The Dog Who Knew Too Much (19 page)

“Hanging on the wall, Chet. Right behind you.”

What was he talking about? I wasn’t quite sure. All I wanted him to do was open the cell door and come out. Then we’d go get the .38 Special, wherever it was—Bernie would know—and come back here and do what needed to be done. Was that the plan? Sounded like a winner to me.

“Chet? Are you listening, buddy?”

Of course I was listening. Didn’t I always listen to Bernie? I made myself listen even harder, and right away heard distant footsteps, on some level above.

Bernie gave me another quick smile. That meant he knew I was trying real hard, doing my best. “Look on the wall,” he said and pointed behind me. I tried to listen even harder—footsteps, maybe a bit louder—but I was maxed out in that department.

“Chet! I’m pointing, big guy.”

Pointing? We’d done a lot of work on pointing, me and Bernie, even more than we’d done on doorknobs.

“Follow my finger, Chet. You know how.”

Yes, I did. And after that would come a treat, quite possibly a rawhide chew from Rover and Company. I gazed at Bernie’s finger—his hands are the most beautiful I’ve ever seen, although a couple of the knuckles seemed a bit skinned and swollen, but that had to be a good thing, meaning we’d gotten in a few of our own, and … I lost my train of thought.

“Chet? My finger—follow it.”

Right. I knew this, knew it backward. Well, not that. There were lots of strange human expressions, knowing something backward being one of the strangest.

“Chet.”

I followed Bernie’s finger, turned my head toward where it was pointing. And there, hanging from a hook fairly high on the cement wall of the corridor, was a long black key on a black ring.

“Good, good boy,” said Bernie. “Go get it.”

Fairly high on the wall, but really no challenge for a leaper like me. In a flash I was in midair—hey! actually too high, would you believe that?—and snagging that black ring on the way—

But oops. Not quite. Snapped my teeth around the ring, but somehow lost my grip, the key still up there, now swinging back and forth. I jumped again and the same thing happened: no problem getting to the key. The problem was … I wasn’t sure about what the problem was.

“That’s okay, Chet,” Bernie said, behind me. “You’ll get it.”

If Bernie said I’d get it, that was that. I jumped and jumped, the same thing happening, that cold hard ring—now all slobbery—slipping through my teeth. I jumped and jumped and— hey!—missed with my teeth completely, instead hitting the ring with the tip of my nose and knocking it off the hook and high in the air. Key and ring landed on the hard floor with a clank and a jingle, very nice to hear.

“Good boy.”

I scooped up the key ring, trotted over to the cell, and dropped it inside. Mission accomplished. Next mission? I waited to find out.

Bernie grabbed the key ring, reached through the bars, twisted his hand around, stuck the key in the keyhole in a small metal square on the cell door, turned it, and:
click!

And then he was out! I jumped right up into his arms. Had I ever been this happy? Yes, and it was always the best possible feeling.

“Easy, big guy,” Bernie said.

I got all paws down on the floor, stood still, a professional through and through. Bernie put his finger across his lips: our signal for quiet. “Quiet as a mouse,” Bernie sometimes said; not sure why, since mice, scratching away behind the walls of many houses I’d visited, weren’t especially quiet.

We started down the corridor, not making a sound, except for Bernie, although he was being very quiet for him. But I heard those other footsteps, moving somewhere in the building.

We went past all the cells, turned the corner, and came to the door that led to the sheriff’s office. Bernie paused for a moment, gazed at the door, and kept going. We rounded another corner at the end. Just a few steps away stood another door, a door with a high little window in it, and through that window I saw the moon. We were home free! Bernie reached for the doorknob, and then a strange thing happened. Just before he could touch it, the knob started turning on its own.

Bernie stepped back, hugged the wall. I hugged the wall with him. I got the idea, even kind of remembered us doing it once before: the old hiding-behind-the-opened-door trick. I loved tricks! Next the door would open, and in would stroll whoever was strolling in, with us meanwhile hidden behind the door so the newcomer would just keep strolling, maybe whistling to himself the way humans sometimes did when they thought they were all alone, and then out the door we’d scoot, me and Bernie, into the night and gone.

