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 should 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.”
“And the hostage?”
Harold shook his head.
“Buried?” Bernie said.
Harold nodded.
“In here?” said Bernie. “In the mine?”
Harold nodded again. “I can show you,” he said. “What would that be worth?”
“Something,” Bernie said.
“Me walking out?”
“We’ll see.”
Harold walking out? He’d Tased me! Do I forget things like that? Never. I stuck my face up close to Harold’s, showed him some teeth.
“Do something about that animal,” Harold said.
“His name,” said Bernie, “is Chet. He doesn’t seem to like you—why is that?”
“Um,” said Harold. But we didn’t get to hear his answer because at that moment the barn door opened, knocking Boris back down in the dirt, and Mr. Gulagov, half his face white with shaving cream, came out, pushing Madison ahead of him with one hand. With his other hand, he held a straight razor to her neck. Maddy’s eyes were wide open. I saw red, whether I can see red or not.
Boris raised his hand. “Boss,” he said.
Mr. Gulagov stepped around him, shoving Maddy forward. They came closer, crossing the patch of dirt separating the mine from the buildings. A few steps from the entrance, Mr. Gulagov halted, pulling Maddy up short. Olga sat up, eyes shining; Harold looked confused.
“This is a simple situation,” Mr. Gulagov said. “Put down your guns and untie Olga.”
“Just Olga?” Harold said. “What about me?”
Mr. Gulagov did not reply. His eyes never left Bernie. Bernie started moving toward the mine entrance, slow and easy. I walked beside him the same way.
“Not another step,” Mr. Gulagov said. He shifted the razor slightly, now had the blade against Maddy’s throat, actually touching. Tears overflowed both her eyes and dampened her face, but she didn’t make a sound. Bernie halted, almost outside, a man length or a little more from Maddy and Mr. Gulagov. I halted, too. “Drop the guns,” Mr. Gulagov said.
“Everything you’re doing now will only make it worse for you in the end,” Bernie said.
“I have no need for the like of you to do my thinking,” Mr. Gulagov said. “I hope you are smart enough to know I always take the necessary action, take it quickly and with no regret.” A drop of blood appeared on Maddy’s neck.
Bernie dropped the guns.
“Now free Olga,” said Mr. Gulagov.
Bernie turned and, as he turned, shot me a quick look. Mr. Gulagov’s eyes were still on Bernie, hadn’t left him. Bernie took a step back into the mine and, in a low voice, almost inaudible even to me, said, “Go.”
Did I hesitate? That wouldn’t have been me. I took a huge spring, my hugest ever, leaping right over Maddy’s head. Mr. Gulagov’s gaze, a bit late, swung over from Bernie to me, and filled with fear. Yes, he was scared of me and my kind—I’d known that all along—and his fear took over. He forgot about Maddy, thought only of survival, and slashed at me with the razor. I felt the blade rip through the tip of my ear, and then I was on him, knocking him backward to the ground, the razor falling from his hand. After that came a cloud of dust, me rolling in the dirt, Mr. Gulagov fumbling for the razor. He got a grip on the handle. I got ready to lunge. And then Bernie stepped in front of me, in one motion sweeping up Maddy and stamping on Mr. Gulagov’s hand. I heard a cracking sound, and Mr. Gulagov cried out in pain. That confused look I’d seen in Harold’s eyes? Now Mr. Gulagov’s had it, too. Bernie kicked the razor away.
At that moment I became aware that Ms. Larapova had run out of the house. She jumped in the BMW and started driving away. Cars were coming from the other direction, one of them Suzie’s, the rest with flashing lights on top. With all that going on, and Maddy sobbing in his arms, Bernie took his eye off Mr. Gulagov. That was where partnership came in. Mr. Gulagov began to wriggle away, toward the mine. What was he planning now? No idea. I grabbed him by the pant leg. Case closed.
***
The worst thing that happened after that was on the ride back, when Maddy begged Bernie to keep her father out of the story and Bernie had to tell her no. The best thing was seeing Cynthia’s face when we brought her daughter home—seeing both their faces, actually. The second best thing was the box of high-end treats Simon Berg, Cynthia’s boyfriend, sent from Rover and Company. Two UPS guys could barely carry it up to our door. Also good was the big check Simon cut, big enough for Bernie to buy the Porsche from Nixon Panero—even older and more beat up than the one we’d lost, muddy brown in color, except for the doors, which were yellow—and still have some left over for straightening out our finances, at least a bit. Rick Torres brought Bernie a bottle of bourbon and said he was sorry. He and Bernie emptied the whole thing in one sitting. When it got to looking like they were about to crack open another and maybe even start into a bit of arm wrestling, I went to bed.
What else? Metro PD collared most of Gulagov’s gang. Anatoly Bulganin got picked up at the airport, trying to catch a flight to Russia. Boris spent time in the hospital on his way to jail. The DA slapped conspiracy charges on Damon Keefer, and no one went his bail. Keefer broke down in front of the judge, said he hadn’t realized the kind of people he was dealing with, loved Maddy more than anything, had tried his hardest to raise the money to pay back Gulagov, had only needed a little more time. The judge was not impressed. Then there was Harold. Harold cut a deal and walked. Bernie let him know that remaining in the state or ever returning would be bad ideas. We dropped in on Mr. Singh for the watch and some curried lamb. I lost the tip of one ear, but mismatched ears are no big deal, in my opinion—have I mentioned that already? We took a long walk together, me and Bernie.
The monsoons came—I’d forgotten all about them!—and put Bernie in a very good mood. One night we went camping, backyard-style: me, Bernie, Charlie, and Suzie. She came over quite a bit, but don’t ask me exactly what was going on with that. At times when she was around, I caught a careful look in Bernie’s eyes; other times something else. On this particular night, we built a fire, roasted hot dogs—Hebrew National, my favorite—and Bernie brought out the ukulele. He taught Charlie to play it a little. More than a little, in my mind—the kid was a musical genius. They sang “Up a Lazy River” and “When It’s Sleepy Time Down South.” I joined in on “Hey, Bo Diddley.” Soon after that, Suzie left, and Bernie said, “’Night, big guy,” and Charlie gave me a pat, and they went into the tent to sleep.
I lay by the fire, watching it slowly die. I could watch fires forever. The night grew quiet, quiet as it ever gets in the Valley. I was falling asleep myself when all at once I heard the she-bark. And not just the she-bark but the she-bark sounding closer than before, much closer. Was that wishful thinking—an expression I’d heard Bernie use from time to time—on my part? Couldn’t tell you. It was just the way I think, that’s all. I rose, ran to the back fence, and leaped over, soaring into the night.