Dog On It (5 page)

Run without me? Oh no. Of course I’d use better judgment, whatever that was.

He pulled another needle. Ah. Much better. The pain was fading fast; I could hardly remember it.

“Shambling? I’ll show her what—”

The phone rang. Bernie didn’t answer, let the machine take it. The light started flashing and a woman spoke.

“Mr. Little? It’s Cynthia Chambliss. Madison’s disappeared again. She’s been gone for over a day. I didn’t do anything, on account of how things turned out last time, but now I’m really worried.”

Bernie picked up the phone. He listened. His hands fumbled around, found cigarettes. He lit up.

Bernie unzipped a plastic bag. “Remember this?” he said, removing a folded-up pillowcase and holding it out.

I took a quick sniff: young human female, hints of honey, cherry, and that roadside sun-colored flower. Of course I remembered; actually felt a little insulted he’d even ask.

“What’s that look for?” Bernie said.

Look? What look? I strolled out onto the back patio with my tail high and stiff and had a cooling drink from the little fountain Leda had put in. Water flowed from the mouth of a stone swan. I’d never seen a real swan and was wondering how catchable they might be when I heard Iggy’s bark. Iggy had a high-pitched bark, an irritated-sounding yip-yip-yip. I barked back. There was a brief silence, and then he barked again. I barked back. He barked. I barked. He barked. I barked. He barked. We got a good rhythm going, faster and faster. I barked. He barked. I—

A woman cried, “Iggy, for God’s sake, what the hell’s wrong with you?” A door slammed. Iggy was silent. I barked anyway. And what was that? From somewhere far in the distance came an answering bark, a bark I’d never heard before. It sounded female,
although I couldn’t be sure. A silence. And then—yes: She barked. A bark that sent a message, a she-message of the most exciting kind. I barked back. She barked. I barked. She barked. And then: yip yip yip. Iggy was back. He barked. She barked. I barked. He barked. She—

“Chet. What’s all the racket? Let’s get going.”

Bernie had the gate open. I tore past him and hopped into the Porsche, riding shotgun.

Cap’n Crunch stood on his perch and watched us, but he didn’t say a thing. We were back in Madison’s bedroom. Bernie asked questions. Cynthia answered them, but not in a way that helped. I could see that from Bernie’s face, how his eyebrows were pinching closer together. I sniffed around. Madison’s room didn’t smell quite the same as before. I looked under the TV table. The bag of marijuana was gone.

“Have you called the police?” Bernie said.

“Not yet. I was waiting to talk to you.”

“Call them,” Bernie said. He wrote something on his card. “Ask for this guy.”

“Does that mean you’re not going to help me?”

“May I speak frankly?”

“Of course.” Cynthia’s hands were shaking, only the tiniest bit, but for a moment or two that was all I could see.

“Why don’t we sit down?” Bernie said.

Cynthia sat on Madison’s bed. Bernie sat at the desk. I sat where I was, on a soft rug with a floral pattern.

“Your daughter seems very bright,” Bernie said, “and I’m sure she’s basically a good kid. But at some point they all start developing independent lives, lives they don’t necessarily share with their parents.”

“What are you saying?”

“The other night, when Madison came home late with the story about
Dr. Zhivago
?” Bernie said. “It was just that, a story.”

Cynthia’s face got pale. That meant the opposite of a blush, blood draining out. You can tell a lot from blood flow to the human face. “How do you know?” she said.

Bernie explained how he knew, something about tennis courts that I might have heard once but had forgotten. I tilted my head sideways a little and scratched behind my ear. Ah. That felt good. I gave my coat a lick or two, for no reason.

“Bottom line,” said Bernie, “I think she’ll show up soon, with another story.”

Cynthia shook her head. “But she’d never stay out all night, no matter what. And if she did, it would be with a friend, and none of them have seen her—I called every single one.”

“Including Tim?” Bernie said.

“Who’s Tim?”

“The senior who supposedly drove her home from the North Canyon Mall.”

Cynthia opened her mouth, closed it. I always liked seeing that one, no idea why.

“And what about Damon?” Bernie said. “Your ex.”

“The bastard hasn’t seen her.”

Bernie scratched behind his own ear. “You, uh, seem a little annoyed with him.”

“He disparaged my parenting skills,” said Cynthia. “What right has he to do that?”

Bernie spread his hands, then brought them back together. It was one of his ways of saying nothing. Cynthia gazed at him and then burst into tears. Bernie’s eyebrows rose. I got up and pawed at a dust ball.

