by Dixie Lyle
Tango yawned.
“J the WD?”
Tango called out to the spectral octopus that was drifting nearby.
The octopus drifted closer. {~i dabble a bit yes~sports mostly~}
Who knew an octopus could roll its eyes? {~what a fame prostitute~ooh I know the future you should all be scared~we all want to be loved but he’s like a starving orca at an all-you-can-scarf sushi buffet~leave some for the rest of us sweetheart~}
Which is when Piotr, the Russian circus bear, ambled over and joined us. [Da. Is ridiculous, all the terrible moaning and the moping and big sad puppy eyes. He should look on bright side, no? Nobody like dog on big downer.]
I nodded at Piotr. It’s hard to argue with the optimism of a dead bear in a tutu. Especially one carrying a unicycle.
“Don’t think I’ve every seen you off that thing,” I said.
Piotr put one paw on his chest. [Please. Bear is not defined by accessories. Piotr is complex, has many facets. And sometimes, you just want to feel dirt under your paws, no?]
{~speak for yourself~}
“So that’s it?” I asked. “He’s a big phony? Nothing to worry about?”
Tango settled down on her paws.
Which is when I smelled it. You don’t troubleshoot for a touring rock band without learning to recognize the aroma of burning ganja, and that’s what was currently drifting past my nose. This is not exactly an unusual occurrence in the graveyard; the groundskeeper, Cooper, is an old hippie who probably smokes as much grass as he mows. Nobody much cares, least of all ZZ.
But I also knew Coop’s habits, and despite the public’s much more permissive attitude these days, the kind of paranoia that decades of police harassment taught his generation was hard to shake. He preferred to smoke indoors, or where he was sure he couldn’t be seen; he wouldn’t take the chance of being stumbled upon by some grief-stricken former pet owner visiting a grave.
The actual culprits came ambling into view a minute later: Keene and Fikru, passing a pipe between them. I think it was a pipe, anyway; I don’t really keep up with the latest technological advancements. For all I knew it was a gadget that broke vegetable matter down into organic molecules and propelled the result directly into your brain through osmosis.
In any case, they didn’t seem to care they’d been spotted. They waved cheerfully and headed in my direction; I left Tango on her director’s headstone and met them halfway.
“Care to share?” Yemane asked, offering the pipe. It resembled an elephant carved out of jade, with the trunk being the part you stuck in your mouth.
“No, thanks,” I said. “Not while I’m working, anyway.”
“Could have told you that,” Keene said. “Foxtrot always puts other people’s fun before her own. Selfless, she is.”
“Very true, very true,” I said. “Saint Foxtrot, that’s me. I really should ask ZZ for a raise; the price of halo polish just keeps going up.”
“You could always make some extra cash selling snaps to the craparazzi,” Keene said. “Take a few of me passed out in the Jacuzzi wearing a gorilla mask, that sort of thing.”
Yemane frowned. “If you were wearing a gorilla mask, nobody would know it was you.”
“Well, that’s what captions are for, aren’t they? The point being, I’m available for whatever ludicrous poses you can dream up. Consider it my penance for the croquet debacle.”
“No thanks. That would mean dealing with a tabloid, and I can never get the slime out of my clothes afterward.”
“Oh, they’re not that bad,” Keene said. “For a parasitic, fungus-based life-form, I mean. For a parasitic, fungus-based life-form devoid of ethics, compassion, or any respect for the notion of privacy—all right, they’re pretty bad. But at least you wouldn’t have to go far; I saw one peeking over the wall this morning. Had a telephoto lens the size of a bongo drum.”
My eyes narrowed. If there’s one thing—emphasis on thing—that I really, truly hate, it’s the vultures that prey on celebrities. They embrace the worst in human nature, pervert the idea of the free press, and take no responsibility for the consequences of what they wreak. They devour indiscriminately, like sharks, but ugliness and shame are the flavors they like most. I’ve encountered my share of them over the years, and I’ve never met one that could justify what they do beyond “If I didn’t do it somebody else would, and I need the paycheck.” Bottom-feeding scum, but a necessary evil in an open society.
Of course, this was the first time I’d be dealing with one since I’d acquired my new partners and responsibilities …
“Oh, dear,” said Keene. “I do believe that’s the most frightening look I’ve ever seen cross your face, Foxtrot. It’s like that scene in How the Grinch Stole Christmas, when he first gets the idea to give the gift of home invasion to all the Whos.”
“Just thinking about my job, and all the parts that I really, really love doing—including those I haven’t done yet.”
Keene and Yemane glanced at each other, and both of them nodded. “Uh-huh,” said Yemane. “A wonderful, awful idea. You can almost hear it inside her head.”
“No, I think that’s the pharmaceuticals kicking in,” Keene said. “Either that, or it’s the sound of my own hair growing. What a peculiar noise.”
I nodded. “Back at it, huh? I suppose I should take that as a sign you’ve recovered.”
