Scents and Sensibility (26 page)

I splashed down into the pool. Yes, scummy and much too warm to be refreshing, but nothing sets you up as nicely as a swim. Was that something Shooter knew? I thought so from the way he was gliding along, just his eyes and nose sticking up above the water, the best technique when it comes to swimming. I glided around in his wake in exactly the same way, slipping toward a relaxing state of mind, but . . . but not quite into it, because all at once I heard Bernie, not the actual Bernie but the Bernie inside my head. Yes, there are often two Bernies in my life! Is there anyone luckier than me? Maybe our buddy Alfonso Breeze, a hubcap thief from Vista City who found a million-dollar scratch ticket in the gutter, and when that was all spent, did the same thing again! Or did he steal that second ticket? Can't possibly figure that out now. Back to the Bernie inside my head, and what he was saying, namely: “Go get 'im, Chet!”

Meaning Shooter, of course. Was my job to paddle along in Shooter's wake? Most definitely not! My job was to round up the little bugger and bring him back to Bernie, who by now had Vroman cuffed and ready for his orange jumpsuit. Time to step up, big guy!

Which I did, first by ramping up my paddle speed until I'd closed practically right on top of Shooter, and then by nipping at his tail, conveniently streaming along behind him. He yelped in a very satisfying way, shot me another of the those wild glances, and then swam slowly to the edge of the pool, climbed out, and sat attentively, waiting on my leadership. Except . . . except Shooter did none of that. Instead, he ramped up his own paddling speed, swerved away just as I was fixing to nip him again, and nip him in no uncertain terms, churning through the water so fast he was making waves, and the next thing I knew he'd sprung out of the pool and was on the loose, somehow giving himself a good shake while on the run—one of my tricks, by the way, not his.

I surged on out of the pool and took off after him, giving myself a much better shake than his on the way. Sunshine caught the droplets and made a rainbow around me, one of those beautiful things that come along in life now and then, but no time to really enjoy it. Shooter was already in the next-door backyard, his paws—surprisingly sizable for such a little guy—throwing up clods of dirt. I turned on the jets, caught up in no time flat or even less, flew right over him, twisted around just before landing, and faced him face-to-face, which is how I face anybody who's putting me through a lot of frustration, which Shooter was, and big time. And then . . . and then he nipped me! Nipped me right on the nose, hard enough so that I actually felt it.

And while I was still feeling it, Shooter took off again, around the side of this house, across another dried-out front lawn, onto the cul de sac and toward the house at the end, where by now Bernie had Vroman all set for booking downtown and was wondering what was taking the big guy so long. I didn't want Bernie to ever wonder things like that, so I bounded after Shooter, came down on him in a way that would send a message even to the craziest-eyed little dude out there, and stood over him in this wide stance that means “end of story.”

Just in time, because at that moment the door of the twins' house, or Vroman's house, or whoever's house it was opened and—and Vroman came out, not cuffed and not wearing an orange jumpsuit. But that was Bernie, sometimes too nice. There he was, now stepping out behind Vroman, only . . . only it wasn't Bernie! Instead it was an older dude in a porkpie hat: Clay Winners, from Cactus Sound. He had a wrench in his hand like he'd been doing some repairs. And after him came nobody. Meaning we were turning Vroman loose? Or getting Winners to take him downtown? I was trying to figure all that out as the two men climbed into the pickup in the driveway, which was when Winners noticed us out on the street, me standing over Shooter.

“Dog!” Winners shouted. “Get in here!”

Shooter sprang up from under me and zipped down the street toward the pickup. My mind filled with tough questions, and it's not really the sort of mind for that. Meanwhile, Shooter reached the pickup and sprang up into the bed, an amazing leap for what I suppose would be still called a puppy, a puppy who smelled so confusingly like me. The pickup backed real quick out of the driveway, whipped around, and came roaring my way. I shifted onto the nearest lawn, saw Winners hunched over the wheel, Vroman making gestures from the passenger seat, and Shooter in the pickup bed, on the side nearest me, his head stuck way out in the wind. Just as the pickup was about to zoom past me I heard Bernie again: “Go get 'im, Chet!” I still hadn't done my job. But it wasn't too late—that's the kind of luck I have, especially since we got together, me and Bernie. I leaped.

