

Sniff it!

Adventures in Happyland, book #1

By C.C. Reverie

Copyright 2014 C.C. Reverie

This

book

is dedicated

to my daughter, Maria,

who

first

imagined

the world and the characters

of Happyland
Thank you,

To my daughter, Maria, to whom this book is dedicated, for helping create the story and the characters;

To my husband, Bill, for his quiet support;

To my sister, Rodica, for making the cover of the book;

To my editor, Morten Rand, who polished my manuscript, gave me advice and, most of all, believed in my work;

To my first beta readers, Lindsey and Pam Siebert, for their precious feedback;

To all of you who bought this book, for giving me your time and trust.

Thank You!

CHAPTER 1

No creature on this planet deserves to be alone on a cold, mean night, when the wind howls and the icy raindrops of a late November shatter against dark windows. But fate is not always fair, everybody knows it. When the hunger strikes like a knife, tearing guts, when the frigid air cuts deep into the bones, when the night is so dark that the owls can't find their way home, someone who's out alone must be the most miserable being on Earth. Or at least in that town and on that specific street, under that particular tree. And when the sky clears for a minute and the rays of a shiny moon fall on the down through the branches of an infinite tree, he's there, a dog coiled on the ground, trying hard to ignore the annoying rumble of his empty stomach.

Looking around, he thought he saw the shadow of a creature poking on the building wall, across the street. From where he was hiding, Pepper raised his head and perked up his ears. The wind was loud enough to cover the soft, sneaky noises, but he could still hear the rustle of the leaves on the ground, near the corner, across the street, by the big garbage bin.

Ah, a mouse or a rat, nothing a dog needs to bother about, he told himself, resting his head on his front paws.

Pepper tried to sleep, but the smell of cooked food that came from a nearby building was too strong. He closed his eyes and fell into a short nap, dreaming of mountains of juicy bones that were rolling over, almost killing him.

A few hours ago, lured by a yummy scent, he had circled the building and determined it was that kind of place where some humans cook tons of food and others eat it. He was just waiting for the humans to leave so he could search the large waste bins for "leftovers."

He couldn't risk getting caught by the dog hunters. Once, Pepper had spent a few weeks in a kennel and didn't find it fun at all. First, there are too many dogs that talk at the same time; second, there's always this smell of poop and pee that made him sick from his guts; third, you are not allowed to move around, the most you can do is going in and out of your sleeping place. But the worst thing is that they kill you if no human wants you. That had happened to his best friend. He could still shed tears over it.

However, this was no time to become sentimental. His instincts had a better job to do, a.k.a. to keep him out of trouble until he got to those garbage bins and squeezed his body inside. "Oh!" he sighed and fell asleep again.

Pepper was one tired dog after having to travel a great deal, not yet to his destination. He was heading to Happyland, the town where he was, once, a happy dog and where he was hoping to find his lost fortune. For he wanted to return to his master. He had replayed the facts in his mind over and over again, and still couldn't understand what had happened that day he got lost. All he knew was that he had to find his way back.

But going back is no easy job for a dog that has not used a compass, or anything for that matter, to show directions or where to go. Of course, he had a vague idea, mostly driven by the different smells he had sniffed along the way. But there was nothing like the scent of his previous home, even though sometimes he got clues from the various surroundings.

His heart still fluttered whenever he remembered the subway episode. It was in Pine City, during an early, brutal winter, his first month on the streets. He had made no friends, had no food, nor shelter. Heavy snow had fallen over the town, and there was no place for him to hide; it was either wet and cold, or too exposed to dangers. Finally, one night, he stumbled upon a stairway that led him to the subway. Oh, my, how happy he was... At first, he discovered a spot by the cleaning room – a dark corner where he thought he was safe. But one morning, a big round man stumbled upon him and shooed him away, threatening with a spiked broom. Forced to leave, tail tucked between his legs, Pepper jumped on an empty wagon standing still at the platform. Then the doors closed behind him and the train moved, gaining speed in seconds. Surprised and a little dizzy, he sneaked under a plastic chair, waiting to see what might happen next. At the following station, the wagon came to a halt, but Pepper didn't want to leave for he liked the pleasant rocking of the moving train on the tracks.

He spent the winter in the subway, eating out of the garbage cans, sleeping under chairs inside the trains and making friends with the rats and mice roaming around the station at night.

He considered himself content until the day when someone sat on the chair he was hiding under. It was the smell that startled him – a sweet and pungent odor like a gingerbread cookie but lighter, mellower, a homey odor. Almost paralyzed with excitement, Pepper pulled himself closer to the man's legs, sniffing his black, well-polished shoes, then moving up to the man's cuffed pant, sniffing intently, forgetting he was in a hostile environment, in hiding. Pepper abandoned himself to the sweet memories, reviving the moments when his master would bring home a huge clear plastic bag full of clothes, smelling somehow so different than anything else in the house. And for days, that scent would float around the bedroom, stronger in the closet, following his master whenever he got dressed to leave.

The man in the subway train changed position, crossing his legs, away from Pepper's nose. The dog pulled back, shy but happy. He was sure he had found his master. His only problem was how to present himself before him. First, he was dirty and unkempt, almost unrecognizable. His brown and white silky fur was now black and rough to the touch, with occasional fleas scattered around the warmest parts of his body. Second, he felt guilty about the separation, so there was a chance that his master might be upset with him. And third, what if his master wouldn't recognize him?

Not sure what to do, Pepper stayed put until the train stopped and the man got out. Creeping between passengers, Pepper followed the man outside the wagon and up the stairway, to the exit. From a safe distance and trusting his nose, the dog kept on going until they both reached a parking lot. It was time for Pepper to take action. His heart was pounding, his breath was heavy and fast. He stopped and barked. The sound came out thin and frail, after months of abstinence. The man stopped too and turned around. They looked at each other in surprise, none of them recognizing the other. Confused and brokenhearted, Pepper backed up a few steps, still barking slightly, not knowing if he should stay or run, for that man was not his master but a stranger. The dog watched him driving away and vanishing forever – and with him, Pepper's hope of return.

* * *

The wind was intense, blowing leaves off the tree above him. One of them came swirling down and crashed against Pepper's nose, before being rushed along the street, into the night. The dog opened his eyes, raised his head and yawned. He looked up. No star was breaking through the blanket of clouds. He peeked around. Just falling leaves, rain, and shadows running in the headlights of the cars on the street.

When he was just about to go back to sleep, Pepper detected movement around the back stairs of the building across the street that he had been keeping under surveillance for hours. It was hard to see in the dark, but his trained eyes caught the shape of a four-legged creature. It's a cat, he thought.

The creature stopped and looked around with suspicion. Then she lowered her body to the ground in a waiting pose. Pepper watched and waited. In his experience, no cat would go out on a night like this without a good reason. As far as he could see and smell, the cat was as stray as he was. Suddenly, she sprang forward and, with an elegant leap, disappeared behind the trash cans. A burst of metallic noises rose from the scene, echoing loud on the deserted street. Scratchy sounds, mixed with cat spit and a grievous cry, made Pepper's hair go up straight on his spine. He almost felt the pain of the poor creature that had been attacked by such a beast. Because it didn't matter how small or how cute cats were, in his eyes they were real monsters. So arrogant with the weak, so selfish, so hat in hands when needed. A species meant to terrorize. Pepper had encountered many cats in his stray years and learned neither to pay attention to them, nor to interfere with the cats' business. Better to walk away when you meet one. But tonight, he had to wait because that garbage bin where all the fighting was taking place was his last resort before starvation.

The fight stopped, but Pepper could still sniff the feline, her body smelling like blood clots and pee, fear and anguish. Hidden behind the trash containers there was someone else, someone not as scared as the cat may have hoped, but nervous enough to make her stalk the creature with eagerness.

Now, the whole thing was very inconvenient for Pepper. Midnight was coming soon, and the workers at the restaurant would take out the food waste and leave. That was the moment Pepper was waiting for, the time when fresh foods would be thrown away. Then he would get out of his nest and, with his strong teeth, tear the bags open, feasting on the scraps, undisturbed, till morning. But now he was afraid that the wild beast would hang around and he wouldn't be able to eat. And he was sure he didn't have enough strength to fight it out. On the other hand, cats could be on a watch forever and not move a whisker in hours.

After weighing his options, Pepper curled back into a ball, sighing softly. The night was going to be long and gloomy. Pepper napped and dreamt about the last time he had enjoyed a decent meal, some days back, in a little town when he stumbled upon a late picnic and a table left unsupervised. He had eaten some chicken wings on the spot and had carried some others into the nearby woods and buried them. He dreamt he was back in those woods, scoping out the chicken wings from the frozen ground. But the sweet moment didn't last too long. He was fast awakened from his nap by another roar, this time more forceful. In a split second, he saw the cat's silhouette plunging from the height of the garbage bin and knocking down the lid, which hit the sidewalk with a terrible loud noise. The cat ran in circles several times, spitting, scratching and caterwauling. She came to a halt, arching her spine, her front paws together, closed around a poor creature.

Pepper felt startled. His body changed position and his black and brown ears pointed up, like two large funnels. Through the whistles of the wind and the roars of the car engines, he was trying to catch a noise coming from the other side of the street. It seemed that someone was calling his name.

I must be delirious, thought the dog.

He left his place under the tree and crawled to the edge of the sidewalk.

"Here boy, come here," someone said in a soft but firm voice.

Is there anybody speaking to me? Pepper wondered. It seemed like a voice coming from across the street was barking, just like a dog or like a puppy, a grown-up puppy. Pepper waited. He did not want to talk back. His loud and hoarse bark could alert the neighborhood, and that was not an option. And maybe the voice did not even address him. A few seconds passed, and he was just about to go back under the tree when the call came again.

"Here boy, come here!"

It was just like his master used to say sometimes: "Good boy!... Come here, boy!... Fetch that, boy!" But Pepper was no fool, he wouldn't fall for the joke. Whoever was calling him, he was not to respond. It is a trap, he thought. But just as he decided to ignore the whole thing, the voice called him again.

"Hey you, you dog. I'm talking to you!"

Taken by surprise, Pepper let out a growl. At the sound of it, the cat meowed and spat.

"Hey, easy now, no need to be mean," said the voice defensively.

The dog growled again, softer this time. He thought about it for a moment trying to understand who was speaking and from where. The way it sounded, young and fresh, made him think it was an adolescent dog still changing his voice. But the manner was nothing like a puppy. On the contrary, it was like a big, arrogant "buttonhole," to say the least. Bewildered, Pepper shook the rain off his fur.

Could there be another dog hiding somewhere? His nose gave him no clue.

Breathing heavily, the creature called again.

"Listen up dog!" The anonymous voice was now mellow and persuasive. "Here is what you have to do... You listen now? All right. Look across the road. You see a big dirty cat beast? I need you to chase her away."

Perplex, Pepper didn't move.

"Right now!" cried the voice, filled with pain.

"No way!" replied Pepper at once. "I'm not chasing no cats tonight."

Realizing he was responding to an unseen creature, perhaps a wicked one, Pepper added: "And who are you, if I may?"

"Look dog, I don't have time for explanations and conversations. I'm gonna die soon if you don't do anything."

"So be it," concluded Pepper. "And oh, by the way, my name is Pepper, not dog," he added, spiteful but proud. And as to demonstrate it, he raised his head, opened his nostrils and sniffed the air deeply. There was the smell of the cat, a monster no doubt. Then there was another creature with a more sophisticated scent, like it was hidden or tinted. But Pepper's nose knew better. That was a filthy rat, he sensed. He was just about to let the cat get away with it. He didn't like either one and was only wise to step aside. But something made him stop. He sniffed again, and again, and again. Something was out of place, beyond his olfactive knowledge. The rat was not a rat, but very similar. Maybe... maybe...

"A mouse!" he exclaimed. "You are a mouse, aren't you?"

"Oh, how smart," said the voice, sobbing. "But I will be this cat's dinner soon."

"How come I couldn't sniff you? Must be something about you that's not right, isn't there?"

"If you are so curious, why don't you get me out from under the paws, and I'll explain it to you. You will be amazed to find..."

But the mouse didn't finish his thought. His voice broke into unarticulated sounds, woes and whining. The cat was nibbling on his leg, her sharp teeth biting deep into the mouse's muscle. He wiggled and managed to save his back leg, but the beast stuck his claws all over his little body and held it until he let out a wild scream, which raised the hair on Pepper's back.

"Holy cat!" Pepper mumbled.

Then the cat mewed and spat again. She let the wounded mouse go, and then caught him again, like in a game, with her teeth, throwing the poor creature against the garbage cans until they rattled like Christmas bells. The mouse would lift himself up, taking a few dizzy steps before being picked up by the cat and thrown away against the concrete, again and again.

Pepper was watching the cat's game, wagging his tail the other way, snarling without any particular intention. He barked at her twice, but she didn't leave, move, or stop; like she hadn't even heard him. When the echo of his hoarse voice went away blown by a gust of wind, and the beast slowly turned to face him, the dog stepped back a little confused. He had been attacked by cats before and had suffered bad nose injuries. He had even been forced to give up the fight, which was a little humiliating to say the least. But he had never seen anything like this. Annoyed by the whole situation, and afraid that he could miss his midnight dinner, Pepper walked across the street to confront the cat that was now staring at him.

"Just let the mouse go!" he said resolutely, his eyes like two black slits.

The cat growled and spat; and before she could make a move, she quickly leaped and scratched the dog's nose. Pepper bounced two steps back. He got injured, just as he had been expecting.

"Come on now," he managed to say, brushing his muzzle and sneezing. He may have been allergic to cats as well. The cat stood still, only the whiskers were nervously moving up and down. Under her paws, Pepper spotted the tiny body of a dead mouse. Remorse rolled from his dry eyes like drops of water, at the corners, by the nose. Suddenly, he leaped towards the haughty beast, but she hopped sideways, pushing the mouse under the trash can with an elegant hit of her paw. The cat took a step back and set herself in a defense position, spine arched, ears all perked, eyes like two green blades.

But Pepper didn't back up. He raised his upper lip showing his strong, yellow teeth. Then, letting out a low growl, he blew a disgusting breath right into the cat's nose.

"Do you want more?" he asked the feline in his own language, stiffening his tail high up in the air. But the cat wasn't going to give up in front of a stray dog. She mewed and spat one more time, telling Pepper to put his tail down and leave, and eventually she jumped onto his face, beating his snout and scratching his eyes until he squealed in pain. Then, like a wild, mad, beast, she jumped up on his back, biting him all over. Taken by surprise, the dog tried to shake her off, then to grab her with his mouth, but she was positioned just in that very spot between his shoulders where he couldn't reach. Out of desperation, he rolled on his back, squeezing her with his weight, rubbing her against the harsh concrete. She wiggled herself from underneath his back and ran away, not even bothering to look back. Pepper jumped on his feet, barking, as her shadow disappeared on the next corner.

* * *

The back door opened with a heavy gnashing and three humans came out, breaking the silence with their stout voices. They were tall and young, all dressed in white, carrying big, black plastic bags. One of them pointed at Pepper, who was still looking down the street where the cat had been running just moments ago.

"Another dog! I'm telling you, they'll all come here one day."

"Where?" asked the shorter one, looking around as Pepper quickly hid behind a bin. "I don't see anything."

"I'll get it out for you," said the first, bending to pick up a stone from the gravel.

"Watch out, Tom," laughed the third. "That dog is going to bite your pants, don't go any closer!"

With a pretty big stone in his right hand, the human called Tom turned to the third guy and pretended to throw the stone at him. Grabbing the opportunity, Pepper crawled from behind the black trash bins and disappeared under the staircase of the next building. Tom turned around and threw the stone, hitting one of the bins. The stone rattled and fell on the pavement. They all waited.

"See? There's nothing there, like I said. Let's get out of here and go home."

They turned around and got back inside, but the echo of their laughter lingered above the chestnut tree for a few moments.

As the door closed behind them, Pepper got out of his hide-out. The smell was driving him crazy and, forgetting any precautions, he climbed the dumpster, diving in with all his might. He tore apart one black bag and started digging inside, drawn by the smell of red meat. So engrossed was he in his hunt that he didn't even sense Tom approaching from the opposite side and kicking the bin with the dog inside. The bin rolled on the street, spreading its garbage all over, while the dog was caught inside, tumbling upside down, yelping and fighting to escape. Once out, Pepper ran like hit by gadflies, his eyes seeing green stars, his nostrils sniffing the human malice. He hid behind the corner, waiting for the party to leave so that he could sneak back and eat.

When it seemed safe, he moved closer and looked around. The contents of the garbage bin were still on the street. From his spot, the dog raised his head, nostrils wide open. There was the smell of the mouse again. Pepper looked around, trying to locate the body, but the dark was too deep and there was little chance for a dog to distinguish between a smashed potato and the body of a dead rodent. So, he gave up and tried to find some leftover food to eat. And there was plenty of it, lots of meat cuts, lots of fish as well, plenty of vegetables, bread and rice, pickles, eggs and cheese. More than he needed.

He ate and licked his snout, and was almost done, hurrying to get out of there before dawn came, meaning that Tom would return to work. And while he was digging through another garbage bin, half way inside it, in search of a big bone worth carrying and burying, Pepper heard a faint squeak. Startled, he sniffed through the leftovers. There was nothing but food. Then he jumped out of the bin; and as he landed, he felt something warm under his paw. He sprang back, not knowing what creature had sneaked underneath his front leg. Then he saw it. It was lying on the pavement, his little mouth opened, his head tilted, and his frail body flattened. Pepper tried hard not to bark. He thought he knew which mouse this was – the one the cat had killed a few hours earlier. Was it possible that he was still alive?

"Mouse?" he whimpered, heart up in his throat.

He waited. There was no answer but another squeal. The dog stepped closer; his cold, wet nose sniffing the mouse, picking up trails of life, warm breath, and fear. In the distance, the siren of a police car broke the gloom of the night.

"Come on buddy, wake up!" he muttered, rolling the corpse with his muzzle. "Come on, let's go! There're people coming. They'll kill us." But the mouse didn't move.

"All right then," Pepper sighed. Gently picking up the body with his mouth, he took off.

* * *

It was pouring down and smelling like wet dog. Pepper picked up his own scent and grinned in disgust. How long had it been since his last bath? Not that he missed it so much, but it was the only way to get rid of the unwanted odors that stick with you on a daily basis, besides the fleas.

Unfortunately, he was far from getting clean, more, he was getting dirtier by the minute. While running, he had managed to step in all the muddy puddles on his path, so he got soiled all the way to his belly. Now, resting by a small evergreen bush, breathing heavily with his tongue sticking out, cold to the bone, Pepper let out a short, skimpy yelp. His search did not come to a good start. In fact, he had traveled a great length to find his master, the one that he lost a long time ago while he was a young pooch.

Pepper hadn't always been his name. He was called Brownie because he was the only brown puppy among his five brothers and sisters. He was very particular in that respect. All others, including his mother and the presumed dad, had white curly fur. But he was so different that they didn't want him. They gave up on him. He was faulty. He didn't deserve to be among the white, clean, groomed, trimmed, and dolled-up dogs at the circus. One day, they put him in a small wire cage and drove him to a place where there were lots of other puppies in similar cages. He was set on a table between a black lab girl and a bunny. They fed him and let him stay there overnight. He didn't sleep at all. He was frightened and alone. Far in the back of the room, a kitty cat was crying so hard that she almost lost her voice.

In the morning, a dude opened the door and cleaned their cages, giving them food and water. Soon, he figured out he was in a place where humans came to look at animals and make funny faces. That day, the black lab was gone, and the bunny was moved two tables away. And he found himself alone, looking out the window at the cars passing by.

He spent what seemed like an eternity in that place. On occasion, he would be picked up by some humans and held so that their offspring could touch him. There came lots of little, odd creatures that were looking at him, smooching him, laughing or making faces at him. Once, a red-haired boy started pulling on his ears and tail so hard that he had to growl, showing all his teeth, something he had never ever done in his entire life.

