Scents and Sensibility (30 page)

“He's gotta be out here,” Billy said. “Dogs don't just drop out of the sky.”

My ears went right up. Raining cats and dogs is something you hear humans say, and it's a sight I've always looked forward to very much. Was Billy saying that it couldn't happen, at least not for dogs? But it could happen for cats? I didn't like how this was going.

Billy and Dee wandered around for a while. “Think your parents sent him after us?” Dee said. “To get the money?”

“You know they're not like that,” Billy said.

“Not everyone's as nice as you.”

“I'm not nice.”

“Yes, you are,” said Dee. Then came a faint smacking sound, the kind you hear from a kiss on the cheek.

“But they are,” Billy said. “Which is how come I'm paying them back, that's for sure.”

“What about the reverse mortgage scam?”

“Goddamn you, Dee—it's not a scam. It's just good, you know, tax planning.”

Then came some silence. They moved farther away, the beam sweeping back and forth over rocks, bushes, emptiness.

“Billy?”

“Don't start.”

“You don't even know what I'm going to say,” Dee said.

“You're gonna say fuck all this, let's just take off for Alaska or someplace. Can't do that. No way I'm walkin' away from what's rightfully mine.”

“I was going to say Costa Rica,” said Dee. “You know I hate the cold.”

Billy laughed. He had a nice laugh, kind of like Bernie's actually, but not as deep.

“We love each other,” Dee said.

“I know.”

“So what else matters?”

“Wish it was that simple,” Billy said. He shone the light on his watch.

“Where are the twins?” Dee said.

“Should be on their way.”

“They were supposed to be here at six.”

“Stop worrying. Think they'd walk away from a payday like this?” The flashlight beam made a few more sweeps and Billy said, “Nobody out here.”

“Then where did the dogs come from?” said Dee.

The beam swept around and shone on me. I rose, just in case—of what I wasn't sure. But I've been around, know a thing or two, such as in dustups it's better to begin on your feet.

“Sure it's the right dog?” Billy said, coming closer.

“The detective called him something. What was it? Chet, maybe?” Dee looked right at me and said, “Hey, Chet. What's doin'?”

That sounded nice and friendly. Nice and friendly makes my tail start up—that's just the way it is.

“Right dog,” Dee said.

I couldn't have agreed more. Dee and I were thinking as one: I was the right dog, no doubt about it.

“But,” Dee went on, “he's in rough shape. Is that a chain?”

“Musta broken free,” said Billy. “I wonder—”

He moved toward me. Even though they knew I was the right dog, meaning everything between us was nice and pally, I found myself backing away.

“What are you doing?” Dee said.

“Maybe we should keep him for now.”

“Why?”

“Might be useful,” Billy said. “Just a hunch.”

“I don't see how—”

With no warning, Billy shot forward and made a grab for the chain. A quick little dude, as I've mentioned, but of course I was quicker and—except for some reason, this one time, I turned out not to be quicker. Billy got hold of the chain, gripped it tight. I tried to pull away. He got dragged along but didn't let go. I pulled harder, ready to haul little Billy clear across the desert if I had to. During all this I happened to notice Shooter, now sitting by the fire and watching the goings-on with his head cocked to one side.

“Don't hurt him,” Dee said.

“For chrissake, I'm not hurting him. I'd never hurt a dog. And why am I always the one who—”

I never found out where Billy was going with that one, on account of this small figure who came streaking in and bit him on the ankle. Perhaps not what you'd call a real bite, although definitely more than a nip. In any case, enough for Billy to cry out, “Ow! What the hell?” and let go of the chain. Shooter and I wheeled around in one motion—like we'd been practicing this for treats, had it down cold—and took off into the night.

