Thereby Hangs a Tail (26 page)

“That’s true,” Bernie said.

“And communication’s kind of been our problem with you,” the sheriff said, “right from the get-go.”

“One way of looking at it,” Bernie said. “So starting at the get-go, who tipped you that I’d be in Clauson’s Wells?”

“See, here we go again,” said the sheriff. “No one tipped us about you, told you already. We were following up on a vandalism report and you just happened to be there.”

“Hard luck,” said the deputy.

“But we felt bad about it, didn’t we, Les?”

“Real bad,” said the deputy.

“And now we’re feeling bad again, which is what we’d like to talk about,” the sheriff said. “Kind of left out, if you want the truth.”

“That’s what I want,” Bernie said.

“Then we’re all on the same page,” said the sheriff. “Which is why we’re—how would you put it?—”

“Pissed,” said Lester.

“Not pissed,” Earl said. “More like miffed. We’re a mite miffed you didn’t call us out here first, before all those others—didn’t call us at all, in fact—when we were the closest.”

“And it’s our goddamn county,” said the deputy.

“I’ll remember that next time,” Bernie said.

“Next time?” the sheriff said. “Thinkin’ of comin’ back?”

“We’ve still got two missing women,” Bernie said. “Unless you know something I don’t.”

“Second time you made that suggestion,” Earl said. “Any reason?”

The sheriff and his deputy gazed at Bernie; I couldn’t see their eyes on account of the shadows cast by the cowboy hats. Bernie gazed right back. It was very quiet. I got the feeling of something about to happen.

“Sheriff here asked you a question,” Lester said.

“I don’t see how a yellow Beetle just vanishes,” Bernie said.

“No?” said the sheriff. “You from back east or somewheres?”

“Born and raised in the Valley,” Bernie said.

“Then you should know,” said the sheriff, making a big gesture with his hand. “These here are the wide-open spaces. Everything vanishes.”

“Yeah,” said Lester. “Some quicker than others.” The wind rose up and blew a big tumbleweed ball across the road.

“Way quicker,” the sheriff said. He and Lester got in the cruiser and drove off, taking Disco away. Bernie watched till they were out of sight; me, too. Princess curled up on the ground and licked her coat.

The count and Nance were waiting in front of the big house at Rio Loco Ranch when we drove up. They came running to the car. The count reached in and picked up Princess, squeezed onto the shotgun seat beside me. “Mia piccola” something or other, he said, a whole lot of words flying through the air, completely missed by me. The count gave Princess lots of kisses and Nance patted her back, patted the count’s back, too. Princess wriggled and squirmed.

“She’s filthy,” Nance said.

“Yes, yes,” said the count, “my filthy little champion.” He laughed and gave Princess a few more kisses. Then he handed her to Nance and turned to Bernie. “Excellent work,” he said. “Please send me your final accounting. In the meanwhile, here is an interim payment.”

He gave Bernie a check. Bernie looked at it and said, “This should be good for the whole thing. But there’s no final accounting till we find Adelina.”

“Surely with these arrests,” said the count, “the search is now fully in the hands of the police.”

“We signed on to do a job,” Bernie said. “It’s not finished.”

The count gave Bernie a long look. “As you wish,” he said. Nance was watching Bernie, too, maybe not paying attention to Princess. Princess leaped out of her arms and ran to the front door. She sniffed at it and whimpered.

“Isn’t that something?” said Nance. “She’s trying to tell us how homesick she was.”

“Poor baby,” the count said, and some more that I missed because at that moment Bernie turned the key, using a lot more force than usual, and revved the engine, vroom vroom, over the count’s voice. We took off.

TWENTY-FOUR

B
ack home, Bernie was restless. He checked the messages, made some calls, worked on the computer, paced around; smoked a cigarette and then another. I don’t like it when Bernie gets restless. It makes me restless, too, and when I get restless weird things seem to happen without me really being aware of them, like for example, right about then while Bernie was taking a deep drag, a distant look in his eyes, should I have been gnawing on this shoe? A loafer, I think it’s called, a present from Leda, with little . . . what was the word? Tassels, yes; little tassels, now gone, and kind of tasty, on the front. Bernie never wore the tassel loafers, but even so. I was thinking about trying to make myself stop when I heard a car parking in front of the house.

