The Dog Who Knew Too Much

by Spencer Quinn

  Bernie made a funny little shrug, a she’s-right-what-can-I-do? sort of thing.

  Hey! Was this good-cop bad-cop? With Bernie as good and Suzie as bad? At first I thought, wow, are we cooking or what? But then came another, not thought, really, more a glimpse of a strange future where Suzie was grabbing perps by the pant leg. That was my job! I found myself inching sideways and forward a bit, maybe getting into the space between Suzie and what we called the interviewee in this business, lingo Suzie probably wasn’t familiar with.

  “So,” said Suzie, kind of leaning around me, “information on your background might be useful.”

  “I don’t see—” Ranger Rob began.

  “Starting with how you got this damn job,” Suzie said.

  Ranger Rob sat back in his chair. “I’m qualified. I’ve had a long career in the camping industry. You can check it out.”

  Suzie pulled out her cell phone.

  Ranger Rob looked at her in surprise, not the good kind. “Coverage is a bit spotty, I’m—” he began.

  “Clear signal, thanks,” Suzie said. And then: “Carla? One more thing—can you run a quick search on Ranger Rob Town-shend, director of Big Bear Wilderness Camp? Work, marital, criminal, the usual. Thanks.” Click. “Where were we?”

  Ranger Rob’s face had gotten kind of greenish. That can sometimes lead to puking in a human. I shifted back a bit. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” he said.

  “Noted,” Bernie said. “Let’s move on to the ownership of the camp.”

  “Why?” said Ranger Rob. “It’s a typical five-oh-one c three nonprofit.”

  “But where did the money come from—land, buildings, equipment?” Bernie said. He rose, went to a window, looked out. “There must have been substantial start-up costs.”

  “Before my time,” Ranger Rob said. “The board handled all that.”

  “But you’re the director.”

  “Correct.”

  “Who’s the chairman of the board?” Bernie said.

  I knew that one: Frank Sinatra; we’d gone through a period of listening to him nonstop, me and Bernie.

  But that wasn’t Ranger Rob’s answer. “Judge Stringer,” he said.

  Bernie nodded, that slight nod he did when he already knew. He wandered over toward the printer in the corner. Ranger Rob swiveled around, kept a close eye on Bernie. Human anxiety has a smell, not as sour or strong as fear, but in that line. It drifted over to me from across the desk.

  “One last thing,” Bernie said. “Why was the search for Devin called off?”

  “That had nothing to do with me,” said Ranger Rob. “The sheriff and the head of rescue made the decision, because of the bears.”

  “Bears?” said Bernie, speaking exactly what was on my mind.

  “A number of bears have been spotted up by Stiller’s Creek in the last few days. It was felt that most likely there’d be no, ah, remains. A sad, sad situation and—would you please not do that?”

  Bernie had removed a sheet of paper from the printer and was reading it. “Sending out your résumé, Ranger Rob?”

  “Just testing the waters, more or less.”

  “I would in your place.”

  At that moment, Suzie’s phone beeped with that special beep for a text, whatever that happened to be. She glanced at the screen. “Good old Carla,” she said. She walked over to the desk and held the phone so Ranger Rob could see.

  He licked his lips. Tongue so white, face so green: I got a little pukey myself. “I suggest you talk to Turk’s mother in Jackrabbit Junction,” he said. “But you didn’t hear it from me.”

  “That will depend on how this plays out,” Bernie said. “Where’s Jackrabbit Junction?”

  “Actually not far from Stiller’s Creek,” Ranger Rob said. “But you have to come in from the back side, so it’s seventy miles by road. You need four-wheel drive for the last ten or so.”

  “Can you hike in from the creek?” Bernie said.

  “It’s doable,” said Ranger Rob.

  “Christ,” Bernie said. He banged his fist into his open hand, real loud, almost like gunshot. Ranger Rob jumped. So did Suzie. Not me.

  “We’ll need a few things from you,” Bernie said. He placed the sheet of paper in the paper tray, but it got away from him and fluttered to the floor.

  “You mad at me?” Suzie said.

  “Nope,” said Bernie.

  “You haven’t said a word in two hours.”