At that time, he was still Brownie, as it was written on the tag attached to his cage: "Brownie, a puppy from a well-known lineage of circus dogs. 5 months old. Guaranteed to entertain you and your family."

A few times, he had made friends with other dogs his age, mainly by gazing at each other through the bars of the cages and barking short messages sporadically, especially at night when there were no humans around. People seemed very sensitive to barking, but humans never wondered how dogs managed to put up with their annoying utterances. However, nobody stuck around for long. And soon it was his turn to leave, just as he thought he was the older resident of that place.

One morning, when the sun was shining bright through the huge window, a man stopped by his cage. He was short and stocky, bald, with small brown eyes too close to one another to be good-looking. He was dressed in a black suit, polished with grease around the cuffs of the sleeves and dusted with dandruff on the shoulders. But he had a big smile. Even when he spoke, his large mouth shaped every sound he made, moving freely from left to right and up and down. The dog couldn't get enough of it. It was so funny that Pepper started wiggling his tail and barking slightly, jumping on his back legs with excitement, climbing up his wire cage. The stranger bent over the cage and cooed to him; and a few minutes later, they were leaving the place together.

The man whom they called Bob brought him home, put on a leash and flea collar, gave him food and a litter box, then took off for work. And so, a month passed. The man would come home at night with a fast food bag, settle on the living room couch, and call the dog to sit by and share the dinner. Bob used to fall asleep halfway through any TV show, puffing and snorting, and stay asleep until – out of despair – his canine pet would lick his nose, wake him up and drag him to bed. That month, his name had still been Brownie even though Bob mostly called him Dog, with a capital D. But it didn't last. Soon, a new companion arrived. It was a female, short and stocky just like Bob. She took his spot on the couch and, at night, closed the bedroom door shut. Brownie's life changed, and so did his name. He was now "that mutt." He didn't find it insulting, not yet, because his master still loved him and cooed to him from time to time, calling him "muttie" instead. He didn't hate her either, rather he was sad that she was mean. What was worse, he thought, she had no sense of humor. She didn't laugh when the dog was pretending to get scared of his own image in the mirror, nor did she find it funny when he would bring her Bob's socks to put them on. He even invented new tricks for her, like the one where he was trying to catch his tail. But she never laughed, she just shook her head and kicked him away.

Another spring came. By now, it was clear that Bob's female friend was there to stay, and their life settled into a daily routine in which the dog's role was marginal. He gave up on trying to make friends with her but kept tight to Bob, who was still bringing him to the park and throwing him the stick or talking to him when they were alone. But he never got the couch treat again and, what was worse, he was not allowed in the living room most of the time.

In the summer, people came and tore apart the house, breaking down walls, ripping up the floors and changing the furniture. From his point of view, it looked like she was in charge of all this mess while Bob grew gloomier by the day.

Then the fall came, and it was getting colder at night, rainier throughout the day, but the house was still a mess. Bob told her he had no more money to spend, but she didn't stop. Now she was tearing apart the bathroom, his last refuge. One November afternoon, he came home from work and had no place to go, for the potty seat was missing. He looked around and opened his mouth up wide, but no sound came out. Watching from the other side of the empty room, Pepper thought his master was going to explode along with his bladder and sprout out a long jet of pee, painting the new walls of his house in a bright yellow color. Bob ran outside, behind the bushes. That night, the woman left and never came back. Life went on, but Bob's good spirit never returned.
CHAPTER 2

Pepper slept all night. When he woke up, the sun was making its way up, rising shyly on the eastern horizon, then conquering the whole sky little by little. Curled near a tree trunk, he opened his eyes and looked around. First, he saw that the mouse, whose body he had laid down closely, was gone. Second, he saw four white little legs dancing on the carpet of dead leaves. But before he had a chance to shake off sleepiness, the four little legs turned away and disappeared around a bush. As they walked, he caught a glimpse of the back of a poodle and her wagging tail. The visitor left behind a sweet scent that made Pepper instantly hungry. Then he remembered the missing rodent and jumped up looking for him, but the mouse was nowhere to be found.

"Mice!" he said for himself.

In broad daylight, the park looked smaller than he had imagined the night before. There were a few benches and a playground but no more than a few acres with trees and bushes, enclosed by a tall fence. Behind it, he heard the roaring engines rushing down a highway.

Pepper slept all day, checking the nearby trash bin for food scraps without any luck.

At nightfall, Pepper left his hideout to follow his dream. And he was close, he knew it. All the signs about this city seemed very familiar. The smell of the ground, heavy with rain, the fumes of the leaves drying in the sun, the odor randomly brought by a gust of wind, and even the way humans talked – all were well known to Pepper. The only thing he needed to figure out was which part of the town to go. But before then, he wanted to pay another visit to the restaurant.

The streets were busy, and he kept creeping through the backyards, causing loud barks from his peers behind fences. He could smell food being cooked as he came closer and closer. French fries and burgers, chicken wings, and an occasional fish steak. Gosh, was that ever engrossing. But right in the middle of all those food waves was one that frightened him. It was like a chill running through his body that made his blood freeze inside the veins. He stopped by a tree, raised his leg for a short time and kept sniffing around, but couldn't tell what was wrong. I'm going crazy with hunger, he thought and kept moving. But he was wrong, as he was yet to discover.

Feeling hungry was something he only had encountered since being alone. Even when that lady took over Bob's place, he still had plenty food to eat because she would leave him dried dog food in his bowl; something he suspected she did because she didn't want to be bothered. So, he didn't bother her, either.

The first time he became aware of the existence of such a sensation was just after he had lost his master. First, the hunger introduced itself as a mild tingling in his stomach that took him by surprise. Then it became stronger and stronger as time went by, until it hurt. The nagging feeling never ceased till he ate, which happened very belatedly at a point when he almost lost consciousness.

Hiding inside a big, cold building, smelling like stinking farts, waiting for something to happen, he had slipped into a dark slumber, waking up occasionally just to whine in pain. An eternity passed. But at once, with a slap on his nose, he was forced to come back to life. There was a small creature standing in front of his eyes, wiggling its body and waving its long, skinny tail. At first, Pepper couldn't figure it out. Drowsy, he raised his head and pricked his ears, with his last drop of energy sniffing the air in a desperate search for any potential danger. The little creature – a mouse, as he managed to unravel – squeaked and slapped Pepper's nose one more time before vanishing into the dark. When he got up from his cold concrete bed, he had found – a few steps away – a little piece of cheese, smelly and sticky, which he had swallowed almost without chewing. It felt good. He got on his feet and left the place, his stomach rumbling like crazy. He took the mouse's trail and tried to follow it. He kept going down the street until the unpleasant smell became fainter and then died in front of a sewage.

Funny how these mice were changing his fate, he thought. He clearly remembered the cheese... it was good, but the tingling in his stomach didn't stop. And since then, he was almost always hungry.

* * *

People came early. It was an important night in the town's life, or at least so Hank thought. There was only a single item on the agenda. So, when an agenda has only one subject, but everybody has been called three times to confirm their participation, that's big. It was no secret that they wanted to get rid of someone at any price, and Hank had a gut feeling about the method these people were considering using.

He took a seat in the back and looked around: there were a lot of faces he didn't know; new faces, he noticed; men and women who had never set foot in the townhall building before, he could just tell.

There came the mayor, Art Goatdigger, with his round face smiling friendlily in all directions as he made a tour of the room, shaking hands with old friends or newcomers. When the mayor stopped in front of him, Hank dropped his papers on the floor and bent down to pick them up, spending more time than he really needed, just waiting for the mayor to move on.

They were not friends at all. In fact, he would say that they were enemies. When Hank's father ran for the council there was a pretty tight fight between the two men. Hank's father lost, mainly because of the mayor's dirty campaign. As a journalist, Hank tried to uncover Art's tricks, but his boss stopped the article before it could reach the printing stage. Ever since, Hank had sworn to fight him till the bitter end, and he didn't miss any opportunities.

The mayor sat down on the big armchair set especially for him in front of the audience. He placed his hands on a long table. On his left and to his right sides sat his councilors, four of them, three men and one woman with a bun on top of her head. She was miss Chinsky, an old lady who had held the same post for most of her life and seen many mayors come and go. Hank gave her a long stare, remembering his own grandmother. "Sometimes, they really look alike," he muttered, then quickly looked around hoping nobody had heard him through the loud buzz.

Mayor Art lay back in his chair and crossed his legs. One of the men on the right – a little person, skinny and bold – bowed politely and whispered into Art's ear. The mayor nodded, then the man stood up and hawked. The room fell silent. Hank pulled a little recorder out of his pocket and waited with his thumb stuck on the red record button.

"All right," the counselor started. "If everybody is here... hmm, and I see there's plenty of citizens... Oh, and there is Mister Jackman, right there in the back." The counselor waved to a man sitting close by the back wall. "Hello Mr. Jackman!" The entire room turned to look. "He's my neighbor and a pet groomer, hehe..." The little man laughed.

"All right, all right mister Dinky," intervened the mayor, "let's go on with our meeting."

"Oh, yeah. Excuse me, please...," the counselor said. "So, dear citizens, we meet here tonight to discuss important things concerning our town... ehh, our town's future... ehh... or maybe, let's say, our little inhabitants' future; because, as you may or may not know, or are just about to find out... hehe..." He laughed again until the mayor kicked his leg under the table.

"All right", he started again, but the mayor kept kicking the lower part of his leg, which was painful. "Here's our mayor," he finally announced, pointing to Art Goatdigger seated in his massive chair.

Someone in the front row applauded. The mayor stood up and cleared his throat.

"Dear citizens, we meet here tonight to discuss the future of our town and take important decisions. At no other time has this council been challenged like today, no other mayor in Happyland has ever been faced with such an enormous problem, and nobody else in the town's long history has been called to be part of a such a historic discussion."

The mayor paused and browsed the room with a long glance from left to right, then from right to left. The audience was quiet, but a few people fidgeted on their chairs.

"Folks," he went on, "I called you here tonight to fight against our strongest enemy, the one that hides underground and strikes behind our back, the one that never has a moment of courage to face us. That, folks, is the worst evil ever: the mouse."

At the sound of these words, a murmur spread across the room. People turned to each other; some surprised, some angry, some enthusiastic.

Art waited for the noise to calm down, then went on with his discourse. He was proposing that a part of the city's budget be spent on killing all mice. A project was already in the works, along with a budget proposal. He was asking the good citizens of Happyland to take a stand in favor of it. Once he was done, a murmur of approval rose from the front part of the room.

"Yeah, good thinking, Art!" someone said.

"It's about time!" shouted another.

"Count on me, mayor!" sprung a third.

The effervescent murmur continued to make the tour of City Hall. However, a certain segment remained quiet, namely that representing people who lived on the Hills. The mayor knew he would have to confront those silent constituents sooner or later, but he was determined to win no matter what. He raised a hand, and the latest whispers died one by one.

"Citizens!" he boomed, and the glass of the windows vibrated. "Tonight, I ask for your support. I ask for your trust, for your minds, and for your hands. Please stand by me, and we will win!"

"Phew!" someone said suddenly in a loud voice that broke the magic of the mayor's speech. "I thought you were asking for our money, thanks God we were spared." A burst of laughter crossed the room.

"I wouldn't celebrate yet," a voice from the back contributed.

Hank looked over the heads of the people in front of him, trying to see who was speaking. He was desperately looking for an ally, someone with the courage to oppose the mayor's plan.

Art Goatdigger was no fool, however. He fully understood that he hadn't won his battle yet, that he needed to keep pulling the right strings tonight. People shouldn't worry about how much they had to pay. They should focus on the action itself, and become enthusiastic about it. The mice eradication plan would eventually become as essential as fresh air. Then and only then would the mayor make the budget public and ask people for their money.

"Citizens," he said in a honeyed voice, "no amount of money in the world could buy us happiness." The audience waited. "But money can buy a clean house, a healthy life, a safer world for our children. And in the end, aren't those things what we need to be happy?"

While the mayor paused, the silence was so deep that you could hear the only fly buzzing around the huge chandelier hanging in the middle on the ceiling.

"The problem we are facing now is more serious than we initially thought." He continued by informing the audience that he was just about to form a citizens committee to support the plan, and how they should all elect someone in their midst to represent them in that forum.

One of his counselors – a short, chubby forty-something bachelor – stood up, pushed his chin upward, and said: "People, we have set paper and pencil here! Please come and write down the name of the individual you think is right for this committee. Once a name has been put down several times, it will be considered for a list. Once the list has been compiled, we will proceed to vote for the names on it. Clear enough? Then let us start."

There was the screeching of chairs on the concrete floor as people rose and moved up to the table, where they crowded around a huge urn-like container. Some of them were sharing names, consulting their peers, others were quietly folding a small piece of paper that contained their name of choice, then dropping it into the urn.

Fast, a queue was formed. The mayor, now virtually lying on his large chair, was supervising the room with a cunning eye. He had seen that reporter in one of the backseats, and that meant troubles. Hank Peterson was no joker.

From his position, Hank felt the mayor's stare like a hot iron on his forehead. The chair suddenly became uncomfortable. He surveyed the room looking for a spot away from the mayor's eyes. But first, he needed to infiltrate the queue and find out what names were dropped in the urn. His talkative nature helped him again. When Hank pretended he wanted to help choosing the committee but didn't know anybody, there were more than a dozen honest citizens telling him who he should pick and why. Shortly after dropping a blank piece of paper in the container, he left the queue with a list of names and a few spicy details about the candidates. Happy, he exited the hall, the mayor's sharp eye following him. Once he was out of sight, Hank took a left turn and, passing through a few short dark corridors, stopped in front of a door. "Room 206," read a board hanging at eye level. He was exactly where he wanted. He had just grabbed the knob, slowly twisting it to right, when he saw a gleam of light slanting through the door crack. But it was too late to stop. Footfall was rushing through the dark corridors. With no way to escape, he pushed the door open, ready to confront whatever danger might lie ahead.

* * *

No moon was shining on the black sky, no star was peeking through the heavy clouds. Pepper kept moving through the backyards and gardens, driven by his nose and his rumbling stomach. But he was stepping into the lion's mouth, he thought when the scent – brought by a gust of wind – rubbed his nostrils for a second. The closer he got, the stronger and more frightening the scent. He thought of turning back but swore to himself to overcome his cowardice and be that dog that stands up for himself – and others when needed, of course. He was a medium-sized dog, as stray as he could be, with black and brown fur, and yellow socks. His bulging, black eyes were popping up from his very round black head, over a wet black snout.

So, he kept going. When he was a few feet away from the old tree where he had lain a few nights ago, he came to a stop rather abruptly. Sticking his neck out and forcing his eye to penetrate the deep darkness, he unraveled the features of a large dog and the frightening odor he had sniffed earlier. He looked over his shoulders, ready to sprint back from where he came, but it was too late. The big dog was already growling across the street, baring his teeth. Worse, he seemed to have a whole army of big, bad dogs with him. Pepper waited for a second; but when the gang crossed the street, he lay down flat, tail dusting the ground.

They had surrounded him and slowly pushed him against the old tree's trunk. Pepper rolled onto his back, tucked his tail, and slightly raised his leg. The circle tightened around him. He let out a pathetic yelp and almost wetted himself when the biggest of the dogs, the one with lower incisors poking through his upper lip like a tool of torture, jumped on his neck, missing his jugular by a thread. He backed up and partially hid behind the tree; but there were also other dogs, ready to rip his tail. He turned around to face them, hoping to make a breakthrough and run. There were three dogs with what looked like mutt features and, a little farther away, another one with white legs. There was that sweet scent, too. Puzzled, Pepper had a flashback. That second was enough for him to lose his guard. The three mutts attacked him face first, while big teeth pierced his back from behind. His howl shook the frozen November night. He crashed on his back, surrendering, but they kept ripping on his body. Before passing out, Pepper saw the white-legged dog barking, telling them to stop. Nobody listened.

He was out only for a short moment. When he regained consciousness, the pack of stray dogs was running, tail between legs, yelping, not daring to look back. He was lying on the mud, bleeding, his whole body aching. From above, he heard a little laugh.

"Hey dog!" called someone from above. "Dog, are you still alive?"

Through incredible effort, he managed to raise his head and look through the bare branches of the old tree. There, he saw the mouse he had rescued the previous night; he recognized it because the mouse was brown with a black stripe on its head and spine and a long, curled tail, like nothing he had seen before.

"It's you again," murmured Pepper.

"So, is there a problem?" The remark came promptly.

"No, not at all. I just thought you were gone; I mean, dead."

"Just FYI, I have been given ten new lives as recently as this morning. You won't see me dead for a while."

"Yeah? Do you have one to spare?" asked the dog.

"Don't be a fool," the mouse replied. "Get up and get out of here, they'll return rather soon."

"I'm weak, mouse. I won't get too far," said the dog, pulling himself up. "And then, where should I go?"

"You are stronger than I was last night. Stop complaining and get going. Follow me and don't ask questions," commanded the little rodent, coming fast down the tree trunk.

Pepper looked sad and sore. The mouse came closer and, leaning against the dog's lower leg, started pushing with all his might. But the dog didn't move. Exasperated, the mouse screamed with anger: "Come on, dog, move. They are turning back right now. They'll be here in no time, and then I won't be able to help you anymore!"

"I beg your pardon? Help me?" said Pepper with amusement.

"Duh! Why do you think they ran away in the first place?"

"Certainly because they were afraid of you," laughed the dog gently.

"Bingo! Now, let's get up and go."

The dog took a few small steps, then lowered himself, allowing the mouse to jump up on his back. He then walked away, vanishing into the night.

* * *

The door swung open. Head first, Hank threw himself inside, kicking the door shut. He landed on the floor, at the feet of a large and tall office desk. "RECEPTION" read the plastic holder on the wall.

Suddenly, the footsteps he had been hearing on the hallway stopped. Hank held his breath and looked around. Where to go?... where to go? he wondered, slipping underneath the desk, not knowing who else was in the room.

A phone rang, and someone picked up, speaking loudly in between seconds of silence.

"Yes, mister mayor. No, mister mayor. Just checking, I thought someone was going down the hallway. Sure, right away, mister mayor."

The voice came from outside the room, presumably belonging to the person in the hallway. Hank was thinking about this from beneath the desk.

When the footsteps resumed, this time in the opposite direction, he decided it would be safe for now to get out and take a look around. While trying to roll out from underneath the cabinet, he heard a soft cough coming from above and froze in an instant. Peeking through the legs of furniture, he saw a pair of white sneakers at the end of a pair of ragged jeans.

"Ah, shoogar!" he said surprised.

"Raise your hands and come out now," a female voice replied. "And no tricks, please, because I'm armed."

When Hank emerged from his hiding spot, he saw a young woman with a long wooden stick – the kind used at presentation boards – pointed right at him. Dressed in bluejeans, green tank and a camouflage jacket, with a bush of blond hair falling free-and-wild over her left eye, she looked like Artemis, a sculpture his friend had done for one of the public parks. The only difference was that Artemis carried a bow.

"Easy, easy," he whispered while stepping back. "That stick is pretty sharp."

"Indeed," she nodded. She left her safe place behind the desk. One step at a time, keeping the stick pointed at his chest, she cautiously approached the big backpack he had dropped on the floor, full of precious journalistic tools. He watched her, worried she might try to destroy his recordings from the meeting. When she reached the bag, he leaped towards her like a lion and snatched the tack from her hands. As she tried to resist, he pushed her away so hard that she fell, landing on the wastebasket. She knocked it down, spilling its entire content on the floor.

For a second, they looked at each other; she lying on the floor surrounded by crumbled paper, and he still standing with the stick in his right hand, high up in the air.

Finally, he relaxed. "I am really sorry, let me help you." He offered her his hand but was ignored by the girl, who was now busy going through the paper balls.