•  •  •

It turned out to be maybe the longest night I remember, except I don't really remember it. Did we come across a mostly buried pickup that reminded me of Ellie? Maybe. Did the chain get heavier and heavier? That sticks in my mind. Did Shooter stop for naps more than once? I'm pretty sure about that, too. Also some blood might have leaked out of one of my ears, blood that I believe Shooter licked off in a companionable sort of way. After that we followed the moon into ranch country—ranch country being kind of obvious from all the horse and cattle smells—but ranches also meant humans, and I hadn't been having much luck with humans so I kept my distance, plodding along. Shooter, long past the prancing stage, plodded along behind me. From time to time I caught myself letting my head hang down a bit, raised it right back up, and pronto. We weren't having any of that. Much later, in the darkest part of the night—the moon having disappeared, who knew where—I glanced back and noticed that Shooter's head was hanging, too. I turned and nudged it back up in its proper place. We weren't having any of that from him, either.

My mind began shutting down, not an unpleasant feeling. I grew less and less aware of my body, on the move and never stopping, except for Shooter's naps. Plod plod, big plods and little plods, like PLOD PLOD plod plod and then there'd just be PLOD PLOD, which was when I'd turn and find him zonked out on the ground. I stayed on my feet during those naps, standing over him, not totally sure that once down I could get back up again. How strange was that? So this was the situation: mind shut down and body out of touch. All that was left was a heartbeat, boom booming away.

The sky grew misty, and the stars disappeared. We moved through a sort of cloud, nothing to see but stony ground, all cracked and thorny. Then the mist began to clear and in the distance I saw the downtown towers. And not too long after that, I spotted the airport tower. The canyon that backs onto the end of the last runway just happens to be the same canyon that backs onto our place on Mesquite Road, which you might not know, just one of the helpful discoveries I've made in my career.

•  •  •

The sun was shining as we made our way up the canyon. From above, planes came gliding down, one after another, wings gleaming, a very nice sight. How slow and heavy they seemed! I felt pretty slow and heavy myself, and the chain was now gaining weight with every step I took. We climbed a long gradual slope, PLOD PLOD plod plod, the chain getting caught—again!—in a spiny clump of greenish brush. I circled back, tugged a few times, prodded Shooter back on his feet, and pushed on.

From the crest of the slope we had a long view of the canyon, crossed by a dry wash I knew well, and speckled with housing clusters along the ridge tops. We belonged to one of those clusters—I even thought I could make out the big red flat rock that marked the path up to our back gate. But maybe not. Maybe I was wishing too hard. If wishes were horses is a human expression you hear from time to time. Horses are prima donnas, in my experience, so if wishes were prima donnas . . . That was as far as I could take it. My mind drifted to Lovely, the tiny horse who belonged to Summer whatever her last name was, the kidnapping victim, if I'd gotten it right, although she didn't seem as much like a victim as other victims I'd known, if that makes any sense. I was just on the point of thinking that it did not, when a figure appeared down in a draw not too far ahead, if a draw was one of those strange places where the ground is sloping up in all directions.

Forget draws. The important thing was this figure, who turned out to be a man, a tall man who seemed to be wearing some sort of white headband, and had binoculars around his neck. We keep a pair of binoculars in the Porsche, useful for divorce work, which we hate at the Little Detective Agency, on account of—

The man began to run in our direction. Did I know that run? Oh, yes! A surprisingly fast run for a big man, and if one leg didn't appear to be working as smoothly as the other, that was only on account of his wound, the poor guy. By that time, I was running, too, the chain a great big nothing, a mere balloon, floating behind me! We came together at the head of the draw, me and Bernie.

He picked me up. Tears flowed from his lovely eyes, not a Bernie thing at all. I licked them up. It turned out Bernie's tears were the best I'd ever tasted. No surprise there. He patted and patted me. I noticed that his headband was actually a bandage, kind of bloody. Bernie was also noticing things, starting with the chain. His face went harder than I'd ever seen it, even on the night when we'd opened up that broom closet, too late. He unclipped the chain from my collar and hurled it as far as the eye could see, or at least pretty far.

Next Bernie noticed Shooter, at that moment pawing at his knee. Bernie picked Shooter up and held him, too. Not a move I'd tolerate normally, but this one time I let it go.

•  •  •

Amy's our vet. She's a big, strong woman with big strong hands that know what's what. She patched me up in no time, good news since even though I like her, I don't like hanging with her, not in her office. So when it was time to go, I went. As I hopped in the car—not quite hopping, more like climbing, I heard Amy say, “Who did this to him?”