“For God’s sake,” Cynthia sobbed, “just say you’ll find her for me. Money’s no object.”

“But I’m trying to tell you she’s really not missing,” Bernie said. “She could walk in any moment, like the last time. And when she does, my advice would be that the three of you—you, Damon, and Madison—sit down together and—”

Cynthia only cried harder. “Do I have to get down on my knees and beg?”

“Oh no. No, no, no,” said Bernie. “God no.” I could tell he wanted to be out of there. Me, too. “I’ll need those same things we talked about before—names and numbers of all her friends, anyone else important in her life. Does she play a sport?”

“Archery.” Cynthia dabbed at her eyes. “She came third in the Upper Valley meet.”

“Where’s her bow?”

Cynthia’s own eyebrows—two thin arcs darker than the hair on her head—rose in surprise. I’d seen Bernie’s questions do that to people before. She opened the closet. The bow, long and black, hung from a hook, a quiver of white-feathered arrows beside it.

“Include her coach and any teammates she was close to,” Bernie said.

Cynthia moved to the desk, wrote a list.

Bernie looked it over. “I don’t see Damon here.”

She snatched up the pen, wrote fast, pressing hard. “There.”

Bernie folded the paper, stuck it in his pocket, got up to leave.

“Don’t you want money?” Makeup was smeared in tracks down Cynthia’s face, black and green, like a scary mask on Halloween, the very worst of all human holidays. For some reason, I started to like her.

“We’re still on the five hundred,” said Bernie. “I’ll let you know if I need more.”

Oh, Bernie.

We drove to the North Canyon Mall. Bernie circled round and round a huge lot, finally found a spot. He was muttering to himself. Bernie hated malls, hated shopping of any kind. We got out, walked toward the entrance. Bernie stopped in front of a sign. I couldn’t read the words, but there was also a picture of one of my guys with a thick line drawn through him.

“Uh-oh,” said Bernie.

We went back to the car. Bernie drove around again until he found just about the only space in the whole lot that lay in the shade of a tree.

“Stay here,” he said, giving me a pat. “Be back as soon as I can.”

I was steaming, but what could I do? It wasn’t Bernie’s fault. I growled a bit, then leaned down and gnawed at my paw for a while, felt a little better. Outside, people went back and forth.

“Hey, Mom. Look at the cute dog.”

“Don’t go too close.”

“But can’t I pat him?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m allergic.”

A word I hated.

“And see the way he yawned like that? Means he’s aggressive. Hurry up.”

First of all, I wasn’t yawning, only stretching my mouth, always nice and relaxing. Second, I wasn’t feeling aggressive: She must have been confusing me with hippos, ugly brutes I’d seen on the Discovery Channel and wanted no part of. I watched the distant doors of the mall. Bernie didn’t come out. I lay down. A nap? Why not? I closed my eyes.

* * *

I had some kind of good dream that all of a sudden went bad. It startled me. I opened my eyes and there, standing right by the car, stood a very big guy, taller and broader than Bernie. He had light hair, maybe even white, but he wasn’t old, had no lines on his face. I didn’t like that face at all, something about the massive cheekbones and the tiny ears. Then I was up on the seat and barking, my loudest bark, probably on account of being startled.

That made the man jump and step back, no surprise. But now, when most people would have kept backing away, he did not. Instead, his face got distorted and angry, teeth bared, and he said something I didn’t understand—maybe in a language I didn’t know—but I knew it was nasty. And then, from inside his shirt, he pulled a knife, a long one with a gleaming blade. Very quick, he bent down and stabbed at one of our tires. The air hissed out, and before I could move, he stepped forward and stabbed another.

Then I was airborne, my own teeth bared, you’d better believe it. One of my paws caught him on the shoulder. It spun him a little, and he kept spinning all the way around and slashed at me with the knife. I felt the blade skim my coat, but I got past it and sank my teeth into his leg. He grunted and lost the knife. It clattered to the pavement, bounced, and fell through one of those storm grates. I twisted around, tried to bring him down. He reached into his pocket, and when his hand came out, it wore something metal. The metal flashed down at me. Then everything got wobbly.

The next thing I knew he was running, farther down the row of cars. He jumped into one. I raced after it. The car rolled forward. I sprinted alongside, barking and barking, in a hot rage. He glanced out the window, turned the wheel sharply. I felt a tremendous blow and went flying.

* * *

“Chet? Chet?”

“Are you calling your dog, mister? I think this is him over here.”

