Dog On It Page 19

  The Beemer roared down the main street, passed the bar with the neon martini glass in the window—no hogs parked outside, but it was still early—and swung up a side street, tires smoking. Bernie didn’t drive nearly as fast—he wouldn’t do that in a populated place—so when we got to the side street, there was no sign of Anatoly. We rumbled up the side street, past the last houses and into open country, and then Bernie floored it. Almost right away the pavement ended; the Beemer was still out of sight, but Anatoly’s dust hung in the air, telltale dust and plenty of it. Our engine made a deep throaty sound, like some powerful beast. Was a car a kind of machine? Couldn’t be. Machines I had problems with, but cars I loved.

  The road—getting narrower and bumpier—twisted up and up into the mountains. Bernie was a great driver—have I mentioned that already? We skidded around corners, zooming, but the nose of the Porsche always kept pointing straight ahead. And the look on Bernie’s face? The best, the look of the hunter with the prey in view. Maybe not quite in view yet, but message to Anatoly: You’re toast. I’d been in a few car chases like this—one of the very best perks in our line of work, car chases—and they always ended the same way, with some perp’s pant leg between my teeth.

  The road took us higher and higher, steep rocky slopes looming on one side, a sheer cliff dropping off on the other. Bernie geared down—I loved gearing down, especially how the revving went up at the same time, pushing me back in my seat—Bernie was a master! What was more fun than this? Huh? I ask you.

  But where was I?

  On Anatoly’s heels, with Bernie gearing down. We leaned in to a sharp curve, a curve where the drop-off side jutted way out, and from there we could see another curve like it up ahead, and rounding that curve, trailed by clouds of dust: the blue BMW, its still-open trunk bobbing up and down. Only a matter of time: a favorite human expression, although not of mine—anything about time had a way of sliding away from me, like a bar of soap I’d once tried to corral on the bathroom floor. But I knew the expression was right for a moment like this, and I started salivating the way I always did when we were about to snap up the perp.

  The Beemer disappeared around the bend. Bernie changed gears, and we bombed down a short straightaway, then hit the next bend, the same bend where we’d seen Anatoly moments before. Around the bend, the road narrowed and roughened, rising on another long curving stretch, the Beemer not even halfway up. We were gaining, and gaining fast. Some spiky-headed little piddler was going to outdrive Bernie? Dream on.

  We closed in, Bernie downshifting, upshifting, hands and feet doing maneuvers, making adjustments nonstop. Now I could see Anatoly’s head through the back window of the BMW. His head changed angles, maybe because he was checking the rearview mirror. Scary sight, was it not, buddy boy, the Little Detective Agency in hot pursuit? The Beemer sped up, then started fishtailing, the back end whipping more and more wildly, the whole car skidding closer and closer to the cliff edge, and at the point where it was about to shoot off into the air—did I mention there was no barrier of any kind?—it suddenly straightened, groceries flying out of the trunk, and kept going. An apple soared up into the blue; I had a crazy urge to retrieve it. What was that about? Bad idea, I knew that, but I couldn’t help wondering: Could it be done?

  With all that back-and-forthing, Anatoly had lost a lot more ground. We closed in fast, everything flashing by—curve after curve; the rocky slopes on one side; dust boiling up from the wheels of the Beemer; and the drop-off on the other side—as though we were skirting the edge of the sky itself. I was sitting straight up, even straighter than straight up—in fact, I had my front paws on top of the windshield frame—ready, able, willing. Anatoly checked the rearview mirror again—now I could even see his eyes, open wide in fear, and I could smell his fear, too—and Bernie held up his hand palm out in the sign that meant stop. But Anatoly didn’t stop, even sped up as he took another bend, the Beemer’s rear end losing traction, sliding, sliding; and at that moment Bernie did the most amazing thing: He turned the wheel hard, downshifting at the same time, and shot past the Beemer on the rocky-slope side.

  Now we were in front, and Anatoly was eating our dust! How perfect was that? “Next we slow this little caravan down,” said Bernie. One word for Bernie: genius. “And then we ticket him for littering,” he added. Littering? I didn’t get that, was still turning it over in my mind when—Boom! Something went wrong. First an actual boom that seemed to come from right under us—oh no, car trouble now?—and then a black cloud, thick and wet, erupted from under the hood and splashed over the windshield, blinding us.