I watched from the shotgun seat. They stood in the doorway of Amy's office, Bernie looking down at Amy, but not by much.

“I don't know,” Bernie said. “But I'm going to find out.”

Amy gazed at him. Short hair, no makeup, jeans, and a T-shirt: she was the no-nonsense type. “Glad to hear that,” she said. “But I've got a question. You might say it's none of my business. I think it is.”

“Go on,” Bernie said.

“Have you ever thought about the rightness or wrongness of putting Chet in dangerous situations?”

Bernie stood there, still wearing the bloody bandage, looking a bit pale. “In the beginning,” he said, so quietly I almost didn't hear, meaning real quiet.

“And?”

Bernie took a deep breath. His voice grew stronger. “And I decided he loves what we do. If he could choose, he would have chosen this.”

“A little on the convenient side, perhaps?” said Amy.

“That doesn't make it false,” Bernie said.

Amy gazed at Bernie. He gazed back. What was this about? Why the delay? I was ready to peel on out of here. I barked, just getting my two cents in, which doesn't sound like a whole hell of a lot, so who could mind?

They both turned in my direction. Amy shook her head, at the same time with a little smile on her face.

“Still our vet?” Bernie said.

“Of course,” said Amy.

Why wouldn't she still be our vet? This dillydallying was all about nothing. I barked at a volume less easy to ignore.

•  •  •

So good to be back home. Shooter took two steps into the front hall and settled into napping position. Bernie and I went into the kitchen. He took out a pill. “Amy says you have to take this.”

I backed away. Bernie opened a cupboard, found a bottle of pills, swallowed a couple. “See?” he said.

I did not.

“All right, all right.”

He went to the stove, whipped up a very small burger, stuck Amy's pill inside. That was better. For some reason my pill-taking method had escaped his mind for a moment. No one's perfect. I set off through the house, sniffing my way from room to room, just normal security procedure. After that I lapped up some nice clean water from my bowl and sat in a patch of sunshine, feeling pretty good, my head nice and empty. When I snapped out of that, I went looking for Bernie.

I found him asleep in his bedroom, bloody bandage still on his head. Bernie sleeping in the middle of the day? Unheard of. I climbed up and lay beside him.

•  •  •

Sometime later the bedside phone rang. Bernie's eyes snapped open. “Good grief,” he said. He glanced at me, reached for the phone, ended up just missing, and knocking it onto the floor. Leda's voice came out of the speaker.

“Bernie? Where the hell are you?”

He fumbled for the receiver, said, “Leda?” into the wrong end, fumbled some more and got it right. “What's up?”

“What's up? Are you kidding me? I've been trying and trying to reach you.”

“About what?”

“You're not serious?” I heard kids in the background. “Your only child's—as far as we know—birthday?”

“Oh my God.”

“To which I made extra sure to invite you—to try to invite you—in plenty of time to avoid a repeat of last year's unpleasantness, to put it euphemistically.”

Bernie was on his feet. “I'm on my way.”

“Empty-handed, I assume.”

“What does he want?”

“Red Desert Chronicles, Volume Four.”

“What's that?”

“The hottest video game on the market. Is something wrong with you, Bernie? You sound out of it.”

Bernie raced into the bathroom, soon raced back out, bloody bandage now gone, replaced by a bunch of Band-Aids stuck on at different angles. We hurried to the front door—nothing like being on the move! I was close to tip-top already—and Bernie had his hand on the knob when he paused and looked at Shooter, stirring slightly on the floor, as though we'd messed with his nap. Shooter could be very annoying, as I may have mentioned.
Bernie, let's roll.

But we did not roll. Instead, Bernie went on gazing at Shooter. At last he said, “Wakey wakey, little guy. How about a ride in the car?”

Huh?

W
e drove into High Chaparral Estates and parked in front of Leda's house, a real big one, but there were lots of even bigger ones on the same street. In case you're interested, I was riding shotgun, with Shooter on the little shelf in back, although at the beginning he'd actually made a play to reverse our seating arrangement.