  We were on the trail that led up to Stiller’s Creek, and the spot where Turk and the boys had camped, and the mine; me first, then Bernie, then Suzie. They carried packs given to us by Ranger Rob. Ranger Rob had also parked the Beetle in a shed behind one of the cabins, locked the door, and said something about some embezzlement that wasn’t really embezzlement, totally beyond me, to which Bernie only replied, “You haven’t seen us.”

  And Ranger Rob had said, “I haven’t seen you.”

  But he’d been seeing us at that very moment! I hadn’t gotten that at all, but I did know that humans sometimes didn’t think their best when they were feeling pukey.

  We rounded a corner and saw those rocky mountaintops streaked with white—snow, I knew that now—for the first time. Suzie huffed and puffed and said, “How come?”

  “How come what?” Bernie said.

  “Is that nice, making me do a lot of explaining when I’m struggling for breath? How come you’re not talking, for Christ sake?”

  “I’m struggling for breath, too,” Bernie said. “You’re not.”

  It was true. Bernie had huffed and puffed pretty much nonstop our first time up this way, and now his breathing was real quiet. That was Bernie.

  “So,” Suzie said, “explain.”

  Bernie stopped and waited for Suzie to catch up. She was bent a little from the weight of the pack, her face shiny pink. We’d reached the place where the white-bark trees petered out and the Christmas trees began. I found myself sniffing around the last of the white-bark trees, a big one with strips of the bark hanging off. And what was this? That locker-room-laundry-hamper scent again? Yes, and lots of it.

  Meanwhile, Bernie was handing Suzie a water bottle. “I’m mad at me, not you,” he said.

  “But why?” said Suzie.

  Yeah, why? When had Bernie ever done anything wrong?

  “I blew the whole goddamn case,” he said. “Had it and dropped it.”

  Huh? None of that made any sense. For one thing, Bernie had great hands—he’d played ball for Army, don’t forget that. I trotted over and gave him a little bump.

  “What do you mean?” Suzie was saying.

  Bernie recovered his balance and said, “I’ll show you in a while. Keep going, or do you want a breather?”

  “Never say that again,” said Suzie.

  We wound our way up and up through the Christmas trees, the trail shrinking down to a narrow crest, steep drops on either side, the snow-streaked mountaintops much closer now. I got this crazy impulse to leap into that deep blue sky, so beautiful. Not a good idea, of course. Way up high a big black bird was doing what I wanted to do. I’d never been fond of birds.

  After a while the ground leveled out and gurgling water sounded through the trees. Moments later, I was on that broad flat rock in midstream, lapping up lovely cold water to my heart’s content.

  “Stiller’s Creek,” Bernie said.

  “Chet seems to like it,” said Suzie.

  “He’s a connoisseur of water.”

  Meaning what? You tell me.

  Then we were all on the other side. “Campsite was up there,” Bernie said, pointing up the slope. “The mine’s this way.”

  We headed upstream, Stiller’s Creek getting smaller and smaller, the trees disappearing, the footing turning to broken rocks, not so easy for Bernie and Suzie. I had to double back so many times I lost count, although I actually stopped trying when I got to two. Bernie and Suzie were both huffing and puffing by the time we reached the mine. Suzie gazed at the open
ing for a moment—those old timbers and darkness beyond—and then strapped on her headlamp and started inside.

  “What are you doing?” Bernie said.

  “I want a picture.”

  “Why?”

  She glanced back. “This is a story, Bernie.”

  Bernie gave me a look. I gave him a look back. Not sure what that was about, but whatever it was, we were on the same side.

  Bernie strapped on his headlamp. We went in. He gave her a little tour. “Here’s where some old-timer carved his name. There’s what’s left of the side tunnel where Chet found the nugget. Here’s the main tunnel, the one Moondog was working.” That kind of thing. And not long after that, we were standing over the rubble pile where we’d found Turk’s body. Suzie took out her camera. No body here now, of course, so—whoa.

  I barked and barked.

  “Chet?” Bernie said. “What’s up, big guy?”

  “Do you think he’s upset, remembering what was in there or something?” Suzie said.