"Anything interesting?" He risked asking a question, not knowing who she was. As she didn't answer, he continued: "Lost something important?"

"No, no," she said in a hurry, jumping on her feet. Then she moved to the other side of the desk and, having picked up a backpack bigger than his, headed straight to the exit. Hank watched her open the door, noticing that some of the paper balls from the wastebasket had made it inside the pockets of her jacket.

She sneaked out of the mayor's office unhindered, leaving Hank to wonder who she was and what she was doing there. Alone, he looked around, his eyes reaching far and behind the front desk. On the left, he saw another door. Mayor's office, he thought with a hand on the knob. He stepped through and disappeared, swallowed by the darkness on the other side. The door shut closed behind him.
CHAPTER 3

Pepper was at the end of his rope, tired, hurt, and hungry. It had started raining again, and the raindrops had cleaned his scars and soothed his thirst. He had kept moving, following the direction given by the mouse he was carrying on his back. At last, they came to a halt at a shelter. Looking around, feeling dizzy, and with a bloody eye, Pepper felt startled. When had he seen this alley? How come the smell was so familiar? Suddenly, he remembered why he came into this city in the first place, and his step became invigorated while his tail stood up proud.

"Take a left here, dog," said the mouse close to Pepper's ear. "Now, can you see that little gap in the gate? Squeeze through."

Pepper did as instructed. He passed through the hole. When he looked around on the other side, he finally figured out where he was, so he stopped and looked over the shoulder to his little guide.

"A circus," he noticed softly.

"A deserted circus," the mouse corrected him, emphasizing 'deserted' to avoid any confusion.

"What happened to the people and animals?"

"They left. Don't worry. They, or others, will come back next spring. This place is big and quiet, and there is plenty food left in the horses' stall."

Pepper looked around in awe.

"Come dog, come. I have a nice spot for you to rest and heal," said the mouse, jumping down from the heights of its carrier and running ahead.

Limping, Pepper followed the mouse into a wooden shack. It was dark and shady, and smelled moldy.

"Make yourself comfortable and rest. I will leave you now, but I'll be back soon," said the little rodent, taking off.

Pepper sniffed around and thought there was a faint trace of something very familiar, but he could not put his paw on what he sniffed.

For the life of me, what is it? he wondered. After inspecting all the corners of the little room, he decided to lie down in the place farthest from the door. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but his body was aching and his wounds stung. He licked the wound on his back and the one by the left thigh, which made him feel better. With long strokes of the tongue, he cleaned the wounds this way, removing the last traces of the attacker's scent. But one wound remained, the one under his left eye where he couldn't quite reach.

Wishing to have a long, peaceful sleep while waiting for the mouse to return, he dozed off. He dreamt that he was walking in the old park with his master when a white, curly poodle girl stopped by. His master petted the new dog, then pulled out Pepper's leash and rolled it into a ball, throwing it up in the air, telling him: "Fetch it, Brownie, fetch it!" Pepper swirled up in the air; but when he came back with the leash between his teeth and the tail wagging with joy, he only found a little dead mouse. In his sleep, Pepper moved, jerked and whimpered. He finally woke up with a sore leg after rolling on the open wound.

As he opened his eyes, he saw his friend right in front of his nose. And only now, being somewhat away from the turmoil of the street, was he struck by the peculiarity of the relationship between them. First, the mouse was speaking to him and he understood. Second, and in logical order, he was speaking back (more like growling), and the mouse apparently understood that too. He would have liked to ask a few questions but was greatly afraid of being considered a fool. So, he said nothing. Instead, he blinked twice, pretending he was still asleep.

The mouse sighed and sat down, prepared to wait however long it takes. Shortly, the dog spoke to him out of nowhere.

"So...," started Pepper, "you live here?"

"My new winter residency. Quite different than the cellar at Three Oaks. But when summer comes, I move down on the canals where it's cooler."

"What's your name, if I may?" the rodent added.

"Pepper," the dog answered. "Yours?"

"I am Wizzy, the great and the strong," the mouse said, rising on his hind legs and gesturing with his forepaws in a majestic salutation.

Pepper watched, baffled.

"What?" he said after a while.

"What what?" asked Wizzy. "You don't understand, obviously."

"Yeah," sighed Pepper. "I know exactly what you say, but I don't know what you mean."

"I thought dogs are smart," replied the mouse, laughing.

Pepper pretended he didn't hear the sarcastic remark coming from a mouse, and continued: "What do you mean when you say 'the great and the strong'? You look small to me and very weak. At least compared with other mice I know."

"Maybe I have other strengths, and maybe my greatness shows in uncommon ways," said Wizzy, upset.

But Pepper wasn't paying attention. He perked his ears to a harsh noise coming from outside the shack. It sounded like something was being dragged across the harsh cement floor. When the noise became stronger, he sensed a tantalizing aroma of meat mixed with milk. It almost smelled like the food Bob's girlfriend used to fill his bowl. From his corner, Wizzy glanced briefly at Pepper. He ran to the door and climbed up the wooden panel till he reached the door handle, which he then jumped up on three times. The lock sprang from its nest, and the door opened. Then, sliding down the handle, Wizzy catapulted himself onto a tall pile of hay, neatly stacked by the side of the door.

The dog was speechless. Through the crack, he saw an army of mice lined up like soldiers, advancing towards him.

"What in the world is happening?" he muttered, tense, rising from the ground in a ready-to-fight-or-run pose. In milliseconds, scary visions ran through his dog mind. Him, eaten by the mice; him, stabbed a thousand times; hundreds of mice jumping on his body and digging in his wounds, attracted by the smell of blood, as he'd heard it happen with the sharks. With a quick look around and a loud growl, he evaluated the possibility of attacking the army of mice. He could probably rout them with a single stroke of his healthy paw. But instead of fighting or attempting to flee, he stood still because he could not believe that these mice would harm him. Not after he had gotten to know some members of their species so well, becoming their friend, sharing good and bad times together. Not knowing exactly what to believe, he was looking to Wizzy for answers.

The mouse, which had positioned himself so that nobody could conveniently reach him, seemed to be smiling.

"Relax," he said, "they are bringing you food."

"Oh!" sighed the dog, falling back to the ground with a huge sense of relief.

The first row of mice entered the shack dragging a generous allowance of dog food. The bright green bag, which had the inscription "Symphony Dog Food," could be seen even here in the darkness of the room. A second row of mice were pushing a huge plastic bowl that once had been white but now was sort of dubious gray. The container was half full of water, splashing left and right as it glided across the bumpy floor. After the mice set the two loads in the middle of the room, they stepped back in perfect order, sticking to the walls. I guess they are scared of me, too! thought Pepper. One of them did remain up front, however, and – coughing slightly – started speaking mouse language in a high-pitched voice. Once he'd finished, he turned to Wizzy, who sat up on top of the haystack.

"He said that we brought you food and water, as you can see," translated Wizzy. "That you should eat, drink and get better. He said not to leave the shack, and that's an order!"

"Well, thank you," replied Pepper softly. But, he had other things he would rather have said.

The mice left as ordered as they came, Wizzy tailing the rows. Pepper laid his head on the floor, using his folded right paw as a headrest, while watching the mice departing, taking with them millions of answers to his questions.

* * *

Hank turned on the light switch and found himself inside a huge room, heavily furnished with black steel desks and chairs. Around the wall were large maps of different areas of the city and big charts with graphics and numbers. Hank went closer to study them. He took his time spending precious minutes in front of each of them, having only a vague idea of what they represented. Frustrated, he looked at the clock and decided to move on. Right in front of him, at the end of a thick red floor runner, stood the biggest desk he had ever seen, mostly empty except for this big black screen on its left side. The computer, Hank thought and moved straight toward it. After a few steps on the red carpet, he stopped abruptly because the door behind him had suddenly been opened. The girl who had left a little while ago stormed back inside, quickly assessed the room, and then disappeared behind a red curtain.

"What´s going on?" Hank whispered before picking up traces of a loud, fast approaching conversation.

"I've got the numbers. They´re not in our favor," someone said in a high-pitched, frightened voice.

"You stupid pig!" boomed another. "Of course they are. Make it work."

"But mister mayor...," protested the first man, while another door slammed open.

Now that Hank finally realized why the girl had run into hiding, he was fast to follow her. Within a second, he found himself standing in a dark place smelling strongly of male deodorant, surrounded by suits and shirts on hangers. He breathed heavily while his eyes got used to the dim rays sneaking in, then saw that he was standing shoulder to shoulder with the blond girl.

"Hi there again," he whispered.

"Hi," she replied, and he thought he detected a smile.

The steps came to a halt outside the closet. A metallic noise broke the short silence when the mayor let his body drop into the massive chair at his equally massive desk.

"Can you get 60/40?" he asked.

"As of right now, we´re at 41.6," came the answer.

"So... What' the other percentage?"

"58.4."

"Are you sure? Did you use a calculator?"

The man coughed with modesty. "I don't need one, mister mayor. I can use my head."

The mayor sat silent. Then, through the still air, Hank heard the noise of a running computer, followed by a few loud clicks.

"Do you have any idea how much we will be losing? Not speaking about that 10 million dollars for the city. Do you want to let this money go to waste or put it to good work, in your pockets?" inquired the mayor.

"Put it to work in my pockets, sir," the voice hurried to say.

"In that case, by tomorrow morning, the percentage needs to be the other way around. 60/40, understood?" the mayor said, making it sound more like an order than a question.

"Now," he continued in a softer tone, "I need to make it to that party. Give me a clean shirt and a sports jacket."

Hank was waiting for the conversation to continue when he heard someone approach his hiding place. Duh, he thought, reminding himself that he was in a closet full of shirts. Through the dark, he saw the girl sliding towards the corner of the room when the door opened, and a hand reached inside, barely missing Hank's nose. The hand grabbed a hanger.

"Is this OK, sir?" asked the same person.

"Perfect," the mayor said, changing his clothes in silence. "All right," he sighed, ready to leave. "Now, go to your office and take care of those numbers."

The two men left, the mayor with a loud step and heavy breath, the other one – who Hank now recognized as one of the councilors – with a mild gait, turning off lights and keys in the locker.

"Finally, alone!" Hank whispered, relieved, forgetting about the blond girl stuck in the corner. He was almost running out of breath. From her far corner, the girl slipped out on the floor, almost kicking him off balance.

"Are you still there?"

"Yes. You?" he said, and they both laughed.

"Shhh!" she whispered. Reaching into a pocket, she pulled out a pen flashlight, which she turned on, bringing the shirts and jackets to life. The mayor's big shadow floated around for a second.

Feeling tired, Hank sat down, leaning against the wall. He had many questions for this meteoric girl but had no clue about where to start. Most of all, he was worried about sounding too excited, too interested in her, as he found her irresistibly cute.

"Who are you?" He found himself speaking out loud, intrigued and curious.

"Nice way to start a conversation," she replied, spiteful. "Who are you? And what are you doing here? It doesn't look like you came to salute the mayor of Happyland."

"I'm sorry," he said, "bad manners. My name is Hank Peterson, and I am a journalist. Now it's your turn."

"Alice Gavin. Youth Environmental Project Manager."

Hank thought for a minute. "What's that?"

"Treehugger."

"Ah... You don't look like... uh..., you know...," stuttered Hank, not knowing how to express himself or whether he should believe her or not. That was one of his weaknesses: Doubt.

"Like what, a treehugger?" She finished the sentence for him. "Typical reporter," she then concluded, standing up.

Hank also got up, and she waved her little flashlight towards the door.

"Should we get out of here?" she asked, waiting for him to move first. He looked around the closet, almost sorry to give up the ad hoc intimacy, somehow sensing that this was probably the closest he'd ever get to the blonde named Alice. But he stepped out, waiting for her to follow.

The room looked gloomy and shady with occasional car lights shooting through the window. It smelled like deodorant and cigarettes.

"Here's a flashlight for you." She handed him another pen.

"I'll check the desk and the computer," he offered.

"I'll take file folders," she replied, waving her lantern towards a steel cabinet by the window.

"Wait!" he said and quickly drew the curtains.

"Oh, no!" she complained. "It's locked. I have to use my last hairpin." Pulling it out of her hair, Alice started working on the latch until it opened with a click

Methodically, Hank was going through the drawers, checking out papers and business cards, and carefully putting them back as he found them, snatching photos with an incredible small camera that he took out of his pocket. Then, all there was left for him to examine was the computer. But once on, the screen prompted him for a password.

"Only the mayor's fingerprint will give access to this computer," he said, giving up further searches. "Any luck on your part?"

"Maybe," she said, closing and locking the cabinet. She was carrying a fat yellow file folder, which she stuffed into her backpack.

"Are you willing to share your findings?" asked Hank with a smile in his voice.

"Only if you share the photos," came the answer.

"I know a place that is still open for dinner."

"I'm in," she said, grabbing an empty wine glass from the coffee table on her way out.

* * *

Days and nights came and went. Sunrays and deep dark skies sneaked through the cracks, winds bent trees and blew away dead leaves, and loaded clouds poured heavy rain over the shack. Pepper's wounds got infected, forcing him to lie on his hay bed, delirious and feverish. He rose only once, to drink water. On the third day, he was only conscious for a very short time before he felt his wounds burning. Then the shadow of a large eagle moved across the ground. Strong claws grabbed him. He was a puppy again, and his fur was white, not brown. He was looking at his legs, his body, astounded. He was white, and they were going to keep him. They needed him at the circus, where all dogs were white. His mom licked his fur until it got smooth and wet with saliva. Then his wounds started burning again, and he was running around in flames, crying and rolling in the mud. He had wired and painful dreams, always being close to death, with eagles, clowns, and tambourines.

The mice came and left at times, shaking their little heads disbelievingly. Wizzy finally told them that he would be spending his days and nights with the dog, watching over him.

"There's nothing you can do," said a fat one with long whiskers curled at the ends.

The mice crowd approved with a loud murmur.

"Yes, there is!" Wizzy was quick to say. "I got my power back, sir."

The fat one, obviously the leader of the mice community, laughed indulgently. "All right, you show us what you can accomplish," he said, and the mice giggled. Then they turned around and left one by one. Wizzy stayed and soon took a spot in the haystack, his little body resting against Pepper's shoulders.

On the fourth day, the dog woke up and felt better for the first time. Even though he opened his eyes to find the mouse staring at him, he initially didn't know who or where he was. There was food somewhere, he could smell it. Following his nose, he crawled toward the bowl the mice had brought in days ago. Only then did he come to his senses.

"Wizzy," he murmured with a weak voice.

"Correct," answered the mouse, now moving around, trying to keep clear of his patient's wobbly steps. "Start eating and drinking, my friend, because we have a lot of work to do."

Pepper did as he was told. For the next day, he gobbled down the food and drained the water. His legs became sturdy, and he told Wizzy that he was now ready to get out of here and do the job he had wanted to do in a first place.

"Not so fast!" Wizzy cautioned. "You are still confined to this place."

Pepper sat on his hind legs. He was ready to confront his little friend that had way too many secrets.

"All right," he said, "tell me what's going on. And don't try to hide anything, because I can smell a liar a mile away."

Wizzy sighed. Then he sat in front of his friend, looking like he was getting ready for a long conversation. "As a matter of fact, your smelling sense is what's keeping you here," he started. "Rumor has it that there is a dog with a sensational smelling sense, which can detect anything – as you said – from a mile away. And he is always right. This dog was a friend of the mice in Pine City and has done some good deeds for the leader of the mice in that community."

Pepper perked up his ears.

"But the dog left town before the mice could thank him. So, the Mighty Mikey, king of all mice, spread word about this dog and ordered all his subject to be on high alert. If they come across this special dog, they must give him exceptional treatment. Now...," Wizzy paused for a second, "...we think we have found him, and that dog is no one else than you."

Dog and mouse looked into each other's eyes for a second.

"Am I right?" asked Wizzy.

"You may be," answered Pepper, "but I am no special dog with a sensational smelling sense."

"Yes, you are, and one day I'm going to show you. But for now, you have to wait for our leader, Mr. Cat Whiskers, to meet you properly and to present you with our appreciation."

"And how long is that going to take?" the dog inquired, pretending to be bored by the task.

"Oh, no time at all. But then again, Mighty Mikey has a request for you as well."

"Huh?" Pepper mumbled. "First a prisoner, then a slave?"

"Just wait to hear our story. And if you decide to leave, then so be it," declared Wizzy, looking down to avoid the dog's snoopy eyes.

"Well, if you say so. But I do have a question, if I may."

Wizzy raised his head again. "Bring it on."

"How come you can speak to me and I am able to understand you? And the other way around."

"It's because I understand and speak dog language," Wizzy said and tilted his head in a display of modesty. "And oh, I just forgot to mention that I am a wizard."

* * *

With a pile of yellow folders under one arm and a cup of hot coffee in the other hand, Hank walked into his boss' large private cubicle. His boss – an older man with a big beer belly and a white mane of hair like that of Santa Claus – was sitting at his desk, tilted back on his recliner while watching the news on a big screen on the opposite wall.

"Hi boss," said Hank, stepping in.

"Hi Hank. What's up, boy? Have you seen the Congressional vote? That's close. Come on in and take a sit," the boss said, turning to him.

"I was just wondering if you had a chance to read my story and make a decision," asked Hank, stopping by the side of the desk.

"Ah... Yes, I did. As a matter of fact, I even discussed it with our editor-in-chief."

Oh no, there goes my story! thought Hank, remembering how his last investigative piece about the same mayor and his tainted campaign was left to suffocate in the drawers of the editor-in-chief. He knew that his odds of success this time around were slim, but Alice had convinced him to at least give it a try.

In fact, they had been working on the subject for the last three days. Even though there where gaps, the story was still coherent and had enough meat to be published. It was only a matter of time until the mayor implemented his evil plan. The town council had hired a team of experts to make a prognosis, based on the plan, for eradication of the mice community. But the experts were unable to agree upon the method, which some of them considered a danger to the public health. That's what Alice had found in the yellow folder she had slipped out with the other night. Moreover, it looked like the method had been tried but went wrong: Hank had found a picture of a dead dog that had played with a dead mouse. There were also various rumors, of course, that he could add as "this source prefers to remain anonymous" along with his meeting notes. Alice had contributed with a complex set of data about mice – including their numbers and habitat, along with their "chain of life" – to support the biological and environmental part of the story.

"You have nothing to lose if you try," Alice had said that night at the Three Oaks restaurant and bar over a skimpy dinner and a glass of wine. "Besides, you're building a case. Maybe you'll be rejected today, maybe tomorrow will be the same; but someday when you least expect it, they'll look into it, and then they'll publish it."

"That's never gonna happen. You have an optimistic nature, Alice," Hank had said. But she just wouldn't give up.

"You have to try. The mayor is not their friend, either. Someday, he'll make a mistake, and they'd love to take revenge. Then your story would be like gold... Don't lose hope," she added when Hank didn't answer.

He sank into his chair, shoulders slammed, head hanging down, quiet. "I don't know..."

"That may well be, you don't know what is going to happen. But since you need to know, you should submit your story. Otherwise, why did you even go through all the trouble of coming to the meeting or spying on the mayor?" she said, nailing it.

"See," he said, "I don't have enough story meat to feel completely satisfied. I am missing some important supporting documents. I need more evidence."

"Alright, I understand that, but you must plant a seed to grow a tree."

"Jeez, you're so wise," he said, and both burst into laughter. "Would you help with the tree?"

"I'll water it," she replied.

He had taken her advice. But now, speaking with his boss, he was afraid that his seed wouldn't even touch the soil.

Hank gave his boss a long, heavy gaze. He still stood by the side of the desk waiting for an answer, while thinking of Alice and their conversation.

"And?" he dared ask the man who kept watching TV, apparently uninterested in Hank's question.

"Important pieces of evidence are missing from your piece," his boss finally said.

Hank's head dropped.

