Dog On It Page 24

  Headlights shone in the rearview mirror. I looked back and saw a pickup approaching, not fast. As it came closer, I could see the driver’s face, a pale circle behind the windshield. Very pale, with long shadows cast by big sticking-out cheekbones; and tiny ears; and light-colored hair, almost white even though he wasn’t old: Boris! I knew Boris, all right, wasn’t going to forget someone who’d knifed me, not ever. I sat up high on my seat, almost let out a bark. But I knew that would be bad, knew that Bernie would want me to keep my mouth shut at a moment like this, would have made a little motion with his hand, just between us. Easy, Chet, let’s take ’em down nice and easy.

  The pickup—light-colored, not as big as ours—drew closer. As it came alongside me, I saw Boris’s face clearly, lit by the green glow of his dashboard lights. He was smiling. That green smile enraged me. I didn’t think—that was Bernie’s department, and he could have it—just sprang out the window, landing on the road behind the pickup. The pickup turned out to be going much faster than I’d judged from inside Suzie’s car. I chased after it, sprinting now, caught up as Boris reached the only stoplight in town. Red, but he drove on through, even stepping on it. Last chance. I gathered myself and leaped, a tremendous leap, one of my very best, up and over the tailgate and down into the bed of the truck, a soft, silent landing.

  Or maybe not: Through the narrow back window I saw Boris suddenly turn his head, the pickup slowing. I ducked down, completely still, one more shadow. The pickup sped up again. I raised my head, saw Boris facing front. We rolled through the silent town. From my angle, down low, I could see the tops of the buildings and above them the starry sky, a few clouds moving fast, so wispy the stars shone through them. Then all at once, no more buildings: We headed out of Sierra Verde, down the mountain road and on to the desert plain, the desert plain that stretched all the way to New Mexico.

  I lay on a tarp, my back against some coiled rope. I smelled gasoline and gunpowder; and very faintly, my second favorite combo: apples, bourbon, plus that hint of salt and pepper that made it a bit like my own smell. Bernie had been here, right in this very truck bed! A feeling comes to me and my kind when we know we’re on the right track, a sort of tamped-down excitement. I felt it now; the tamping-down part maybe still waiting to kick in.

  We were on the dirt track I knew, the bumpy one where Bernie had thought about the old days and Kit Carson, and other Bernie-type things I couldn’t remember. I kept an eye on Boris’s head through the narrow window, a big head, too big for even a thick neck like his. The headlights shone on passing sights I remembered—a tall two-armed cactus like a giant person, spiky bushes I’d marked, a flat rock sitting on a round rock. Later came the dried-up streambed, the low hill, the falling-down shack, and the track fading to nothing. Boris stopped by the remains of the bikers’ campfire and got out. I lay low, maybe not as low as I could, with my head poking over the edge of the tailgate, but I had to see out, didn’t I?

  Boris walked toward the blackened firepit, kicked a beer can once or twice, whistled an unpleasant tune. Then came a zipper sound and soft splashing in the dirt. Men were vulnerable at moments like this. I could take him down right now, no problem. But after that? I didn’t know. Boris zipped up, and the moment passed. He looked up, his gaze suddenly right on me! And then sliding by; his vision—like every human I’d come across—just about useless at night. I sometimes felt sorry for humans, what with their obvious shortcomings, but not for Boris. Boris was bad, and soon he’d be living up at Central State, wearing an orange jumpsuit and breaking rocks in the hot sun.

  Boris got back behind the wheel, still whistling. Won’t be whistling soon, buddy boy. From this same spot, with no more track to follow, Bernie and I had set out on foot, in the direction of those distant mountains, pinkish then, invisible now. Boris didn’t go the same way; instead making a long curve past the firepit and toward a jumble of shadowy rocks, the desert floor rough and uneven. We bumped along, Boris twisting the wheel from side to side, lumps of muscle sticking out in his neck, lumpy to begin with. The bumps got bigger, the pickup lurching back and forth. I went sliding off the tarp, thumped against the side of the truck bed. Boris started to glance back, but at that moment we hit an even bigger bump, the whole truck seeming to rise off the ground. He fought with the wheel. I rose up on all fours, went sliding the other way, panting now. Bernie’s smell rose around me. I calmed down, and not long after, the ride got smooth again. I stuck my head out the side, peered ahead, saw we were on a track, long and straight. And not too far ahead rose the mountains that had been pink when Bernie and I had seen them before, but were now a dark band beneath a sky no longer quite as dark. My heart beat faster. Calm, Chet, have to stay calm. I crouched down behind the coiled rope.