  Bernie shook his head, although I couldn’t be sure of that, because by that time I was clawing at the rubble for all I was worth, which I now knew was twenty grand, by the way, not too shabby.

  “What’s going on?” Suzie said, her voice echoing deep in the mine.

  Bernie didn’t answer. He was down on his knees, digging alongside me to the best of his ability, which was pretty good for a human. Dust swirled in the light of the headlamps, and the air got thick and hard to breathe. We uncovered the chest first, worked our way up to the face. It was Guy.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Guy, and shot in the head, just like Turk. “I don’t understand,” Suzie said. Bernie turned to her, lit her up in his headlamp. She had her hands on her face; her eyes were wide; her shadow on the wall wasn’t steady.

  “This is what arrogant men do,” Bernie said. “The kind who think they’re smarter than everyone else.”

  Good luck with that. Bernie was always the smartest human in the room, end of story.

  “What arrogant men are you talking about?” Suzie said.

  Bernie knelt again and started covering Guy back up, reburying him under the rubble. I did what I could to help, but uncovering is more my thing.

  “Judge Stringer, for one,” Bernie said.

  “He killed Guy?”

  “Or had it done.”

  “Why?” Suzie said.

  Bernie glanced over his shoulder at her, laid a last rock over Guy. “Let’s get out of here,” he said.

  * * *

  So nice to be back outside in the sunshine, maybe the nicest the outdoors had ever felt in my whole life. I was together with Bernie again, and of course Suzie was a gem; and maybe soon she’d be heading back to the Valley, leaving us to crack this case the way we always did, except for once when we got there too late, opened up that broom closet and—I didn’t want to think about that night. So I didn’t, but at the same time I no longer felt quite as tip-top.

  Suzie hunched her shoulders and shivered. “I’m developing this sickening theory,” she said.

  My ears—which didn’t match, something I’d learned from people commenting about them right in front of my face— pricked up. How often had I heard Bernie say that it helped to have a theory of a case? Take the Dalton divorce, where Bernie made a chart on the whiteboard all about Mrs. Dalton’s improving golf scores and realized she was having an affair with the pro, case closed.

  “Go on,” Bernie said, his voice quiet.

  “Maybe the judge thought that Guy had made the incriminating recording himself,” Suzie said. “And was using us as a weapon against him.”

  “That sounds about right,” Bernie said.

  “Oh, my God,” Suzie said. “Don’t you see what that means?”

  “Means Stringer’s on the losing side,” Bernie said, “whether he knows it or not.”

  Suzie backed away a little, blinking. “You’re a hard man, Bernie, aren’t you? Don’t you understand? I got Guy killed. I’m—I’m responsible for the death of a human being.”

  “No, you’re not,” Bernie said. He reached out and took her chin in his hand, not roughly but not gently either. “Not even one percent.” Percent! I loved when Bernie brought that up—it meant his brain was working at its very best. He let go of Suzie’s chin, leaving faint finger impressions on her skin; they faded right away. “Stringer and whoever helped him are responsible,” Bernie went on, “and Guy started all by himself on the road to getting killed.”

  “How do you know?” Suzie said.

  “He’s—he was—a type, Suzie. A type we’ve dealt with many times.”

  Bernie couldn’t have been more right about that, and given time, I’m sure I could have come up with an example or two. But Suzie had her face set in a way that made me think she wasn’t buying it, like she was … could it be possible? She was digging in her heels? Wow! Suzie and I had something in common.

  “What you learn in this business,” Bernie went on, “is that the most you can usually expect is to clean up at the margins. Big changes are hardly ever possible, dealing with the kind of people we deal with. But every so often, you get a chance to pull off something big. This is one of those times.”

  “What are you talking about?” Suzie said.

  “Devin,” said Bernie, shrugging his pack up a bit, the way he did when it was time to hit the trail.

  Suzie rubbed her chin, then nodded. She did that pack-shrugging thing, just like Bernie. “All set,” she said.

  Bernie smiled. Then he picked up a stick and began drawing in the dirt.

  “Ch—et?”

