toward the door, but when he reached it he stopped and turned back toward me. He held the cane in one hand like a club, his fist clenched around the middle. “Belief, Ms. Lancaster, is tricky thing. Like a ghost it can be, appearing to some but not others. Some people believe only what they experience themselves. Kaci's paintings are real, so people believe she can do what I say she can. It is not a claim, it is true thing.”

“Nobody's claiming otherwise, Mr. Gorshkov.”

He continued as if I hadn't spoken. “Now, should you claim that during our conversation something unusual occurred, and I insisted it did not, then it would all come down to a matter of belief. Some would believe you, some me. There would be no proof—it would be
hearsay,
correct?”

“
My word against yours
is another way to say it.”

“Yes. And words, like beliefs, are tricky things. They can mean more than one thing, they can be made to twist and jump and even dance. Sometimes, the perambulations they perform are so intricate as to be almost unbelievable.”

My eyebrows went up, just a fraction. That was some pretty good wordplay from a guy who struggled with
hearsay
.

But my eyebrows hadn't heard anything yet.

“It seems as though your companion, a canine like
mine,
” said Gorshkov, “has taken my dog's affection as some sort of
sign
.”