  Things happened fast after that. We started spinning, round and round on the narrow road, spinning and skidding at the same time, skimming the rocky base of the steep slope, sparks flying everywhere, then veering the other way, one wheel spraying loose gravel off the very edge, the rubber maybe even slipping a little bit over, out into nothing, and the whole time Bernie’s face didn’t change at all as he shifted, braked, twisted the wheel this way and that. But we couldn’t see, not through the blackened windshield. And still, all the time, spinning and spinning. Did the Beemer flash by, ahead of us once more? I thought so. But I couldn’t be sure, and at that moment I had other things to think about, like the way we were colliding with the base of the rocky slope again, harder this time, so hard I shot up and out of my seat.

  Then came a horrible moment when I soared through open sky—I’ve had nightmares like that—up and up and suddenly down. I landed hard but on all fours. Oh, so good to have all fours. I wasn’t on them for long, flipping over and over, coming to rest at last in the middle of the road, breathless but unhurt. I gave myself a good shake, saw the Porsche up ahead, straightening out, slowing down, Bernie back in control: We were going to be okay. But then—what was that? A huge rock came tumbling down from the steep slope and thudded onto the road, right in front of Bernie. Nothing he could do: The Porsche hit the rock dead on, bounced end over end, took off into the air, and hurtled over the drop-off on the other side of the road, vanishing from view.

  Bernie!

  The next thing I knew, I was standing at the edge, peering down. Way, way below, the Porsche spun through emptiness, down, down, down, finally crashing on a wide, rocky ledge and exploding in flames. Then it was very quiet, the only sound my own breathing.

  Bernie!

  “Chet?”

  I looked down. There, clinging with one hand to a tiny out-crop in the cliff, was Bernie, face all bloody, almost in my reach. Our eyes met. The muscles in his arm popped out like thick cables as he tried to pull himself up to the edge. But he couldn’t do it, not with one hand, and there was no place for his other hand to grip, the cliff face so sheer. I leaned over the edge.

  “No, boy.”

  Didn’t hear that. I leaned over the edge some more, front paws digging down into the cliff face, back paws anchored with all my strength on the road. Then I lowered my head, stretching out as far as I could, but it wasn’t far enough. I couldn’t quite reach Bernie.

  “Back off, boy.”

  Out of the question. We stayed like that, heads almost in touching distance, the muscles in Bernie’s arm straining. Then he got an idea. I saw it in his eyes, had seen that look many times. He reached down with his free hand, unbuckled his belt, slipped it off, got a good grip on one end, then flipped the buckle end up to me. I caught it in my mouth, clamped down with a force that couldn’t be broken.

  “On two,” Bernie said. I got ready. “One, two.”

  I hauled back with all my might. Bernie held on to the belt, at the same time pulling with his other hand, the one with a grip on that single outcrop in the cliff face. He rose, slow, so slow, but up, and up a little bit more. My muscles—down my neck, down my back, into my legs—were on fire. Up and up came Bernie, eyes now level with the edge. Did he look afraid? Not at all, not to me. He let go of the outcrop and reached out—for one moment held up only by the belt—and got his free hand on flat ground, pressing down hard. At that sa
me instant I hauled once more with everything I had, and he was up, first his upper body flopping on the road and then all of him wriggling to safety!

  He hugged me. “It’s okay, Chet, you can let go.”

  I tried to let go of the belt buckle, but it was caught between my teeth. Bernie got it loose. I licked his face, tasting his blood and sweat. He held my head in his hands, gave it a squeeze.

  “Gotta lose ten pounds,” he said. “Maybe fifteen.” I wasn’t sure how much that was, and anyway, Bernie looked fine to me; at the same time, I couldn’t help thinking that a little reduction on his part would make the hauling easier if we ever had to do this again.

  The whole world was still, except for the faint hum of a far-off engine. We followed the sound and, on a distant road part way up another mountain, saw a moving blue dot. “At least I got the plate number.” That was Bernie, right there, way ahead of the other guy. He stroked my back. I laid my ears down flat. “I owe you, boy, big-time,” he said.

