Wizard at Large (17 page)

Hands shot up everywhere. The man with the dog smiled some more and waved hello to a section of students close at hand. They waved back eagerly.

“Well, we've got some special dogs for you this afternoon, some dogs who can do things that even some of you can't do!” A titter of laughter sounded. Elizabeth grimaced. “I want you to watch closely and listen to what our guest has to say. Students, please welcome Mr. Davis Whitsell and his
Canine Reviewl”

Applause and whistles sounded as Davis Whitsell took the floor, accepting the microphone from the departing principal. He waved and pretended not to notice that the little black poodle was trailing after.

“Good afternoon, everyone!” he greeted. “Such an enthusiastic group! I am delighted to have you all here, happy you came—even if you had to come, this being one of those required assemblies.”He made a face and there were hoots of laughter. “But maybe we can have some fun together. I'm here to tell you about dogs—that's right, dogs! And since your parents don't want you going to the dogs, I'm bringing the dogs to you!”

He raised his hands and everyone clapped in response.

“Now, I want you to listen up, because I have to tell you something important. I have to tell you…”

He paused, acting as if he had just noticed Sophie tugging dutifully at his pants leg. “Hey, hey, what's this? Let go now, Sophie, let go!”

The little black poodle released her grip and sat back, watching.

“Now, as I was saying, I have something to tell you that…”

Sophie began tugging at him again. Elizabeth laughed with the others. Davis Whitsell looked down, distracted once more from his speech.

“Sophie, what is it? You want to say something first?” Sophie barked. “Well, why didn't you say so? Oh, you just did, didn't you? Well, I don't think the kids heard. Maybe you better say it again.”Sophie barked once more. “What, you want to show them how smart you are?” Sophie barked. “How smart
all
dogs like you are?” He looked up at the bleachers. “What do you say, kids? You want to see how smart Sophie is?”

They all yelled that they did, of course. He gave an exaggerated shrug. “Okay. Let's see what you can do, Sophie. Can you jump?” Sophie jumped. “Can you jump higher?” Sophie jumped almost to his shoulder. “Whoa! Bet you can't do a back flip.”Sophie did a back flip. “Hey, how about that, kids? That's not bad, is it? Now, how about…”

He took Sophie through one trick after another, jumps through hoops and over hurdles, more flips, retrieving and carrying off, and a dozen-and-one other marvelous stunts. When she was finished, the students gave her a tumultuous round of applause, and Davis Whitsell sent her off. Then he began to talk about the need for proper pet care. He gave a few statistics, talked about the good work of the ASPCA, stressed the ways a little love and understanding could affect the lives of animals, and pointed out the need for every student there to involve himself or herself in this ongoing project.

Elizabeth listened intently.

Then, back came Sophie. She appeared from the edge of the floor leading a big tan boxer by the leash about his neck. Davis Whitsell expressed surprise, then went through the whole routine all over again, asking Sophie what she was doing there with Bruno, pretending he understood what she was saying when she barked, carrying on a conversation with her just as if she were human.

Elizabeth began to think.

Then came a whole new repertoire of stunts involving Sophie and Bruno, the former riding the latter, the two of them jumping through hoops and over hurdles, racing about in leaps and bounds, playing tag, and conducting contests of skill and daring.

The program closed with a reminder of the need for responsibility where animals were concerned and a wish for a good school year for all of them. Whitsell went off with a wave to the cheers and applause, Sophie and Bruno in tow. The principal shook his hand, took back the mike, thanked him publicly, then dismissed the students to their classes.

Elizabeth made up her mind.

As the other students filed out, one after the other, Elizabeth hung back. Eva Richards tried to stay with her, but Elizabeth told her to go on ahead. Davis Whitsell was
watching as the students passed by, returning their smiles. Elizabeth waited patiently. The principal came up and thanked Whitsell once more, saying he hoped he'd be back next year. Whitsell replied that he would.

Then the principal moved off as well, and Davis Whitsell was alone.

Elizabeth took a deep breath and walked up to him. When he looked down at her, she said, “Mr. Whitsell, do you think you could do something to help a friend of miner’

The bearded man grinned. “Depends, I guess. Who's your friend?”

“His name is Abernathy. He's a dog.”