“Yes, well, hair of the pack of dogs that mauled you and all that. I’ve put my recuperation in the hands of Dr. Fikru, here—though, to be fair, he was somewhat responsible for my condition in the first place.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Oh?”
Yemane shrugged. “I’m more of a shaman than a doctor, though I do have a degree in pharmacology. The original plan was to ingest a finely balanced mixture of psychoactive compounds in order to produce a psychically aware but safe experience.”
Keene made a dismissive gesture. “Safe. Balanced. Where’s the adventure in that? You can’t script a chemical indulgence like a bloody vacation planner, can you? Manic episode at two fifteen, hallucinations at quarter of four, followed by tea? Bollocks.”
Yemane shook his head. “I had something ready, but once I was here I knew I’d have to alter it substantially. The supercharged psychic atmosphere is far too volatile for what I’d prepared—but Keene decided to take it anyway.”
Keene looked regretful. “That I did. Was looking forward to some brilliant hallucinations; I might even have had them. Too bad I forgot to press the RECORD button.”
Yemane sighed. “That’s the benzodiazepine; it can cause short-term amnesia. It was supposed to be there for its relaxing influence, but the atmosphere here exaggerated its effects—just like it did the others.”
“Fascinating,” I said. “I can’t wait to find out which drug inspires croquet mania.”
It was meant as a joke, but Yemane took it seriously. “That would be the pramipexole. Non-ergoline dopamine agonist used in treating bipolar depression, restless-leg syndrome, and Parkinson’s. It also has both hallucinogenic and sedative properties, which were supposed to produce non-threatening visions. Unfortunately, there’s a rare side effect: obsessive-compulsive behavior related to pleasurable a
ctivities. Eating, gambling, sex…”
I looked at him skeptically. “Knocking little wooden balls through hoops?”
Keene grinned. “I know. Me and all my proclivities, and what does my chemically stimulated brain fixate on? Building a better game of lawn billiards. Could be worse, I suppose; I might have stayed up all night surfing eBay in order to expand my collection of Victorian clockwork clowns—”
He stopped abruptly and looked stricken. “Excuse me,” he said, yanking his phone out of his pocket. “I think I have to check something online.”
I laughed as he turned away and started fiddling with the device. “So,” I said to Yemane, “you mentioned two drugs, both with sedative effects. Neither one sounds like it’d keep somebody up all night, hauling exercise equipment around.”
“True. There was also a stimulant component, one strong enough to counteract the benzo and the pramipexole. Unfortunately, its effects were exaggerated, too.”
“I take it this is a second attempt to get it right?”
Yemane peered into the bowl of the pipe, then tapped it gently against his palm. A few ashes fell out. “Yes. Something milder, and hopefully more in tune with the essence of this place. Something with the right resonance.”
“All right, then, I’ll leave you to it. Keep an eye on him, will you? Let me know if he has any sudden croquet-related impulses.”
“I’ll do that.”
I walked back to Davy’s Grave. Paul the octopus and Piotr the circus bear had left, but Tango was still there. She sniffed the air, then sneezed.
“Really? I would have thought a catnip aficionada like yourself would be more sympathetic.”
She yawned.
I gave her a mock frown. “Kitty, please. You know we don’t use the N word around here. It’s inappropriate.”
“And speaking of inappropriate—there’s something happening right now that I really don’t approve of. It’s happening right at the edge of the estate, involving someone who doesn’t really appreciate the idea of personal boundaries.”
Her ears perked up.
I grinned. “I was hoping you’d feel like that. But first, let’s do a little preparation—then we can go all Border Patrol on their encroaching ways.”
* * *
It wasn’t hard to find him. The paparazzo in question was lurking just behind the back wall, no doubt hoping to get a candid shot of someone through a window or maybe out by the hot tub. He was using an extendable stepladder to get him high enough to clear the wall, and the fact that he’d had the foresight to bring it proved this wasn’t the first time he’d done this.
I suppose I should give him some credit for lugging that thing around, especially since he was pretty big himself, but I’m not going to. I mean, if he actually had a heart attack and fell off the thing, I’d phone an ambulance—but I wouldn’t send him a get-well card in the hospital.
I may not be as stealthy as Tango, but I can be pretty sneaky when I need to. I managed to get right up to the base of the ladder without him noticing me; then again, all his attention was focused on and through the camera he held. The camera itself was big and black and expensive looking, but it was the lens that was really impressive. Keene had been right—the thing looked more like it was designed to study stars in the sky instead of those with their names on Hollywood Boulevard. It was white, at least four feet long, and about the same diameter as a telephone pole. He had to use a little telescoping stand to hold it up, the bottom of which rested on the top of the stepladder.
“Hey there!” I said, rather loudly.
He didn’t scream in surprise, topple off the ladder, and crash to the ground, for which I was grateful. That would have been too easy. What he did was glance down at me and say, “I’m not breaking the law.”
This was not a surprise. It’s what they usually said. Sometimes they recited their lawyer’s phone number, which was supposed to sound cool and tough but really didn’t. I’m not the one that’s going to be calling your legal representative, doofus.
