Read Online The Dog Who Knew Too Much by Spencer Quinn - Free Book Online Page A

arose, like: Was the moon coming tonight? Stars came out every clear night, which was just about every night in the Valley. The moon was trickier, appearing some nights but not others, and often changing its shape. Bernie had explained the whole thing to Charlie at the dinner table, and I’d gotten that feeling in my head when I come very, very close to understanding; a nice feeling, almost as good as actually understanding. What a life!
    Up and up I went, and then the ground leveled out, and I heard trickling water. A few more steps and I could see a gurgling little stream, sparkling with starlight. The great outdoors—that’s what humans call it, a perfect name—and at night: hard to beat. I leaped onto a broad flat rock in the middle of the stream and lapped up more delicious cold water. I wasn’t thirsty, but what a treat, all this tasty water around. We’d have to cross the state line more often, if that was in fact what we’d done.
    The two headlamp beams bobbed up in the distance, moved closer and closer in a jerky kind of way, and then shone on me. I heard their voices.
    “There’s your dog,” said Turk.
    “Uh-huh,” said Bernie.
    “Stiller’s Creek,” Turk said. “Weird how it ended up here—the camp can’t be more’n a hundred yards away, just on the other side.”
    “Not it,” Bernie said. “He.”
    The headlamp beams both swung around, turning on each other. Light shone on both their faces, Bernie’s and Turk’s. They looked squinty, tired, annoyed. That was a bit of a surprise. I couldn’t remember feeling better, myself. Okay, there was the time Bernie and I went on vacation to San Diego, and I surfed. But other than that.
    I hopped over to the far side. Bernie and Turk crossed the stream, both stepping on rocks to keep their feet dry. That’s not something I worry about.
    Turk walked up a little slope toward a shadowy grove of low trees. Bernie and I followed, side by side. Bernie has a kind of walk for when his leg hurts but he’s trying not to show it; he was doing it now.
    We reached the top, moved into the grove. I smelled ashes, plus chocolate, the way it smells when hot chocolate gets burned in the pot, and then Turk’s headlamp beam illuminated a small circle of stones: the remains of a not-too-long-ago campfire. I knew fire pits, of course, went over and took some closer sniffs. Burned hot chocolate, yes. There’d also been Spam and something eggy. I stuck my nose just about right into the ashes. They were cold.
    “Where did you leave the pack?” Bernie said.
    “Huh?” Turk said.
    “Devin’s pack.”
    “Oh. Yeah.”
    Turk took off his headlamp and shone the light carefully around a tree stump outside the circle of stones.
    “That’s funny,” he said.
    “What is?” said Bernie.
    “This is where I left his pack—leaning against the stump.”
    I sniffed at the stump, didn’t pick up Devin’s smell, although Idid detect the scent of burned marshmallow. Marshmallows: you can have them—just way too sticky. Same for cotton candy.
    We walked around the clearing, the two light beams poking at trees, rocks, bushes. No pack in sight. “Tent was over here,” Turk said.
    Bernie looked around. “And where did you sleep?” he said.
    “Under the stars, like I told you,” said Turk.
    “I asked where,” said Bernie.
    Turk pointed with his thumb, back toward the fire pit. I’d slept next to fire pits, too; if you make a roaring fire, those stones stay warm almost till dawn.
    “Maybe the kid came back and headed out with the pack,” Turk said.
    “But your note said to stay put,” Bernie said. Meanwhile, he was crouched down, sweeping his light slowly back and forth over the place where the tent had been. I crouched beside him, picked up the scents of Preston and Tommy, plus those two other boys, their names escaping me.
    “Maybe he didn’t read it,” Turk said.
    Bernie rose. “Turk?” he said.
    “Yeah?”
    “That’s enough theory. Have you got any facts for