“Oh, a dog. Well, sure. What's his problem?”

“He needs to go to Virginia.”

The grin broadened. “He does? Hey, what's your name?”

“Elizabeth.”

“Well, look, Elizabeth.”Whitsell put his hands on his knees and bent forward confidentially. “Maybe he doesn't really need to go to Virginia. Maybe he just needs to get used to living in Washington, you know? Tell me something. Are you planning to go back to Virginia with him? Did you used to live there, too, maybe?”

Elizabeth shook her head firmly. “No, no, Mr. Whitsell, you don't understand. I didn't even know Abernathy until about a week ago. And he's not really a dog, in any case. He's a man who was turned into a dog. By magic.”

Davis Whitsell was staring at her open-mouthed. She hurried on. “He can talk, Mr. Whitsell. He really can. He's a prisoner right now in this…”

“Whoa, back up!” the other interrupted quickly. He shifted into a crouch. “What are trying to tell me? That this dog can talk? Really talk?”

Elizabeth backed off a step, beginning to wonder if she
had done the right thing coming to this man. “Yes. Just like you and me.”

⋆The bearded man cocked his head thoughtfully. “That's some imagination you've got there, Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth felt stupid. “I'm not making this up, Mr. Whitsell. Abernathy really can talk. It's just that he needs to get to Virginia, and he doesn't know how. I thought maybe you could help him. I was listening to what you said, about how dogs need proper care and how all of us should involve ourselves in helping. Weil, Abernathy is my friend, and I want to be sure that he's taken care of, even if he isn't a real dog, and I thought…”

Davis Whitsell raised one hand quickly, and she went still. He stood up and glanced around the gymnasium, and Elizabeth glanced with him. The last few students were filing out. “I have to go,”she said quietly. “Can you help Abernathy?”

He seemed to consider. “Tell you what,”he said suddenly. He took out a wrinkled card that bore an imprint of his name and address. “You bring me a talking dog—a genuine talking dog, now—and I'll help him for sure. I'll take him anywhere he wants to go. Okay?”

Elizabeth beamed. “Do you promise?”

Whitsell shrugged. “Sure.”

Elizabeth beamed some more. “Thanks, Mr. Whitsell! Thanks a lot!” She clutched her books tightly to her chest and hurried off.

The minute her back was turned, Davis Whitsell dismissed the matter with a shake of his head.

Miles Bennett, lawyer-for-hire, sat in the study of his suburban Chicago home amid a clutter of
Northeast Reporters
and
ALRs
and seriously considered having a drink. He had been working on this damn corporate tax assessment case since Monday a week ago, and he wasn't any closer to a resolution of its multiple legal dilemmas now than he had
been when he had first picked it up. He had been working on it day and night, at the office and at home, living it, sleeping it, eating it, and he was sick of it, both figuratively and literally. Yesterday, he had caught the flu, the unpleasant kind that attacks you from both ends, and he was just now beginning to shake its effects. He had spent the afternoon in no small amount of discomfort tramping around the subject properties, a vast office complex in Oak Brook, and he had brought his notes home with him in an effort to decipher them while everything was still fresh in his mind.

If it was possible that
anything
could be fresh in his mind at this point, he thought dismally.

He leaned back in his leather desk chair, his heavy frame sagging. He was a big man with thick dark hair and a mustache that seemed to have been tacked on as an afterthought to a face that in happier times was almost cherubic. Eyes perpetually lidded at half-mast peered out with a mix of weary resignation and sardonic humor on a world that viewed even hardworking, conscientious lawyers such as himself with unrelenting suspicion. Still, that was all right with him. It was just part of the price you paid to do something you really loved.

His sudden smile was ironic. Of course, sometimes you loved it more than others.

That made him think unexpectedly of Ben Holiday, formerly of Holiday & Bennett, Ltd., their old law partnership, of when it was Ben and him against the world. His smile tightened. Ben Holiday had loved the law—knew how to practice it, too. Doc Holiday, courtroom gunfighter. He shook his head. Now Doc was God-knew-where, off fighting dragons and rescuing damsels in some make-believe world that probably existed only in his own mind…

Or maybe for real. Miles wrinkled his brow thoughtfully. He had never been quite sure. Maybe never would be.