I was at the door before anyone knocked; and was pretty sure who this person was, from the sound of his walk. Bernie, cigarette hanging from his mouth, squinting against the smoke, opened up. Yes, Lieutenant Stine.

“You look like something the cat dragged in,” he said.

Whoa. Run that by me again? Bernie and a cat? Never. And how could a cat drag Bernie? I’d probably have trouble dragging him myself. I gave Bernie a careful look, tempted to give it a try on the spot.

“Came all this way just to say that?” said Bernie.

The lieutenant shook his head. “Came to say congratulations, but now I won’t bother.”

“Congratulations for what?”

“Cracking the case.”

“You found Adelina and Suzie?”

“Neither one, yet,” said the lieutenant. “But we’re closing in.”

“On what leads?” Bernie said.

“Nothing you’d call an actual lead,” the lieutenant said. Old man Heydrich, our neighbor on the other side from Iggy’s place, was on the sidewalk, gazing down at a little something left by one of my guys, then staring right at us. Actually, right at me. He was accusing me? No way. I tried to remember the last time I’d done something like that on the sidewalk, and flat out couldn’t, just about for sure. I yawned at old man Heydrich in a friendly way. His normally angry face, skin all pinched between the eyes, got angrier than ever. Bernie, looking past Lieutenant Stine, noticed old man Heydrich and invited the lieutenant inside.

“Thought you’d never ask. Anything drinkable in the cupboard over the sink?”

Turned out there was. Bernie dropped ice cubes in a couple of glasses, tossed an ice cube to me. A special treat, at first crunchy, like a cold biscuit, and then all of a sudden lovely cool water trickling down my throat. I took the ice cube to the corner by the fridge and curled up.

Bernie and the lieutenant clinked glasses. “They’re down in central lockup,” the lieutenant said. “We booked the two of them on kidnapping and theft, plus some minor stuff. Same charges for the third one, up in Rio Loco.”

“Theft?”

“That would be the dog,” said Lieutenant Stine. “Can’t kidnap a dog, by definition.”

Can’t do what? I was pretty busy with what was left of the ice cube, hadn’t quite got that. But whatever it was hadn’t sounded right.

“Any of them got a record?” Bernie said.

“Oh, yeah.” The lieutenant unfolded some sheets of paper. “All of ’em—the two hippies mostly for dope dealing, but there’s auto theft, too, plus an armed robbery.”

“Armed robbery? They don’t look like the type.”

The lieutenant put on glasses, always interesting when that happened. “Did three years for a casino heist in New Mexico.”

“Those two guys knocked over a casino?”

Lieutenant Stine’s eyes moved back and forth behind his glasses. “Wouldn’t say knocked over, not successfully. And the casino maybe was more of a convenience store on tribal land with a couple of slots in the back, one of which they attempted to boost when no one was looking.”

“Sounds more like them,” Bernie said.

“Not that simple,” the lieutenant said. “The one they call Crash got off a few shots.”

“Anybody hurt?”

“Blew out a few windows is all—still puts them on another level in my book. The third guy, Thurman Barger, has a long record—multiple assaults, burglary, kidnapping.”

“Kidnapping?”

“Took a teller at gunpoint, bank job gone wrong. Did seven years up in Colorado.” The lieutenant drank some bourbon. “These are the guys, Bernie.” Bernie was swirling his own bourbon in the glass, staring at it going round and round, something I’d seen him do before. “You’re thinking what’s the motive,” Lieutenant Stine said. Bernie nodded. “They’re still clammed up,” the lieutenant said, “but the hippies’ll crack eventually.”

“Surprised they haven’t already,” Bernie said.

“Probably just holding out for a better deal,” said the lieutenant. “We’re going to offer our guy short time in return for his testimony, assume the same thing’ll happen in Rio Loco. Hold-up right now is a disagreement in the DA’s office about how short.”

“Christ,” Bernie said. “Two people are missing.”

Lieutenant Stine drained his glass and stood up. “I’ll keep you posted.”

Bernie was staring at the swirling bourbon again, didn’t respond.

