The Magic Kingdom of Landover , Volume 1 (109 page)

“I hope you enjoy your stay with us, Mr. Bennett, Miss Fisher,” Allison said, smiled once more, and went back to wherever he had come from.

“The rate for the suite is four hundred and fifty dollars a night, Mr. Bennett,” the clerk advised, consulting the registration forms officiously. “How will you be paying for this?”

“Cash,” Ben answered nonchalantly and began thumbing through the roll of bills. “Is one thousand dollars a sufficient deposit?”

The clerk nodded, stealing another quick glance at Willow, smiling warmly when she noticed him looking.

Ben proceeded to count out the sum of five hundred dollars in fifties, then noticed something odd about one of the bills. He paused, slowly worked a new bill free of the roll as if the bills were sticking, and looked closely at its face.

Ulysses S. Grant’s picture wasn’t on the bill. His was.

He surreptitiously checked another bill and another. His picture was on every one, bigger than life, and looking not a thing like Grant’s. He felt his heart drop. Questor had messed up again!

The clerk was looking at him now, sensing that everything was not quite right. Ben hesitated; then, unable to think of anything else, lurched forward suddenly against the counter, hands clutching at the bills, his breath coming in gasps.

“Mr. Bennett!” the clerk exclaimed, reaching out to catch him.

Willow’s hands clutched at him as well. “Ben!” she cried before he could do anything to stop her.

“No, no, I’m quite all right,” he assured them both, praying the clerk hadn’t noticed that she had used a different name. “I wonder … could I go directly to my room and lie down a bit? Finish this later, perhaps? The sun was a bit too much, I think.”

“Certainly, Mr. Bennett,” the clerk agreed hastily, summoning a bellhop instantly. “Are you certain you don’t need medical help? We have someone on staff if …”

“No, I’ll be fine … once I’ve rested a bit. I have my medicine. Thank you again for your help.”

He smiled weakly, pocketed the bills once more, and gave a silent sigh of
relief. With Willow and the bellhop both holding tightly onto him, he moved off through the crowded lobby. Another silver bullet dodged, he thought gratefully.

He prayed that Abernathy was having the same sort of good fortune.

“A
ll right, students, quiet down now! Everyone find a seat! Let’s have your attention, please!”

The energetic young principal of Franklin Elementary in Woodinville, Washington, walked to the center of the gymnasium floor, microphone in one hand, other hand held high and signaling for order, voice booming out over the loudspeaker system. The K through sixth graders slowly settled down on their bleacher seats, the din of their voices dying into a rustle of anticipation. Elizabeth sat six rows back with Eva Richards. She watched the principal glance at a man who stood to one side, his lanky frame slouched, a smile on his bearded face. The man reached down and scratched the ears of a small black poodle who sat obediently beside him.

“We have a special treat for you this afternoon, something many of you have enjoyed before,” the principal announced, looking around with a broad grin. “How many of you like dogs?”

Hands shot up everywhere. The man with the dog smiled some more and waved hello to a section of students close at hand. They waved back eagerly.

“Well, we’ve got some special dogs for you this afternoon, some dogs who can do things that even some of you can’t do!” A titter of laughter sounded. Elizabeth grimaced. “I want you to watch closely and listen to what our guest has to say. Students, please welcome Mr. Davis Whitsell and his
Canine Review
!”

Applause and whistles sounded as Davis Whitsell took the floor, accepting the microphone from the departing principal. He waved and pretended not to notice that the little black poodle was trailing after.

“Good afternoon, everyone!” he greeted. “Such an enthusiastic group! I am delighted to have you all here, happy you came—even if you had to come, this being one of those required assemblies.” He made a face and there were hoots of laughter. “But maybe we can have some fun together. I’m here to tell you about dogs—that’s right, dogs! And since your parents don’t want you going to the dogs, I’m bringing the dogs to you!”

He raised his hands and everyone clapped in response.

“Now, I want you to listen up, because I have to tell you something important. I have to tell you …”

He paused, acting as if he had just noticed Sophie tugging dutifully at his pants leg. “Hey, hey, what’s this? Let go now, Sophie, let go!”

The little black poodle released her grip and sat back, watching.

“Now, as I was saying, I have something to tell you that …”

Sophie began tugging at him again. Elizabeth laughed with the others. Davis Whitsell looked down, distracted once more from his speech.

“Sophie, what is it? You want to say something first?” Sophie barked. “Well, why didn’t you say so? Oh, you just did, didn’t you? Well, I don’t think the kids heard. Maybe you better say it again.” Sophie barked once more. “What, you want to show them how smart you are?” Sophie barked. “How smart
all
dogs like you are?” He looked up at the bleachers. “What do you say, kids? You want to see how smart Sophie is?”

They all yelled that they did, of course. He gave an exaggerated shrug. “Okay. Let’s see what you can do, Sophie. Can you jump?” Sophie jumped. “Can you jump higher?” Sophie jumped almost to his shoulder. “Whoa! Bet you can’t do a back flip.” Sophie did a back flip. “Hey, how about that, kids? That’s not bad, is it? Now, how about …”

He took Sophie through one trick after another, jumps through hoops and over hurdles, more flips, retrieving and carrying off, and a dozen-and-one other marvelous stunts. When she was finished, the students gave her a tumultuous round of applause, and Davis Whitsell sent her off. Then he began to talk about the need for proper pet care. He gave a few statistics, talked about the good work of the ASPCA, stressed the ways a little love and understanding could affect the lives of animals, and pointed out the need for every student there to involve himself or herself in this ongoing project.

Elizabeth listened intently.