"What you need to prove is who is giving bribes and how do you know that it is the mayor who takes them. The conversation you recorded is just one piece of the puzzle, but it won't defend you in court. And then," his boss continued, "exactly how does he make it work, what's the plan? We don't know that yet."

"Oh, but we do," said Hank. "We know the places he is targeting. Parks, schools, public places. I have the whole layout. Please take another look at the picture."

"You just have a piece of paper, a simple map with circles on it. Nowhere on that document is the name of the presumed project stated."

"The name of the study is 'The Biggest Rodent Population in Happyland'," cried Hank, whereas his boss turned the TV volume a notch higher.

"Boss," insisted Hank, "give me one more week before closing it. You won't regret it."

The man smiled and raised his left hand, folding down the thumb. "Four days. That's all you get, and only because I trust you." Then he flicked his hand dismissively.

Hank left the office, feeling the weight of each second like a stone hanging on his back. He pulled out his phone and typed a short message. Then, grabbing his backpack, he stormed out of the newsroom. It was five p.m. Alice should be out by now. He jumped on his bike and rode to Three Oaks, where he parked and secured his bike, tying it to a tree across the street in the back of the restaurant. A stinky smell came from the garbage bins placed by the back door.

Walking down the street, he stopped in front of an office supplies store. He entered and spent the next thirty minutes there. Coming back with a brown bag in his hand, he saw a second bike resting by his. Alice was there.
CHAPTER 4

"So, you are a wizard, you say."

Pepper was skeptical, and an experienced mouse like Wizzy could tell right away.

"I'm not just saying. I actually am a wizard," asserted the mouse, emphasizing the words I and am. "But enough of that." He climbed up on the window sill, fast and smooth. And looking through the dirty glass, he said more for himself than for anybody else: "Don't make me demonstrate it to you, OK?"

The mouse was too far away and too little, so Pepper didn't hear him. He was thinking of the mixed feelings he experienced coming here. All the good odors, all that excitement, and all the healing that he had thought came from his mother licking his wounds.

"Dog," cried the mouse. "Dog, wake up!"

"What?" Pepper seemed startled because he had indeed been dozing off.

"They are coming for you. The shadows tell me it is a little before dinner time. Soon, the sun will be gone."

The dog couldn't make sense out of Wizzy's twaddle. Nor did he have time to think. There was a big thud, and the door was opened a crack again. Pepper jumped up on his four legs; and for the first time, he let out a loud bark.

"Easy, easy!" He heard the wizard mouse speak into his ear and remained silent while a parade of mice marched in again. It was déjà vu.

The one with curled whiskers, the leader of the mice community as Wizzy had presented him, stepped up and talked in mouse language while addressing Pepper. Wizzy took his place by the leader and translated, so the dog understood.

"Disclaimer," said the mouse, speaking fast. "This is a translation word by word of what Mr. Cat Whiskers says, and I cannot be made responsible for any misunderstandings, misused or offensive words. Do you understand that? If your answer is Yes, then I will continue my translation. If your answer is No, then you find someone else to translate. Got it?"

Pepper nodded.

"Alright, here we go..."

"His Bossiness, Mr. Mighty Mickey, knowing the many heroic acts you have done for our community in Pine City, and learning that you have traveled to this town, wanted to make sure you hear our gratitude for what you have done for us. Simply put, he says thank you and makes his resources available for you throughout your stay here."

Wizzy stopped, then looked at the fat boss, who spoke to him again in a high-pitched voice. Wizzy was scratching his head unceremoniously.

"Alright," he muttered. "Here we go..."

"All these being said, let's speak business. His Bossiness wants you to know that he appreciates your skills and natural talents. Rather than seeing them go to waste, he wants to put them to a good use. His proposition would exchange your services for our help. In short, we need a sniffer, and in exchange you get our protection in town."

Wizzy fell silent. And waited.

Pepper stood still. He wished he could make that throaty sound people use when they hear something funny. Services vs. protection. That was no fair deal, in his opinion. What kind of protection? he wondered. But he didn't want to hurt the feelings of these nice mice that brought him food and water when he was sick. Also, they were cute, he liked them.

"A sniffer," he said thoughtfully. "To do what?"

Wizzy turned to the fat one for a brief conversation.

Then he faced Pepper again. "We cannot tell you unless you accept our terms."

Pepper became curious. "What's all this secrecy?" he asked, but nobody answered him. "All right, all right. I accept," he said, amused.

Wizzy looked at his leader and said something. Then the leader turned to the crowd of mice that had gathered quietly behind him and gave them a thumbs up. Suddenly, a million little voices seemed to rise at once, cheering. The mice were jumping up with joy. Pepper was overwhelmed; and if he could shed tears, he would in a heartbeat.

Mr. Cat Whiskers waited for the cheers to fade away to a whisper before addressing the mice. While the leader spoke and his subjects listened, Pepper had to wonder about what he was telling them to make them become so quiet and sad. When he was done, the crowd of mice left as ordered as they came. Some of them stepped aside waiting for the mob to crawl out, then gathered by their leader while calling on Wizzy to join. Wizzy gave Pepper a serious look and took his place among the others. They were six mice, all bigger than the common mouse, all with curly whiskers and white fur, their hairs long and shiny. Among them, Wizzy seemed awkwardly out of place with his brown and black appearance on a long and skinny body. One of them said something, and everybody else nodded. Then they stood up on their hind legs, forming a circle. Pepper watched them as they exchanged strange noises, assuming they were deciding something – about him, maybe. He resisted the temptation to ask his friend for a dog-friendly translation. Laying down on his left hip, he felt a sting on his not-yet-closed wound. At the same time, his mind wondered about what being a sniffer in the service of the Mighty Mickey could entail. While he was daydreaming, the council of white mice finished deliberating. Then they all approached Pepper, who opened his eyes to see six little creatures staring at him. Startled, he let out a shy bark. One of them got scared and ran away but was shortly brought back by the others.

The leader took a solemn pose, Wizzy leaned casually against the dog's leg, and Pepper pricked his ears.

"All right," the dog said, "what's next?"

Mr. Whiskers spoke almost immediately, glancing at Wizzy. Then they all fell silent for a few seconds, turned around, and left the building.

"Bye-bye, boss!" shouted Wizzy. The echo of his voice hit the walls of the shack and came back tenfold. Then, turning to Pepper and making himself comfortable in a gap between the dog's forelegs, Wizzy told him the story about how the mice came to realize they needed a sniffer – Pepper, to be more precise.

When he finished, he asked the dog if he wanted to be alone for a while to think matters over. But Pepper was cool with it. He had nothing to "think over," he said, but would rather like something to eat.

"What about the garbage bins at the Three Oaks?" Wizzy asked, ironic.

Pepper blinked his eyes and stuck his tongue out, breathing heavily. "Um... You're speaking about the place where you and I almost got killed?"

"Remember," Wizzy said, "we offered you protection."

A minute later, they both left the shack, the dog limping slightly and the mouse resting between his shoulders.

* * *

Alice was waiting by the stylish hostess, a young woman with red lipstick and red hair, dressed in a tight black shirt over a red pencil skirt, with a huge red scarf tightly wrapped around her throat and stiletto black shoes that were going "bing-bong, bing-bong" on the concrete floor. By comparison, Alice looked like a drifter with her camouflage shirt, unbuttoned over a dark green tank, casually tucked into a pair of jeans, dusty and stained, ripped in the knees and around the edges. A few sticks were poking from one side of her oversized backpack, along with a ruler and an antenna. Hank looked at the two of them, his visual examination lingering on Alice's shiny blond hair, her persuasive perfume reminding him of their first dinner together a few nights ago.

"Hi," said Alice. Hank replied with a big smile.

"A table for two?" asked the hostess, regarding him with deference and disregarding her.

"Yes, please. One in a far corner, out of the way," he answered. They followed the hostess in a sinuously obstacle ridden course around tables on the dining floor.

It was shortly after six p.m., and the restaurant was already full. Its homestyle food and reputation for good service, combined with more than affordable prices, brought in diners from miles away, and it wasn't uncommon to have to wait thirty minutes for a table. But the owner had put in an interesting addition: a late-hour bar, hidden at the far end of the big square building, tucked between the kitchen and the summer terrace, where heavy drinkers could retreat after dinner for a few more shots of spirit. They would sit lined up along the counter, perched on high chairs without backs, in a precarious state of balance. A few steps back, screened by brown velvet curtains, there were three tables, each of them in their own niche just big enough for two chairs almost squeezed against each other. That was the spot the red haired hostess led them to.

"How have you been?" asked Hank once the hostess had left.

"Absolutely awesome," she said, amused. "It seems like we have not seen each other in ages, doesn't it?"

"Long and lonesome were the nights without you," he said, humming a very popular song, looking into her eyes.

Alice laughed but didn't get caught in his game. "Now, tell me what you've got," she demanded, her playful voice becoming sober and a little impatient.

"Nothing more but actually something less than I had the last time we saw each other," he answered.

She waited for him to continue, but Hank was busy looking through a stack a paper in his backpack.

"Ah," she finally said, "a riddle. Allow me to think out loud. As far as I could tell, the only thing that shrank in between our dinners is time."

"Bingo!" he said. Then he told her about the meeting with his boss and how he only had four more days to prove his story true. "I have nothing but a speculative story. No piece of evidence, no plans, no papers, no signatures, no numbers... nothing!"

"Oh, but I have something for you," she said after carefully listening to his explanation. Now it was her turn to dig into her backpack for a period of time that seemed like an eternity to him. From the bottom of that ridiculously huge bag, she finally pulled out an envelope, which she then waved in front of his eyes.

"What's this?" Hank was trying to grasp the paper, but her hand was quick to move. Instead, he caught her wrist and gently pulled her towards him.

"All right, I surrender," she said laughing, and Hank let go. "Here, inside this envelope, is the key to unlocking your evidence," she added, handing it to him. Hank took the envelope and opened it slowly. He pulled out a piece of pink rubber in the form of a hand with only three fingers.

"What is this?" he asked again, looking at the awkward object he was holding up to the light, making sure he had the best possible view of it. "A Halloween gadget?" he dared to guess in a genuine voice.

Alice laughed so hard that the people by the bar turned around and looked at them, dazzled, through the open curtains.

"Silly you," she said. "That's the mayor's right hand."

Hank's eyes became even bigger. He was trying hard to put two and two together and understand how a plastic hand with only three fingers might unlock any evidence of the kind he needed.

"Here's the deal," said Alice upon figuring out that Hank had no clue. "If you need evidence, then you'll have to find it close to the source. Your source, in this case, is no other then the mayor himself. The place where most likely he keeps all his information is..."

"His computer!" Hank completed the sentence.

"That's right," said Alice, "but his computer is locked and..."

"Can only be unlock by his fingerprint!"

They both fell silent.

"I still don't understand, unless...," he mumbled, looking intently at the tips of the rubber hand. "Unless these rubber fingers have the mayor's impression. Wow, is that it?"

"I guess it is my turn to cry Bingo," said Alice. "There you have three of the mayor's five right-hand fingers. The contours are protected by a clear film. Remove it by pulling on the little tabs on the sides. The ring finger and the pinky are missing."

"Why?"

"Because he only uses three fingers when he drinks out of a glass. The other two are under the glass' leg. Just like this," she said, holding up her own glass with two fingers underneath the leg. "They don't leave imprints."

Hank was listening in awe, his jaw hanging wide open while eyeballing the girl in a not so flattering pose.

"Duh," she said, waking him up as from a dream. "Just like yours." Alice pointed to the way he was holding his water glass up in the air, dumbfounded.

Hank laughed and set the glass down on the table.

A waitress came with a tray of steamy food.

"Are you hungry?" he asked, tucking the creepy rubber hand in his pocket.

"Starving," she said.

"This one is entirely on me," he said.

"If you insist."

"Absolutely. And by the way, how did you manage to get the guy's fingerprints?" Hank was trying not to sound too curious.

"Remember the glass I sneaked out of his office? The one you asked me what I needed it for and if I might be a kleptomaniac of some sort?"

Hank didn't answer but felt his cheeks burning.

The food was good, they had enjoyed the dinner and the conversation, but it was now time to leave.

"How did you become a treehugger?" asked Hank while opening the door for Alice.

"I...," started Alice, unable to finish her thought. She stepped outside and waited for Hank to close the door and catch up with her.

"Yes?" said Hank. The outside air was cold and moist, and it hit his hot skin with the force of a thousand Newtons.

"I...," she tried again. "It is a long story," she managed to say after a while.

"I have plenty of time," said Hank.

She fell silent. The sidewalk was narrow and bumpy, tree roots growing underneath the asphalt. They were walking close to each other, trying to avoid any lumps and holes.

"It's OK. I don't need to know. I was just curious as to what made you fight for a better world when most girls would rather fight for a boy."

Alice laughed. "What about you?"

"Me? Nothing personal; just the right thing to do, I guess."

"So, the big fight over the last election has been forgotten and forgiven?" asked Alice, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk and looking Hank straight in the eyes. He turned his head away to avoid the stare of her sweet blue eyes, ironically narrowed to a sharp, cold line that made her even more attractive.

"Yes," he mumbled, walking away from her demanding look.

"Really? There must have been some element of truth in it if you got over it so easily. Defalcation and drunk driving are heavy accusations," she insisted, no longer willing to follow in his path down the pavement.

"What?" Hank boomed like a clap of thunder, half turning to glance at her with angry, burning black eyes. But Alice was no scared cat. She walked slowly towards him, taking her time, while he was still watching her, his face frozen in a mix of pain and rage.

"You explain to me how come you never cleared your records or even mentioned you'd make them public at some point. It was during an election, and the accusations had your father going down the slope very fast. How come you let that happen?"

Alice was now facing the young man. They were standing under the street light, looking at each other, while the cold November night was blowing dead leaves around.

"I trusted your father," she went on. "I voted for him, I campaigned for him as hard as I could. When he was accused of defalcation and people were raging against him, I was one of the few who rushed in to shield him against the crowd's fury. And everything was fine until you and the associated drunk driving allegation came along."

The ensuing silence was heavy like cast lead. They looked at each other, but no one uttered a word. Hank's jaw was clenched. He would have punched her had she been a man, but she was a very beautiful, sweet thing who was asking too many questions. Watching her honest face, he loosened up and softened his stance.

Hank took her hand. "I understand your frustration, and I'm very sorry to have disappointed you. But some things in my life are private, OK?"

"I need to know," said Alice, shaking off his hand. "If I am supposed to help you, I need to know the truth."

She wasn't going to give up, Hank thought. He could not bear the thought of making her sad or seeing her leave, but she demanded to know things he wasn't ready to share.

"One day, Alice. One day you will know, I promise you." Hank's voice was low but firm. Alice didn't buy it and walked away, leaving him alone under the faint yellow light.

"Alice, please!" he tried, but the girl was now gone. Soon, she could be seen casting a tall shadow over the corner of the restaurant's backside.

* * *

"Giddy up, giddy up, horse!" cried Wizzy from the top of Pepper's back. He was standing up between the dog's shoulder blades, hanging on to Pepper's long hair like a rider holds on to the horse reins. Pepper was lurking along dark and deserted streets, driven by the promise of a hearty dinner at Three Oaks. Not even the threat of meeting the big bad dog and his gang of mutts could stand between him and those juicy bones. Pepper thought of the people cooking the meals and how lucky they were to have all that food within the reach of a paw. The chef is good, he thought, licking his snout.

They were only one block away from the back of the restaurant, in an area crowded with shops and boutiques, now closed for the night. The traffic was dense, with most vehicles pulling into the Three Oaks' parking lot around the corner. The squeak of a car brakes rose from the street. Pepper stopped and lay on the pavement, trying to align himself with the bushes nearby. The headlights of a truck brushed the surroundings, too high to detect the dog flattened on the ground.

Wizzy jumped off the dog's back and hid in a pile of leaves.

The car parked at the curve, and someone inside killed the engine and the lights. A few seconds later, a man got out. He was large and big, wearing a black rain jacket, khaki pants and a baseball cap with a large brim. His heavy boot stopped so close to Pepper's nose that the dog could sniff its sweaty odor. It was so bad that it almost made him sneeze. Fortunately, the boot walked away almost instantly.

The man pulled out a phone and put it to his ear. He talked fast, but his words got lost in the wind as he kept walking down the street towards the restaurant. He then crossed the street to the side less lit.

Wizzy came out from his hiding spot and spoke to Pepper with urgency. "Let's go!" he said, taking the lead. "And stop making so much noise," the mouse continued as the dog stepped on dried leaves, which could be heard rustling under his footsteps.

The man, now passing the garbage bins Pepper had been dreaming about, was just about to turn right into the front entrance of the restaurant when he bumped into another person who happened to be rushing around the corner.

"Get down!" Wizzy whispered.

Pepper flattened himself again, his ears perked, and his nose raised, listening and sniffing. He thought he could make it to the bins, which were only a few yards away. At least, he could get something to eat. Attracted by the smell and driven by his own imagination, Pepper started crawling further. Only when he was close did he see the other person coming right at him. It happened as the large man disappeared around the corner. Pepper anxiously looked around for a place to hide, and spotted an old, wooden bench with enough of an opening for him to creep underneath. Wizzy followed soon. They both watched as the person, who turned out to be a girl, crossed the street and ended up under one of the three trees shielding the wooden bench. She untied a bike that was locked to the tree trunk with a chain, then walked away. Just as she was about to ride her bike and get lost into the cold night, a hurried call from the same corner broke the silence.

"Alice," said a shadow of someone peeking from around the building.

The girl stopped abruptly and looked over her shoulder but remained silent.

"Alice," called the shadow again, "wait a minute, please."

"I have to go now," she said in a firm voice.

"Just don't go yet, please!" the shadow said, coming out into the light. From under the old wooden bench, Pepper saw a young man, tall and fit, wearing a woolen coat and carrying a big backpack on one shoulder. His face was partially concealed by a hood.

"Listen," he said in a hurry, "I have seen someone."

"What do you mean?" she said, cutting short his speech.

"I mean tonight, a little while ago."

The girl looked puzzled and somehow hurt, her eyebrows changing shape to an oblique line on her tall forehead.

"You can see anyone you want. I don't understand what you are trying to tell me. I am not your....how to say it, like... you know... I am just not your..." She was speaking fast while the young man was unsuccessfully trying to explain.

"My what?" he asked abruptly, but the young woman didn't answer. "My what, Alice?"

"Your confessor. Your confessor, Hank," she said, mimicking him.

"Alice, you don't understand. I saw the mayor's bodyguard sneaking around and checking out the parking lot. And now I see his car, parked there, down the lane."

The girl, who had gazed at the ground all the time, avoiding contact with his deep black eyes, raised her head.

"Something is up," he persisted.

Alice leaned her bike against the tree and took her backpack from the basket, throwing it over her shoulder with a smooth move. "I see," she concluded.

Underneath the bench, Pepper and Wizzy were keeping still. The dog liked the scent of the two youngsters. They smelled good, and their voices sounded pleasant.

"I know that this may sound strange, but you have to remember that I know the mayor's habits pretty well. He doesn't want to be seen here, that's why he sent his bodyguard up front, like a boomerang. This guy is going to check out the parking lot and the restaurant's interior for any potential bad encounters for his boss."

"What qualifies as a bad encounter?" asked Alice.

"Political opponents, former employees, some businessmen who have been affected by his acts, people like you and me, and anyone that may have an issue with the mayor and his decisions," said Hank. "So, this guy is going to check every car, table, corner and even the kitchen. Then, when all is clear, he is going to call the mayor to come."

"Why doesn't the mayor simply go to a very private place, if being seen in public is such a danger?" said Alice.

"Oh, but he likes publicity. He wants to be seen by his fans."

"Then what's the big deal about not wanting to be seen by his opponents? I don't get it, unless..." She didn't finish her sentence, as too many thoughts were trying to take shape at the same time.

"That's right," Hank said, excited. "Unless it's something really big and politically explosive."

