Thereby Hangs a Tail (15 page)

Bumpity-bump. Must have fallen asleep in the car, nothing unusual about that. I opened my eyes. Uh-oh. Everything stayed dark. And this was not the Porsche—I could tell by the sound, the smell, everything. Underneath me: a hard metal floor. I rose, my head hitting some kind of soft roof. I knew soft roofs like this: people snapped them onto the back parts of pickups. Memory returned, that twitchy eye most of all.

I felt a current of air, followed it, bumped into the side wall of the pickup bed. My nose found the tiny space between the soft roof and the side wall, where the air leaked in. I pushed into that space, and light leaked in, too. Just a sliver, but enough for me to see it was true: I was in the bed of a pickup with a snap-on roof; an empty bed, except for me. Also, I still had the choke chain around my neck. The free end glinted in the shaft of light, just lying there, attached to nothing.

I nosed into the tiny space, wriggled around, pushed and pushed. A soft roof, made of something that just wouldn’t give. I got my front paws up on the side wall, drove up off my back legs. Pop! A snap let go, and all at once that tiny space was much bigger. I stuck my head through, looked out.

A desert track, like many I’d seen, but here was something strange: a barbed-wire fence running along beside it as far as I could see in either direction, signs hanging off the fence here and there. Beyond the fence stretched the desert, pretty much the same as on this side, no buildings, no humans. The only human in sight was the bearded guy: twisting toward the front, I could see his head in the back window of the cab. And at that very moment, he too twisted around—and saw me. That eye of his twitched, big-time.

Things happened fast. Must have lunged against that soft roof once more, and popped another snap open, because the next thing I knew I was airborne. Then came a hard landing and I was up and run—

Oh, no. The choke chain, squeezing tight around my neck, brought me up short. How had that happened? And then I saw: the free end hadn’t come loose, was stuck inside, meaning I was getting dragged by the pickup. The bearded guy hit the brakes, hit them hard. The rear end skidded out wide, yanking me over the stony ground, the chain tightening fast and hard, blackness closing in again. Then all at once I shot free, just a short length of chain around my neck, the rest of it clanking against the side of the pickup.

I ran back up the track the way we’d come, the barbed wire fence on one side. The bearded guy shouted something, swung the pickup around. The engine revved hard behind me. I ran— ran my fastest, paws hardly touching the ground, ears flat back— but that engine noise got louder and louder, screaming in my ears. I didn’t think, just found myself changing direction slightly and then leaping—up and over that barbed-wire fence. Not a real high fence, even kind of flimsy, only a few strands of wire, hanging loose, with lots of space between them, an easy fence for a pickup to plow right through. I raced ahead, down a long gradual slope, expecting to hear the scream of the engine any moment.

That didn’t happen. After a while, I glanced back, saw the dirty white pickup parked on the other side of the fence, the bearded guy standing beside it, watching me. I kept going.

For a long time, I was alone. Then I had company: another one of those big black birds not far above. My tongue hung out, thick and dry, too big for my mouth. What had Bernie said about find-ing water in the desert, some trick of the Indians? I came close to remembering.

Later on, the sun at my back now, very hot, I came over a rise and saw something strange on the desert floor: a huge piece of plastic with circles on it. Red in the center, then yellow, then blue, although I can’t be trusted when it comes to colors. But: a bull’s-eye target, for sure. I went closer, at the same time aware that the big black bird no longer hovered above me, but was now streaking away, shrinking smaller and smaller.

Everything got quiet. I felt kind of funny, and paused, one paw raised. The next moment a howl came down on me, out of nowhere, the loudest sound I’d ever heard, as though the whole sky was in a rage. Something shiny flashed over my head, moving almost too fast to see, and right after that—KA-BOOM! An enormous explosion, very near, knocked me down, and a huge fireball rose from the place where the target had been. Heat rolled over me in waves. The earth shook. I lay there, all curled up. A plane roared overhead, so close to ground level that I could see the picture on its nose—a woman in a bikini. Then everything got quiet again. I found a hole between some rocks and burrowed inside, lying still, not making a sound.