  Uh-oh. Bernie drawing in the dirt with a stick always got me going. I trotted over to a nearby rock and lifted my leg. Over the splashing sounds—turned out I’d been holding on for a while—I heard Bernie saying things like, “… here on the back side of the mine …” and “… where this ridge should lead to …” and “… has to be the back door—this real busy back door, which is what I missed—over to Jackrabbit Junction.”

  Jackrabbit Junction: I’d heard that before, but it hadn’t sunk in. Now it did. Not lacking in rabbit experience, Chet the Jet. One of the things I’d learned was how those amazing ears of theirs could pick up sound from far, far away, but I was ready.

  “And what happens in Jackrabbit Junction?” Suzie said.

  “Whatever brought Guy and Stringer together,” said Bernie.

  We moved away from the mine, but instead of heading back down toward the creek, we walked in the other direction, following a narrow path with the cliff face rising on one side and a steep slope of rocks and scrub dropping off on the other. Up and up we climbed, Bernie, me, and Suzie, then soon me, Bernie, and Suzie. Up, but also in a long curve that led us slowly around to the other side of the mountain, something I didn’t realize until I suddenly stepped into shadow, glanced back, and saw the jagged peak blocking the sun.

  We paused—others had paused in the same place, easy to tell from the scraps of toilet paper lying around—and took in the view. First, we had a steep, treeless stretch, the trail disappearing in the scree, scree being hiking lingo. At the base of the steep part lay a small lake, kind of football-shaped, and on the other side the trees began, a dark- and light-green forest sloping on and on, eventually out of the mountain’s shadow and into bright sunshine. And then a whole chain of other mountains came marching in from the side, and where the base of the last and smallest reached the forest, I could see a thin plume of smoke rising straight up through the trees.

  Bernie pointed it out to Suzie; her face was a bit pinkish again. “Jackrabbit Junction,” he said. “Actually closer than it looks.”

  “Then let’s get going,” Suzie said. “Unless you need a breather.”

  “Lead the way,” said Bernie.

  Excuse me? No way would—but what was this? Bernie’s hand on my collar? I turned my head right around, looked up at him. He has a look that says “Ch—et?” without actually saying it. That was the look he gave me now. We
started down: Suzie, Bernie, me.

  Did we go as fast as we did with me up front? Not in my opinion. But at least we didn’t get lost, and the sun was still fairly high in the sky when we came to the lake. Was there time for a swim? Maybe a real quick one. And while I was out there—what a feeling!—Suzie took off her boots and socks, rolled up her jeans, and waded in. There was something about her calves, their shape, and the way the water rippled around them, that caught my eye, hard to explain why, exactly. But a very nice sight. I noticed that Bernie, sitting on a log, a cigarette—oh, Bernie—in his hand but the hand frozen in midair—was watching her, too. I paddled to shore, shook off, beads of water shooting everywhere, kind of like the pearls off Leda’s necklace when I—but forget that part—and sat beside Bernie.

  He puffed at the cigarette and blew out a little cloud of smoke, a faraway look in his eye. “What I’m worried about,” he said, “is that Devin has lost his value.”

  I couldn’t get to the bottom of that one, didn’t even know where to begin. Suzie stepped out of the water. Bernie spun the cigarette stub into the lake; it sizzled and sank from sight. We got back on the trail.

  A very narrow trail at first, with big rocks and roots sticking up—we were in the trees now—but after a while it broadened enough so Bernie and Suzie walked side by side. No huffing and puffing now from either of them, maybe because we were going down; they both breathed deep and evenly, and here was something interesting: a lot of the time they were in the same breathing rhythm. Had I ever noticed that with humans before? Not that I could remember, although during Leda’s yoga period hadn’t there been a—

  Whoa. What was that? I went still, one front paw raised. Voices, yes, voices for sure, somewhere ahead. I sniffed the air, picked up no human smells, but the breeze was blowing the wrong way, flowing down the mountainside. I looked back. Bernie and Suzie came into view, topping a rise and stepping around a boulder in the middle of the trail. They saw me.

  “I love when he stands like that,” Suzie said.

  “Shh,” said Bernie, raising his hand palm up. He tilted his head, then whispered, “Do you hear anything?”