Free The Dog Who Knew Too Much by Spencer Quinn

I will,” Bernie said. “The question now is did you stand up for Devin?”
    “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”
    “Preston was bullying Devin. At the very least the others stood by. That left it up to you.”
    “Didn’t notice any of what you’re talkin’ about.”
    “No?” Bernie said. “You missed the fact that Devin wasn’t sleeping in the tent with the others?”
    Turk leaned back, almost like he’d been pushed in the chest.
    Bernie pointed back to where the kids’ tent had stood. “Four rectangular impressions on the ground, Turk. Faint, but there. The fifth one’s a good thirty feet from the others, way outside the tent. Means Devin slept in the open. Just like you—making it hard to miss.”
    Another deep breath from Turk. “Yeah,” he said. “Maybe they ragged on him some. Preston’s a fuckin’ monster.”
    “I don’t doubt it,” Bernie said. “But see what this does to your theory.”
    “What theory?” said Turk, a question I was glad to hear, a little lost myself.
    “The theory we’ve been operating on,” Bernie said. “Devin leaves the tent to take a piss and can’t find his way back.”
    That was the theory? Theories, whatever they happened to be, I always left to Bernie. But something about this particular theory made me leave our little circle for a moment or two, all the time it took to lift my leg against a nearby rock. When I returned, Turk was saying, “I’m a real heavy sleeper. Is that a crime?”
    “Depending on the circumstances,” Bernie said. “A sentry who falls asleep on duty, for example. Or an airline pilot—maybe a closer analogy.”
    “You threatening me?” Turk said. “Like I’m some criminal?”
    “Why would there be any need for that?” said Bernie. “We’re on the same side. If you feel threatened, it’s just from the situation.”
    “What the hell are you talking about?”
    “People—starting with Devin’s parents—are going to find out you let the kid sleep in the open.”
    “That’s what he wanted,” Turk said.
    “That’s what Preston and the others made him want,” Berniesaid, his voice growing sharper and quieter at the same time; we often get good results from that combo. “There’s a difference.”
    Turk said nothing. The expression on his face, dark and shadowy, was hard to see. But a new smell was coming off him, a tangy smell a bit like this blue cheese Bernie likes, except mixed with pee: the smell of human fear.
    “Did you light a fire that night?” Bernie said.
    “Sure.”
    “Douse it out when you turned in, or just let it die down?”
    “Die down,” Turk said. “This fire pit’s safe—you can see for yourself—and there was no wind.”
    “I trust your judgment on that,” Bernie said. “What’s puzzling me is that the coals would have glowed most of the night, so if Devin, already outside the tent, did get up for some reason, it’s hard to imagine how he couldn’t find his way back.”
    “Know something?” said Turk. “I’m gettin’ tired of all your questions.”
    “That last one wasn’t a question,” Bernie said.
    Turk rose. “The hell with you,” he said. “Who says I need to take this shit? I was just doin’ my job.” He grabbed his pack.
    I could feel Bernie about to say something but he did not.
    We own two tents, the big one that fits Bernie, Charlie, and Suzie, and the little one Bernie set up on the edge of the shadowy grove of trees. The little one’s called the pup tent. I’ve done a lot of thinking about that and pretty much gotten nowhere. Has a puppy ever been inside the little tent? No. So therefore? I just don’t know: the way we have things arranged at the Little Detective Agency, Bernie handles the so therefores.
    Bernie lay down in the pup tent. There was maybe just enough room for me to squeeze in, but I preferred to stretch out on theground in front of the flap. By that time, Turk had already unrolled his sleeping bag by the fire pit and climbed in. His