Free The Dog Who Knew Too Much by Spencer Quinn Page A

eyes were silvery and open in the starlight. I kept my own eyes open until his closed. Then I closed mine and listened to Bernie’s breathing from inside the tent as it got slower and more peaceful, if that makes any sense, and soon I knew he was asleep. For a while I just lay on the ground—mossy ground, very comfortable—and enjoyed the feeling of being the only one awake in the night, one of my favorite feelings. Then a delicious kind of fuzziness came rolling into my mind. I never fight that.
    Some humans—Charlie’s amazing at this!—are totally zonked out when they’re asleep, almost impossible to wake. That’s not the way it works in the nation within the nation. I get plenty of rest, no complaints, but I’m never totally zonked out, which was why sometime later I was suddenly wide awake.
    The breeze had strengthened, blowing from the direction of the white-streaked mountaintop, now just a jagged lightless shape blocking out the stars. I got the impression that the stars had moved, weren’t where they’d been when I’d gone to sleep. That was a little trick of the night that I’d noticed before but almost forgotten. But that wasn’t the important part. Eye on the ball: that was an expression of Bernie’s and I loved playing ball, goes without mentioning; but better to mention, just in case. There are many kinds of balls in the world: tennis balls, soccer balls, baseballs—will I ever forget the first time I discovered how complicated they were inside?—but lacrosse balls are my favorite, what with their crazy bounces, and especially the way they felt in my mouth when—
    Eye on the ball, Chet. Something was not right. The night was silent, except for the breeze, but it was one of those strange silences you get after something has just happened, if you knowwhat I mean, and I’m actually not sure I even do. First thing, I listened for Bernie, heard his slow, regular breathing right away, meaning he was safe, so if something had in fact just happened, it couldn’t have been all that bad.
    I rose. Nighttime security was part of my job. Grabbing perps by the pant leg is another. That’s how we know the case is closed here at the Little Detective Agency, but this case didn’t feel closed. Was it even a case? I didn’t know. A case meant someone was paying. Anya was paying Bernie to be her friend. Now her kid was missing. I couldn’t take it past that, so I started sniffing around. When it comes to nighttime security, you can’t go wrong by sniffing around.
    Nothing new to pick up, the scents of the boys still all over the place—although growing fainter—plus Bernie’s scent, Turk’s, and my own, the most familiar smell in the world: old leather, salt and pepper, mink coats, and just a soupçon of tomato; and to be honest, a healthy dash of something male and funky. My smell: yes, sir. Chet the Jet was in the vicinity, wherever that was, exactly.
    Bernie: safe in the tent. Me: on the job, checking things out. That left no one to check out except Turk. I moved toward the fire pit, picked up a faint smell of mold coming from Turk’s sleeping bag. That happened with sleeping bags, nothing unusual. The only unusual thing was the way Turk’s bag seemed kind of flat.
    I went closer, didn’t see Turk’s head sticking through the opening at the top. I pawed at the sleeping bag, felt the ground underneath. Turk wasn’t inside.
    I looked around, saw a few dark forms around the campsite that had vaguely human shapes, and examined every one, finding only rocks and bushes. Lots of Turk’s scent around, some of it old, some fresh. I followed a few scent trails, all of them leading round and round in circles. Whenever that happens I start gettingfrustrated, just can’t help it. I went over to the tent and barked this soft muffled bark meant not to attract attention from anyone except Bernie.
    “Chet?” he said, his voice soft, just like mine. Bernie’s a deep sleeper, but when it’s important he’s