The Skinwalker Conspiracies - 02 (29 page)

“How are you doing it? Can you get us out of here?”

“Not yet. As for how, use images and sounds. This dog likes that damn plastic bone. I imagine it in his vision and he goes in that direction.”

She responded,
“Okay, I can do that, but how does that help us?”

“I’m not sure, but it’s a start.”

“What else can you … shit!”
Cassandra exclaimed as Fifi stood up and walked away, not enjoying my dog pawing her.

The strange thing I noted was a few minutes later when I came up on her side, I tried it with the right front paw and noting happened. Quickly, I shifted to my left and I could speak to her again. At first, I thought it might be a left brain and right brain thing, but then I remembered Tabitha and my “psychic tweezers.”

After a close examination of the left paw, I wanted to laugh. Damn if there wasn’t just the slightest tinge of whiteness where the tips of the nails were! Now I was getting somewhere. Of course, lacking an opposable thumb, I couldn’t pull a phantom image or in this case a ghost from inside an object, but that was just a minor setback. I’d figure out how to work this to my advantage.

Naturally, this led me to wonder about the increasingly sinister role of my not-so-innocent benefactor, Virginia Poe. Did she know this was coming? Was this situation behind her manipulation of Tabitha Lawrence? If I - correction - when I got out of this, I planned to ask Edgar’s wife.

During our morning session out in the yard, I kept an eye on the poodle to see if my advice had helped the Skinwalker in directing the animal she was inside. When she started trotting alongside of me for a minute, I was fairly certain she had at least gotten the basics of the technique down. The presence of the watching crow prevented me from trying to communicate with her again until we went back inside.

Once we were in the kitchen, I tried to “get in touch” with Oswald. Despite Fido’s and, quite honestly, my own misgivings, I made the dog try and put the left paw on the larger black Labrador retriever. It turned and snapped at me right as I tried to yell for Oswald.

Fido yelped and my primitive control interface crashed against the animal’s self-preservation instinct. There was a decent amount of pain as the beagle scurried to the other end of the kitchen. The dog shivered in the corner for a minute and then determined that the other dog wasn’t going to pursue the matter, so Fido went prone and licked the where we’d been nipped.

I could feel, if that’s the best word for it, the tongue on my tweezer ends. There was a sensation there and an idea was born. Could I use Fido to pull me out? I’d have to figure out a way for him to bite his own paw, but if I could get a hand out, then I could grab onto something like a chair leg and make the beagle back off to get more of me out.

This idea sounded painful, but it seemed to fall into line with all my other stupid plans.

Learning to read Fido’s signals was an interesting exercise to say the least. Other than fear, his main concerns involved eating, drinking, and where to go to the bathroom. He could’ve easily been a college freshman. Since I nothing else to do, I paid attention and became a student of all things beagle. The most astounding discovery that came out of it was the little guy had a very touchy digestive tract and it showed … all over the place.

Both Fido and I jumped, startled by the sound of a vacuum cleaner. I put the chew toy image up at the gate from the kitchen to the living room and Fido reluctantly shuffled over there. My real body was nowhere in sight, but my father sat on the couch leering at the maid’s ass as she went about her business.

Who’s the real dog here, anyway?

Figuratively letting go of Fido, the canine wandered away while I got pissed off about my situation. This whole trip had been to free this loser from the life he was living. It turned out that he doesn’t mind being a slave so much. Yet another instance where I should’ve listened to Mom.  Now, I was the one that needed rescuing and there weren’t many people, living or dead, that would be able to do it.

Silas? It didn’t seem very likely and there wasn’t much he could do. Strong Vincent? No, I was too far away and even if he brought every ghost in his little kingdom, he wouldn’t stand a chance. To be honest, the only ghost I knew with the necessary kind of pull was Virginia Poe. Her agenda remained a mystery. She told me that this was the path I was supposed to be on! Hah! For all I knew, this could’ve been her plan all along and she might be out cutting a deal with De Soto while I am literally chasing my tail.

Needless to say, spending a couple of lonely days in a dog’s body can lead to bouts of paranoia. It probably wasn’t a picnic for the dog either as all my disjointed mental ramblings were causing the mutt to have a canine meltdown.

Back when the lecherous couch potato and Mom were still together, they’d drop me off at Grandpa Warren’s house one weekend out of the month and I’d hang out with him. He’d play his harmonica and let me jump around like the energetic little eight-year-old I was until I was tired. Afterwards, he’d say, “A body’s only got so much room for crazy in it, boy. Sometimes you just got to get some of it out of your system.”

I used to think he did it to wear me out so we both could take a nap, but now I was beginning to believe Grandpa W. was a man ahead of his time.

A few minutes later, Fido continued working off the nervous energy I’d been feeding him. He was calm enough that I could take control and go bumping into Cassandra’s poodle. Oswald’s dog still didn’t like my beagle and I’d only been able to exchange a couple of words before Fido’s flight or fight instincts got the better of the body and I’d scamper off.

Cassandra wasn’t the best conversationalist. She wasn’t doing so well as a prisoner either, but she was the only one I could talk to without getting bit.

“You making any progress?”
I asked.

“Some,”
came her faint answer. She “sounded” tired, if that was possible.
“I can move the dog, but only toward a general area, and I’ve figured out how to make her pant.”