“Sure you are,” I said cheerfully. “The law of averages, anyway. What are the odds that you’d have both a ladder and a camera with you when you encountered a tall, yet alluring structure blocking your way? It’s almost as if the universe wants you to see—nay, document—what’s on the other side.”
He sighed. He looked bored and ever so slightly annoyed. “If you’re going to threaten me, you should know I’m recording this.” I couldn’t see any obvious recording equipment, but these days that stuff is so small he could be wearing it as a tie clip. Not that he was wearing a tie—he was dressed in a camo-patterned parka and matching baggy pants, which didn’t so much make him disappear as create the illusion a military zeppelin was hovering ten feet in the air.
“Oh, I’m not here to threaten you—more like warn you.”
Apparently I wasn’t worth his full attention, because he turned back to his camera and resumed his watching. “About what? Legal action? Overzealous bodyguards? Go ahead, I’ve heard it all.”
“Nothing like that. I wanted to warn you about the wildlife.”
He turned back to me and frowned. “Wildlife?”
“Yeah. See, we had a chemical spill here recently, and it’s affected the local fauna. A bunch of them died, but the ones that didn’t went sort of … crazy. Like rabies, but without the staggering and foaming at the mouth. Mostly, they just want to eat your face.”
Which is when Tango sprang.
She’d been creeping along the top of the wall, picking her way carefully through the overhanging branches. Not a lot of cover from maples or birches this time of year, but there was a spruce that gave her some shelter just shy of Camera Guy’s perch. She landed on top of the giant lens, hissing and spitting and doing that cat thing where they basically inflate themselves to twice their size. Her tail looked like the business end of a toilet brush.
Camera Guy bellowed, lurched backward instinctively, and fell off the ladder. The strap around his neck yanked the camera and lens with him. Tango, however, stayed behind; she leapt straight up, then came down in a perfect four-point landing on the top of the stepladder.
Camera Guy landed flat on his back. His camera landed with an extremely satisfying smashing sound right beside him.
I peered down at him. “Ooh. That sounded expensive. Anything else broken?”
He wheezed, his eyes bugging out. He had a scraggly gray beard and acne. “I’ll … sue…,” he gasped.
“I don’t blame you. That cat is just begging to be litigated. Or did you mean the company that dumped the toxic chemicals that drove her insane? Because we’re having a heck of a time tracking those fellas down.”
He struggled to a sitting position and glared at me. “That animal is a menace! I’m going to report this to the authorities and … and have her euthanized!”
I touched the tip of my index finger to my chin. “Hmmm. Well, she is dangerous, that much is obvious. But she’s also a cat, which means her moods come and go. See?”
Tango had deflated, and now she hopped down a few rungs and stopped. I reached out a hand and stroked her silky black-and-white fur while she butted her head against my hand and purred like an outboard.
Camera Guy had looked pretty pale after he hit the ground, but his face was getting redder and redder. “All right,” he growled. “A trained domestic attack cat, huh? Never seen that before, but I have encountered worse. Bengal tigers, timber wolves, lions—if it’s got four legs and fangs, some celeb’s got one for a pet. I don’t scare that easy.”
“Oh, nobody’s trying to scare you, Mr. Random Photographer. Like I said, we’re trying to
warn you. Bipolar felines are the least of your worries—you haven’t seen what those chemicals did to the raccoons.”
Cue the growl.
Imagine a bear that’s had a really bad day. Burned his porridge, spilled honey all over his laptop, got served with divorce papers from Mama Bear. Imagine he goes out to a grizzly bar to drown his sorrows, and when he returns to his car someone as smashed all the windows and used the interior for a restroom. Imagine he gets pulled over by Smokey after that, loses his license, and has his smelly car impounded. When he finally gets home he finds that Goldilocks has thrown a kegger in his absence, but it’s over now and he’s missed all the fun.
The sound that bear makes as he stares down at a passed-out Goldie, lying on a vomit-stained couch in the wreckage of his living room? That’s the sound that issued forth from the bushes behind Camera Guy.
His eyes widened. The rest of his body got very, very still.
“Uh-oh,” I said. Tango bolted back to the top of the ladder, leapt across to the wall, and tore off in the opposite direction. I let a look of suppressed terror creep across my own face, but tried not to overdo it.
Camera Guy remembered how to talk again, but not very well. “That’s … that’s not real,” he whispered hoarsely.
“Shut. Up,” I whispered back. “It’s vicious, but not that smart. If we move slowly, we might have a chance. Get to your feet, but don’t turn around—if you make eye contact it’ll attack.”
He risked a look behind him. That provoked another, louder growl, and what he saw was enough to make him say, “Oh, my God,” and freeze.
“Look away!” I hissed.
“I can’t,” he moaned. “I just … what the hell is that?”
“We call it the Dracoon,” I whispered.
It was tall, wide, and covered in long, tangled black fur. It had a huge set of powerful-looking jaws and a distinctive black mask across its eyes.
“What do I do?” Camera Guy said under his breath.
