The Dog Who Knew Too Much (9 page)

“Hell, stand-up for sure. Ask anyone who knew me.”

“If it comes to that, I will,” Bernie said. “The question now is did you stand up for Devin?”

“Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

“Preston was bullying Devin. At the very least the others stood by. That left it up to you.”

“Didn’t notice any of what you’re talkin’ about.”

“No?” Bernie said. “You missed the fact that Devin wasn’t sleeping in the tent with the others?”

Turk leaned back, almost like he’d been pushed in the chest.

Bernie pointed back to where the kids’ tent had stood. “Four rectangular impressions on the ground, Turk. Faint, but there. The fifth one’s a good thirty feet from the others, way outside the tent. Means Devin slept in the open. Just like you—making it hard to miss.”

Another deep breath from Turk. “Yeah,” he said. “Maybe they ragged on him some. Preston’s a fuckin’ monster.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Bernie said. “But see what this does to your theory.”

“What theory?” said Turk, a question I was glad to hear, a little lost myself.

“The theory we’ve been operating on,” Bernie said. “Devin leaves the tent to take a piss and can’t find his way back.”

That was the theory? Theories, whatever they happened to be, I always left to Bernie. But something about this particular theory made me leave our little circle for a moment or two, all the time it took to lift my leg against a nearby rock. When I returned, Turk was saying, “I’m a real heavy sleeper. Is that a crime?”

“Depending on the circumstances,” Bernie said. “A sentry who falls asleep on duty, for example. Or an airline pilot—maybe a closer analogy.”

“You threatening me?” Turk said. “Like I’m some criminal?”

“Why would there be any need for that?” said Bernie. “We’re on the same side. If you feel threatened, it’s just from the situation.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“People—starting with Devin’s parents—are going to find out you let the kid sleep in the open.”

“That’s what he wanted,” Turk said.

“That’s what Preston and the others made him want,” Bernie
said, his voice growing sharper and quieter at the same time; we often get good results from that combo. “There’s a difference.”

Turk said nothing. The expression on his face, dark and shadowy, was hard to see. But a new smell was coming off him, a tangy smell a bit like this blue cheese Bernie likes, except mixed with pee: the smell of human fear.

“Did you light a fire that night?” Bernie said.

“Sure.”

“Douse it out when you turned in, or just let it die down?”

“Die down,” Turk said. “This fire pit’s safe—you can see for yourself—and there was no wind.”

“I trust your judgment on that,” Bernie said. “What’s puzzling me is that the coals would have glowed most of the night, so if Devin, already outside the tent, did get up for some reason, it’s hard to imagine how he couldn’t find his way back.”

“Know something?” said Turk. “I’m gettin’ tired of all your questions.”

“That last one wasn’t a question,” Bernie said.

Turk rose. “The hell with you,” he said. “Who says I need to take this shit? I was just doin’ my job.” He grabbed his pack.

I could feel Bernie about to say something but he did not.

We own two tents, the big one that fits Bernie, Charlie, and Suzie, and the little one Bernie set up on the edge of the shadowy grove of trees. The little one’s called the pup tent. I’ve done a lot of thinking about that and pretty much gotten nowhere. Has a puppy ever been inside the little tent? No. So therefore? I just don’t know: the way we have things arranged at the Little Detective Agency, Bernie handles the so therefores.

Bernie lay down in the pup tent. There was maybe just enough room for me to squeeze in, but I preferred to stretch out on the
ground in front of the flap. By that time, Turk had already unrolled his sleeping bag by the fire pit and climbed in. His eyes were silvery and open in the starlight. I kept my own eyes open until his closed. Then I closed mine and listened to Bernie’s breathing from inside the tent as it got slower and more peaceful, if that makes any sense, and soon I knew he was asleep. For a while I just lay on the ground—mossy ground, very comfortable—and enjoyed the feeling of being the only one awake in the night, one of my favorite feelings. Then a delicious kind of fuzziness came rolling into my mind. I never fight that.