One of my very best, no doubt about it, although you couldn't say I stuck the landing. Call it more of a scramble up and over the side, with even a possible tumble onto the bare metal truck bed, a tumble that sent Shooter skidding—or actually flying—into the back window of the cab. He bounced off and skidded my way. I gave him a stern sort of bump. What a lot of trouble he was! Now my job was to somehow get him to hop out of this pickup with me and hurry on back to Bernie. Bernie! Where was Bernie? Had I gotten separated from him? How had that happened? I tried to put it all together, but meanwhile we were picking up speed. Also, Winners and Vroman had turned their heads to check us out through the rear window, and I didn't like the looks on their faces. I pawed at Shooter's shoulder, sending another clear message: We're outta here—move! He growled at me. I got set to paw him again, much harder. Now was a good time for leaping out and hightailing it—we were slowing down for a red light—but before I could do anything, a strange whiny motor started up and—and what now? A kind of sheet metal roof began sliding overhead? How strange! If it kept on sliding like this, Shooter and I were soon going to be—

FLOOSH
. The roof closed over us, its front end thunking into some sort of slot at the back of the pickup. Now we were in complete darkness, not nighttime darkness, but the darkness you get at the bottom of a mine when the lantern goes dead, which I happen to know about from a not-too-good past experience. Things were taking a bad turn, unless I was missing something. The truth seemed to be that Shooter and I were trapped in the bed of this pickup, headed for places unknown. I didn't want to go to places unknown, not without Bernie. Where was he? Bernie! Bernie!

Whoa. Get a grip. I was a pro, after all, unlike Shooter, who'd started to howl and claw at something metallic, maybe the side of the pickup bed, maybe the roof that had come from nowhere to shut us in; no way of knowing on account of the utter blackness around us. Howling would get us nowhere—we pros are clued into things like that—but clawing? Not a bad idea. I raised a paw, raked it across the underside of the roof, felt a thin gap, maybe where two sections met, and raked and clawed at that gap, hunching on my hind legs, summoning all my strength, or at least all I could use in this tight space. I raked, I clawed, I pushed, I growled, I—

With a shriek of the brakes, brakes so near they seemed to be shrieking right inside my head, the pickup slammed to a sudden stop. We went flying, me and Shooter together in one ball, cracking into the front end of the pickup bed, head first in my case. Did I hear laughter coming from up front in the cab?

•  •  •

I dreamed we were surfing, me and Bernie. I stood on the front of the board, way out in the ocean, the skyline of San Diego—where we'd gone to work on a case, all details forgotten—rising in the distance. Bernie treaded water behind me, one hand on the board. The ocean seemed to swell beneath us, an amazing force unlike any I'd ever known, and so rich in smells I couldn't keep up.

“Feel it, big guy?”

I sure did!

“Get ready.”

Ready? I was the readiest I'd ever been. Bernie rolled onto the board, lay on his stomach, legs extending off the back and kicking powerfully.

“Here we go!”

And then we were zooming across the face of a mighty wave taking shape under and all around us. Bernie rose, hunching over me. I hunched, too. If hunching was how you rode the board, then I could hunch with the best of them. We made wild noises together, silent noises obliterated by the roar of the sea. Life at its best: I couldn't have been happier. Then the roar amped down and down and became a kind of mewling. The smell of the ocean faded out at the same time, vanishing completely.

I opened my eyes, saw nothing. The mewling came from under my chest. I was lying on my side, the mewler—meaning Shooter—curled up against me, trying to wriggle in even closer. We were moving, maybe moving fast. My head hurt, but I wouldn't want to call it pain. I'm a tough customer, which maybe you know by now. I growled. Shooter cuddled in tight and stopped mewling. The pickup engine roared; the tires tore at the road beneath us; we rocked one way and then another. The ride got bumpier and bumpier and began turning dusty. I didn't want to be in blackness and breathing dust. I wanted to be with Bernie.

Next thing I knew I was back on my feet, clawing again at the section division in the metal roof. All my power surged inside me, surged like the power itself had gone crazy. The two sections began to bend and bow and come apart. I saw light! And clawed and bashed even harder, using all my power plus Bernie's as well, if that makes any sense. The sections split apart, almost wide enough for me to peek out. I smelled saguaros. We were on our way! Chet the Jet! And here was Shooter, right beside me and trying to do what I was doing, even though he couldn't reach. There was hope for the little fella.

