The Dog Who Knew Too Much (31 page)

“What’s your dog’s name?” said the BLT guy. He was sitting on his pack now, and I seemed to be standing in front of him. How had that happened?

“Chet,” Bernie said.

“I think he’s jonesin’ for some of my sandwich.”

“Just tell him no.”

“I don’t mind. Can he have it?”

And a little more palaver like that, and then half a BLT on rye was mine. Delish, and gone in two bites; turned out I’d been just about famished.

“Nice dog,” said the BLT guy.

And he was nice, too. Bernie gave the gray-haired guy a little wave, almost like a salute. The gray-haired guy gave him one back, just like it. We left the clearing and moved on down the trail.

After not a very long way, the trail took a sharp turn and led us down the side of a ridge wooded with those white-bark trees. Lovely yellow flowers grew all over the place.

“Nice of that guy to share his sandwich with Chet,” Suzie said.

“We paid for it,” said Bernie.

“What do you mean?”

“The FBI is funded with tax dollars, yours and mine.”

“FBI?” Suzie stopped, glanced back up the trail. “How do you know?”

“They just can’t hide it,” Bernie said.

“Are they on a training mission or something?”

“I doubt it.”

“Why?”

“They were too interested in us, especially in how long we
were going to be in the area. Meaning they’ve got something in mind.”

“Like what?”

“No idea,” Bernie said. “We just need to be out of the china shop when it happens.”

China shop? I’d heard of them but never actually seen one, not that I knew of. As for the FBI, we’d bumped up against them more than once, me and Bernie. All I knew was we always kept it short.

The trail got easier and easier. We moved into sunlight, saw those mountains slanting in from the side. Bernie picked a yellow flower and stuck it in Suzie’s hair. The ground began to flatten out and we sped up. Suzie’s flower smelled lovely, but I was beginning to pick up other smells as well: wood smoke, also nice, and then not-so-nice ones, like rotten eggs and cat pee. Uh-oh: cat pee to the nth degree. That took me all the way back to K-9 school. I barked my low rumbly bark.

“What?” Suzie said.

“I think something’s coming up,” Bernie said.

No doubt about that, and I was pretty sure what. First: a little area of grass burned brown, no surprise there. Then I spotted coffee filters, the big size, stained bright colors. We passed through a thick grove of trees and came to a trailer, smoke rising from the chimney and lots of stuff rusting out front: washing machines, bicycles, a tractor.

“Welcome to Jackrabbit Junction,” Bernie said.

Oh, and one more thing: I almost left out the septic tank smells.

THIRTY

W
e walked toward the trailer, a lopsided trailer up on blocks, except for one end which kind of slouched down to the ground. All the windows were open—that was pretty standard— but curtains hung in them so you couldn’t see inside. Then one of the curtains twitched and a man’s face appeared, lined and scabby but not actually that old.

“Youse on private proppity,” he said, or something like that, hard to tell on account of his mouth being pretty much toothless. His eyes went back and forth and back and forth real quick, taking us in over and over. Also pretty standard. “Youse hikers?” he said.

“That’s right,” Bernie said.

His eyes did more back-and-forthing. Then he hooked his arm out the window—a real skinny arm with a fresh burn mark or two—and pointed around the corner of the trailer. “Road out’s thataway.”

“Much obliged,” Bernie said. “And en route we’d like to pay our respects to Mrs. Rendell, if you can tell us where to find her.”

“Huh?”

“Turk’s mother,” Bernie said. “We want to offer our condolences.”

The man stared at us out the window. “You mean ’cause he’s dead?”

“Exactly,” Bernie said.

His face withdrew, the curtain falling back in place. Bernie took a quick step forward, like he was going to charge in there, but before he could, the curtains opened again and the man stuck his head right out the window, his neck long and scrawny.

“You hiking buddies of Turk?”

Bernie nodded.

“Look like hikers,” the man said.

Bernie nodded again.

The man’s gaze went to me. “’Cepting for the dog. Dog looks like a po-lice dog.”

