The Dog Who Knew Too Much (11 page)

I licked it. Gold, no doubt at all. I picked it up. Was there a word for a little gold rock like this? I waited for it to come to me, and while I was waiting, I smelled that burned air smell again, and at the same time felt a tiny trembling under my paws, like something was going on deep, deep down. That disturbed me, I admit it: I like solid ground under my feet. Then—just when I was remembering the name of the little gold rock, funny how the mind works—the whole world shifted toward one side, the side
where the daylight flowed in, and then shifted back, much harder, the other way.

KA-BOOM.
The ceiling fell in, and the walls fell in, and the floor fell up, and also darkness fell, complete. I took off—rocks bouncing off me, dust filling my lungs—not toward where the light had been, but toward Bernie. Something huge and strong knocked me down. I rolled over, bumped against rocks that wouldn’t give, bumped against more and more and more rock in every direction, solid rock but on the move at the same time, and started clawing, clawing, clawing, seeing nothing, smelling nothing, hearing nothing—except my heart, pounding like crazy— and feeling nothing but rock, closing in from all around.

Claw, big guy, claw.
I heard Bernie’s voice in my head. I clawed, clawed my very hardest with all my paws. And suddenly I popped out into open space, not a big space, but big enough for running. I ran, starting to see a bit, or at least sense where I was in the darkness: back in the small tunnel. Yes, because in the distance I glimpsed Bernie’s light swinging back and forth.

“Chet! Chet! Where are you? Chet! Chet!”

Poor Bernie. He sounded so upset. I flew toward him.

From behind:
KA-BOOM.
And another
KA-BOOM.
I glanced back, saw there was no longer a tunnel behind me, just a wave of solid rock chasing my tail. I kicked it up a notch, hit top speed, raced into the cone of light and right smack into Bernie. We both went flying, the headlamp pointing wildly all over the place.

We picked ourselves up, me and Bernie. The headlamp lay on the ground, the light shining straight up. As Bernie bent down to grab it, everything went quiet, all of a sudden the quietest quiet I’d ever known, so quiet that the slight scrape of the
headlamp on the rock as Bernie picked it up sounded sharp and clear, like sounds when I put my ear right against the speaker in the Porsche.

Bernie put on the headlamp. We looked around. I saw I was back at the junction where the big tunnel and the small tunnel— what was left of it, hardly any length at all, the rest filled in by the rock wave, finally at rest—came together. The ground was still, the air was still, Bernie and I were still.

He let out his breath. It sounded like a gentle breeze, and smelled good, too: toothpaste, coffee, and a touch of something sweet that was just Bernie. “Plate tectonics, big guy,” he said. “Who’d think to factor that in?”

I missed that one completely. We turned and walked out of the mine. So good to be in the sunshine! Bernie gave me a pat. I dropped the nugget at his feet. That was the name: I’d learned it when we took down Nuggets Bolliterri, who always wore one— although not as big as this—around his neck.

“Chet?” he said, picking it up. “Where’d you get this?” He gazed at me. I gazed at him. Then he held the nugget up toward the sun and gazed at that, slowly turning it in his hand. I sat down beside him, looking at nothing in particular. The nugget was pretty. Nice to have it, no doubt about that. But how were we doing on the case? I wasn’t sure.

Bernie tucked the nugget in his pocket. He turned toward the mine opening. From here it looked just the way it had looked before, all the support beams still in place, no sign of anything going on inside. “Safe to check out the big tunnel?” he said. I waited to hear. “There’s Devin to think about.”

Bernie was right, no surprise there. Finding Devin: that was the job, although wasn’t Anya actually paying us to do something else? I couldn’t remember. Once when Bernie’s mother came to
visit, she said, “What I can’t remember can’t be important.” She’s a piece of work—calls Bernie Kiddo, if I haven’t mentioned that already—but I hoped she was right about the memory thing.

I rose. Bernie and I headed back toward the mine. We were just a few steps in when a man spoke behind us.

“Goin’ someplace?” he said.