"And you know all of this because?"

"I've seen the scenario many times, I am familiar with his routine, and I'm afraid he is up to something bad," said Hank, putting an end to her doubts.

They fell silent. A few seconds passed. It looked like Hank was holding his breath, waiting for the girl to process all the information and maybe, hopefully, make up her mind and choose to work with him again – this time without asking so many questions. While he was trying to look her in the eyes, Alice was looking over his shoulder, apparently deep in thought. He was patiently waiting for her to respond when, all the sudden, she grabbed his hand and pulled him down on the bench behind them. Hank had little time to react, and let himself fall onto the cold, wooden seat, rather pleasantly surprised. When Alice leaned towards him and put her lips to his ear, he thought a miracle had happened. But instead of the sweet, loving words he was imagining, he heard the girl's worried voice whispering.

"Does the bodyguard have a baseball cap?"

"Yes," he said, surprised, coming closer to her cheek.

"And is he a big, heavy-set guy?"

"Yes," he admitted again, dazed.

"He is only a few feet away from us," she said fast, then added: "Stay still and don't look!"

"Yes, ma'am," Hank said as the girl covered his mouth with her lips.

"And don't speak," she whispered.

That was all Hank ever wanted, to kiss a girl like Alice on a cold November night, while waiting for the bad guy to pass by them without paying attention to a couple in love.

Because the man walked slowly, smoking a cigar, even stopping a few seconds at a time to look left and right, the kiss lasted a long time. Hank was both happy and worried as he didn't know what Alice was thinking. But once he caught a glimpse of her closed eyes, he not only relaxed but wrapped his arms around her.

Finally, the man got to his car, turned on the ignition, and drove away. Alice wanted to pull away, but Hank didn't want to let go. "Is he gone?" she asked.

Hank sighed, letting go of her. "I wished he was still here," he said, making Alice laugh heartily.

"Now what?" she asked between giggles.

"Are we OK?"

"Any doubts?" She was still smiling, whereas Hank remained puzzled.

"Just making sure," he managed to say, careful not to break the magic bond the kiss had sealed between them. More than anything, he wanted to know if her kiss was for real. It would be a risky question to ask someone that had walked away from him just a short while ago.

"We need a plan," said Alice, flicking away Hank's dreams with a wave of her blond hair.

"Would you...," he started, not sure if he should finish his thought. "Would you work with me, then?"

"Yes," she said, "but just this time."

"And how about the allegations against me?" he dared.

She stood up, and Hank's heart sank. What if he had made her mad again? But needn't have any fear. Brushing his cheek with her finger, Alice smiled and said: "Just this time, remember. And by the time we get done, maybe I won't even need to know."

He caught her hand. "Then sit down by me again and let's put up a plan together."

It took Hank and Alice less than fifteen minutes to figure out a plan, based on different potential scenarios. Together, they worked fast and efficiently, one person's idea oftentimes being continued by the other. Their synchronizing was almost perfect, thought Hank, and he could not succeed without her.

"I am useless," he said. "If he sees me, he leaves."

"But he doesn't know me," Alice pointed out. "I can be seen... Well, as little as possible."

"Good," said Hank. "His bodyguard will park in the parking lot, surveilling. When the mayor arrives, his limo will park here. Then he will go inside through the back door."

"That means he can be here any time," Alice said anxiously.

"Don't worry, we can always pretend that we are kissing," joked Hank, but the girl didn't play along.

"We have little time, better be ready."

From beneath the bench, Wizzy was eavesdropping. His hiding spot somewhere between Pepper's hind legs was wet and moldy, and he was freezing. At this time, he tried to wriggle under the dog's tail, but Pepper felt a tickle and moved nervously, almost revealing their hideout. His friend had no idea about what was going on, but Wizzy was listening with great interest. While Alice and Hank were touching the last details of their plan, Wizzy was weaving his own.

"I will go inside to the hostess and distract her somehow," Hank was saying.

"I am sure you'll manage, she seems to like you," Alice teased him.

Hank never got around to answering, for a car was slowly approaching with lights dimmed. Moving quickly, the two of them sneaked behind the bench. The car stopped, and the mayor got out from the passenger seat. He closed the door, amazingly quiet for his stature, as Alice expected a slam. Then he crossed the street; and with a spring step, he climbed the ladder to the back door of Three Oaks Restaurant. The door squeaked under the mayor's firm hand, then shut closed behind him.

"We are safe now, let's go," said Hank, dragging Alice from behind the wooden bench.

"Wait," she said. "What are you going to do while I'm inside?"

"Wait here?"

"Nonsense. You go home, and I will call you tomorrow."

"We will see about that," he said. "Good luck, Alice," he added, letting go of her hand. Then they both headed back to the restaurant's front entrance.

Once there, they split, with Alice waiting outside while pretending to make a phone call, and Hank passing through the restaurant's hallway to the first desk, where the hostess dressed in black and red was leaning over her counter, bored.

"Hello," she said with a big smile, recognizing him. "What can I do for you?"

Hank smiled too, and let his eyes linger over the girl's generous forms. Coming closer, he whispered: "I just cannot stay away..." Then he laughed softly. Behind the front door, Alice was peeking inside through the little oval windows that stared at the world like two huge, black eyes. She was waiting for a secret signal from Hank; but instead, she saw him flirting with the hostess, and had a short impulse to run in and separate them.

"I have to ask you a favor," he purred, staring at her with what he thought to be a manly glance. The red haired woman's body arched with excitement. "I left a little pen inside," he said in a sad note. "It was given to me by my grandfather, who passed away a few months ago."

"Oh, I am sorry," said the woman. "I will call the kitchen to see if it was turned in by our waitress."

"That's sweet of you," he replied. "Though it is so small and black that it could not be found so easily. Could you possibly have a discreet look around the table, you know, not bothering the customers around?"

"No problem. I will have a look right now, since I don't have any customers," she said smiling.

"Thank you, sweetie."

As she passed the red curtains that were separating the hallway from the dining room, Hank turned back and waved at Alice three times up and three times left, like the rhythm of a tune. She entered the restaurant followed by a breeze of cold air. In passing, she glanced at him, amused, then sneaked behind the red curtains.
CHAPTER 5

Soon after the youngsters left, Pepper came out of his hiding spot stretching his sleepy legs and arching his back. Then, leaving the mouse behind, he crossed the road and jumped into the closest dump bin, ripping up the black bags in search of some meat scraps. He was so hungry that he would've eaten the mouse if not for his strong moral values, such as being kind to living creatures and only eating them if they attack you.

A few moments later, Wizzy caught up with him.

"Hey dog," he whispered, "we need to talk."

"Sure, go right ahead," said Pepper without taking a break. He was just pulling out a big bone, buried deep under piles of smelly onion peels.

"Listen," said the mouse again, "I have to let you alone and take care of some things."

"All right," said the dog, distracted.

"But remember, if you smell Tank's gang, you must run."

Pepper peeked from behind the bin. "I thought you were protecting me," he said, laughing with his bare teeth.

"Are you kidding? I'm just a mouse. How could I protect you?"

"That's what I thought; but when you told me you are a wizard, I had to reconsider," said Pepper, amused.

"Listen dog, I have no time for fun. Meet you back at the circus," said Wizzy and took off.

"Hey, hey...," cried Pepper after him. "You won't see me back at that shack anytime soon." But Wizzy was already far away, under the wooden staircase to the back entrance of the restaurant, where the mayor had gone a few minutes earlier.

Wizzy knew his way around. After all, this place had been his home until, not long ago, the critters showed up in his hole, dying. Then the spread of the mysterious disease that had struck some communities of mice made him move to the circus, where it seemed to be nice, quiet and safe. But others weren't so lucky. Critters and bugs kept dying; and in those same spots, mice got sick and passed away as well. Wizzy had told them, warned them, even advised them, but they never believed him. When Pepper arrived on the scene, they all ran to Wizzy for help to bring him in. Now, they put their trust in a dog's nose, which had hurt Wizzy's feelings until he started seeing the bright side.

Tonight, he thought, he could solve the mystery of the dead bugs. He knew the man who had entered through the back of the kitchen, namely the mayor. He had seen him several times coming in and getting out the same way. But now, two humans were watching the mayor as well, which was unusual. Listening to their conversation, the mouse concluded that those two knew that something was wrong, something this mayor either had done or was just about to do. The man and the woman seemed nice and caring, speaking about the kids in the parks being in danger. Maybe they were speaking about the same parks where several mice had died recently.

Wizzy climbed a ladder he had dug in the mud in the last years he lived there. He had started as a kid and kept working on it through most of his adult life. Now finished, the staircase led to the kitchen floor, right in the corner under the big fridge. From there, he just had to sneak past the hallway and onto the dining room floor, ignoring the temptation to stop for a snack.

Wizzy came out to light. The kitchen was hot, like usual. No changes had been made since his last visit two months ago. Even the same cooks. Maybe, he reflected, humans never get old, even though he had heard them speaking about life and death. While the cooks were busy running around the stoves, the mouse casually walked along the walls, his brown and black fur perfectly blending with the colors of the furniture and floorboards.

He was now in the first dining area, a large open space with more than thirty tables. The noise from all those people talking almost made him dizzy. Now, if only he could find out where the mayor was seated. Pepper's nose would have been a great help. He considered leaping onto the window sill, the way he used to a long time ago, at night when all humans were gone. But it was too dangerous, not worth risking the mice's future. He needed to find another solution. He thought about the way he recognized the mayor whenever he caught sight of him. Firstly, he always saw him from a distance, never being just a mouse step away like tonight. Secondly, the guy had particular features, including a very large body and a certain way of walking and leaning forward. The shape of his head was more oval than round, and his hair was always spiked around his forehead and ears, continuing down his scruff. Thirdly, no other car would park in that spot, under the oak trees across the street. And no other car's engine would sound so loud and thundery that it made him run to his window every time to make sure that it wasn't a storm coming.

Suddenly, standing under a table, Wizzy felt very, very small, like a pebble in a river, like a grain of sand on a beach, like a leaf in a forest. And how can a pebble see the river, or a grain of sand see the beach, or a leaf see the forest – or a mouse see the world? How can something so small see something so large? Only if he pulled out another wizard card. But he only had ten left, that was all. It's time for me to get smart, he thought.

The shoe behind the table startled Wizzy by kicking him around like a soccer ball. The mouse picked himself up and looked around. There, he saw a pair of small brown boots, with traces of forest dirt between the cracks in the soles. Hmm, he thought, the mayor's shoes... He had seen them many times. For one thing, the mayor was a large man with huge black shoes, which were never tied with laces; instead they had a Velcro. Then there was something very peculiar about his socks... That was it, there was his clue!

The person wearing the boot stood up. Wizzy looked up a pair of lean legs in tight stretch jeans. A few steps away, a backpack suddenly was raised up in the air. The mouse went behind one of the slow walking boots, hopeful that no one was watching him move. The boots stopped, and the legs in the jeans turned around, almost knocking down the mouse. The backpack came down swinging, and he had to jump up on it to avoid a sure hit. Then, with another swing, the bag moved to the other side of the body carrying it, all the way on the shoulder. Wizzy got dizzy and lost his balance; and for a second, he hung dangling from the end of a zipper, before he managed to drop into an open space underneath.

Wizzy had a completely different view when he peeked up from his safety net a few seconds later. A river of golden hair was flowing in front of his eyes, gently swaying left and right to the rhythm of her steps. He realized that she was the girl on the bench and that he was tucked inside a pocket on her backpack.

Alice was walking among tables, unaware that she was carrying a mouse. After Hank had distracted the hostess so Alice could enter the restaurant unnoticed, she had left him behind. Now, she just had to be sneaky enough to keep the waitress preoccupied while locating the mayor.

She crossed paths with a man, a tall dude dressed in a black suit, carrying a briefcase on his shoulder. He made room for her, and she passed him without a word while looking down. Then she noticed the logo embroidered on his bag. Blue letters engraved onto a green lawn read "Bucolian, Inc." Her instincts told her to follow the man because she remembered the logo as belonging to a chemical plant manufacturing insecticides and herbicides. With a fast spin of her heels, she turned around, following in the man's footsteps while keeping her distance. By carefully avoiding coming too close or being too far away, Alice was trying to make it look like they were together. When seen from behind, he looked rather frail, his spine crooked under the weight of the bag in a concave arch. He was leaning left, his right shoulder slightly raised to stop the briefcase strap from slipping down. For each step the man took, his whole body would stagger just a little, as if on a wire.

The man, who was not been escorted by the hostess, took a turn to the bar room. For a moment, Alice was unsure whether to follow or not, but she ultimately decided to do it anyway, because that was her only chance to get there without attracting unwanted attention.

Keeping a few steps between them, she pursued him as he entered the crowded room, moving slowly through the narrow aisle, now filled with men watching sports on large, wall-mounted television screens while drinking beer, smoking, and smelling like hell.

All the sudden, the frail dude stopped and looked around. Alice turned her back on him hoping he wouldn't recognize her golden hair. He scanned the room with his colorless eyes, then he kept going till he reached the rear section. Finally, he pulled aside the brown velvet curtains and disappeared into a private niche, but not before Alice could catch a glimpse of the mayor's profile. She couldn't go any further. In a split second, she had made her decision: She would be occupying the neighboring niche, which happened still to be empty, and would sneak a wire in the direction of where the mayor was sitting. Then she'd just have to take a seat at the bar, drinking and watching football with all the dudes.

She went inside and dropped the backpack on the floor. Rolling out of the pocket, the mouse, who had wondered what would happen next, ran and hid in a corner, waiting for the girl to settle. He saw her pulling all kinds of devices from her backpack. She kneeled on the floor and, lifting the curtains just a notch, pushed a thin black wire into the next niche, watching it as it crawled across the carpet. Wizzy, still unseen, hopped over to the other side as well, supervising the wire's movements. She was almost done when the tip stumbled into a bump. She wriggled the wire, twisted and swaged it, with no result.

From his spot, Wizzy saw the mayor's big shoes and peculiar socks, then realized that the girl was setting up her recorder like she had planned. As far as he could tell, they both were on the same team. Moving gently around the four shoes, two belonging to the mayor and the other pair to a person unknown, he grabbed the thick wire and set it free, watching it slide through.

A few seconds later, he heard footsteps approaching. The waitress opened the curtains and put drinks on the table. In the next niche, Alice picked herself up and sat on the chair, pretending to study the menu. But the waitress didn't stop, and Alice went back to work, plugging the other end of the wire into a black box that she stuck under the table. Then she packed her bag and threw it over her shoulder. As she turned to leave, two young men entered the room.

"Hey," said one, "this table comes with free entertainment." The other man laughed and tried to grab Alice by the arm. With a fast move, she raised her elbow and hit him under the jaw. His teeth rattled, and his head tilted backwards.

"It also comes with free broken teeth," said Alice, getting out.

One of the shoes moved slightly, barely missing Wizzy, who had moved under the table to make sure he didn't miss a word of what the two of men were saying. At first, they exchanged the usual pleasantries about weather and wine, but it soon became clear they weren't there to enjoy each other's company.

"Let's get down to the business, mister Ratberg. Do you have an answer for me?" asked the mayor, emptying his glass.

The one called Ratberg smiled and refilled his. "Not so fast, mayor, not so fast. First, let's order our food and enjoy the dinner."

Art Goatdigger looked the man in the eyes. "I'm paying for the meal," he said. After a few seconds of silence, he continued: "I never enjoy when I have to pay."

"I'll do my part if that's the problem," said the frail man.

"Deal." The mayor drank a second glass of wine and rang the bell set on the table. Seconds later, the waitress came.

"Very good sample," he said, lifting his empty glass. "I'll take two bottles. Bring them here. And have the chef prepare for me the double tenderloin, rare, with mushrooms and bacon on a mound of mashed potatoes with gravy. No green beans. Bring some chicken bites for both of us as appetizers, with fresh cheese sticks and salami-wrapped pickles. And get us some fried shrimps to begin with, plus a basket of Buffalo wings. For my part, I will wrap it all up with a double chocolate mousse pudding."

"Same for me," said the other man, raising eyebrows across the table. "I mean, I will skip the appetizers, but I'll take the tenderloin, rare."

The food came so fast that Wizzy wondered if they had it already done, for Art Goatdigger was one of their regular customers. The mayor swept through appetizers like a bolt of lightning, while his mess mate struggled with a chicken wing. When the steaks arrived, he dashed a dollar bill into the waitress' apron. "Thank you, sweetie. Make sure we enjoy our privacy," he said and let her go. Then, turning to Mr. Ratberg, he said: "Is now a good time? I'm done waiting."

Mr. Ratberg wiped his greasy lips. "Before reaching an agreement, we think you need to reconsider your demand."

The mayor's face turned red. "All right," he hissed, "one and a half."

Mr. Ratberg took a bite from his steak, then chewed it slowly, paying no attention to the mayor, who was eyeballing him. "You have to understand," he finally said, "that we could go somewhere else. There are plenty of mice everywhere. I know someone who would pay us to let them try our products."

The mayor was not impressed but furious. "And I know someone who would pay me to tell them the truth about your business. You can't scam me. Your stuff is dangerous."

"That's bullshit," said the frail man while raising his eyes from his plate for the first time. "We have tested it on lab rats for months."

"You have tested it in our parks, the very places where you want us to spread it."

"That was a mistake, I told you."

"A deadly mistake. Fortunately, I am the only one who knows about it. But that could easily change," said the mayor.

Mr. Ratberg put his empty plate aside. "We can settle at one million, at 70/30, and we're done." He grinned showing all his teeth and extended his hand over the table for the mayor to shake. But the mayor didn't budge.

"This is a waste of my time," he said, shaking crumbs off his jacket.

"One million is a lot of money for anyone. I can kill a lot of mice with that money. It costs just five cents per gram to get rid of one hundred mice."

"Listen up, you scraggy-woggy," said the mayor, leaning forward to make sure he was heard and understood. "I don't give a namby-pamby about your penny-a-liner thingy ma jiggy."

The mayor was quite angry; even Wizzy could tell from under the table. But Mr. Ratberg was unmoved.

"If you say so, Mr. Goatdigger," he replied, straightening his back with pride. "I worked with the Q substance myself, in the lab. It is not meant to do harm to anything else than mice. Things have changed. But of course, in case you doubt us, we can renegotiate..."

The mayor waited in silence.

"One and a quarter," the frail one said.

The mayor shook his head and took a sip of wine.

"One and three hundred," the frail advanced.

"Keep adding," said the mayor.

"One and three-fifty."

"Nope. One more try and we're done. If I get up from this table today, you will not see me anytime soon," threatened the mayor.

"All right, have it your way," said Mr. Ratberg resentfully. But he filled up their glasses, and they both cheered. The red wine went down their throats and into their bellies, while their eyes were getting brighter and their spirits mellower.

Now that they had settled down, the two men started to plan the details of the project. Wizzy listened from under the table, terrified. What was just about to happen was genocide, mice genocide. They planned to spread a dangerous chemical called "Q" in thirty-two locations around the city, including parks, silos and warehouses. The spots were all highly populated mice communities, and that was exactly what the mayor wanted: to kill every mouse around.

"My city is going to be mice-free in less than a week. That is epic."

Mr. Ratberg smiled smoothly. "I need to know how many dead mice your guys would collect in a certain amount of time. A strict scientific data sheet needs to be filled out every time."

"I'm not paying for any extra work," said the mayor.

"I didn't ask for that," said the other man. "Our specialists will infiltrate your teams and oversee the work."

"My people are on stand-by."

The plan was to spread the poison over a 48 hours period, starting from the south-east and going north-west. They wanted to start as soon as possible, but no date was given. Three teams of twenty men and women each, protected by whole contamination suits, were to spray the thirty-two locations, then go home and wait for a day. The reason was, as Wizzy found out, that the mice would not die right away. Rather, they would die later, in agonizing pain from having their muscles paralyzed one by one.