I was lying on the pavement, feeling not too good. A kid was gazing down at me. Bernie came running into view. I started to get up—no way I wanted him seeing me like this. It took some effort. One of my front legs was letting me down. I limped toward Bernie.

“Oh my God.” Bernie knelt, took my head in his hands. “What happened to you?”

The kid came closer. “I think he got hit by a car.”

“Hit by a car?” Bernie sounded shocked. He glanced around. “What car?”

“A blue one,” said the kid. “Your dog was kind of chasing it.”

“Chasing the car?”

“Yeah. Then they collided. The guy maybe didn’t even seen him. I think it was a guy.”

“What did he look like?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Any idea of the make of the car?”

“Just that it was blue.”

Bernie stroked my coat, very gentle. “Christ, he’s bleeding.” I could see from his eyes how upset he was.

I licked the blood off my shoulder. Not much, no big deal. It got the metallic taste of the nasty guy’s blood out of my mouth.

“Did you see what happened to my car?” Bernie said.

“Your car?” said the kid.

“Over there.” Bernie got to his feet, started to pick me up. Getting carried? Out of the question. I backed away. “Come on, then,” he said.

We walked over to the Porsche, me, Bernie, the kid. I was hardly limping at all.

“Wow,” said the kid. “Somebody slashed your tires.” He glanced back toward the place where I got hit. “You think it’s the same guy?”

Bernie nodded. He handed the kid his card. “If you remember anything else, give me a call.”

“Hey,” said the kid. “Are you a real private eye?”

The kid went away. Bernie made some calls—tow truck, insurance, vet. Vet? Uh-oh. I moved over to the storm grate and started barking.

“Come on, Chet.”

I barked and barked.

“Knock that off. You’re going to the vet, and that’s that.”

Bernie! Look in the grate!

But he didn’t. When the tow truck came, Bernie held the cab door open for me. I climbed in, maybe not with my usual ease.

“You okay, boy?”

“Hey,” said the tow-truck guy. “Nice dog.”

“You bet,” said Bernie.

We got new tires—part of the deductible, whatever that meant, but it didn’t seem to make Bernie happy—and drove to the vet. Her name was Amy, a big round woman with a nice voice and careful hands, but I always start shaking the moment I enter the waiting room, and this time was no different.

“What happened to you, poor baby?” she said.

They laid me on a table. I felt a tiny jab and then not much. Amy worked away on me.

“Funny kind of cut for a car accident,” she said.

“Yeah?” said Bernie.

“More of a slashing type of wound,” Amy said. “Maybe some chrome got him.”

Chrome? Did I know that word? Didn’t think so. In fact, I was losing the thread. I just lay on the table, quiet. Their mouths moved, Bernie’s and Amy’s, and sound flowed back and forth over me. Soon the shaking went away. I felt not too bad.

We sat in the TV room, Bernie on the couch with his laptop, me in the La-Z-Boy, my bad leg resting on a pillow.
The Hound of the Baskervilles
was on the screen. I’d seen it more times than I could count—which was two in my case: me and Bernie, for example—but the way that hound’s howl kept scaring the pants off all those people never got old. If I could only howl like that . . . Hey! maybe I could.

“Chet. Please. You do that every time at the exact same scene.”

I do?

He tapped at the keyboard. “I’m trying to concentrate. Turns out there are three Tims or Timothys in the senior class at Heavenly Valley High.” Tap tap. “And one of them’s in the archery club. Tim Fletcher.” He glanced at me over the lid of the laptop. “See where we’re going with this?”

I had no clue.

Bernie picked up the phone. “Missing persons, please. Sergeant Torres.” He looked at me again, and in a whisper said, “How’re you doing?”

Me? Never better. The hound of the Baskervilles howled again and Sherlock Holmes made a thoughtful face. That howl!

“Chet, please, for God’s sake! Oh, hi, Rick, no, no, just talking to my—What I called about is this woman, Cynthia Chambliss. Did she get in touch with you about her daughter?” He listened. “Rick? I believe it’s Madison, not Meredith.” He listened some more. “That’s what I think, too—she’ll turn up. There’s just one little thing bothering me. Do you know about her first disappearance, the one that turned out not to be real?” More listening. Then Bernie started explaining about the first disappearance. On the screen, Sherlock Holmes smoked a pipe. What would that be like, pipe smoke? All of sudden I was in the mood for Bernie to light up a cigarette. Sure, that was bad of me, but the smell was so nice.