ELEVEN

W
e whipped around. A tall skinny dude with long stringy hair and a long stringy beard stood on the path leading to the mine. He wore overalls like the overalls I’d seen on the line, had a mule behind him carrying a heavy load, and also held a shotgun, not pointed at us, exactly, but not
not
pointed at us either, if that made any sense. That shotgun was important, of course, but I couldn’t help being more interested in the mule. Hadn’t dealt much with mules in my career, and new experiences kept you fresh. That was one of Bernie’s core beliefs. I’d heard it the first time the night we got thrown in jail down in Mexico, a story for another time.

“That was our intention,” Bernie said.

I got the impression he was answering some question, but I couldn’t quite remember it.

“Like, say, goin’ into the mine?” said the dude, his words not too clear on account of the fact that he was chewing on a straw; so was the mule.

“And if so?” said Bernie.

“Huh?” said the dude.

Bernie smiled. The shotgun barrel rose. Bernie’s smile disappeared. “If we were planning on entering the mine,” he said, “what’s it to you?”

“No fuckin’ way you’re goin’ in there,” the dude said. “Simple as that.”

“My understanding is we’re on federal land,” Bernie said.

“So?”

“So unless you’re a ranger in disguise, you’ve got no authority here.”

“You tryna be funny?” said the dude. He made another motion with the shotgun, kind of like the way humans sometimes talk with their hands. Those little hand gestures of theirs, always so much fun, but imagine what they could do if they had tails.

No time for imaginings, because at that moment I was sidling away. Some perps are surprisingly unaware of the nation within, hardly seem to see us. This dude—had to be a perp, what with that shotgun—turned out to be one of those. So I kept sidling with no real plan in mind, and as I sidled I caught my first whiff of the mule. Wow.

“… that you’ve got some claim to the mineral rights?” Bernie was saying.

“Yeah. I got a claim. Been working this here mine for just about one whole year of my goddamn life. That’s my claim.”

“A claim without a permit,” said Bernie.

The dude’s eyes, kind of red and runny, narrowed. Still not pleasant, but better without the red runniness. “Know what?” he said. “I don’t like you.”

“Get in line,” Bernie said.

“Huh?”

“Not important,” Bernie said. “What’s important is that there’s a lost kid in the mine.”

“Bullshit,” said the dude. “Ain’t no kids here.”

I was pretty close to the mule by that time, circling around behind him. He had all sorts of stuff on his back—shovels, gas cans, a big duffel bag. Plus there were hot dogs in there somewhere; I never miss that. Also dynamite.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Bernie said. “Kids from Big Bear Wilderness Camp hiked through here on Friday.”

“I warn’t here on Friday.”

“Which is why you couldn’t know,” Bernie said. “But time is crucial when it comes to finding missing kids, so let’s get started. Any knowledge you’ve got about the mine will be useful.”

The dude’s voice rose. “Knowledge of the mine? What are you aimin’ at, bud?”

“Nothing,” Bernie said. “Just I’m sure you’ll want to help us find—”

The dude’s voice rose some more. “I’m not helpin’ you do shit. Knowledge of the mine is my business. We clear on that?” He waved the shotgun. “Now beat it.”

Hey! There were lots of tiny insects buzzing around the mule. He waved his tail at them, a stubby little tail for such a big guy, pretty much useless when it came to swatting bugs, and I was just about to feel sorry for him when he suddenly lashed out at me with one of his hind legs, real quick and nasty. I dodged to the side, just a bit quicker, but I felt the breeze from that big hoof flashing by. Close calls like that often get me barking. I barked, the short, sharp bark I have meaning,
Don’t try that again, pal.

Was that what made the mule suddenly bolt forward? No way of knowing, mule behavior being a gap in my education, as I already mentioned. But the mule’s reasoning really didn’t matter. What mattered was how he bolted forward—amazingly quick
and powerful—and clobbered the dude with the shotgun square in the back, knocking him flat.