“He’s actually head of the DEA,” Bernie said.

The man was silent for what seemed like a long time, enough for me to think, police dog? We were private operators, me and Bernie, meaning we answered to nobody, amigo. Then, quite abruptly, the man started laughing, a harsh and horrible sound, like he was trying to get rid of sharp things caught in his throat. Laughing gave way to hacking, and then a hork or two, and when all that was done, he hooked his arm out again and said, “Quarter of a mile down in the holler, purple double-wide, can’t hardly miss it.”

We followed a path around the trailer, a path littered with bottles and cans and empty pill containers and scraps of this and that. Trailers were scattered in the woods, some with smoke rising from stovepipe chimneys.

“It stinks in here,” Suzie said.

She was right about that—no putting anything past Suzie— but my mind was on other things, specifically jackrabbits. Jackrabbit Junction, so you’d be expecting jackrabbits out the yingyang and so far, not so much as a whiff. What was up with that?

The path split in two, one part leading out of the woods toward some little houses or shacks lining an unpaved street, the other turning into a two-rutted road and slanting down through the trees toward a stream at the bottom, its water kind of orange to my eyes, but Bernie always says I can’t be trusted when it comes to color. On the near side of the stream stood a purple double-wide, a satellite dish on the roof, and a big red SUV parked out front.

We went down into the hollow. Bernie knocked on the door. No answer.

“Maybe no one’s home,” Suzie said.

Maybe, but then how come eggs were frying in there? No missing that smell, and besides I could hear the sizzle. Bernie liked sunny-side up; I wasn’t fussy.

Bernie knocked again. “Mrs. Rendell?” he called.

No answer.

He turned to Suzie. “You could be right,” he said.

Sometimes life gets frustrating and you’ve just got to control yourself. I did my very best, barking, but not long or loud, and rising up on my hind legs to paw at that door, but not my hardest, not even close. Hey! The door swung open, taking me completely by surprise, and when that happens, I always get an urge to bark, which I would have done, except that I was already barking from before, if you see what I mean, kind of confusing.

And anyway, not the point. The point was that a short but strong-looking woman stood just back of the doorway, a butcher knife in her hand. Cleon Maxwell, owner of Max’s Memphis Ribs, had one a lot like it, not as big.

Bernie raised his hands. “No need for that,” he said. “We mean no harm.”

“Then how come you bust into my goddamn domicile?” the woman said.

“That was the furthest thing from our intention,” Bernie said.

Bernie talking fancy like that often makes bad guys screw up their faces, not quite following, but there was no sign of that on this woman’s face: a broad face with deep lines across the forehead, dark angry eyes, and teeth, plenty of them and in not-too-bad shape. Maybe she wasn’t a bad guy.

“We came to offer our condolences on your recent loss, Mrs. Rendell,” Bernie said.

Her eyes stayed angry but she lowered the butcher knife. “You knew Turk?” she said.

“We did some hiking together.”

“What’s your name?”

“Bernie.”

“He never mentioned any Bernie.”

Bernie didn’t reply. His face showed nothing.

“On the other hand,” she said, “there’s plenty he didn’t tell me.” She stared at Bernie, then at Suzie.

“I’m Suzie,” Suzie said. “Bernie’s friend. I never met your son, but Bernie’s told me about him.”

“Told you what?”

“Some things I’d like to discuss with you, Mrs. Rendell,” Bernie said. “If we could come inside for a few minutes.”

“What things?”

“Things having to do with the manner of his death,” Bernie said. “I was one of the last people to see him alive.”

There was a long pause. Then the woman said, “All right. And it’s Miss Rendell, not Mrs. Never married the asshole. Never married any of the assholes.”

We entered the double-wide, passing through the kitchen, where Miss Rendell hung the knife on a hook and turned off the burner under the eggs—sunny-side up, smelling out of this world— without breaking stride, and into a small TV room at the back; a small room but with a very big TV that left not much space for furniture. Suzie sat on the couch, Miss Rendell on the only chair. Bernie wandered over to the window and picked up a trophy that was standing on the sill.

