Gone: but where? This low round hill—how many had I seen like it in my career? Some big number, bigger than two, which is as far as I go with numbers, but why isn’t that enough? Back to the low round hill. It had some tall saguaros down at the bottom with bushes growing in between, then got bare farther up. Nowhere for those Jeeps to have gone: that was the point.
Could they have somehow shut off their lights and zoomed away, so far and so fast that I’d missed them in such a short time, or at least what seemed like a short time? Tracking exhaust fumes—it doesn’t get easier than that, so I sniffed out the exhaust fumes, starting with where the Jeeps had come from, following them to the base of the hill, and then—But there was no then. The fumes led nowhere. I sniffed at the saguaros and the bushes, noticed a pickax blade, old and rusty, the kind miners used. Lots of empty mines in the desert, but they always had openings and I saw none. Kind of weird, in fact it got me going a little bit, and I ran around in circles, finding the scents of men, one of which I thought I remembered—Captain Panza’s—and another I knew for sure: Bernie’s.
I ran around in circles—really just one big circle—with all those scents of Jeeps and uniformed guys and Captain Panza and Bernie inside. Strong fresh scents, meaning they came from close by: but I was alone! So therefore . . .
I didn’t know. Bernie handled the so-therefores. Where was he? Bernie, I thought, and ran faster and faster in my circle. Whoa, big guy. That was Bernie, inside my head, a nice sound. I stopped running, sat down, sniffed the air. Smells can be separated out and followed on their own, kind of like . . . I couldn’t think anything that was like at the moment, but separating and following Bernie’s smell was a snap—and led me back to the hillside.
I was standing there, maybe panting a bit even though I wasn’t winded, when I heard the sound of a motor, close by—not a car motor, more like our garage door opener on Mesquite Road, in the days when it used to work. The crazy thing was the closeness, like it was coming from right inside the hill, impossible, on account of how could motor noises come from inside the earth?
And then the hillside began to move. I remembered a mudslide during the monsoons and jumped back. But this wasn’t monsoon season, no mud at all, not a drop of rain for ages, so—
Whoa. The hillside—at least a small part—turned out to be a sort of door, like this was some kind of mine after all. As it rose up—yes, like our garage door, except with lots of spiky vines laced over the outside—a shaft of light came spilling out and I saw way too much to take in at once. First: the two Jeeps about to drive out with Captain Panza and his men, Captain Panza tucking something into his shirt pocket. In the background: what looked like a mine, all right, with rock walls. And there was the eighteen-wheeler I’d last seen getting white paint spread over the red roses. Now two dudes were sticking on this enormous circus decal—clowns, ringmaster, lions, a big top. I knew decals—we had one from Max’s Memphis Ribs on our back bumper—but that wasn’t the point. The point was that a guy stood leaning against the rocky wall and watching the two decal dudes work, and the sight of that watching guy made the hair on the back of my neck stand straight up. It was Jocko. No mistaking that crooked nose or nasty eyes. And then—oh, no. Lying on the ground beside Jocko, partly hidden from my view, was Bernie.
Why that oh, no? Because of how bad Bernie looked, his face bloody, one of his eyes swollen shut, clothes all torn. Also he was cuffed, hands in front of him. Growling started up, deep in my chest.
The two Jeeps came rolling out of this cave or underground garage or whatever it was. I slipped out of the shadows, away from the headlight beams. That was something we’d worked on a lot, me and Bernie, staying out of sight. As soon as the Jeeps passed by, I was on my way, headed toward that opening in the hill. Did I have a clear plan? No. All I knew—
The door was closing and closing fast. I took off for that narrowing gap, but what was this? Boom-boom, boom-boom. From out of nowhere came Peanut, cutting me off, getting to the door first. The gap was already way too small for Peanut to pass through, if that was her plan. At that moment, Jocko looked out. Did he see Peanut? I was pretty sure he did, from how his mean little eyes got bigger. Did Peanut see him? I didn’t know about that, but her whole body began to shake and I felt a huge kind of anger—more than anger; what was the word?—fury, yes, I felt this fury coming in waves off Peanut. She charged toward that gap—now maybe even too small for me—and I charged after her. Peanut was my responsibility.
She hit the tiny gap, mostly hitting the whole hillside, just about back in place. KA-BOOM! And suddenly there was nothing but gap. We ran inside, me and Peanut. From behind came enormous crashing sounds, like the roof was caving in. No time for that. I had one thing in mind—Jocko—and I knew Peanut was thinking the same thing. From inside the trailer of the eighteen-wheeler came the lion’s roar.
“Jesus Christ,” Jocko shouted. He reached for something hanging on the wall, something I recognized: an ankus. Jocko held it up so Peanut could see, and . . . and Peanut slowed down? Just from the sight of that horrible thing? I didn’t understand, only knew I felt bad. But for no time at all, because when Jocko brandished that horrible hook, a look came into Bernie’s eyes—or eye, really, the other one being shut—that I’d never seen before. Suddenly he was up—yes, staggering a bit, but on his feet. He rounded on Jocko. Jocko saw him and jabbed with the ankus, but not quick enough. Bernie was already swinging his cuffed hands, hands squared off in hard fists, right at Jocko’s face, swinging with all the strength in his body, meaning a whole lot and never forget it.