  A ridiculous suggestion. We were partners.

  We got up, went to the edge, gazed down at the smoking remains of the Porsche. “It was on its last legs anyway,” Bernie said. “We’ll get another one.” Last legs? What was he talking about? And where would we get another one as good, the coolest car on the road? Impossible. Plus, there was the question of money. Our finances were a mess. Bernie was a genius, so why couldn’t he remember that and accept that we would have to make do with the crummy old pickup? “Nevada plate on that Beemer,” said. He smiled at me. “C3P 2Z9—hang on to that.” Impossible to be mad at Bernie. We started walking.

  Back at home, tired, hungry, and thirsty. Bernie paid off the taxi driver—we’d also hitched rides with a trucker and a missionary, and ridden on two public buses—and we went inside. The message light was flashing. I went over to my water bowl and drank it dry. Bernie grabbed the bourbon bottle from the cupboard over the sink, pressed a button on the message machine.

  “Cynthia Chambliss here.” She sounded excited. “I’ve had a call from Madison. She’s fine, says she’s coming home soon—just working out a few things. We shouldn’t worry, she says, and please don’t waste a lot of time and money looking for her. Um, thought you should know. Have you sent your bill to Damon yet? I want to tell you how grateful—”

  Bernie picked up the phone, dialed a number. “Hello, Cynthia? Bernie Little. I got your message and—” He paused. I could hear her voice on the other end, high and kind of strange. “I’m fine,” Bernie said. “Why wouldn’t I be?” Another pause. “Who told you that?” Bernie said, putting the bourbon bottle down on the counter, unopened. “Cynthia?” he said. “Any chance you taped that call with Madison?” He listened. “That was smart. I’d like to hear it.” He paused again. I heard silence on the other end. “Won’t take long,” Bernie said. “We’ll be right over.” Cynthia started to say something that sounded like the beginning of “no,” but Bernie hung up.

  He turned to me. “Damon told her I’d been killed in a wreck.” He reached for the pickup keys, hanging on a hook by the fridge. “What would make him think something like that?”

  No clue. Did we have to get to the bottom of it now? What about dinner?

  twenty-five

  Light my fire,” said Cap’n Crunch in that horrible croak of his. Oh, brother, if only I could, like right under your scaly yellow feet. He stood on his perch—the cage on Cynthia’s kitchen counter now, not in Madison’s bedroom—and stared at me with his wicked little eyes. His weird spiky comb seemed to have grown since the last time I’d seen him, looked the size of his whole head or even bigger. He didn’t like me, was anything more obvious? Right back at ya, amigo.

  “Coffee?” said Cynthia. She’d changed, too, looked older, thinner, more pinched up, with lines on her face I hadn’t noticed before; but humans, especially the females, were tricky that way—maybe I was noticing because she had her hair pulled back in a ponytail and wore no makeup.

  “I’d like to get right to the call,” Bernie said.

  “Of course,” Cynthia said, moving to a phone. “I can’t tell you how wonderful it was to hear her voice. We can get past this.”

  “Past what?” said Bernie.

  “Why, whatever’s troubling her,” said Cynthia. She bit her lip—I’m always on the lookout for that one—and added, “Maddy was at such a vulnerable age—I see that now.”

  “When was this?” Bernie said.

  The pinched-up grooves between Cynthia’s eyes deepened. “When Damon and I got divorced. At the time she didn’t seem too affected—so many of her friends come from brok—from blended families, that kind of thing. But now I see—even though divorce is better for kids than a bad marriage, maybe for a girl like Maddy, so bright and sensitive . . .” She looked at the floor, her voice trailing off.

  “How bad a marriage was it?” Bernie said.

  “You don’t agree?” she said. “About divorce being better for kids than a bad marriage?”

  A muscle jumped in the side of Bernie’s face. “I’m not agreeing or disagreeing,” he said. “I’m just asking about the marriage.”

  Cynthia’s eyes went blurry. “Does it matter now?”

  “I don’t know,” Bernie said. “I’m trying to put things together. We’ve got a lot of loose ends.”

  “What do you mean?” Cynthia said.

  We had nothing but loose ends, as far as I was concerned.

  “We can get to that,” Bernie said. “First the call.”