Things happened fast after that. The mule trotted off, clumsy but surprisingly speedy, banging into the side of the cliff on his way and splitting the big duffel bag. Out popped the package of hot dogs—Hebrew Nationals, the exact same kind Bernie and I bought, with the red packaging. The exact same kind, which happened to be the tastiest hot dogs out there—Bernie and I had tried them all. Just when you think life can’t get any better, it does! The next thing I knew I’d snapped up that red package, practically before it even landed. I could taste the hot dogs through this tiny hole my teeth must have made by mistake, but I didn’t take advantage of that to scarf them up. Somehow—hard to explain why, and it wasn’t even like me—I knew that would be bad, and if not actually bad, then not good either. Anyway, far too much to think about. I hurried over to Bernie. By that time, he had the shotgun and everything was under control. That’s how we do things at the Little Detective Agency.

The dude sat up. His nose was bleeding, but only a little. He wiped it on the back of his bare arm—he was the kind of overall wearer that didn’t bother with a shirt underneath—and glared up at Bernie. Bernie broke open the shotgun, took out the shells and stuck them in his pocket. At that moment, he happened to glance at me.

“Chet?” he said. “Maybe not now.”

Which I’d already known! Were Bernie and I on the same page or what? I let go of those Hebrew Nationals, no problem. The dude shifted that glare my way, maybe noticing me for the first time.

Bernie held out the shotgun. The dude, looking confused,
didn’t take it. Bernie regarded him in a businesslike way, not smiling, as if to say I took your gun and now you’re down and I’m up. That wasn’t Bernie.

“What’s your name?” he said.

The dude gazed up at Bernie. He licked his lips, something I always watch for in humans. He had a stiff, pointy tongue, kind of whitish at the tip. I made up my mind about the dude: bad news, period. Period means case closed. Our cases closed just about every time with me grabbing the perp by the pant leg. So if I snapped down with a nice toothy grip on one of those overalled legs at this very moment, did that mean the job was done and we could pick up our check and head for home?

I considered that question from many angles—actually, none—and while that was or was not going on, the dude said, “Everyone calls me Moondog.”

Whoa right there. Sometimes with humans you can’t be sure you heard right.

“Moondog?” said Bernie. Maybe he was having the same problem.

“Got an issue with that?”

“None at all,” Bernie said. “It can get kind of isolated up here in the mountains.”

“What’s that sposta mean?”

“Just that I’m guessing you’ve done some baying at the moon in your time, possibly under the influence of this and that,” Bernie said. “No big deal—so have I.”

Damn straight. And me, too, although under the influence of nothing in my case.

“Yeah?” said Moondog. He looked up at Bernie in a new way, hard to describe, but something in it made me start to change
my mind about him, and so soon after I’d just made it up. Funny how your own mind can surprise you. And if your own mind can surprise you, then think of … of a lot of big shadowy ideas that drifted just beyond my reach.

“Would I lie to you?” Bernie said. He smiled down at Moon-dog. Moondog looked confused again. Bernie lowered his hand. Bernie has beautifully shaped hands, in case that hasn’t come up yet. Moondog stared at Bernie’s hand for a moment and then took it. Bernie helped him up, gave him the shotgun. “What we’re going to do now, with your help,” he said, “is search this mine for the boy. His name’s Devin, and he’s all we’re interested in. I couldn’t care less about any other contents.”

Moondog stepped back. “What the hell other contents?”

“Exactly,” said Bernie.

“There ain’t no other contents,” said Moondog.

“Understood.”

“And if there was, I’d be the first to know. Who the hell do you think’s been diggin’ his ass off in there and comin’ up with diddley.”

Oh, no. Bo Diddley was a big favorite of ours. Bernie can play “Hey Bo Diddley” on the ukulele in a way that always gets me going. Was Moondog saying that the skeleton I’d seen was Bo Diddley’s? I couldn’t figure out how that was possible, but strange things happened in this line of work, made it kind of frustrating at times.

“What the hell’s he barkin’ about?” said Moondog.

Bernie looked at me. “I think he wants to get moving.”

“Moving on what?”