What a wonderful sound that blow made! Jocko’s bandanna flew off his head and he keeled over at once, eyes rolling up, showing nothing but white. The next thing I knew I was with Bernie, reared up and licking his poor face. He couldn’t hug me on account of those handcuffs but he wanted to, no doubt in my mind on that subject.
“Good boy,” he said. “You’re a good, good boy.”
Did I feel great or what?
“I’d sure like to know how you did this.”
Did what, exactly? I wasn’t sure. But what was better than right now, being with Bernie and on the job?
Bernie looked past me. Those two dudes who’d been working with the decal were moving on us, one holding a machete, the other a crowbar. Bernie sprang to the cab of the eighteen-wheeler, reached in, and whirled around, a gun now in his hands.
“Not another step,” he said. They dropped their weapons without being told, a good sign. These weren’t real tough guys. The real tough guys were us, me and Bernie.
“Facedown on the ground.”
They got facedown on the ground. I went over and stood beside them in case they got any fancy ideas, such as maybe they were tough guys after all. Meanwhile, Bernie rolled Jocko over with his toe, knelt beside him, laid down the gun, and fiddled with some keys dangling from Jocko’s belt. A moment later the cuffs were off Bernie’s wrists and on Jocko’s, behind-the-back style, the way we did things at the Little Detective Agency. Bernie rose, gestured with the gun at the two dudes.
“Don’t fire,” one said. “We don’t know shit.”
“A weak argument,” Bernie said. “On your feet.” They stood up, hands raised. “Get lost,” Bernie told them.
“Yeah, sure, right away,” they said, and turned to where the door had been. No door, but also no way out: the rubble from the roof caving in blocked the opening.
Bernie sighed. “Facedown,” he said.
They went back to the facedown position, me standing over them. I noticed that Peanut was on the move again, not running, in fact going quite slow, but in the direction of where Jocko lay.
“Peanut?” Bernie said, lowering the gun. “Got something in mind?”
No doubt about that. I knew Peanut. She kept coming.
“I understand your position,” Bernie said. “Not saying he doesn’t deserve it, because he does. But we’re building a case here, and—” Peanut’s ears flapped a bit but that didn’t mean she was listening; from the look in her eye, I was pretty sure she wasn’t, and Bernie must have gotten that, too, because he tucked the gun in his belt, grabbed Jocko by the scruff of the neck, dragged him over to the cab of the eighteen-wheeler, and stuffed him inside. “There,” said Bernie, “all taken care of.”
He smiled at Peanut. Peanut kept coming, was now just a few steps from Bernie. I hurried over and stood in front of him.
“No, Chet,” Bernie said. “Come here.”
Go there? Not what I wanted, but if Bernie said so, then that was that. I backed up a little, stood beside him.
Peanut came closer, then paused, towering over us, gazing down. My heart beat hard and fast, and I could hear Bernie’s heart beating, too. Peanut was awesome.
Nobody moved—not me, not Bernie, not Peanut. Then, very slowly, Peanut extended her trunk. Just as slowly, Bernie reached out and touched it with his fingertips. He spoke gently, “Been through the mill, haven’t you?”
Meaning what? I had no idea, but whatever it was didn’t get Peanut riled up, so it must have been right.
“Bet you’re hungry,” Bernie said.
Hey—me, too.
“Think I saw bananas around here somewhere.”
Peanut’s trunk twitched.
“Hey,” Bernie said, turning to the facedown dudes. “Any bananas around here?”
They both pointed to a shed.
“You,” said Bernie, “with the chin.”
“Me?” said one of the dudes.
“You,” said Bernie. “Get the bananas.” The dude with the chin—that very long kind you see sometimes on humans—rose and moved toward the shed. “And you,” said Bernie to the other dude.
“Me?” said the other dude.
“Roll that ramp up to the back of the trailer.”
The second dude—one of those real chinless human types—rose and walked over to a ramp that stood by the wall. Meanwhile, the chin dude was tossing bunches of bananas into a wheelbarrow.
“Easy, there,” Bernie said. “That’s someone’s dinner.”
“Huh?” said the chin dude. But he stopped tossing the bananas, placing them carefully instead. Bernie smiled. Uh-oh. His mouth was all bloody inside. What had they done to him? I glanced over at the cab of the eighteen-wheeler, wondered how I could get in; I already knew what I’d do when I got there.
The chin dude pushed the wheelbarrow, now piled high with bananas, over to us. Bernie plucked a banana, held it out for Peanut. Peanut swung her trunk toward the banana, swooped over it and down into the wheelbarrow. She scooped out a whole big bunch of bananas and scarfed them up. The chin dude cowered against the wall.
“It’s like that, huh, Peanut?” said Bernie. He glanced at the chin dude. “Wheel that thing into the trailer.”