I watched as she demonstrated. If I ever made it to the late night talk show circuit, I suppose I could show the one guy a really stupid pet trick or something. Still, any measure of control we achieved was a step in the right direction.

“See if you can figure out a way to make her bite,” I said. “Try images of food or aggression. Maybe try to put your dog into Blackie’s personal space or whatever.”

“Have you been able to speak to Oswald?”

“Only a couple of times,”
I answered.
“His dog and mine don’t get along.”

“A poodle bite isn’t going to count for much,”
she replied.

“Just do it. I’m working on a plan and learning how to bite is part of it.”

“Care to share with the rest of the class?”

“When I’ve got something beyond biting, I’ll let you know.”
I broke the connection. I lied to her, but she has a long history of selling people out. The possibility existed that she was already working for De Soto. I wouldn’t put anything past her and wasn’t going to give her any more info than necessary. In truth, I didn’t know if I could get Fido to bite his own paw and would rather have a poodle biting me over the other choice. Yeah, I’m stupid - just not that stupid.

Moving away from the poodle, I watched the irate housekeeper open the gate and enter the kitchen muttering something in Spanish. I took careful note of the still open gate and figured she wouldn’t get in that much trouble. Sneaking out of it, I didn’t see my good-for-nothing father. His laptop was open and the webpage being displayed was a gambling site. If I better control over this little guy, I’d have started placing all kinds of longshot bets.

Instead of being petty, I decided to explore. In the hallway near the entrance, was a massive staircase. If I had to guess, I’d say it was probably that Italian marble stuff people always rave about, but what the hell did I know about interior decorating. When I was growing up, Mom and I were lucky if the pieces of furniture in the living room were the same color.

Making him climb up the steps was a bit more difficult. I think that, on some level, Fido knew I was getting him into trouble. He reluctantly climbed the stairs. At the top, we turned down the hallway as I looked for open doors.

It goes without saying that a dog’s sense of smell is considerably better than a human’s. Based on the scents, I guessed which rooms were bedrooms and which were bathrooms as I travelled the right side of the hallway toward a set of double doors that were cracked just slightly. It was definitely the master bedroom suite and I was interested to see what curios and trophies a ghost like Hernando De Soto kept around him in the hopes that I might find something useful.

With Fido’s snout as a prod, I opened the door and caught a whiff of a foreign odor. My doggie host didn’t like it one bit, but I nudged him into the room. He scanned the area and immediately locked onto the source of the smell. It was one of those big tropical birds, not a parrot, but a macaw I think, but I know less about exotic birds than I do decorating. There was no leash or rope tethering it to the stand and I thought back to Cassandra saying that De Soto can put pieces of himself in animals as a way of storing extra power. Wings flared and it made a sound to try and frighten me. That beak looked mighty sharp and those claws weren’t exactly trimmed. I half expected Fido to bolt with his tail between his legs, but I felt his instincts kicking in and he growled. He was a bird dog! It was in his blood.

This might be the image I can use to make him bite.

The bird flared its wings as a warning and let out a loud screech that would likely get someone’s attention soon, but the beagle wasn’t about to give up so quickly. He charged and leapt up at the bird on the stand, jowls snapping and yipping like a deranged mutt. The bird bolted from the perch and flew over to the canopy of the bed. Fido jumped onto the bed and barked at it.

Fido’s barks became a low growl as a chill swept through the room. A shimmering apparition drifted downward. It looked like De Soto, but was much less substantial and I knew that the spirit must be one of his “pieces.” Even as Fido backpedalled, I grew more curious about the wraith staring at my dog host. How much intelligence did it have? Could De Soto see through its eyes or did he have to rejoin with it? If he could, my cover was probably blown. If he couldn’t, it would be when the piece reconnected. Either way, I thought I was screwed and didn’t have anything else to lose.

Using my “doggie OS,” I superimposed the image of the bird over the piece’s face and decided to see if my miniature attack dog could do any damage to a ghost.

The portion of De Soto in front of me didn’t really flinch when the dog leapt, charged, and jumped off the end of the bed. He or it probably fully expected the animal to pass through. I was counting on a different result because of my presence in this beagle’s body.

For a change, I wasn’t wrong. Fido slammed into the specter and all three of us went to the ground. My dog was nipping at the arms of the De Soto shade, who was frantically trying to defend himself from my four-legged avenging ball of fury. Even though I was in contact with it and De Soto’s mouth was moving like a scream, I couldn’t hear him/it.

These shades must be mute or not fully intelligent.

I sensed the power contained. It wasn’t that intimidating. This piece of De Soto wouldn’t give a ghost like Amos problems. Keeping the image of the tropical bird fixed over the creature - I really couldn’t call it a ghost - I helped Fido open a can of “whoop ass” all over this thing amidst the angry squawks of the bird.

Little wisps of smoke, tiny geysers of impending doom, leaked from where the beagle bit and it was the first real nugget of good news that I’d had since I’d found myself in this predicament.

“Mini-De Soto” managed to push Fido off and tried to rise. It became more difficult with a beagle’s jaws suddenly attached to his calf. He tumbled back to the ground and was unable to phase through the floor.