  Cynthia’s finger hovered over the buttons on the phone cradle. “It happened yesterday. So lucky not to miss it—I was halfway out the door, literally.” She pressed one of the buttons.

  “Hello? Hello? Mom?”

  I knew that voice, a voice I liked very much: Madison’s voice. She’d said, “Don’t you hurt that dog.” Hard to forget something like that, and I never would. You can take it to the bank, whatever that means.

  “Mom? Are you there? It’s me, Maddy.”

  Bernie’s face was very still. He had his head tilted a bit to one side. I realized that I did, too.

  Then came a click, and in a breathless voice, Cynthia said, “Maddy? Maddy? Is that you?”

  “Hi, Mom, it’s me.”

  “Maddy! Sweetheart, oh my God! Are you all right? Where are—”

  “I’m fine, Mom, just . . .” There was a pause, and in that pause I thought I heard her choking up, the way humans did when they were about to cry, but then she seemed to take a deep breath and went on. “. . . just working some things out, that’s all.”

  “What kind of things? I’ve been worried sick. We’ve been looking all over, the police, a private detective, everybody. Where are—”

  “Don’t worry, Mom. I’m fine. That’s why I called. Don’t worry—and don’t waste a lot of time and money looking for me. I’ll be home soon, Mom.”

  “How soon?”

  “Soon.”

  “But when?”

  “Soon, Mom. And you know what?”

  “What?”

  “I’ve been thinking it might be nice to get a dog.”

  “A dog?”

  “A big funny-looking dog, maybe like one I saw the other day, with mismatched ears. Is there a ghost of a chance we could do that?”

  Bernie’s face went pale, all the color draining out of it. Had I even seen that before?

  “Of course, we can get a dog, but when—”

  “Got to go, Mom. Love you.”

  Click.

  Bernie looked at Cynthia, then at me. His body was very still, a stillness I could feel. I knew he was thinking fast; about what, I had no idea. I had a thought of my own: Are mismatched ears necessarily a bad thing?

  Bernie went to the machine, hit a button or two. Funny sounds of people talking way too fast started up, then slowed, and I heard again: “A big funny-looking dog, maybe like one I saw the other day, with mismatched ears. Is there a ghost of a chance we could do that?”

  “We never had any fights about having
a dog, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Cynthia said.

  “I wasn’t,” Bernie said.

  Cynthia didn’t seem to hear. “I mean, she wanted Cap’n Crunch, and I said yes right away.”

  Big, big mistake.

  Cap’n Crunch raised his wings in a way that reminded me of Count Dracula and said, “Make it a double.”

  “Is a dog some sort of replacement?” Cynthia said. “Is that where you’re going with this—a consolation prize for the parents splitting up?”

  Hard to follow, but “consolation prize” sounded offensive to me. And funny-looking? Where did that come from?

  “That’s not where I’m going with this,” Bernie said. Color returned to his face, and he looked more like himself; for a moment or two I’d been worried.

  “Then explain,” said Cynthia.

  “Your daughter’s a very smart girl.”

  Cynthia nodded. “But what’s that got to do with the call?” Bernie didn’t answer right away. He had a hard look on his face, a look Cynthia couldn’t miss. “She’s telling the truth, isn’t she?” Cynthia said.

  “About what?” Bernie said.

  “About coming home soon. You agree on that, don’t you? Sergeant Torres does.”

  “You played it for him?”

  “He was here a couple hours ago. He agrees. She’s coming home.”

  Bernie nodded, a nod Cynthia probably took for his own agreement, but I knew better: That slight nod of Bernie’s could mean anything, all part of his interviewing skill.

  “Good,” said Cynthia. “Because why else would she call? She doesn’t want me to worry, even though I’ve been worried half to death.” Her eyes filled with tears; they overflowed and ran down her face.

  “Um,” said Bernie, looking uncomfortable. “Uh.” He patted his pockets, hoping to find who knew what. Cynthia walked quickly from the room. Bernie turned to me. “You saw Madison, didn’t you, boy? You nailed the whole thing, and I didn’t even know.”

  I wagged my tail. What else could I do? But had I nailed it, cracked the case? No, because we didn’t have her. So maybe I’d actually screwed up. My tail went still.