But then the brakes shrieked, and once more I shot toward the front of the pickup bed, once more head first. The light failed. Laughter.

W
hy didn't you put him away for good?”

“What are you talking about?”

“When you stepped out from behind the door.”

“Critiquing my performance, Vroman?”

“No, boss. Just thought this might be one of those teachable moments.”

Teachable moments? Sounded familiar. I opened my eyes, found myself mostly in darkness, except for a single ray of light slanting down from above, a ray of light swirling with golden dust. Maybe a beautiful sight, although I wasn't really in the mood for beauty. Not in the mood for beauty is not the normal me, but at the moment my head kind of hurt. Nothing I'd call pain, of course—more like a bit of a distraction. Meanwhile, I felt someone warm curled up against my chest. I glanced down, saw Shooter sleeping in a contented sort of way, not a care in the world. My head started feeling better. All sorts of memory pieces were on the move in my mind. I hoped they'd get cracking and put themselves together.

“Teachable moments, huh?” I recognized that voice, the voice of Clay Winners, and decided I didn't like it. “Ever heard of Colonel Tom Parker?”

“Nope.”

“Elvis Presley's manager. He was a genius at squeezing all the juice out of every opportunity. That's a gift, Vroman.”

“So, uh, you were squeezing out the juice?”

“Imagine that house with three dead bodies in it. Then imagine it with two dead bodies and one other dude—a particularly troublesome private dick with plenty of enemies—lying there out cold. Suppose someone at Valley PD gets a heads-up text. Tasting the juice yet?”

“You talking about Mickles? I don't trust the bastard.”

“Who would? But he's got dirty hands, and he knows we know how dirty. That makes him reliable.”

“He's going to help us frame Little for the murder of the twins?”

“He's going to do it all by himself, Vroman. Hit the switch.”

A whiny motor started up, and a roof overhead began to open. The sun glared in, way too bright, and I closed my eyes down to little slits.

“One thing, boss,” Vroman said. “I've got the gun.”

“So?”

“The gun I did the twins with. Shouldn't we have left it on the floor next to Little?”

“Never want to be too neat,” Winners said. “And guns are dangerous. Know why?”

“Um, because they kill people?”

“Because they can be traced,” said Winner. “All set?”

“Drop it on 'im.”

Shadowy figures appeared in the glare above me. I got a real bad feeling, shifted my legs under me, set to spring. But no. All of that only started to happen, on account of how slow I seemed to be. How was that possible? I was never slow. My anger at being slow got my blood flowing—which made my head hurt, although nothing you'd call pain—and I rose. With a wobble or two? Maybe, but on my feet was the point, and ready to deal. Bring it on!

Whoosh. I felt a strange whoosh of air, and then—oh, no! A sort of leather cage settled tight over my head. Not a muzzle? But yes. I twisted around, tried to bark, tried to bite, tried to shake off the horrible muzzle, all with no result. I couldn't even open my mouth. I knew muzzles from a long time ago, back before Bernie. There was nothing I hated more.

“Haul 'im out.”

A force began to pull me, pulling on me from the muzzle strap or something else around my neck. I dug my paws into the floor, only then finally cluing in on where I was, namely the bed of the pickup, which had a steel floor, hard to grip. I slid along to the back of the pickup and then off, falling to the ground and landing much harder than I usually do. But it was good to feel the ground under me. My vision cleared, and there within easy springing distance stood Vroman, a little smile on his too-big face, like he was enjoying himself. Could some stupid muzzle keep me from knocking him down, showing him what was what? You know the answer to that. I sprang.

And . . . and got nowhere. What was this? A pole? A pole plus a muzzle? Yes—I felt the loop at the end of the pole, tight around my neck. The pole glinted in the sunshine, a long metal pole with me on one end and Vroman on the other. I ran sideways, hoping to outsmart that pole, if you see what I mean, then stopped suddenly and rounded on Vroman. But the pole proved to be smarter, easily keeping itself between us. He jerked the loop tight around my neck, the same jerking motion fishermen make with their rods to whip hooked fish clear of the water. That kept me from breathing. I tried to bite, tried to bark, both impossible because of the muzzle. I growled. It was all I could do. I growled until I was out of breath and could get no more, on account of the neck loop. Air! I needed air, so bad.