  * * *

  Up above, the stars grew dim and slowly vanished. We were making a lot of turns now, the motor sounding like it was working hard. I rose and saw we were in the mountains, still dark, except for the very tops, outlined in milky white. The milky whiteness spread, pouring slowly over the land, a very beautiful sight. It was morning. We rounded a bend, passed some huge rusted-out machine of a type I didn’t know, and there, up ahead, stood some run-down buildings—a long, low house, a barn, sheds, and, across from them, a steep slope with a big round hole at its base: Mr. Gulagov’s mine.

  Boris parked beside a car I knew, the blue BMW, all dusty now, and went inside the barn. I looked around, saw nobody, and hopped out. I sniffed at the BMW, at the barn door, and along the side of the barn, picking up a trace of my own scent. It led me to one of the sheds, and behind the shed, I found the cage where Mr. Gulagov had kept me. Stay calm, boy. But I growled, couldn’t help myself.

  Beyond the shed stood the house. I went to an open window, saw a kitchen. Mr. Gulagov sat at a table, sideways to me, piling up stacks of wadded bills. Ms. Larapova came into view, carrying a coffeepot. They were so close! In an instant I could be in there, showing Mr. Gulagov what was what. But would that be the right move? I waited, and while I waited, Mr. Gulagov said, “Is Boris back yet?”

  “I’ll check,” said Ms. Larapova. She poured coffee for him and left the room.

  Uh-oh. I backed away from the window. Maybe the best move would be—

  A door opened right beside me—how had I missed that?—and Ms. Larapova came out of the house. One slight turn of her head and she’d have seen me, and then what? But Ms. Larapova did not turn her head. Instead, she went the other way, toward the barn, her hair in a long ponytail, swinging back and forth. From somewhere nearby I heard a radio and then a man clearing his throat. Any moment now people were going to be all over the place. I backed away, backed away some more, waiting for some idea to hit me, and all at once, by a low spiny plant growing all by itself between the house and the mine, caught the slightest whiff of Bernie.

  I sped up, hurrying this way and that, sniffing, sniffing. Another trace, by a broken shovel; another, near an overturned mine car; and one more, by the railroad tracks that led into the mine. Bernie’s scent grew stronger, much stronger. I followed it through the big round hole and into the shadows.

  And there, with his back to a support beam, not very far inside the mine, sat Bernie! His eyes were closed. Was he sleeping? I was so happy to see him that at first I didn’t notice that his feet were roped together; that his hands were bound behind him to the beam; that a choke chain, hooked to the roof of the mine, had him around the neck.

  thirty-one

  I moved closer to Bernie. Was he sleeping, or something else, something much worse? I could always smell that much worse thing, didn’t smell it now. His chest rose and fell, filling up with air and letting it out, just like mine did. I heard a whimpering sound, realized it was me. Bernie’s eyes opened. For a moment their expression was one I’d never seen in Bernie’s eyes and never wanted to see again, an expression of—I don’t even want to say it—defeat. But then he saw me, and his eyes changed. I won’t forget that look anytime soon, although really it was just Bernie getting
back to his old self.

  “Good to see you, boy,” he said, his voice low and tired. “I let them get the jump on me.” His head was level with mine or a bit below. I went to lick his face but stopped when I saw the bruises and cuts. Bernie looked past me, toward the entrance to the mine. “All by yourself, Chet? How did that happen?”

  A complicated story; I actually couldn’t remember most of it. I wagged my tail.

  Bernie smiled; just for a moment, but I saw that one of his front teeth was chipped. “Better go get help, Chet,” he said. “There’s not much time.”

  I didn’t move.

  “But how, right?” Bernie said. “Is that what’s on your mind? You’re way ahead of me.”

  Impossible. No one was smarter than Bernie. And even if I knew how to get help, there was no way I’d leave him like this. Nothing else was on my mind. I moved around the support beam, had a look at the ropes binding Bernie’s arms to it—low down, around his wrists—and started gnawing.