“What if I get trampled?”
“Then your buddy will have to do it.”
Eyes on Peanut the whole way, the chin dude pushed the wheelbarrow over to the back of the truck. The no-chin dude got the ramp in place. The chin dude went up the ramp. The lion roared again. The chin dude returned, wheelbarrow empty.
“Facedown,” Bernie said. The dudes went back to lying facedown. Bernie moved toward the ramp. I went with him. “Come on, Peanut,” he said.
Yeah, right, I thought.
But Peanut came. She followed us to the ramp. We stood aside. She walked right up and into the trailer. You never knew with Peanut. Bernie went up and closed the doors, and was just sliding the bolt in place when noises came from the other side of the cave-in. Maybe not that much of a cave-in: lights shone through from the other side.
Bernie jumped down. “Let’s go.” We ran to the cab—Bernie limping a bit from his war wound—and jumped in. Jocko lay sprawled on the front seat, eyes still closed. Bernie shoved Jocko onto the floor, and there we were, Bernie behind the wheel, me riding shotgun, situation normal. I checked the side mirror, saw a big opening in the cave-in rubble, and Captain Panza and his men making their way through, some with shovels. Maybe not completely normal, but pretty close, except what was this? The guy with the big automatic rifle, the one that went ACK-ACK?
The key was in the ignition. Bernie turned it and the engine fired. His hand moved to the gear shift, gave it a little wiggle. “Wonder where first is,” he said. “Here, maybe?” He shifted. The truck lurched forward and stalled. I remembered a difficult afternoon from back in the Leda days where Bernie tried to teach her how to drive the stick. No way this could turn out that bad. Bernie cranked the engine again, tried another gear, and we went through the lurch-stall thing again. Was that the lion roaring? And other creatures joining in? I wasn’t sure because at that moment the ACK-ACK guy fired a burst, and then another. I checked the side mirror again, saw one of the Jeeps bump slowly over the rubble, Captain Panza standing up in the front seat, shouting something at the driver. Then the mirror shattered and that whole scene vanished in a spray of tiny glass bits all over my window. Hey! Mirrors were glass? And windows, too? I came close to having a thought about that.
“How come I never learned to drive a big rig?” Bernie said, banging the stick into different positions. No idea; I just knew it wasn’t his fault. We lurched forward again, but didn’t stall this time.
ACK-ACK. ACK-ACK.
Bernie stepped on the gas. He tried to get into another gear and couldn’t. The engine screamed. We barreled through this mine or whatever it was. The walls closed in around us and then we were in a long tunnel, lit only by our headlights. I knew this kind of tunnel from a drug-smuggling case we’d worked once in a border town, the name escaping me and no time to remember it now.
ACK-ACK. ACK-ACK. Sparks flew off the rocky walls of the tunnel and ricochets pinged off the body of the cab. Down on the floor, Jocko moaned.
“Zip it,” Bernie said. I looked over, saw him stomp on the gas, down to the metal. The scream of the engine rose and rose, unbearable.
ACK-ACK. ACK-ACK-ACK. Bernie’s window blew out, scattering glass all over the place. Up ahead, our headlights shone on a big garage-type roll-up door like the one we’d entered.
“No time to stop,” Bernie said. So therefore? I had no clue, but that didn’t matter. I had Bernie back and he handled the sotherefores. He reached up to a gizmo on the visor, kind of like our remote thing for the garage door at home, which no longer worked, if I haven’t mentioned that. “This should do the trick,” Bernie said, pressing a button.
The metal door—closer and closer now—didn’t budge.
ACK-ACK. Bullets tore through the metal door, leaving twisted holes in zigzag patterns.
“Or maybe this one,” Bernie said, trying another button, “although wouldn’t it make sense that red would—”
But whatever that was about never got finished, because the door began to rise—oh, so slow—with us hurtling right toward it and that ACK-ACK closing in behind. And then—zoom, a sort of zoom with a metallic scraping from above that shrieked in my ears all the way to the tip of my tail and back—we were out! Out of the tunnel and into the great outdoors!
Bernie slowed down. Was now a good time for that? Bernie!
He looked over at me and smiled. “Don’t worry,” he said. “They won’t follow us—we’re home.” Home? In the middle of nowhere, empty desert all around? Bernie reached over and rubbed my head. “In the good old U.S.A., big guy, safe and sound.” He circled around, shining our lights on where we’d come from, a low rise I’d seen before: the spot where Jocko had given us the slip on the way down to Mexico.
Safe and sound in the good old U.S.A. Fine by me. We followed a track, silvery and smooth in the desert. Bernie found a gear that didn’t hurt my ears so much. Down on the floor, Jocko stirred and opened his eyes.
Bernie glanced at him. “Was it Churchill who said there’s nothing more exhilarating than being shot at without result?”
Jocko had no answer. Neither did I. Churchill? Probably a perp of some sort. He’d be breaking rocks in the hot sun, sooner or later. We had ways of getting things done, me and Bernie. Back in the trailer, Peanut blasted out some of her trumpeting sounds.