Horrified, Wizzy let out a loud squeak, as he imagined the mass murder among his fellow mice. His desperate cry came at a bad time, for the men at the table stopped talking at once.

"Mice!" they yelled at each other and jumped backwards. The skinny one bent down and looked beneath the table while the mayor tried to get a sense of the surroundings. It was dim in there, and he could not see very well, so he drew aside the velvet curtains to allow more light to stream inside.

From her position on top of a bar stool, Alice watched how the 'Bucolian' man was crouching and searching under the table. Oh, my..., she thought, the wire, they will find the wire! In an instant, she was standing up. Almost sure they were going after her wire, Alice thought it worthwhile to make a desperate attempt to rescue her machine located under the table. She went back to the niche where she had installed it. She smiled at the two young men who were still sitting in there. With a hand on the table and the other beneath it, she leaned over the one she had hurt before and whispered into his ear: "And by the way, my boyfriend is even better at breaking teeth than I am. I'm leaving now, but I'll be back. I like this place, so keep out, got it?"

"Got it," he said, stiff, while she rolled up the wire with a push of a button and placed the recording machine in the pocket of her jacket. Then she stepped out, more majestic than a queen, while the waitresses and waiters were scrambling to catch the mouse. They were all crowding around the mayor's table, looking under and over and everywhere in between.

"I don't see no mouse," said one of the waiters, shrugging.

"There he is," said one of the others who had kneeled by a chair, buttocks up and head touching the carpet. He was pointing a small flashlight at Wizzy, who sat on a chair's footrest, frozen and frightened. Blinded by the light, Wizzy lost his balance and came tumbling down right onto the mayor's huge shoe. One waitress saw him falling and, raising the broom she was holding, slapped the shoe with all her might. But Wizzy was faster, crawling away unseen behind the mayor's foot and then practically rolling out of the room.

"Ouch, you stupid!" cried the mayor while kicking the broom, infuriated.

"He's getting away, he's getting away!" the person who was kneeling said, pointing a finger in Wizzy's path. They all looked were pointed, in an attempt to spot a mouse in that dark, smoky place.

"I see his tail," a big, heavy man said. He started running, and everybody else followed him, but Wizzy was nowhere in sight. They searched the premises for a while, with the embarrassed chef leading the crew. A few minutes later, Wizzy emerged from under a staircase outside the restaurant, shaking dust off his brown fur.
CHAPTER 6

Wizzy looked left and right but caught no sight of Pepper. He realized that it had been awhile since he left his dog friend alone by the garbage bins. Pepper presumably had followed his advice and gone back to the circus. But once Wizzy arrived at the old shack, there was no trace of the dog. Puzzled and tired, Wizzy went to sleep on a pile of broken, stinky hay.

It wasn't until he woke up late in the morning that the mouse got worried. Mostly, he was concerned because Tank, the bulldog, had claimed the restaurant for himself and made a habit of coming there to dine with all his friends. He had seen other dogs getting shooed by Tank's gang or even hurt by his big teeth. That would have been Pepper's fate, too, the first night they met, had it not been for the mouse using his last spell of the kind to save him.

Wizzy got up and went out to find his secret lake – a little baby food jar saved from the recycling pile – refilled with fresh water from overnight rain. He washed his face and hands, gurgled and rinsed his teeth, chewed a mint straw, and drank some water. Inside, hidden between two leaves, he had some Gouda cheese, the expensive kind, waiting for his breakfast. By the time he was all done, the sun was a quarter through the sky. He had to hurry.

First and foremost, he needed Pepper. The dog could be anywhere, dead or alive.

Wizzy went back to Three Oaks, where he looked for clues. There was no evidence of a fight, and he gave up. He thought of waiting for the dog to return at night for a meal, but he didn't want to wait that long. In fact, he needed the dog fast, so that Pepper could start sniffing around and alert the mice. Soon, the mayor's team would be spreading poison all over town.

Suddenly, he remembered the park Pepper had brought him to on their first night. Leaping like a magic frog, Wizzy made his way there, reaching the same tree. But no one was there.

"Pepper, Pepper, you stupid dog!" he called. He kicked the dirt with his little foot and squeaked in anger. He spun three times on his left heel and disappeared. The silence filled the park one more time. On the other side, down the alley, a mom was walking a stroller.

A pair of black eyes were spying from behind an evergreen bush. Shortly thereafter, a white curly body wriggled out of the bush. It was a white dog. For a second, its black eyes screened the surroundings and the horizon. Conditions looked safe. She barked softly at the bush and waited, ruffed, then whined and howled. Finally, the branches rustled and moved, and out came Pepper, half asleep.

The white dog, a girl with a wiggly curly tail, spoke to him briefly. He pricked his ears. They argued for a while and looked like they might even start a fight when the white dog turned around and walked away. Pepper was left in the middle of the alley, watching her. He lay down with his snout on his front paws. He had told her the little he knew about his job and the reason behind it. He was to sniff some places because some mice had gotten sick and died. He didn't have a clue as where to start. She had told him that a mouse had just visited the park and called for him. Pepper was torn between his promise to the mice and his new girlfriend, Puppanela, a stray dog of an unknown pedigree, member of the gang that had attacked him two nights in a row, and the owner of a sweet scent he had smelled on several prior occasions.

"We don't help the mice," she had told him. "We have an alliance with the Big Tomcat to leave the mice and other pests for him, in exchange for information."

"What sort of information?" asked Pepper.

"They have infiltrated the kennels and even the mayor's house. They can tell us when there's going to be a roundup and when one of us has been caught by the dog catchers," she said.

"Are you kidding?" came his answer. But Puppanela was serious.

"So," she had concluded, "let the mice on their own. If they die, they die! "

But Pepper had given his word and wasn't about to break it now. He liked Puppanela, maybe too much. There has to be a way out of this mess, he thought, still lying in the middle of the alley.

He felt the urge to find Wizzy and get the job done so he could go back to Puppanela. He sniffed around and disappeared on Wizzy's trail.

* * *

Hank awoke with a big headache after a dream in which he was marching through the city leading an army of mice. They stopped at the big circus and entered the stage. The mice filled every single chair, and he realized the circus was mouse-sized and he should've been a giant among them. But as he looked at himself in a big, wavy mirror, he saw his body, and – oh my gosh! – he was a mouse himself. Then a big red balloon rose from the middle of the stage. The balloon had legs and arms, and he looked up but couldn't see its head, the balloon being too high up for his stature. "It's the mayor," someone said. "Poke him," another mouse said, and it went straight for the mayor's foot with a needle in its hand. Hank cried: "Noooooo!", but it was too late. Deflating fast, the mayor's ballooned body blew away all the mice. Some of them died, too many thought Hank. He was now human again; a journalist who was taking pictures of dead mice piled up in a garbage bin. "I told you that you were too late!" A woman's scream erupted in his ear. He turned around to see that it was Alice, all covered in blood. At this point, Hank jumped up in his bed, crying: "Alice, oh no, Alice!..." That was when he woke up. It was past 10 a.m., and he should be sitting at his desk by now.

He wanted very badly to call Alice, but they had agreed that she would be calling him first. Last night, she expressed confidence that her mission of spying on the mayor would be successful. "I'll call you when I have some news," she had told him.

"No," he had said, "call me to tell me that you are OK."

"Nonsense. My time is better used resting," she replied, bringing him to silence.

"Please," he had insisted for the last time. Instead of listening, she had just closed the door between them.

Very well! he had told himself, I will be here when you need me. After she sneaked in behind the curtain, he had left the restaurant feeling alone and sad. He had driven his bike home, opened a bottle of Juicy Melt, and sat in front of his TV for a long, long time with his phone on his knees, falling asleep with his mouth open like his grandpa.

Now, at ten-thirty in the morning, showered and dressed, with his coffee in one hand and his backpack on the shoulder, Hank was ready to leave his studio when his phone finally rang.

"Alice?" he said eagerly. But his smile turned upside down when he realized who was at the other end. He listened intently. "Yes boss," he said at long last. Then he took his bike and was gone.

His boss had asked him to investigate some complains coming from the residents of a certain part of the city. He had been selected because the issue involved extensive knowledge about chemistry, which none of the other reporters possessed. He was the only chemist-turned-journalist in that office.

At his desk, Hank found handwritten papers resting on top of his computer keyboard. A note from his boss read: "Hank, you are not to go alone on this one. Take Brad with you. He'll be in shortly. See you at night."

Brad was one of the 'on call' guys that the newspaper used when there was a need for muscles. It was Brad or Cooper, whoever was available. Those two were hired to watch out for trouble, to make room through the crowd for pictures or interviews, and, also, to pretend being the photographer when an investigation was taking place in dangerous circumstances, acting in fact as bodyguards for journalists.

Brad's pictures actually turned out pretty good, thought Hank, crumpling the note and throwing it under the desk, missing the bin by an inch.

He took a quick look through the handwritten papers, about ten of them, all complaints. One was signed by a 4th grader, Jessica, and Hank found it unusual. He took it in his hands and read it.

"Dear Editor in chief," the note began.

"I am writing to let you know that my hamster passed away a week ago. And I know there are many hamsters in the world. I even know that hamsters don't live more than 3 years on average. My teacher told me that. But this hamster that I had – his name was Vicky – was just a baby. He was a healthy hamster, and I used to play with him a lot. One day, I brought him to the park together with my mom and my dog, Sock. And I let him loose in the grass. My mom thinks that he had gotten some poison at the park, because he died the day after. He suffered a lot, my mom said. Then my dog got sick, and he passed away too. He was an old dog, and my mom thinks he died because of that. But my teacher told me that every death has to have a cause, so I think he got my hamster's disease. My mom didn't want me to write, but I thought I would tell you anyway, just in case.

And oh, please don't tell her, she's gonna be mad at me. And my neighbor Amy had a dog that died from being in the same park. She said she will write you, and I said I will do it too.

And one more thing... Can you please tell everybody not to bring their pets in the park anymore?"

That was a long letter for a 4th grader, Hank thought. Then he read the other ones, all describing the same thing with little variation – a park, a path, usually a dog, and a death. Hank noticed something very unusual: before passing away, those pets had long and painful agony, as described by the owners.

By the time he finished reading the letters, Hank still couldn't see the story he could write. There was the fact: a few pets had died after walking through a certain park. But then the questions of why it happened and what could be done to make sure it would not happen again would be very hard, if not impossible, to answer.

* * *

It was already noon by the time he left the office for his investigation. He had to make arrangements for interviews and find out more information about that specific neighborhood. He had worked on the clock, glancing at his wristwatch every five minutes and getting startled every time his mobile phone rang. But the only person he wanted to hear from remained quiet. Worried that something bad had happened to Alice, he decided to break their agreement and go ahead and call her.

He tried her home phone, but nobody picked up. Then he tried her mobile phone with the same result. Really worried now, he called her at work. "We have not seen her yet today," someone answered. "She is working on an out-of-town assignment, and we don't expect to see her until Friday next week."

And the worst thing was that he had to do that stupid investigation when he should really be searching for Alice.

Brad arrived at the office at the same time as his designated client.

"Hey Buddy," said Brad and slapped Hank on the back, as usual. "What's up?"

Hank was getting ready to open his mouth when their boss answered. "You guys are to find out about that neighborhood. There are some gangs that hate being disturbed. We won't speak about them unless it is necessary. Concentrate on the facts. We don't care about the pets. We want people suffering because their pets have died. Am I understood?"

"Yes Boss," said Brad.

"This investigation may take me some time," said Hank. "I've already tried to reach the complainers. Some of them don't answer, and the ones that do are reluctant to speak publicly."

"Well, find out why. I am not in any hurry. But you, Hank, may want to reveal the truth sooner rather than later."

Actually, Hank had already decided that finding Alice was his top priority.

"I'll drive," he said once they got to the car provided by the newspaper.

Brad laughed. "What's up?" he asked. "You never drive. I was even wondering if they got you for DUI."

Hank didn't answer. He left the parking lot and headed for Three Oaks. The restaurant was already open for lunch, so maybe they could both eat before heading out to "the Hills," as they called the neighborhood where the pets had died.

"I am hungry," said Hank, answering the unspoken question in his assistant's eyes.

"Can't we just get a 'drive through'?" Brad said while Hank was pulling into the restaurant's parking lot.

They went inside, got a table, and ordered some food. Hank wasn't there primarily to eat but to look for clues, for this was the place where he had last seen the girl. Pretending he had left his wallet in the car, he went outside, then turned the corner to the back of the restaurant, where he and Alice had sat last night on the old, wooden bench. As his vision broadened, he saw the bench and the three oaks surrounding it, then his heart stopped. Leaned against a trunk, there was a bike very similar to Alice's. Hank rushed toward it, almost running into traffic. And there it was, Alice's bike with its green horn and the company's logo on the basket.

Hank touched the bike and looked around as if expecting to find Alice hiding behind a tree. He took it and rode down the street, then walked back while looking around the evergreen bushes lined up by the sidewalk. He found nothing else, and soon returned to his table. There he found Brad speaking with a waitress. Brad was all smiles, which was a little weird considering that this dude seldom let himself loose. But the girl was cute, tall and slim, with a pair of dazzling brown eyes staring back at him.

Hank took the chance and broke the spell. "You guys have the best food in town," he said.

"Thank you," she said, eying Hank's bowl of soup, which stood untouched on the table.

"Ah, I was here last night, too," he said, following her gaze. "The meal was amazing. That's why there are so many V.I.P.s coming here to eat." He waited a few seconds, but it was now clear that she wouldn't engage in small talk with him.

"I just spoke with the mayor last night, after he had dinner here," he bluffed.

The girl suddenly seemed interested. "Oh yeah?" she said, waiting for him to say more.

"Yes," he continued, "he couldn't stop praising you guys for the good food and the wonderful service he received."

"Even after all that trouble?" the girl asked innocently.

Hank fell silent for a moment, thinking about how to make the girl more talkative.

But Brad was curious. "What trouble?" he asked.

"Wait," the waitress said, "aren't you, guys, reporters?"

"Yes, we are," said Hank.

"Then why should I speak with you? You should know already," she said, smiling at Brad.

"Yes, I do," Hank said. "But my friend here doesn't, for he is just a trainee and I have not told him yet. You can speak with him if you wish. I just remembered that I need to make an urgent phone call, so please excuse me." He left the table again, and the two others watched him walk through the dining room.

Once outside the building, Hank walked back to the old bench and sat down. The day was bright, and the sun shone with uncharacteristic brightness. He felt the heat on his checks and could have been quite happy had he not been so worried about Alice. Then he made that phone call he had left for.

"Hello," he greeted an unseen person at the other end of the line. "Is Mr. Goatdigger available for an interview? I want to get his opinion about an ongoing project. No, ma'am. I am with the newspaper." Hank looked down to the tip of his shoes. "No ma'am. My name is Brad Harper, and I am a trainee. My boss sent me out to make a story about the mayor's involvement in communities." A big truck passed by, honking. "Yes, he can choose the story. I mean, he knows better, doesn't he? He had a nice meeting just the other day where he spoke about pest infestation that degrades the quality of our life. Maybe he wants to speak about that. Imagine how many people would like to have a pest-free environment." Hank listened for a minute, then smiled to himself and said: "I will be there at five." He hung up.

Back at the restaurant, he met his assistant just outside the main entrance. They walked to the car, and Brad threw a bill at him. "You forgot your wallet, huh? Here is your bill. And let's get going with our business. I have a date tonight."

"With what's-her-name waitress?" Hank asked.

Brad grinned. "Nope. Her turn is tomorrow night."

But Hank didn't care about Brad's romantic dates; all he wanted to know was whether the waitress told him anything about the "trouble" with the mayor last night.

"I figure that you want the story," Brad said. Then he explained that he had found out that while the mayor and his guest were eating they were troubled by a huge rat that suddenly jumped up on their plates and bit the other man's thumb. The mayor slapped the rat flat, but it didn't die and hid under the table. While there, a waiter got a hold of the rat's tail and ran with it, with everybody else right behind him.

"A rat," wondered Hank. "Is that all?"

"Not quite," said Brad. "Amanda, the waitress that served us and was there last night, saw a girl carrying a huge backpack getting in and out of the neighboring niche very fast. She thinks that the girl, whom she estimates is about twenty years old, let the rat loose in there."

"What did the girl look like?" asked Hank, even though he knew they were speaking about Alice.

"I did not ask her about that. You know how girls are so jealous," said Brad. "But I can tell you that the waitress thinks that the girl wasn't the only one stalking the mayor; because just after the incident, two guys seated at the bar left in a hurry without proper payment, just throwing a 50 dollar bill on the table, which was triple the amount due. That's what she said to me."

"Pretty good for an apprentice," said Hank. "By the way, I just scheduled an interview for you with the mayor for this afternoon at four. An excellent opportunity to polish your skills."

* * *

Pepper caught up with Wizzy halfway through the park, for the mouse was short-legged and pretty slow. He almost didn't want to show himself, being a bit embarrassed that he had let down the mouse and broken his word to the community.

But Wizzy must have heard him running. He turned and looked over his shoulder, then stopped, allowing the dog to catch up with him.

"Hop up, mouse," said Pepper, who now lay flat on the grass so that his friend was able to climb up on his back.

Wizzy was not resentful but rather surprised, after giving up any hopes of finding Pepper.

"You have disappointed me and the nation of mice, my friend," he said close to the dogs' ear. "I have been looking for you all over, afraid that Tank's gang ripped you in pieces and ate you up."

"It almost did," said the dog. "I would have been dead by now, had it not been for a nice creature that saw me first and alerted me to run. Like I said, I was in danger, and she saved my life, so I felt like I had to thank her. A lot."

"You don't fool me," Wizzy said. "But that's your problem. I was looking for you because we have a mission to accomplish, one that you happily agreed upon."

"Yeah, yeah!" muttered the dog, moving along the alley. None of them spoke for a long, long time.

Once they were within eyeshot of their destination, the mouse jumped down on the ground. They arrived at the shack and rested on stacks of hay, eating dog food from a bag. Wizzy was telling Pepper what he had found out the previous night by listening in on the conversation between the mayor and his guest. "And they will start at the Hills, I think. They said that the mice will first become ill; and after a day or two of unbearable pain, they..." But Wizzy didn't finish his sentence because tears filled his little eyes.

"Oh, Wizzy!" Pepper was moved by his little friend's suffering. "We will find those bastards and, and... grrr!!!" the dog continued, becoming very aggressive. Then he stopped as if stricken by lightning. "The thing I don't understand is why do you need me if you already know that they'll spread the poison? You could just run and alert all the mice."

"Maybe so. Maybe we can avoid the contaminated spots for a while; we can even manage to find a temporary home, at least some of us. But they are serious. They plan to keep track of how many deaths their poison produces. They'll come after us wherever we will go. There's no escape."

Wizzy looked into Pepper's big dog eyes. They were wet. "And we will not be the only casualty."

"What do you mean?" asked Pepper, horrified.

"Think about all those dogs that play in the parks, along with children and other little animals..."

Puppanela, thought Pepper.

"Exactly," said Wizzy.

The dog froze. What did the mouse just say? But he didn't have time to think deeper about it, for the doors to the shack were opened wide. The leader of the mice community, Mr. Cat Whiskers, came inside followed by his court of mice, mostly male with big whiskers, curly tails, and a black mark along the back.

"Hello, my friends," he said in mouse language, promptly translated by Wizzy.

"I came here today because I heard we are in great danger. We fear for our lives and our children's future. We have two options: die or flee."

The boss let his head down, and a murmur spread through his followers.

"If we shall die, then so be it," said one of them.

"No!" said another. "We have been haunted for ages by many animals. Unsuccessfully. But none of the other hunters have done it as systematically as the human race. And now they are planning a mass destruction, a... 'mousocide'. I say no, we cannot give them satisfaction. We will fight."

The crowd responded with cheers, and the mouse who just spoke stepped up and bowed.