He brushed the extraneous thoughts from his mind and bent back over the law books and yellow pads. He blinked his eyes wearily. His notes were beginning to blur. He needed to get this done and get to bed.

The phone rang. He glanced over at it, sitting on the end table next to his reading chair. He let it ring a second time. Marge was at bridge and the kids were up the block at the Wilson house. No one home but him. The phone rang a third time.

“Damnit all, anyway!” he swore, lifting himself heavily out of the desk chair. Phone was never for him, always for the kids or Marge; even if it was for him, it was always some ditsy client who didn't have sense enough not to bother him at home with questions that could just as easily wait until morning.

The phone rang a final time as he lifted the receiver. “Hello, Bennett's,”he rumbled.

“Miles, it's Ben Holiday.”

Miles stiffened in surprise. “Doc? Is tiat you? I was just thinking about you, for God's sake! How are you?
Where
are you?”

“Las Vegas.”

“Las Vegas?”

“I tried to reach you at the office, but they said you were out for the day.”

“Yeah, tramping all over hell and gone.”

“Listen, Miles, I need a big favor.”Ben's voice crackled on the connection. “You'll probably have to drop everything you're doing for the rest of the week, but it's important or I wouldn't ask.”

Miles found himself grinning. Same old Doc. “Yeah, yeah, butter me up so you can toss me into the frying pan. What do you need?”

“Money, to begin with. I'm staying at the Shangri-La with a friend, but I don't have any money to pay for it.”

Miles was laughing openly now. “For Christ's sake,
Doc, you're a millionaire! What do you mean you don't have any money?”

“I mean I don't have any here! So you have to wire me several thousand first thing in the morning. But listen, you have to send it to yourself, to Miles Bennett. That's how I'm registered.”

“What? You're using
my
name?”

“I couldn't think of another on the spur of the moment, and I didn't want to use my own. Don't worry, you're not in any trouble.”

“Not yet, anyway, you mean.”

“Just send it to the hotel directly to my account—your account, that is. Can you do it?”

“Yeah, sure, no problem.”Miles shook his head in amusement, settling down comfortably now into the reading chair. “Is that the big favor you needed, money?”

“Partly.”Ben sounded subdued and distant. “Miles, you remember how you always wanted to know something about what happened to me when I left the practice? Well, you're going to get your chance. A friend of mine, another friend, not the one with me now, is in trouble here, somewhere in the United States, I think—maybe not, though, we have to find out. I want you to call up one of our investigating agencies and have them find out anything they can about a man named Michel Ard Rhi.”He spelled it out and Miles hastily wrote the name down. “I think he lives in the U.S., but, again, I can't be certain. He should be pretty wealthy, probably somewhat reclusive. Likes to use his money, though. Have you got all that?”

“Yeah, Doc, I got it.”Miles was frowning.

“Okay. Now here's the rest—and don't argue. I want you to check to see if there is any news—anything at all, rumors, gossip, anything, anywhere—about a dog who talks.”

“What?”

“A dog who talks, Miles. I know this sounds ridiculous,
but that's the other friend I'm looking for. His name is Abernathy. He's a soft-coated Wheaten Terrier, and he talks. Did you write that down?”

Miles did so hastily, shaking his head. “Doc, I hope you're not putting me on about this.”

“I'm dead serious. Abernathy was a man who was turned into a dog. I'll explain it all later. Get what you can on either subject and catch a plane out here as quickly as possible. Bring me whatever sort of file the investigators can put together. And tell them you need it right away, no delays. First of the week at the latest.”He paused. “I know this won't be easy, but do what you can, Miles. It really is important.”

Miles shifted himself, chuckling. “The part that's going to be hard about this is finding a way to tell the investigators that we're looking for a talking dog! Christ, Doc!”

“Just pick up whatever bits of information there are about any sort of dog that's supposed to talk. It's a long shot, but we might get lucky. Can you break away to fly out?”

“Sure. It'll be good for me, actually. I've been working on a tax assessment case, and it's about to bury me in a sea of mathematics. So you're at the Shangri-La? Who's with you?”

There was a pause. “You wouldn't believe me if I told you, Miles. Just show up and see, okay? And don't forget to wire the money! Room service is the only thing keeping us alive!”