“Can’t just sit around the house,” Bernie said, after we’d been sitting around the house for some time. Not really sitting: more like pacing from room to room, with stops in the office for lots of writing and erasing on the whiteboard. “Gotta do something.” Fine with me. I beat Bernie to the door. He opened it, but just as we stepped outside the phone rang.

A voice came over the machine. “Bern? Chuck Eckel here. Give me a call, ASAP.” Beep.

“Haven’t even cashed the goddamn check yet,” Bernie said, “and it’s already gone.” He slammed the door real hard, shaking the whole house. Iggy must have heard the sound: from somewhere in his place came a yip-yip-yip. I checked his window and didn’t see him.

We took a long drive, out of the Valley, into the desert. Night fell and it got cool; I could smell Bernie, a very nice smell for a human, actually a bit doglike in some ways. We went from two-lane blacktop and lots of cars to a hard-packed track and none.

“Tin futures,” Bernie said. “What was I thinking?”

I shifted a little closer to him.

After a while the moon appeared and I saw all sorts of things: a tall saguaro that seemed to be moving; a pair of eyes that seemed to be on fire; and in the distance, the huge flat-topped butte where Princess and I had first met Crash and Disco. It looked pink in the moonlight, although I can’t be trusted about colors, according to Bernie. But I loved the sight of the butte at night, pink or not. Some creatures, including humans—humans especially, in my experience—were afraid of the night, but not me.

“Red Butte,” Bernie said, as we parked in its shadow. He gazed up at it. “There’s an Indian legend, something about this being the first step on a stairway to the stars.” We got out of the car. “And then a human offended the gods—the usual story—and all the other stairs came tumbling down.”

Huh? Then where were they? I looked around, saw nothing but flat moonlit desert.

Bernie took the flashlight from the glove box. “Or is that some other butte, up in Utah? Maybe this one has no story.” He slung the evidence bag over his shoulder and tucked the .38 Special in his belt. “Be nice to have a real education.”

Didn’t know what Bernie was talking about, thought maybe it had something to do with Suzie. Suzie was missing and Adelina . . . Adelina. Adelina and those ants, back in the cabin near the ghost town.

“Chet? What is it? Down, boy.”

What was this? I’d stood up, pawed at Bernie. Very bad. I dropped right down, tail curling between my legs.

Bernie knelt down in front of me, took my head in his hands. “What’s on your mind? What’s wrong?”

I have this sound I can make—the truth is the sound just comes out on it own sometimes—a rumbling deep in my throat, not a growl or a bark, more like . . . I don’t really know. Whatever you’d call the rumbling sound, I was making it at that moment, down under Red Butte.

Bernie stroked my head. “Wish I spoke that language,” he said. He rose and we got going. I gave myself a shake and felt better. We were on the job.

“Clockwise or counterclockwise?” Bernie said. “The earth revolves around the sun counterclockwise, so let’s go the other way.” I didn’t move. Would you have? “To turn back the clock, push time the other way, which is kind of what we do anyway, right, boy?” I stayed where I was, looking at nothing, just waiting. These moods of Bernie’s always passed, and everything returned to normal. “Solving crimes, I mean—isn’t it a bit like time travel?” I breathed in, breathed out. The night air was fresh, cool, delightful. Bernie peered up at the butte. High above hung the moon and stars. “This could be any time,” he said. “Before the Spanish, before the Indians, any time at all.” He tapped his head. “Only this says no, screws everything up.”

Whoa. Was he talking about his brain? Bernie’s brain was one of the best things we had going for us, right up there with my nose. From out of nowhere I got very itchy, started scratching all over the place.

“C’mon, Chet. Let’s go.”

I bounced right up. Bernie switched on the flashlight and followed the base of the high rocky wall, sweeping the beam back and forth over the ground. I walked beside him. Almost right away we spotted something shiny: a CD with a big chip missing. Bernie turned it over. “
The Very Best of Deep Purple
,” he said. “Meaning the RV must have been parked right around here.” He took a little stick with a flag on the end from the evidence bag and twisted it into the ground. We explored the area around the stick, making circles that got bigger and bigger—Bernie shining the flashlight, me sniffing for a scent—but came up with nothing.