"How will we fight?" asked one. "We have no weapons, no poison, no nothing. I say we flee..." His voice was buried by the others' screams of disapproval.

"And go where?" asked a little one, a female, with tears in her eyes. "There are so many of us everywhere... Who's going to give us shelter and soothe our hunger? The food supply is already low. The human race has already poisoned the fields with their pesticides and herbicides, forcing huge mice communities to flee into towns."

"That's right," said Cat Whiskers. "An exodus of us would be hazardous. But what would be even more hazardous is to stay here. We would surely die." He stood up on his hind legs and surveyed the room with his little brown eyes. Nobody else moved a muscle, as all were watching him and waiting for a decision, maybe even a miracle. But nothing happened. He kept staring at them. Pepper felt the tension in the air growing tighter and tighter.

"Let's fight," erupted a strong voice, shortly followed by another and then another.

"That's stupid. Let's flee."

"We don't want to die."

It was a big loud mess. Pepper could not believe that so much noise could come from such little chests. He looked at Wizzy, who shrouded and yelled into his ear: "They all have something to say, it looks like."

Pepper had never been fond of loud talk. Whenever Bob and his girlfriend raised their voices at each other, he had to howl to cover their pitch. But they didn't like it, and he would end up in the backyard, kicked out the door by that woman. Howling was an involuntary reflex on his part; he never wanted to do any harm, just to interrupt the yelp hurting his eardrums.

The uproar of this gathering almost equaled that of his masters. Flooded by childhood memories, Pepper couldn't refrain himself and let out a deep howl, which broke the chaos and reduced everybody to a nonverbal attitude.

"What happened to him?" whispered one of them, but nobody answered for they were all looking at Pepper in awe. Even the dog stopped, surprised by his own reaction.

After a few moments, the boss spoke again, his face lit with new hope. "Everyone, look! We don't need to panic. We have a great friend on our side." And they cheered.

"Oh, but we need a plan, something greater and smarter than those humans together can think of," said Wizzy, jumping in front of the crowd and looking them in the eye. "Yes, we have Pepper on our side, but what can he do? We don't know when it is going to happen, we just know where."

Pepper, who was listening to the conversation without understanding too much of it, howled again, but this time it was short and grave. Wizzy turned to see his friend wiggling his tail just like a puppy and scratching the floor with his paw.

"If there is anything I need to know, you better translate, or else I will scram out," he said to the mouse.

"All right. We need a plan," said the mouse, subsequently making sure his friend had all the details of the conversation that followed among the mice. They all agreed that someone had to be on duty on the Hill day and night, watching for the mayor's workers. From there, communication lines should be open at all times and in all directions where mice were living, ready to spread the word when necessary. Wizzy and Pepper were to find a spot on the park at the Hills where they could easily detect any suspicious movements. If they saw anything or if Pepper sniffed ambiguous odors, Wizzy was supposed to run and alert the next cell of mice, to be set up east of the park. From there, the three mice that formed the cell would run to alert other cells and so on, until all the mice had been warned that the danger was near. Then, they were to gather in three safe locations, determined ad-hoc, and stay there until the campaign was over. Pepper would eventually find, with his nose, new clean places for them to live.

"And oh, by the way," said Mr. Cat Whiskers, taking Wizzy aside. "I have some credits for you, some of them to be spent on this dog if he needs them. I do have to let you know that some questions have been raised from within the assembly as to how you got your information and how reliable they are. I vouched for you, and I will continue to do so. But the crowd is hungry, and I will have to back up sooner or later. Just so you know."

Wizzy sighed. "My mission will be complete by then. But it will be too late."

The leader patted him on the back, and vacated the shack accompanied by all his followers.

Dog and mouse were left behind to watch them pass through the open door. They got up from their warm spots not long after the crowd of mice disappeared.

"Let's go to the Hills. We'll grab some food on our way over there," said Wizzy before closing the shack's wooden door after them.
CHAPTER 7

By the time they arrived at the Hills, the sun had already passed over the sky and had sunken beneath the zenith, bathing the horizon in the red light of the sunset. The trees seemed even taller profiled against the purple horizon. Pepper looked up the branches of the tree he was lying under, chewing a bone. They had stopped at a garbage bin outside a butcher shop, and Pepper had picked the biggest bone he was able to carry. The mouse was leaning against the trunk. He had asked Pepper to tell him his story, but the dog remained quiet, holding its bone between his front paws.

"Just trying to have a chat. As for me, I grew up in a forest, and I had to leave when they cut down the trees around us. My parents stayed, though."

"And how did you become a... wizard?" asked the dog, grinning with all his teeth.

"That's another story," Wizzy said.

"Care to share?"

"Rather not. You go first, then I'll see," said the mouse.

"I came here to find my master," said Pepper, letting go of the bone. "His name is Bob, and I'm pretty sure he lives in this town. We may have lived here together, as some things look familiar to me and I can even smell long forgotten memories. I was born into a family of circus dogs." Having made this confession, Pepper began weaving his story to a quiet and impressed mouse. He paused to take another bite of the bone, licked his snout, then continued: "I just want to go home. I got tired of roaming around from town to town with no food or shelter, always in danger of getting caught by the kennel guys, with nobody to play with or look after. You know, that's a dog's life. We need to have someone to protect. We give them safety, they give us snuggles. And that's all there is," he concluded and went back to concentrating on his bone for a while.

Wizzy wanted to say something nice and cleared his throat. But he couldn't find any wise words, so instead he asked: "How exactly have you thought to find your master Bob?"

"I thought I will search the town until I find him," Pepper answered.

"The town is big, though."

"I have some ideas about where to go first."

"Listen," said Wizzy, "I may be able to help."

"You?"

Pepper seemed amused, but Wizzy did not bother to respond. Instead, he pulled a coin out of the pouch he was wearing around the neck. "Get this," he said. "Find a lake and throw it in, making a wish. It is going to come true, I guarantee."

Where Pepper had been amused at first, he was now laughing out loud, showing his upper teeth in a grin and letting out a higher-than-usual pitched growl.

"And what exactly is so funny?" asked Wizzy, still holding the coin, offended by the dog's attitude.

"Nothing," said Pepper, realizing that he had hurt his friend's feelings. "It is just that it sounds so funny. How can a coin in a lake fulfill my wishes?" The dog looked into his friend's eyes, as if to tell him that it was such an unrealistic claim.

Wizzy held the coin up high. "It is no joke. Remember, I am a wizard, and I can do things the wizard way." The mouse looked at Pepper with such intensity that the dog let his head down and whimpered an apology.

"Take the coin," Wizzy said again. "And before you throw it into a lake, look deep into the eye that's minted on one side. Make your wish, then throw it out in the water. Leave right away and don't look back, as the eye may want to draw you in."

Pepper put the coin into his mouth, careful not to hurt Wizzy's little paw. The mouse touched his snout and made a discreet sign on the dog's wet, black nose. "Go for it!" he whispered. Pepper stood up on all fours and walked away like in a trance, leaving Wizzy to hide under a pile of dead leaves.

* * *

The two men were circling the neighborhood for an hour. They had spoken with one pet owner but didn't find out much. The middle-aged woman had gray hair and bad breath, which made Hank sense some alcohol intake just minutes before. She had been walking her dog, a black poodle about three years old, when it found a mouse just outside the picnic area. The poodle played with it until its master arrived and took the dead rodent, disposing of it in a nearby garbage bin. Then the dog went crazy, sniffing around some bushes and finding some old stinky cheese, which he didn't eat. Then they left. A few hours later, the dog got sick.

"Did you bring him to the vet?" asked Hank.

"Yes, but it was too late. The vet said he would not charge me unless I wanted an autopsy, so I didn't insist. He said nothing about why and how my dog got sick and died." The woman started crying very hard. "Excuse me!" she said and ran back inside, adding: "You can mention my name if you want."

Subsequently, they stopped at another house, only to learn that the dog's master was out and wouldn't return for a few days.

"Here is my number," said Hank, handing a business card to the woman who had opened the door, introducing herself as the dog owner's girlfriend.

"Let's find the fourth grader, she is my only hope," said Hank, and they both hopped inside the car. This time, Brad took the driver's seat.

They drove to the address stated in the letter and parked across the street. It was a small house, painted in white with green trims. The house was neat and well-kept, even though one could tell that it was very old by the way the entrance was guarded by canopies of wines wrapped around white pillars. On the left side of the house, in a little garden, white and purple mums shot up among dried chrysanthemums, proudly, like a victorious celebration of life. A woman answered the doorbell.

"Hello," said Hank, smiling accommodatingly. "I'm Hank Peterson, and he is my colleague Brad Harper. We are with the newspaper. We are here to prepare a story about the recent casualties among dogs from this neighborhood." He paused, waiting for her to react, but she remained silent.

"Do you have a dog, missus?" Hank let his question hang in the air, hoping the woman would introduce herself. But she didn't. Instead, she just looked at them with skeptical eyes, which wandered up and down their bodies.

"So, how can I help you?" she finally said.

"Well, so far we have spoken with a few of the residents around here. They told me their story, and someone said they used to see you at the park with your dog, too. I just wanted to let you know that we are very sorry about your loss," said Hank.

"So, if you know the story already, you don't need me anymore," she said and shut the door.

"Why don't you tell her about the letter?" asked Brad.

"The girl asked us not to," he said, but rang the doorbell once again.

The woman came back, visibly scared.

"If you want us to leave, we will. But your dog will still be dead, and you won't know why," said Brad, glancing at Hank for approval.

"What he meant," Hank quickly added in an attempt to prevent her from shutting the door in his face a second time, "is that we won't mention any names or other identifiable facts without your approval, but we would like to know what happened."

The woman looked him in the eyes. A few seconds was too long for Hank to wait, so he continued: "You are not alone. We have reports about at least ten dogs. People have written us asking for answers. Some of them are concerned about their children's safety."

The woman now appeared startled, and Hank was quick to take advantage of that. "Whatever happened to the dogs could have happened to any kid that goes to the park. And there's no guarantee that danger has blown over."

"All right," said the woman. "I need to see your name badge."

Hank reached into his blazer pocket and pulled out a small white card with his name and the newspaper's logo, which read: "The truth is in your hands." Brad extracted a similar card from his pants pocket.

She studied everything thoroughly – the names, the photos, the text. "Now," she said, "move your car from across the street at least one block away, then walk back here and enter without ringing. The door will be open."

The woman kept her word. When they returned, she was sitting on her small porch furnished with a wicker table and two chairs, which were still standing although the signs of wear and tear were more than Hank would ever trust. Even so, when she invited them to take a seat, he didn't hesitate, preferring to fall rather than disobey her wishes.

"My name is Stella, and I've been living here for my entire life, now with my daughter Jessica and my husband Dan. Until two weeks ago, we had a hamster and a dog, a lovely Dalmatian. The mouse was my daughter's pet. But they are not with us anymore." Stella narrated the events that had culminated with the dog's death.

"We were very fond of them. He was an old dog, and we thought he was sick. Never dawned on us... Never thought that something may have gone wrong." She paused, then looked through the glass between the porch and garden. "I've seen this neighborhood go through some rough times – gangs, fights, shootings... But we know each other. Nobody would harm animals or children," said Stella, wiping away a tear.

"When my friend and neighbor Amy, a young and lovely gal, told us that her dog was poisoned at the park, I didn't want to believe her. But she went to the veterinarian right away with her sick Labradorean; and the vet, a friend of hers, told her that the dog had ingested some kind of poison."

"Did she ever tell you specifically what kind of poison?" asked Hank, who was trying to recall whether there was a letter from someone named Amy among those on his office desk.

"No, she didn't. She said she forgot the name."

Hank and Brad looked at each other like two accomplices. The woman was still silently crying, and Brad pulled out his handkerchief, which he then gave to her. Surprised, the woman took it and blew her runny nose, then crumpled it in her hands. Hank padded her back and told her she'd be fine and the whole neighborhood was going to be fine as well. But they really needed a few more details, like where Amy lived and which vet she'd gone to see.

"Amy has gone down south to see her mom," said Stella, looking at them with regret.

"It's alright, it's alright," said Brad.

"Maybe her veterinarian doctor is still around," dared Hank.

"There's only one around here, but she goes someplace else, and I don't know where. But I'll give you her cell phone number if you promise to be as nice to her as you've been to me."

"We certainly will, won't we?" said Brad while looking at Hank. They left soon after, sneaking back to their car like two con men.

* * *

It was time for them to pay the mayor a visit. Brad was getting nervous, Hank impatient.

"Just read the questions and let the man speak. That's all. Simply push the record button at the beginning of the interview and push it again at the end. Keep him happy for thirty minutes."

"Will I have a list of questions?" Brad asked.

"Yes."

"So where is it? I haven't seen you working on one."

"I'll write it down for you, OK?"

"Will I be able to read your handwriting?"

"Jeez!" burst Hank.

While they were driving, there was a long period of silence until Hank turned on the radio. The broadcaster was speaking about a crash that had slowed traffic to a crawl, while a happy tune played in the background. Hank, who sat behind the wheel again, turned the volume up high. The broadcaster finished his announcement, and the music came back to life. Hank stopped at a stop sign and looked left. Brad turned the volume down. Their car crossed the intersection keeping straight. Hank then looked at the radio volume, which he rotated back to high. Brad said nothing but waited for Hank to get busy driving before turning the volume back down.

"I saw that," said Hank, embarrassed.

"It's too loud, man!" replied Brad.

"It is not."

"Listen, why do I even have to do an interview with the mayor? I don't get it. I don't want to be a journalist, I am happy with my job."

Considering this question, Hank decided it was better to be honest. So, he told Brad that the mayor happened to be an enemy of his father, and therefore the mayor would never grant him an interview. However, Hank kept quiet about his intention to use the interview as an opportunity to sneak into the mayor's office and check out his computer. "Just so you know, his office is too noisy, and it won't work for the interview. You have to get him in a conference room that has no windows to the street," he added, while a nervous-looking Brad was listening and nodding.

When they arrived at Town Hall, it was 4:50 p.m. They parked across the street and sat in the car while Hank wrote ten questions on his phone's notepad, reading them aloud as he typed. Then he emailed them to Brad. "These should be enough to last you two hours," he said.

"Do I have to ask all of them?" Brad said, amazed.

"Not at all. Only the first three are really important. He can only give you thirty minutes of his time, then he has to leave. No worries, everything's going to be all right. See you here afterwards."

"Alright, man," said Brad, slamming the door.

Brad crossed the road and entered the building, his tall figure bending slightly when he entered the front door, as if it was too low for him. Hank watched him disappearing and then waited ten more minutes, checking his phone for any sign from Alice while monitoring the people who were entering and exiting the City Hall. There was Miss Cindy, the receptionist; Mr. Lindenberg, who worked at the archives; and that girl – what's her name? – who campaigned with him only to flee the boat, switching to the mayor's side. He knew a lot of people there. It was past 5 p.m., and they were done for the day.

He decided the time had come for him to step out of the car, cross the street, and wait by the entrance. He pulled his hood over his head and peeked inside when a group of people kept the door open for a little while. He saw another big group coming down the stairs. While the door was still open and people were pouring out, he sneaked inside, unnoticed. The lady at the front desk was busy chatting with a colleague. He took the opportunity to climb the stairs up to the first floor, where the mayor's office was located. Then he had to find some way to get in. "Good luck and help me God!" he said to himself, now standing in front of the heavy wooden door that he had passed through some nights ago to find Alice hiding under the table.

Alice..., he remembered with a twinge on the left side of his chest. But he had to forget about her for now, since he had a very hard task to accomplish. Without knocking, Hank turned the knob and cracked the door open. It was a large room, which featured a short hallway leading to the mayor's office, a compact waiting area in a corner, some open floorspace, and then the reception area. Miss Martha, the mayor's secretary, was sitting behind her massive reception desk. As far as he could tell, she was enjoying watching a show on TV, laughing softly from time to time.

This woman now sat between Hank and his goal. He briefly considered whether he could just glide in behind the desk and slowly open the door to the mayor's office, but it looked too risky. After all, he wasn't a little person. He was starting to panic when an idea finally popped up in his head. He pulled out his phone and called one of the offices elsewhere in the building. Whispering, he said: "Hello, Mr. Dinky. Mister Mayor is in an interview that's going to last longer than expected. He wants you to send Martha home because he won't be needing her for the afternoon. Thank you." He put an end to the conversation before Mr. Dinky had time to inquire about his identity, then stood and waited. Sure enough, a minute later the phone rang and Martha answered and had a short conversation. Then she spent five minutes getting ready to leave, while Hank impatiently kept looking at his wristwatch. Finally, she exited the room looking like a queen, with a majestic step and a raised chin, slamming the door. Then she turned around and locked it. Nooooo..., said Hank to himself. As if the woman had heard him, she turned back and unlocked the door, laughing and muttering to herself: "Lock him out and then you'll see."

Once she was out of sight, Hank emerged from his corner and entered the reception area. From there to the mayor's desk was just one step, which he didn't hesitate to make. It was now twenty minutes past five, which only gave him 5-7 minutes to do the job anticipating no troubles and leaving 3-5 minutes to get out before the building was locked down. Going to work right away, Hank sat down on the mayor's chair and pulled out the rubber glove Alice had given him the night before. He put it on his hand. It felt weird, cold and sleek, and didn't really fit to his hand. It was too small, but the fingers were awkwardly inflated, too big. Hank didn't allow himself to get lost in contemplation but turned on the desktop computer and pressed the glove's index finger over the screen, but it remained locked. Then he tried the thumb, and again nothing happened. Hank stared at the screen. What could it be? he was wondering. All the sudden, he breathed over the index finger and touched the screen again. Magically, like a curtain being lifted in front of a stage, the screen started to populate. "Heat sensitive, duh!" he whispered. Working fast, Hank coupled his drive stick with the computer's port. His fingers were flying across the keyboard looking for something that might or might not exist. But he could recognize it if he saw it. And there it was, one folder solitarily hidden on the second hard drive. He opened the folder, but found it encrypted. "Shoogar," he whispered in despair, trying very hard not to say the bad word, a childhood habit that had stayed with him over the years. He sent the folder flying to the stick, looking through other documents while the file was being transferred. When it was three quarters copied, Hank heard hurried footsteps, heavy heels tapping on the marble floor, apparently coming straight toward the mayor's office. While the doorknob clicked open, he had the déjà vu feeling, but this time he didn't make it to the closet. The closest thing was the open window behind the mayor's desk.

* * *

Wizzy waited for more than thirty minutes before he came out from his hiding spot, refreshed from a little nap. He was wondering if he should go looking for Pepper, for the dog should have been back by now. He had never done anything so powerful for a dog before, and he wasn't entirely confident. All other sorceries had gone well so far except for one, and he wasn't even sure that single failure had been his fault.

The credits he had been given for the dog were recent, and he was wondering if it was too soon; maybe they hadn't been activated yet. That was one of the weirdest things about credits, they needed to be activated by a certain machine, which was situated far away and pretty much alive, as far as he had been told.

Not wanting to wait any longer, Wizzy walked down the alley in the direction Pepper had gone when he left a while ago. He missed his friend's padded back with its wide opening between the shoulders. His steps were short and getting to the lake would take him longer than he wanted, even though it shouldn't be too far.

The light became dimmer and it got cold and dark in the blink of an eye; and – gosh! – he didn't want to be out but would rather stay in his cozy hole, eating nuts. But peace doesn't come free of charge, one must work for it, it has to be earned. In the past when he was younger, he didn't care much about peace. Oftentimes, he would be the one to provoke a fight among mice. Those times were rather funny to think back on now. He had faced death on more occasions than he had fingers and toes, and yet he had never feared for himself or others.

Now he was running, and kept asking himself: Where is that dog? Lately, Wizzy had noticed, Pepper had become more important to him than it was supposed to be. It was all about the machine, he thought. His life had changed because of the machine, which was giving him bits of happiness here and there, bits of love and friendship, and crumbs of power. He was sick of it but had no choice in the matter. "Soon, it will all be over," he whispered, leaping across the park towards the lake, which lay at the opposite end of the alley.

