alive. Why not here? ”
“Because it isn’t, ” I said. “It’s something else.” She swung away from
the window and raked the yard with the flashlight beam, as though she
hoped to discover her tousle-haired, pajama-clad son among the fallen
leaves and the curled strips of papery bark that littered the grass
under a row of tall eucalyptus trees.
Catching a troubling scent, Orson issued a low growl and backed away
from the planting bed. He peered up at the windowsill, sniffed the air,
put his nose to the ground again, and headed tentatively toward the rear
of the house.
“He’s got something, ” I said.
Lilly turned. “Got what? ”
“A trail.” When he reached the backyard, Orson broke into a trot.
“Badger, ” I said, “don’t tell them Orson and I were here.” A weight of
fear pressed her voice thinner than a whisper, “Don’t tell who? ”
“The police.”
“Why? ”
“I’ll be back. I’ll explain. I swear I’ll find Jimmy. I swear I will.” I
could keep the first two promises.
The third, however, was something less meaningful than wishful thinking
and was intended only to provide a little hope with which she might keep
herself glued together.
In fact, as I hurried after my strange dog, pushing the bicycle at my
side, I already believed that Jimmy Wing was lost forever. The most I
expected to find at the end of the trail was the boy’s dead body and,
with luck, the man who had murdered him.
When I reached the rear of Lilly’s house, I couldn’t see Orson.
He was so coaly black that even the light of a full moon was not
sufficient to reveal him.
From off to the right came a soft woof then another, and I followed his
call.
At the end of the backyard was a freestanding garage that could be
entered by car only from the alley beyond. A brick walkway led alongside
the garage to a wooden gate, where Orson stood on his hind legs, pawing
at the latch.
For a fact, this dog is radically smarter than ordinary mutts.
Sometimes I suspect that he is also considerably smarter than I am.
If I didn’t have the advantage of hands, no doubt I would be the one
eating from a dish on the floor. He would have control of the most
comfortable easy chair and the remote control for the television.
Demonstrating my single claim to superiority, I disengaged the bolt
latch with a flourish and pushed open the creaking gate.
A series of garages, storage sheds, and backyard fences lay along this
flank of the alley. On the farther side, the cracked and runneled
blacktop gave way to a narrow dirt shoulder, which in turn led to a line
of massive eucalyptuses and a weedy verge that sloped into a canyon.
Lilly’s house is on the edge of town, and no one lives in the canyon
behind her place. The wild grass and scattered scrub oaks on the
descending slopes provide homes for hawks, coyotes, rabbits, squirrels,
field mice, and snakes.
Following his formidable nose, Orson urgently investigated the weeds
along the edge of the canyon, padding north and then south, softly
whining and grumbling to himself.
I stood at the brink, between two trees, peering down into a darkness
that not even the fat moon could dispel. No flashlight moved in those
depths. If Jimmy had been carried into that gloom, the kidnapper must
have uncanny night vision.
With a yelp, Orson abruptly abandoned his search along the canyon rim
and returned to the center of the alleyway. He moved in a circle, as
though he might start chasing his tail, but his head was raised and he
was excitedly sniffing spoor.
To him, the air is a rich stew of scents. Every dog has a sense of smell
thousands of times more powerful than yours or mine.
The medicinal pungency of the eucalyptus trees was the only aroma that I
could detect. Drawn by another and more suspicious scent, as if he were
but a bit of iron pulled inexorably toward a powerful magnet, Orson
raced north along the alley.
Maybe Jimmy Wing was still alive.