Some humans—Charlie’s amazing at this!—are totally zonked out when they’re asleep, almost impossible to wake. That’s not the way it works in the nation within the nation. I get plenty of rest, no complaints, but I’m never totally zonked out, which was why sometime later I was suddenly wide awake.

The breeze had strengthened, blowing from the direction of the white-streaked mountaintop, now just a jagged lightless shape blocking out the stars. I got the impression that the stars had moved, weren’t where they’d been when I’d gone to sleep. That was a little trick of the night that I’d noticed before but almost forgotten. But that wasn’t the important part. Eye on the ball: that was an expression of Bernie’s and I loved playing ball, goes without mentioning; but better to mention, just in case. There are many kinds of balls in the world: tennis balls, soccer balls, baseballs—will I ever forget the first time I discovered how complicated they were inside?—but lacrosse balls are my favorite, what with their crazy bounces, and especially the way they felt in my mouth when—

Eye on the ball, Chet. Something was not right. The night was silent, except for the breeze, but it was one of those strange silences you get after something has just happened, if you know
what I mean, and I’m actually not sure I even do. First thing, I listened for Bernie, heard his slow, regular breathing right away, meaning he was safe, so if something had in fact just happened, it couldn’t have been all that bad.

I rose. Nighttime security was part of my job. Grabbing perps by the pant leg is another. That’s how we know the case is closed here at the Little Detective Agency, but this case didn’t feel closed. Was it even a case? I didn’t know. A case meant someone was paying. Anya was paying Bernie to be her friend. Now her kid was missing. I couldn’t take it past that, so I started sniffing around. When it comes to nighttime security, you can’t go wrong by sniffing around.

Nothing new to pick up, the scents of the boys still all over the place—although growing fainter—plus Bernie’s scent, Turk’s, and my own, the most familiar smell in the world: old leather, salt and pepper, mink coats, and just a soupçon of tomato; and to be honest, a healthy dash of something male and funky. My smell: yes, sir. Chet the Jet was in the vicinity, wherever that was, exactly.

Bernie: safe in the tent. Me: on the job, checking things out. That left no one to check out except Turk. I moved toward the fire pit, picked up a faint smell of mold coming from Turk’s sleeping bag. That happened with sleeping bags, nothing unusual. The only unusual thing was the way Turk’s bag seemed kind of flat.

I went closer, didn’t see Turk’s head sticking through the opening at the top. I pawed at the sleeping bag, felt the ground underneath. Turk wasn’t inside.

I looked around, saw a few dark forms around the campsite that had vaguely human shapes, and examined every one, finding only rocks and bushes. Lots of Turk’s scent around, some of it old, some fresh. I followed a few scent trails, all of them leading round and round in circles. Whenever that happens I start getting
frustrated, just can’t help it. I went over to the tent and barked this soft muffled bark meant not to attract attention from anyone except Bernie.

“Chet?” he said, his voice soft, just like mine. Bernie’s a deep sleeper, but when it’s important he’s wide awake right away. You could always rely on Bernie.

He crawled out of the tent with the headlamp in his hand, switched it on, and followed me over to Turk’s sleeping bag. The beam moved back and forth over the empty bag, then swept around the campsite.

“I screwed up the whole goddamn case, big guy,” he said.

So it was a case, after all. As for Bernie screwing it up: impossible.

NINE

B
ernie strapped on the headlamp. I growled at him and felt bad right away, but I couldn’t help it: that headlamp on his forehead makes him look like some kind of machine, and there’s more than enough machine in humans to begin with, no offense.

“For God’s sake, Chet—you do that every time.”

I do? News to me. But I got most of my news from Bernie, so no problem.

We took a recon or recoy or whatever it was of the whole campsite, ended back at the fire pit. Bernie sniffed the air. That caught my attention: Bernie has a nice big nose for a human, but what’s that saying? Not much.

“Smell anything, big guy?” he said.