But that wasn’t what happened; none of it. First, I heard those footsteps again, now clack-clacking not above us but on our
level. Then—it sounded like Claudie—came shouting: “What the hell?” An instant later, alarms went off and a red light over the door began flashing. The door itself made a loud firm click. Bernie grabbed the handle and tried to turn it, but it wouldn’t turn.

On the other side, the judge said, “What’s going on?”

Bernie pivoted, facing back down the corridor. At about the same time, Mack and Claudie came running around the corner. Claudie—he had a bandage wrapped around his head, nice to see—was reaching for the gun on his hip and Mack was waving a nightstick. We were trapped, a feeling I hated. But Bernie and I could handle these dudes, no problem, as long as I took Claudie down before he brought that gun into play.

I charged forward, full speed.

“No, Chet!”

That was Bernie, saying something behind me, something I didn’t quite catch. I bounded toward those two deputies, bad guys for sure despite the stars twinkling on their chests. Growling started up—wild, savage, dangerous; that was me, bucko, better believe it. Mack and Claudie skidded to a stop, their eyes widening in fear, no doubt about it and no surprise: that growling was coming close to scaring me, kind of crazy. Claudie pulled the gun from his holster, but before he could raise it, I hurled myself on him, front paws right in his face, and teeth bared as much as I could bare them.
You’re going down, bad dude, and staying down.
I remember having that thought. I also remember catching a glimpse, off to the side, of Mack’s nightstick—it had one of those lead-weighted ends—swinging my way in a hurry.

NINETEEN

S
ome very bad dreams blew into my mind, kind of like a storm. Lots of shouting went on in these dreams, plus fighting and hitting and maybe even a gunshot or two, and there was nothing I could do about any of it, which was the way of dreams. Once Bernie and Suzie got into a big discussion about dreams and what they mean. The candles looked so nice on Suzie’s table that night, their light flickering on the wineglasses. Bernie slipped me the fatty part from his steak, a juicy—

Bernie!

Did I smell him? No. I opened my eyes. That set off a pain in my head. I ignored it, tried to get my bearings. Where was I? In a big shadowy sort of place, weak light coming from a hayloft high above. I knew haylofts. We’d once found a perp trying to hide out in one, Bernie poking around with a pitchfork, the fun we had. But the point: haylofts meant barns, so I was in a barn. And no Bernie. No humans, no other life of any kind.

I was on a wooden floor, worn smooth, a nice feeling under my chest, but most of me wasn’t feeling nice. I rose, kind of slow for me, the pain shooting around a bit in my head. I ignored it.
Also, I was pretty thirsty. The scent of water was in the air. I followed it.

But not far. All of a sudden I got jerked to a stop, one of my front paws in midair. I looked back. Oh, no! A chain? Yes, a chain, the kind with strong thick metal links. I looked back, saw that one end was attached to a big hook hanging from the ceiling. The other end was attached to my collar; I could feel the cold metal links on the back of my neck. I knew all about links like that from one or two bad adventures in the past—adventures that had all ended up good, meaning the bad guys got theirs—so I already knew you could gnaw and gnaw at them, gnaw your very hardest, and still get nowhere. Instead I twisted my head, twisted and twisted it, at the same time trying to slip right out of my collar. I’d twisted out of my collar more than once, on account of Bernie always leaving it kind of loose. But for some reason it didn’t feel loose now: in fact, it felt tight—uncomfortably tight, even if I wasn’t twisting and pulling against it.

I went on twisting and pulling, digging my back claws into that soft wooden floor, straining with all my strength, and I’m a hundred-plus-pounder. No use: my collar was on me, but good. I stopped all that twisting, pulling, straining, and began gnawing at the metal links.

I gnawed and gnawed. Most times gnawing feels good on your teeth, plus it’s always interesting finding out how things come apart. But this gnawing did not feel good, and nothing came apart or even gave the least sign that it would. I kept gnawing.