  I’ve done a lot of gnawing in my life—there was a purse of Leda’s, for example, leather, despite its green color, and not just any leather but Italian leather, which I hadn’t even known existed and yet turned out to be the best I’d ever tasted. Plus all kinds of other things—clothing, furniture, toys, garden tools—gnawed to bits, going way back to my earliest days. So some plain old rope, even fairly thick rope like this, wasn’t going to be a problem. Have I mentioned the sharpness of my teeth? Like daggers, and not much smaller.

  I worked fast, digging in between the strands, tugging and chewing, hardly even taking the time to enjoy what I was doing. The rope started fraying almost at once, fibers breaking and untwisting in my mouth. From time to time Bernie wriggled his wrists or strained against the rope, once so hard that the beam creaked. Good to see he had his strength, but he wasn’t helping, more slowing me down, if anything. A thick strand parted, then another. The rope slackened. Wouldn’t be long now. And then—watch out. I dug a tooth deep into what was left, pulled back with a side-to-side motion that always—

  “Chet.” Bernie spoke very low. “Get back.”

  I paused, looked up, saw two people framed in the entrance to the mine. One, carrying a water bottle, was the big woman named Olga, hair in a tight bun, the woman I’d seen once before, pulling Madison away from the barn window. The other person was Harold the driver, that single heavy eyebrow somehow making him a bit monkeyish. According to Bernie, humans came from monkeys, while me and my kind came from wolves: all you need to know. Harold carried a gun, smaller than our .38 special; it dangled loosely in his hand. I backed into the shadows, went still.

  Olga and Harold approached Bernie. I could see him working his wrists, twisting and turning. Rope fibers frayed and frayed but didn’t give. “How’s the patient this morning?” Harold said.

  Bernie gazed up at him, said nothing.

  “Patient?” Olga said. “What is this ‘patient’?”

  “That’s just a funny thing we say,” said Harold.

  “Who?” said Olga.

  “Us,” said Harold. “Americans.”

  “What is funny?” Olga said. She unscrewed the cap from the water bottle and held it out to Bernie, starting to tip it toward his mouth. He shook his head. At the same time he kept working his wrists; and now had the fingers of one hand working, too. “Drink—orders of Mr. Gulagov,” Olga said. “You must live a little longer.”

  “I don’t take orders from Gulagov,” Bernie said. Behind his back, the remains of the rope fell away. I crouched down, gathered strength in my hind legs.

  Harold came forward, stood over Bernie, the gun still loose in his hand. “Pour,” he said.

  Olga started pouring the water all over Bernie’s face. I hated that.

  “Drink, you son of a bitch,” Harold said.

  “After I work up a thirst,” said Bernie.

  “Huh?” Harold said.

  A muscle flexed in Bernie’s back and then his arms shot forward. Bernie was quick, the quickest human I knew, but maybe not today, maybe not this time. He swiped at the gun and missed. Olga’s eyes opened wide. She dropped the bottle, just stood there, frozen for a moment. But not Harold—he started backing up right away, the gun rising. I sprang.

  Possibly not quite on target: I slammed into Olga, knocking her flat, but made a correction in midair, twisting around back on myself and, as I came down, opening wide and sinking my teeth into Harold’s wrist. He cried out. The gun went flying, landed between the train tracks. Olga scrambled toward it. I leaped over her, grabbed the gun, came to a skidding stop, wheeled around, and raced back to Bernie. He took the gun from my mouth, pointed it at Harold, then at Olga, back to Harold. “I don’t want to kill anyone,” he said. And then: “Actually, I do.” That froze them. With his free hand, Bernie loosened the choke chain, got it off his neck, went to work on the rope around his ankles.

  Soon the choke chain was around Harold’s neck, and he was tying up Olga with the remains of the rope under Bernie’s supervision. “I’m bleeding,” Harold said.

  “Tighten that knot,” Bernie said.

  Harold smelled of urine now. So did Olga. I felt good about that. When Olga’s hands and feet were bound, Bernie freed the choke chain from the hook above and tied Harold to the beam with it. That meant putting the gun down. I stood right behind Harold, possibly nudging the back of his leg once or twice. He didn’t try any tricks.