Did I smell anything? Was that the question? Where was I supposed to begin?

“I do,” he said, “and it stinks.”

Wow. That Bernie! I smelled so many things at the moment— the boys, Turk, Bernie, me, a female coyote, some squirrels, different flowers, tree sap, another mushroom like the one Bernie had pulled out of the ground, name gone from my mind, the dirty
locker-room-hamper thing, and lots more if I took the time to sort them all out—but nothing that qualified as actual stinking. I waited to hear.

“For example,” said Bernie, “his backpack’s gone but not the sleeping bag.”

The sleeping bag? Was Bernie saying it stank? I went over and gave it a sniff or two. It smelled strongly of Turk, no surprise, but did it stink? Not to my way of thinking.

Bernie started taking down the tent. I helped by pawing at it a bit. Soon we had it all folded up and stuck inside the pack. Bernie hoisted it on his back.

“Okay, Chet, where did he go?”

That was the problem. There was so much of Turk’s scent around, old and new, that I started going in circles again, frustration building inside me. Had to produce in this business, Bernie said so.

“Take your time,” Bernie said. “No rush.”

Bernie had the nicest voice, if I haven’t made that clear by now. I felt calmer right away, and just then picked up a new trail, a little fresher than any of the others. It led over a mossy patch, so soft under my paws, and down to the stream, where it kind of petered out. I crossed over, sniffed around on the other side, came up with zip.

“He walked in the stream,” Bernie said.

I knew that one. A perp name of Flyhead Malone had tried to lose me once by doing the same thing; he was now wearing an orange jumpsuit up at Northern State. The warden, a pal of ours, invited us to the inmate rodeo a while back. What a day! It ended a bit early, but if we’re ever invited again I’ll handle the excitement much better. Those bulls, snorting and pawing! What got into me? But perhaps a story for another day.

Bernie gazed at the flowing water, mostly black but a little silvery here and there. I glanced at the sky, and over in one direction it was turning milky. Bernie switched off the headlamp and put it away. Way better.

“The question is,” he said, “upstream or down?”

Bernie thought. Upstream or down, a tough one: I could tell by the look on his face. I sat beside him. We did our best thinking that way. When Bernie’s brain is really working, you can feel it, like breezes springing up in the air, dying down, springing up again—not a bad feeling at all. The milky part of the sky turned red and then orange, and day spread around us.

“Upstream’s the contrarian answer,” Bernie said. “But that’s the way I’m feeling right now.” He gave me a pat. “How about you?”

Me? I felt tip-top.

We walked beside Stiller’s Creek. Sometimes there was a path, sometimes not, and once or twice we had to make inland detours when the going by the stream got too rocky. Too rocky for Bernie is what I meant: too rocky for me is hard to find. As for whether this was the right direction, I was picking up just faint scents of the kids—although never Devin—but there were stronger whiffs of Turk, plus the odd weak one, too. So, were we right or wrong? I didn’t know. Did I worry about that? Not a bit.

I hadn’t spent much time around creeks—we have them, too, in the Valley, and even rivers, but they all run dry, although back in Indian times, Bernie says, things were different. Donny O’Donnell, an Indian pal of ours who heads up security at the Little Bighorn Casino, always tells Bernie his tribe is hiding all the water until the palefaces go back where they came from, and Bernie gets a big kick out of it every time, but who the palefaces are
and what Donny’s talking about is anybody’s guess. And it doesn’t even matter—what matters was how much fun creeks with water in them turned out to be. I even saw a fish that jumped right into the air! I was after him in a flash, of course, almost got a paw on the little bugger, but he dove back in and sped away with a flick of his tail.

“For God’s sake,” Bernie said from the side of the creek, his clothes kind of wet for some reason, “you don’t even like fish.”

True, but only on account of this bad incident with a fish bone—that’s what they’re called despite not looking at all like bones. I climbed onto the bank, gave myself a good shake— “Chet!”—and headed up-country, focused, alert, professional.