FOURTEEN

A
Jeep bobbed up over a ridge not too far away, turned in my direction. I stayed where I was, deep in my hole, silent and still, harsh smells from the explosion still in the air. The Jeep stopped where the bull’s-eye target had been and the driver got out. She wore cammies—Bernie owned cammies, too, way back in his closet, from the war—and had binoculars around her neck. I didn’t like binoculars. When humans put them up to their eyes they seemed even more like machines than usual. That was what the driver did now: she raised the binoculars and swept them back and forth across the slope where I lay. All at once, she froze, the binoculars pointed right at me. No way she could see me, not with how I was hiding in the rocks. Then I noticed for the first time that the end of what was left of the choke chain lay outside the rocks, out in the open, glinting in the sun.

The driver lowered the binoculars, made her way up the slope, coming right toward me for sure. When she got close, just beyond my hidey-hole, she stopped and squatted down, peering inside. “Oh my God,” she said. “Are you all right?” She had a nice voice and a nice face, but I didn’t move or make a sound.

Lots of things dangled from the driver’s belt. One was some kind of radio. She spoke into it. “Delta three,” she said. “Affirma-tive on that dog. Not a coyote. Repeat, dog. I’ll bring him in.” She clicked off. “C’mon out, big guy. Must’ve been quite a scare, huh? Everything’s all right now. I’m not going to hurt you.”

I’d heard that before. I didn’t move.

“Thirsty?” she said. “You look a little thirsty.” She walked down to the Jeep, returned with a metal dish, poured water from a canteen—oh, the smell—and laid the dish near me.

I didn’t move, not for the longest time. She squatted out there in the hot sun, patient, kind of like Bernie. The smell of that water, so cool and fresh: who could resist it forever? Not me. I crept forward and slurped up all the water in the dish, keeping my eyes on her the whole time.

“Knew you were thirsty,” she said, refilling the dish. I drank the refill, and then another, and some more after that. “Been through the mill, haven’t you?” she said. I didn’t get that. I lay by the dish, most of my body outside the hole, chin on the ground, eyes on the driver. She had a nice voice and a nice face; was patient like Bernie. “Okay if I look at your tag?”

I didn’t stop her. She reached out, examined the tag. “Chet, huh? That’s a nice name.” She took a notebook from her pocket. “I’ll just copy down this number.”

I’d never been in a plane, had no desire to, but pilots! They turned out to be great. At least these pilots were. They had a cool lounge beside the runway, with a grill out front. And what was cooking on the grill? Burgers, burgers by the ton! Not sure what by the ton meant, exactly, but anytime it had to do with food, good things happened.

“A burger lover, aren’t you, Chet?” said the driver, who maybe was a pilot, too, possibly even the boss; everyone called her Major. And, yes, I was a burger lover, no denying it. “Room for one more?” she said.

What a question.

I had one more, plus part of another I split with the major. After that, someone found a rubber ball and we had a game of fetch. One of the guys, Colonel Bob—who may in fact have been the top boss, hard to tell, what with the whole pilot world being brand new to me—was a pretty good thrower, his arm almost as strong as Bernie’s.

“Got a set of wheels on you, huh, Chet?” said Colonel Bob.

Wheels? What was he talking about? But I liked Colonel Bob, especially his big red face and short gray hair, cut flat on top. He gave me a nice pat. So did the major. And some of the others. After some more fetch, I got tired—not like me at all, getting tired in the middle of fetch—and lay down in a shady spot overlooking a strange black plane on the runway, scary just to look at. My eyes closed.

“He’d be fun to have around,” someone said.

“Who could afford to feed him?” said someone else.

I had a bad dream that ended with ants crawling on Adelina’s face and Bernie saying, “Where is he?” I opened my eyes—and there, following the major out of the lounge, was Bernie! Not a dream, but the real Bernie, hurrying toward me, a big smile spreading across his face. I was up and running. I had no intention of knocking him down, just wanted to give him a nice greeting. Down on the ground, I licked his face, half aware of pilots coming out, laughing in a nice way. Then I heard Colonel Bob say, “Bernard? Is that you?”