“You won the chemistry prize in high school,” he said.

“Junior year,” said Miss Rendell. “My last.”

“Oh?” said Bernie. “Why was that?”

“Why do you think? We were dirt poor, didn’t have a pot to piss in.”

Stop right there. What was that? I needed time, lots of it, to think, but as is so often the case when we’re on the job there was no time, because Bernie was already talking.

“Did you grow up around here?” he said, or something like that.

“Partly,” said Miss Rendell. “If you think it’s the armpit of the world now, you should’ve seen it then.”

Pisspots and now armpits? Miss Rendell got more interesting every time she opened her mouth.

“Not following you,” Bernie said. “I thought this was one of the most beautiful parts of the West.”

“That’s because you’re from somewhere else,” said Miss Rendell. “It’s a high-altitude slum. Now can we get back to my son?”

“Sure,” said Bernie. “What do you know so far?”

“What the hell kind of question is that?”

“I think Bernie just wants to start in the right place,” Suzie said.

Miss Rendell swung around in her direction. “Right place? My son is dead and the county won’t even release his body so I can give him a decent burial. There is no right fucking place.”

“Understood,” Bernie said. “I’d think the same way in your position.”

“Just pray that never happens to you,” Miss Rendell said.

Bernie was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “I will.” Suzie shot him a quick glance. He sat beside her on the couch and cleared his throat. Bernie has several throat clearings; this one was about making a fresh start. I can clear my throat, too, but it doesn’t mean anything.

“Did they say why they won’t release the body?” Bernie said.

“Because the goddamn medical examiner, Doc Laidlaw— totally senile for years, by the way—hasn’t …” Her voice thickened for a moment, and I thought tears were on the way, but none came, and she went on, “… finished with him.”

“When was the last time you heard from the county?” Bernie said.

“Couple days ago,” Miss Rendell said. “Maybe they tried since. There’s no service here—got to go twenty miles down the road before it clicks in. I was planning on making the drive tomorrow.”

“I can save you the trouble,” Bernie said. “Doc Laidlaw finished with Turk last night. In court this morning, he submitted a revised finding of death by suicide.”

Miss Rendell gripped the arms of her chair real tight, knuckle bones showing right through her skin. “What did you say?”

Bernie said it again.

Now I could see the bones under the skin of her face. Her mouth opened into a round black hole, and she let out a loud and horrible cry that went on until all the breath was out of her; but still no tears. Then Suzie was at Miss Rendell’s side with a glass of water. Miss Rendell drank some; most of the rest spilled down her neck, the glass so unsteady in her hand.

“Those monsters,” she said.

“What monsters?” Bernie said.

“The judge, the sheriff, those stupid deputies—all of them.”

Bernie nodded.

Miss Rendell finished what was in the glass. “Why are they doing this?” she said. “No one who knew Turk will believe it. He was happy and stable and straight up, wouldn’t go near my whole—” She cut herself off.

“Go on,” Bernie said.

Miss Rendell shook her head.

Suzie turned to Bernie. “Miss Rendell said just what you did.”

“About what?” said Miss Rendell.

“About the suicide finding,” Bernie said. “They’d have been much smarter calling it an accident, from their point of view.”

The lines on Miss Rendell’s forehead were getting deeper and deeper. “I don’t understand what you’re saying. Didn’t they arrest some rogue cop? Oh, Christ—does this mean they let him go?”

Bernie nodded. “It wasn’t going to hold up.”

“How do you know?” said Miss Rendell.

“I’m the one they let go,” Bernie said.

Miss Rendell shot right out of her chair, like she’d touched the part of a lamp where the bulb goes when no bulb is in there,
which happened to me once, right on the end of the nose. She backed away, hands up to protect herself. I shifted over a bit to get between her and the way to the kitchen, in case that butcher knife was on her mind.