Then, back came Sophie. She appeared from the edge of the floor leading a big tan boxer by the leash about his neck. Davis Whitsell expressed surprise, then went through the whole routine all over again, asking Sophie what she was doing there with Bruno, pretending he understood what she was saying when she barked, carrying on a conversation with her just as if she were human.

Elizabeth began to think.

Then came a whole new repertoire of stunts involving Sophie and Bruno, the former riding the latter, the two of them jumping through hoops and over hurdles, racing about in leaps and bounds, playing tag, and conducting contests of skill and daring.

The program closed with a reminder of the need for responsibility where animals were concerned and a wish for a good school year for all of them. Whitsell went off with a wave to the cheers and applause, Sophie and Bruno in tow. The principal shook his hand, took back the mike, thanked him publicly, then dismissed the students to their classes.

Elizabeth made up her mind.

As the other students filed out, one after the other, Elizabeth hung back. Eva Richards tried to stay with her, but Elizabeth told her to go on ahead. Davis Whitsell was watching as the students passed by, returning their smiles.
Elizabeth waited patiently. The principal came up and thanked Whitsell once more, saying he hoped he’d be back next year. Whitsell replied that he would.

Then the principal moved off as well, and Davis Whitsell was alone.

Elizabeth took a deep breath and walked up to him. When he looked down at her, she said, “Mr. Whitsell, do you think you could do something to help a friend of mine?”

The bearded man grinned. “Depends, I guess. Who’s your friend?”

“His name is Abernathy. He’s a dog.”

“Oh, a dog. Well, sure. What’s his problem?”

“He needs to go to Virginia.”

The grin broadened. “He does? Hey, what’s your name?”

“Elizabeth.”

“Well, look, Elizabeth.” Whitsell put his hands on his knees and bent forward confidentially. “Maybe he doesn’t really need to go to Virginia. Maybe he just needs to get used to living in Washington, you know? Tell me something. Are you planning to go back to Virginia with him? Did you used to live there, too, maybe?”

Elizabeth shook her head firmly. “No, no, Mr. Whitsell, you don’t understand. I didn’t even know Abernathy until about a week ago. And he’s not really a dog, in any case. He’s a man who was turned into a dog. By magic.”

Davis Whitsell was staring at her open-mouthed. She hurried on. “He can talk, Mr. Whitsell. He really can. He’s a prisoner right now in this …”

“Whoa, back up!” the other interrupted quickly. He shifted into a crouch. “What are you trying to tell me? That this dog can talk? Really talk?”

Elizabeth backed off a step, beginning to wonder if she had done the right thing coming to this man. “Yes. Just like you and me.”

The bearded man cocked his head thoughtfully. “That’s some imagination you’ve got there, Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth felt stupid. “I’m not making this up, Mr. Whitsell. Abernathy really can talk. It’s just that he needs to get to Virginia, and he doesn’t know how. I thought maybe you could help him. I was listening to what you said, about how dogs need proper care and how all of us should involve ourselves in helping. Well, Abernathy is my friend, and I want to be sure that he’s taken care of, even if he isn’t a real dog, and I thought …”

Davis Whitsell raised one hand quickly, and she went still. He stood up and glanced around the gymnasium, and Elizabeth glanced with him. The last few students were filing out. “I have to go,” she said quietly. “Can you help Abernathy?”

He seemed to consider. “Tell you what,” he said suddenly. He took out a wrinkled card that bore an imprint of his name and address. “You bring me a talking dog—a genuine talking dog, now—and I’ll help him for sure. I’ll take him anywhere he wants to go. Okay?”

Elizabeth beamed. “Do you promise?”

Whitsell shrugged. “Sure.”

Elizabeth beamed some more. “Thanks, Mr. Whitsell! Thanks a lot!” She clutched her books tightly to her chest and hurried off.

The minute her back was turned, Davis Whitsell dismissed the matter with a shake of his head.

M
iles Bennett, lawyer-for-hire, sat in the study of his suburban Chicago home amid a clutter of
Northeast Reporters
and
ALRs
and seriously considered having a drink. He had been working on this damn corporate tax assessment case since Monday a week ago, and he wasn’t any closer to a resolution of its multiple legal dilemmas now than he had been when he had first picked it up. He had been working on it day and night, at the office and at home, living it, sleeping it, eating it, and he was sick of it, both figuratively and literally. Yesterday, he had caught the flu, the unpleasant kind that attacks you from both ends, and he was just now beginning to shake its effects. He had spent the afternoon in no small amount of discomfort tramping around the subject properties, a vast office complex in Oak Brook, and he had brought his notes home with him in an effort to decipher them while everything was still fresh in his mind.

If it was possible that
anything
could be fresh in his mind at this point, he thought dismally.

He leaned back in his leather desk chair, his heavy frame sagging. He was a big man with thick dark hair and a mustache that seemed to have been tacked on as an afterthought to a face that in happier times was almost cherubic. Eyes perpetually lidded at half-mast peered out with a mix of weary resignation and sardonic humor on a world that viewed even hardworking, conscientious lawyers such as himself with unrelenting suspicion. Still, that was all right with him. It was just part of the price you paid to do something you really loved.

His sudden smile was ironic. Of course, sometimes you loved it more than others.

That made him think unexpectedly of Ben Holiday, formerly of Holiday & Bennett, Ltd., their old law partnership, of when it was Ben and him against the world. His smile tightened. Ben Holiday had loved the law—knew how to practice it, too. Doc Holiday, courtroom gunfighter. He shook his head. Now Doc was God-knew-where, off fighting dragons and rescuing damsels in some make-believe world that probably existed only in his own mind …