  Bernie picked up the gun. “Not a sound,” he said.

  * * *

  We waited, I wasn’t sure for what. Olga lay on her side between the tracks, watching us with hateful eyes. Harold sat where Bernie had been, against the beam, wincing once or twice. Too bad for him. Bernie and I moved around behind him, stood in darkness. Bernie picked up the water bottle, poured some of what was left into a bucket for me, drank the rest himself. Not long after that we heard a voice.

  “Harold? Olga?” It was Boris. Bernie made a tiny motion with his finger, side to side. “Harold? Olga?” We could see Boris coming toward us from the barn, a rifle in one hand. “Harold, moron, where the hell are you?” He reached the entrance to the mine, peered in. “Harold? Is that you? What—” The rifle came up, now in both hands.

  Bernie stepped out from behind the beam. “Drop it,” he said. But Boris didn’t drop it, pulled the trigger instead. A bullet pinged off the rock wall behind us, pinged again deeper in the mine. Bernie fired, the muzzle flash—always exciting, although gunplay had a way of quickly becoming too much of a good thing, in my experience—lighting up the mine. Boris grunted in pain and staggered, clutching his leg. He fired another round, one-handed this time. It thwacked into the support beam, not far above Harold’s head.

  “Oh my God,” said Harold.

  Bernie fired again, hit Boris in the shoulder. He spun around, fell, dropped the rifle, reached for it. Bernie fired once more, kicking up dust between the rifle and Boris’s hand. Boris crawled away, leaving the rifle behind, got to his feet, and limped toward the barn. A few steps from the barn, he fell again and lay there, raising his head toward the door once or twice and calling out, words that didn’t carry back to the mine. I ran out, got the rifle—a big one, but it felt like nothing—and took it back to Bernie. Now he had a gun in each hand. We usually ended up doing well in situations like that.

  Silence. Then Olga, still lying between the tracks, turned to Harold and said, “Is all your fault for not tying him right.”

  “My fault, you stupid bitch?” said Harold. “I tied him fine. If you’re looking for someone to blame, blame Stalin here.”

  I turned on Harold, barked in his face, making him flinch. That wasn’t my name.

  “Stalin?” said Bernie.

  Harold licked his lips. “I can explain,” he said. “I can explain a lot of things if you’ll just let me go. I’ll drive away, won’t look back, you’ll never see me again.”

  “What kind of things?” said Bernie.

  “Shut up, you coward,” Olga said.

  “Why s
hould I?” said Harold. “It’s over.”

  “You do not know Mr. Gulagov,” Olga said.

  “I’m sick of Gulagov,” said Harold. His voice was getting whiny, grating on my ears. “Sick of this whole business.”

  “What whole business?” Bernie said.

  Harold’s eyes narrowed in what I knew was the shrewd look. Bernie said that whenever you saw someone with the shrewd look, you knew they weren’t. Went right by me, but I loved when Bernie said things like that. “I walk away from this?” Harold said.

  “Anything’s possible,” Bernie said. “But I need to know more.”

  “Shut up,” said Olga.

  “Olga?” said Bernie. She looked at him. He put the barrel of the handgun across his lips, like the finger signal for “shhh” but stronger. Olga turned away.

  “Suppose I told you,” Harold said, “that this asshole Keefer got in to Gulagov for close to a mil. And stopped paying the vig, which was twelve grand a week. Which is how come Gulagov snatched the girl—as a hostage till her old man coughs up the dough.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” Bernie said.

  Bernie knew all that? Wow. I glanced out at Boris, leaning on the barn door now, pulling himself up. Security was my responsibility.

  “How about this?” said Harold. “There’s been other hostages—that’s how they do it in Russia. It always ended okay, money paid back, hostage let go, except for this one time.”

  “You will regret,” Olga said.

  Bernie tore off a strip of his shirt, pretty torn up already, went over to Olga, and gagged her. He could be harsh when necessary; me, too.

  “Go on,” Bernie said. “About the time it didn’t end okay.”

  Harold shot a glance at Olga—now her eyes were flat, with no expression at all, but somehow scarier than before—and looked away. “Couple of years ago, up in Vegas. The money didn’t get paid back.”