Of course not: it was Bernie. Bernie! And I was so happy to see him I’d never be able to sit still again. But then came a surprise: Bernie rose—I could tell he wanted to so I let him out from under—and looked over at Colonel Bob.

“Where does it say I have to see your sorry face again?” he said.

“Right back at ya,” said Colonel Bob. He strode up to Bernie. Was a fight about to break out? Colonel Bob was a big guy, bigger than Bernie. I got ready. But instead of a fight the two of them shook hands, and then Colonel Bob pulled Bernie close and they started slapping each other’s backs real hard. Colonel Bob turned to the other pilots and said, “Gonna need that bottle of JD from my office. Weren’t for this asshole, you wouldn’t have to be putting up with my bullshit.”

“Why is that, Colonel?” said one of the pilots.

“Son of a bitch saved my goddamn life, is why,” said Colonel Bob. “Say hi to Bernard Little.”

Bernie’s name was Bernard? I was just finding that out now? What the hell was going on?

We sat in the lounge drinking JD, except for me. I had water and a biscuit or two Bernie had brought, the best kind, from Rover and Company. I’d tasted JD once, a story for some other time. The pilots crowded around, and Colonel Bob brought out a bunch of maps, said things like “Basra’s here, we were thereabouts and the bastards came from thisaway.” But Bernie—I was on the floor, right beside him—got all uncomfortable, shifting around, clearing his throat, mumbling his answers, so whatever had happened in some long-ago time between Bernie and Colonel Bob remained a mystery to me.

Another bottle of JD appeared. The major came in, handed what was left of the choke chain to Bernie. He ran it through his fingers. “He was wearing this?”

The major nodded. “Is it yours?”

“Chet’s never had a choke chain on him in his life.”

Not exactly true: there’d been that bad time with Mr. Gula-gov, and maybe long before, back in my puppy days in that horrible crack house—had there been a choke chain then? I wasn’t sure. While I was thinking about all that, more maps had come out, and Bernie no longer seemed uncomfortable.

“It’s a kidnapping case,” he was saying, “at this point involving a woman—possibly two women—and a dog.”

“Chet?” said the major.

Bernie shook his head. “A show dog named Princess.” He took out a picture: Princess on her satin pillow. “Don’t suppose you saw her, too?”

“Uh-uh,” said the major.

“No reason she’d be anywhere around here,” Bernie said. “On the other hand, no reason Chet should be either.” He pointed to the map. “Last time I saw him was at Clauson’s Wells.”

“Way down there? Did he run away?”

Me? Run away? I paused over the last of my biscuit.

“Chet?” said Bernie. “Never. The fact is, we had a little trouble with the county sheriff. Maybe a misunderstanding—I’m still trying to sort that out. Meanwhile, Chet and I got separated.”

“Who’s your client?” said Colonel Bob.

Bernie smiled. Have I mentioned what a great smile Bernie has? “You haven’t changed,” he said. “The client is the husband of one of the missing women, Adelina Borghese. They own the dog.”

Adelina: in my mind I saw her with ants on her face and didn’t feel like the biscuit anymore.

“And the other woman?” said Colonel Bob.

“Suzie Sanchez. She’s a reporter for the
Valley Tribune
. We were in Clauson’s Wells on a tip from her.”

“Got pictures of the women?” said the colonel.

Bernie did. I caught a glimpse as he handed them over: Adelina holding Princess; and Suzie and Bernie in our backyard at home. Colonel Bob studied that one the longest. “You married?”

“Not anymore,” said Bernie.

“This the ex?”

“No.”

“Any kids?”

“One.”

“Boy or girl?”

“Boy.”

“Two girls here—twins. The mom got custody.”

“Uh-huh,” said Bernie. Silence. Bernie drained his glass and rose. “We better hit the road. I owe you guys.”

“Hell you do,” said Colonel Bob.

I rose, too.

“What a smart dog,” said the major. I liked the major; one of those humans with a feel for me and my guys.