After a while, I went back to twisting and pulling. Then gnawing. Then twisting and pulling. After that I tried charging across the floor at my very fastest. Not too clear how long that went on. All those charges ended with me getting jerked to a halt so sudden
my legs would fly out from under me. I kept doing it. By that time I was seeing red, even if Bernie says I can’t see red.

Bernie!

We don’t give up, me and Bernie, part of what makes the Little Detective Agency what it is. I charged, picked myself up, and was gathering my strength—still plenty left, amigo—when the barn door opened, letting in a cold, silvery shaft of light. In that shaft of light stood a man.

“Well, well, well,” he said, looking at me.

I looked at him. A real skinny guy. Was this someone I knew? Hard to tell, with the light behind him and the still air in the barn not bringing me any scents from that direction. But the voice seemed a bit familiar, and then he turned slightly, revealing sunken cheeks and a thick black mustache. There’s something about mustaches that makes it hard for me to look away, so I didn’t. And right about then it hit me: Georgie Malhouf.

Georgie! Georgie was a friend! He’d invited Bernie to speak at the Great Western Private Eye convention—where Bernie had done so well!—and then cut a nice check. But … but maybe Bernie hadn’t accepted it. What was that all about? I tried to remember.

Georgie came forward. He stopped, just out of my range on the chain, and studied me with those small brown eyes of his. “A little worse for wear, maybe, but not bad at all,” he said. “A tough son of a bitch, aren’t you?” He laughed. “Literally.”

What was Georgie talking about? I wasn’t sure, was no longer sure about anything when it came to Georgie.

“You thirsty?” he said. “I’ll bet you’re thirsty.”

That was a bet Georgie would win. My tongue came out a bit, sort of on its own. Georgie walked over to a rusty faucet sticking
out of the barn wall, took a ladle off a hook, filled it with water, came back.

“Water,” he said, moving into my range, the ladle extended in front of him.

Ah, the smell of water. I started to have a strange thought, something to do with if there was only one smell left in the whole world, please could it be … but I let it go and sat down.

Georgie smiled. He had one of those smiles where teeth showed—yellow, in Georgie’s case that dark smokers’ yellow— but the eyes didn’t join in. There were also a few humans who could smile with only their eyes—Suzie was one of those. None of that mattered at the moment; all that mattered was the water in that ladle.

Georgie held it out for me.

I drank.

Lovely. I lapped up that water, lapped and lapped.

“Drink your fill,” Georgie said. “Plenty more where that came from.”

I drank my fill. We were getting along great, me and Georgie. I drained that whole ladle, began feeling more like myself; maybe not tip-top, but at least the ache in my head was almost gone.

I looked at Georgie. He looked at me. What was this? He had a biscuit hidden away in his pocket? How had I missed that till now? I really hadn’t been myself, not close. Georgie reached into his pocket—he wore his pants very high, the belt almost up to the level of his hollow little chest—and took out the biscuit, not big, but I’ve never been fussy about things like that.

Georgie held up the biscuit. “See this?” he said. What kind of question was that? “If you’re good, you’ll get it,” he said. “But only if you’re good. If you’re bad, you won’t. And there’ll be other consequences. Got that?”

Consequences? A new one on me. But I had no problem with the takeaway: any moment now, I’d chewing on that nice biscuit.

Georgie rose on his tiptoes—hey! he wore tassel loafers. Something about tassel loafers always got that gnawing thing going in me. Not now, of course. Georgie, on his tiptoes, reached up and unhooked the chain. Holding the end, he said, “Now we walk out of here and get in the car.” He waved the biscuit in my face. “Once we’re settled in the car, nice and cooperative, this is yours.”

One thing about Georgie that I was starting to notice: he talked kind of fast. The last flow of words zipping by, for example: what was all that? I wasn’t clear. But I was very clear on the biscuit right in front of my face. Who wouldn’t have been? I could even make out the tiny logo stamped into it, the happy face of a member of the nation within. In short, I snagged that biscuit right out of Georgie’s hand.