Through a bunch of dead flowers that remained standing erect in the center of a garden, he saw the silvery lake glittering in the blue light of the evening. On the shore, he caught glimpse of a well-known silhouette. It was Pepper. Wizzy came closer to find the dog peacefully watching the waves that kept flooding the shore over and over again, "whoosh-whoosh, whoosh-whoosh."

"Pepper?" he said softly.

The dog turned his head and saw the mouse, small and shriveled, standing on his hind legs with his front paws raised towards him.

"Hi," Pepper said. "As I am looking across this lake, I remember the beautiful time I spent with my master before he complicated his life with that woman. We would go in those parts at dusk. I would run around and play with sticks. He would sit by the lake, reading. After a while, once I got sick of playing and my legs hurt, I would come and rest by him, watching the waves, trying to see to the opposite shore."

The dog fell silent. Wizzy waited, but all he heard next was a short and colorful sigh.

"Pepper...," the mouse finally said.

"I know, I know, I shouldn't be so sentimental," the dog conceded, finally leaving his spot by the water to join Wizzy.

"Pepper," said the mouse again in a firmer voice. "I have been waiting for you, I was worried."

"I'm sorry, friend, it took me awhile to make my wish," said Pepper.

Wizzy did not quite understand. Pepper was supposed to throw the coin in the water and come back right away, as instructed. Perhaps something had gone wrong when he made the sign on Pepper's nose. Could he mistakenly have made the wrong sign?

"Did you make your wish?" asked Wizzy.

"Yes," responded Pepper. "When do you think my wish will come true?" he then asked with a spark of hope in his voice.

Wizzy didn't answer. Instead, he started walking back. "We shall leave now," he said, taking the lead.

"Where are we going?" Pepper asked.

"Back where we came from."

"Aha."

Wizzy was running, losing ground to Pepper, who was walking at his leisure.

"Do you need a ride?" the dog asked casually.

"Yes, thank you." The mouse jumped onto Pepper's back, landing on that wide padded spot between the shoulders.

They cruised along dark alleys and among thick tree trunks in complete silence. Wizzy could hear Pepper's heart pounding. They returned to the place where they had first stopped.

Wizzy jumped down. "We should wait here," he said. "This is the best spying site I know of in the whole park."

"What are we spying for?" asked Pepper.

Wizzy didn't answer right away, being busy making a mountain out of dead leaves. "Everything," he finally answered, seeming undisturbed.

Pepper lay down on the dried grass with his back against a small tree. Wizzy positioned himself on top of the mountain of leaves he had just raised, facing the opposite way. They had a 360 degree view, with all the main alleys and roads knotting together just steps away.

"We are the frontrunners, Pepper," said Wizzy. "Whenever the bad guys are coming to spread their poison, we will be the first to find out. Then we will run to alert the other communities to stay away from any contaminated spots."

"By the way," said Pepper, perking his head up, "I smell rotten eggs. It comes from down there. Maybe the wind is blowing it my way. Are there any restaurants around?"

"No, there aren't," answered Wizzy. "Besides, restaurants don't smell like that."

"You haven't been around any bad ones," laughed Pepper. But Wizzy was already climbing up the tree while looking down the alley, where he saw two men walking in a hurry. They were still far away, but fast approaching. Pepper was on his feet, sniffing the air, excited.

"There come your rotten eggs," said the mouse, descending the tree. "Let's follow them."

"Are you kidding?" said Pepper. "I'm too big, they'll spot me."

"Don't be a scaredy cat," said Wizzy in an urgent way.

At this time, the two men were already passing under the tree where the two animals were hiding. Wizzy left his place first, and then tried to keep up pace with the men. Pepper stayed behind, trying to reach the bushes on the side of the alley for cover.

The men were now at the crossing, where they stopped briefly before one of them turned left, and the other one right. Wizzy went after the man who had turned right, barely keeping up pace with the guy. Pepper turned left, waiting for his man to get ahead so he could follow him unseen.

Pepper's man stopped and deviated from the path, walking straight across the dead lawn. Pepper jumped behind a bush. His guy went around it and, picking up a stick from the ground, started flipping through the dead branches while waving a big flashlight, barely missing the dog's tail among the shoots. After a few seconds, the man moved on to the next bush. By the time he had gone through half of the bushes in his path, it had become pretty clear to Pepper that the man was looking for something, or maybe someone. And whatever the man was hoping to find, it had to be worth the effort. So, Pepper got around to thinking that if he could find whatever it was they were searching for, that might prevent a lot of problems. But after almost an hour of sniffing around while also keeping the man under surveillance, Pepper turned back to the crossing where he and Wizzy had split. The mouse was there already, waiting for him.

"They lost something," said Pepper right away.

"Or maybe someone else lost something and they're trying to find it first," replied Wizzy. "I lost my guy, but I bet he's going to be back here soon. I will try to listen in on their conversation. Why don't you go back to the tree and wait for me there?"

Pepper did as he was told, a little unhappy about the sudden bossiness in his friend's voice. He leaned against the frail tree and pricked his ears, trying to catch the noises of the night. One man was there already, he could smell, and the other one was close enough.

"Nothing," said the one that was coming, breaking the stillness of nature in the dark. He was walking fast and sounded angry.

"Should we move over to the upper side?" asked the other.

"You idiot, you go there alone. How can you be such a fool?" the angry one said again, shaking his head so hard that his long hair flipped left and right a few times.

"She tricked me," the other answered. "Why didn't you watch her, huh, if you are so smart?"

The men now stood face to face, and Pepper thought they were going to start punching each other any minute now. Instead, they fell silent.

"Shhh!" said one of them. "I hear something."

Pepper froze. His breath became lighter, and he pulled his tongue back inside his mouth, hoping to remain undetected. It was then he realized that he had listened to these men's conversation and had understood them. A cry of astonishment was growing inside him. Excitement, surprise, anxiety, stupor and perplexity all came to Pepper at once, which was good because all those emotions choked and muted him, leaving no room for an unwanted reaction that would expose him.

"Let's go," said the aggressive one. "We have to find that bag tonight." And the two men took off, going up the main alley.

They are leaving, thought Pepper. I could hear them, I could understand them, holly bark, wow!

Feeling more excited than ever in his life, Pepper looked around for Wizzy to share the amazing discovery. A bit disappointed, the dog realized that the mouse wasn't there yet. He picked up the mouse's trace, but lost it in a bundle of sweat, beer and spoiled burps that the two humans left behind. He was sure it was Wizzy and his coin that did the magic, so he had the urge to find him and scream at the top of his lungs that now he believed him to be a wizard. Come to think of it, Pepper had witnessed other mysterious happenings, but he mostly took them for granted or avoided thinking of them altogether. Like a few nights ago, when the pack of stray dogs that were in the process of killing him suddenly ran away as if struck by magic.

Not knowing exactly what to do, Pepper followed the men at considerable distance, watching them search through the park and stroke each and every bush, waving their flashlights over enigmatic dark shapes. At some point, one of the men cried "Over here!", and the other came running. The man had found an umbrella, half open, stuck on a bush. "Isn't it the one she hit you with?" he asked seriously. His partner mumbled something, then grabbed the object and performed a thorough examination.

"That's the one," he concluded and handed it back. "Now we just need to find the rest of her stuff."

He sounded grumpy and ready to put up a fight, Pepper could tell. The dog wondered what was going on, who the woman was they were talking about, and what it was that she had lost. Or what did they think she was missing? Hmm... The dog couldn't put it together, having only a few pieces of information.

"At least we have this," the finder insisted, holding up the broken umbrella like a prize he had just won.

"That's useless, you moron. You can throw that away. We need the backpack," sounded the reply. The umbrella flew through the night like a wicked black bird and landed on another bush, within a few steps of Pepper's latest hideout. The dog crawled toward it and gently raised his head, sniffing the object. There was something familiar, something sweet about it, like the time he first saw Puppanela. But it couldn't have been her. No way, he thought, she doesn't have an umbrella.

The two men continued their nocturnal search, moving farther and farther away until they disappeared from sight, swallowed by the heavy night. Pepper listened to their last audible words before their voices got lost in the wind.

Coming out from his bush, Pepper sniffed the umbrella one more time, then looked around. As he was turning left, the now-familiar smell was fading. But once he turned right, the scent hit him like a stroke. With his nose up in the air, he followed the scent to a nearby tree. There, smashed against the trunk and hooked on a little branch just above the ground, was its source: A huge backpack, black, with multiple straps and pockets. With one strike of his paw, he brought it down and pulled it closer. Then he allowed himself to smell, sniff and sneeze until he finally remembered: it was the other night when he lay flat under the old wooden table, napping and listening to the voices of the youngsters in love.

He smelled again. There was something else. It was Wizzy's scent. At this point, any logic disappeared from Pepper's brain. Careful not to damage the backpack, he pulled it out of the weeds and, looking left and right, snuck out and ran into the woods like a thief, carrying the bag in his mouth.
CHAPTER 8

The sound of the street grew louder as the light turned from a violet to deep blue and into black. An abundance of cars overflowed the street as people were getting off from work, hurrying into a well-deserved free time.

Brad was standing by the car, conveniently stationed across City Hall in a paid parking spot. Impatient and irritated, he had been patrolling the street up and down for more than fifteen minutes, trying to keep himself warm in the freezing November air. He had left his jacket inside the car. No need for it at the interview, Hank had told him, and he had been right.

It was nice and cozy inside City Hall, where even the biggest rooms were properly heated. They had walked him to a conference room across the hallway. While waiting, he had pulled out his recorder and set it on a dark mahogany table. There were two more minutes left until five, and he had spent that time examining some pictures on the walls. There were old photos of the town, blown out to fit 20x20 frames, all hung at the same height, spaced at the same distance between each other.

The mayor had arrived a few minutes after five. Just as Brad had expected, the mayor had sat down immediately without any formalities, ready for the interview. "Shall we start?" he boomed.

He had asked Brad to read his list of prepared questions. As it turned out, the questions consumed far less time than Hank had predicted. They got through half of them in less than ten minutes, with the mayor discarding the other half as being irrelevant. He was in a hurry, the receptionist had already told Brad as much. Once Brad had crossed out all the questions on his list, it was 4:15 p.m. and the big man was ready to leave. Brad was happy that everything went so fast and smoothly. The two men said goodbye to each other, Brad promising to send a copy of the interview as soon as it got published. They stood in the doorway when the mayor noticed Brad's camera. "You forgot to take my picture," he said, so they turned back. For the next ten minutes, they got busy setting up a dignified pose for the mayor, combing his hair, straightening the wrinkles of his checkered jacket, and checking the tie knot. Finally, he smiled, white teeth glittering, splashed by the strong flash of the camera. At the end, he walked out of the room with a wave of his hand, leaving Brad behind to pack up his photo kit.

All in all, they were done sooner than expected. Brad left the building, eager to tell his designated client "Mission accomplished!" But to his surprise, Hank wasn't at the car, where they were supposed to meet at 5:30 p.m. or shortly thereafter. Brad waited, waited, and waited, but Hank never showed. He decided to go to the corner one more time. Once there, he would call Hank and, if need be, leave him a message with instructions about a new meeting place. He was planning to take a seat at the coffee shop just left of City Hall; a spot from where he could keep an eye on the car, should Hank unexpectedly return.

"Hank," he said into the machine, loud enough for Siri to recognize his voice. The screen changed to a spinning ball while the phone pulled out Hank's number and dialed it, connecting the two ends. Brad put the phone to his ear, listening to the familiar bell ringing on his left side, while – on the right side and almost simultaneously – he heard the unmistakable ringtone of Hank's mobile phone. Puzzled, Brad's head spun around, searching for the source. Left, right, south, north, low and up... and there it was! Brad's mouth hung open while the recording machine picked up an unanswered call.

"Holy Molly!" was Brad's reaction, the words escaping through his parted lips and fallen jaw. "Holy Molly!" the machine recorded, while Brad put his phone in his pocket, still looking up in disbelief.

Hanging by a window sill, dangling his legs like a bag trapped in a spider's web, was Hank. "Holy Molly!" said Brad one more time while running across the street in a desperate attempt to do something. But what should he do? His mind was racing. Call 911, firefighters, the mayor's guards? What could he do? And why was Hank there? Was he able to pick up his phone without falling? Once on the other side, Brad looked up again. He could see that his designated client was now stabilized, a few inches away from where he had last seen him, with his foot resting on something that looked like a crack in the wall. It was dark now, and Brad couldn't see very well, but he was able to pick up a few details – for example, that there was a brick wall on the left, above the coffee shop.

Brad positioned himself just beneath his client and called him on his cell phone again. While the phone rang in Hank's pocket, Brad softly called him out loud.

"Hank, Hank buddy, don't be afraid, will get you down."

"Shoogar," said Hank bitterly, in a very loud whisper. "I don't want to be seen. And don't call me either."

He's crazy, thought Brad. "Here's what you need to do," he then said out loud. "Move to your left till you reach the end of the window."

"Just stop talking!" said Hank angrily, looking between his crotches, down at Brad.

Brad was shocked. His client had lost his mind, apparently. "All right," he sighed, "I'll call 911."

"No!" shouted Hank, and a few people on the street turned their heads trying to find the source.

Brad waited for people to pass.

"Then listen up," he said. "I don't know what you're up to, maybe you want to spend the night up high. But if you want to come down, I'll tell you what you need to do."

Hank seemed to be listening.

"OK?" asked Brad. Not waiting for an answer, he continued: "Move to the end of the window and let yourself fall. Below, there is another window sill. Just keep your balance. Once there, go to the edge of it fast. There's someone inside, and the curtains are open. Got it?"

Hank nodded. He did as he was told, falling for about one meter while bending his knees to absorb the shock.

Brad was impressed with what he saw from below. "Now," he went on, "hang down from the window sill like you just did above, but look down this time. The wall is made out of bricks that stick out pretty well. You'll be able to squeeze your shoes into the openings and come down. There is the front entrance to the coffee shop, and I can help you jump from there. Got it?"

Hank didn't answer this time either. Instead, he was concentrating on doing as he'd been told. In less than two minutes, he was down on the street again with solid ground under his feet, not even touching Brad's helping hand.

The two young men looked at each other, but Hank was trying to avoid his assistant's stare. After a few embarrassing moments, he simply asked: "How did the interview go?"

Now it was Brad's turn not to reply. He turned around and walked to the car. "Give me those keys," he demanded, visibly upset. But then he added because he was well-bred: "Please."

"Now, wait a minute. You are not angry, are you? I mean, I've been up on that building, I could've fallen and died." Hank was trying to sound offended.

Once at the car, Brad again demanded the keys, but Hank said no. "Like, why do you need them?" he asked.

"You have guts, don't you?" said Brad, throwing his arms up in the air. "You better have a good explanation for what I saw, otherwise..."

"Otherwise what?"

"Otherwise, I will not protect you anymore. I will put you on the blacklist," Brad replied.

Hank finally handed him the car keys, and Brad took the driver's seat. But before turning on the engine, he looked at Hank one more time, which made Hank shift slightly in his seat.

"All right," Hank said. "Can we sit down somewhere?"

A few minutes later, they sat at a table in the coffee shop, ordering sandwiches and black coffee.

"Where should I start?" said Hank, looking inside his espresso cup like the truth was hidden there. Then he told Brad about the council meeting and the mayor's plans to eradicate the mice.

"I have this source inside the old Institute of Chemistry, which is now incorporated within Bucolian Inc. Once when we were out together watching football in a bar, he had too much to drink and told me that they were working on a new poison for rats. He said that poison is so strong it killed all their lab rats in an instant. I was shocked."

Hank then talked about his suspicions that the mayor was just about to test the same poison on mice, and how Hank wanted to write an article, but he didn't have enough proof.

"Then you thought I'd keep the mayor busy while you snuck inside looking through his papers?" asked Brad, who looked unhappy.

"As a matter of fact, I did look through his computer, but I didn't have the chance to finish my job."

"Did you find anything?" asked Brad, suddenly very interested.

"I don't know," said Hank cautiously. He took a bite of his sandwich and chewed. "Why? Why are you so interested?"

"Are you kidding me?" Brad said, his big eyes staring boldly at Hank. "So, you are after the mayor because he wants to eradicate the mice? I cannot believe that!"

"Believe whatever you want," said Hank, sounding a little hostile.

"I'll tell you what I believe," Brad said seriously. "I have a strong sense that there's more to this story than what you're actually telling me. And I believe that since you've made me your accomplice, I have the right to know everything. So please, be a good boy and spill the beans before I get my muscles pumped up and take you for a walk in the park." Brad pushed his coffee aside. "I am listening."

But Hank wasn't impressed. He pushed his coffee aside, too, and asked: "Can we go to the Hills, at least? I have a job to finish after I'm done with you," he bluffed.

Puzzled, Brad looked at Hank with surprise and burst into laughter. Here he was, tall and proud with a few pounds of muscles tucked underneath his jacket, versus the skimpy-looking dude, thin and narrow, who dared to confront him from across the table. "All right, we can go to the Hills, but I want to help you with your job first," he said.

Hank smiled, too.

"Look," continued Brad, "I may be partially responsible for your window escapade, but the questions were irrelevant. The mayor didn't answer them. Now, tell me the rest of the story."

Before long, he was filled in on all the details about how Hank had met Alice, about the deadline at his office, and about Alice's mysterious disappearance. "And you are right," Hank said. "I think the danger is greater than a few dead mice. The poison is strong and spreading without proper precautions can lead to lots of unwanted casualties. Now I am thinking that the dead dogs on the Hills may be related to this story."

"And where is Alice?" Brad asked with a big sigh.

"I guess we'll have to go back to Three Oaks for some answers. After all, I'm still hungry," said Hank.

They paid and left the coffee shop, Hank roaring the engine until the little car puffed and squeaked, taking off like a miniature airplane.

* * *

Three Oaks looked empty and sad, even though all the lights were on and the parking lot was as full as always. Hank drove to the back of the restaurant, where he saw Alice's bike still leaning against the oak tree, just where the girl had left it the other night. He stopped the car and got out, with Brad following shortly thereafter.

"Were you romantically involved?" Brad asked in a soft voice.

"We didn't get that far," Hank said, smiling for himself as he recalled the girl's face. "By God, we may even be together sometime in the future," he joked.

Brad pulled a slim pencil flashlight out of his inner jacket pocket. He held it down and turned it on. "It would have been helpful to look for clues in the daylight," he said. "Let's go inside." Taking the lead, he opened the door to the lobby.

The same hostess guarded the gates to the culinary pleasures, again dressed in black and red, with those big red lips and a big red flower tucked in her mass of hair.

"Hello, I'm glad to see you back. Did you find your pen?" she asked while smiling large, pleasantly surprised.

"Oh, cannot stay away from you, my dear." Hank played along, and the girl giggled in delight.

"A table for two?"

He nodded. "I'm here with my friend tonight. We just want to have some fun – you know, eat well, have a drink and relax. We don't mind a crowded, more animated place," he said, looking into the hostess' black eyes. "Later, we may move to the bar. We don't want to be in the way of... certain events, you know, like the other night. Hank looked at her meaningfully.

"Oh," she rolled her eyes. "They said it was a set-up."

"Is that true? I heard it was a young woman releasing a beast." Hank sounded like a true gossiper.

"Yeah, that's true. It was a woman. She was blond and gorgeous. Can you imagine her carrying a rat in her purse?" said the girl.

"Ridiculously funny," Hank agreed, laughing. "Did they catch her?"

"No, they didn't." Then the girl continued, bending over the desk to reach his ear: "There were two men that took care of her. The mayor's men, probably."

Hank's heart sank, but he kept his flags up. "Wow, what a thing to do!" he said after scrambling for words.

"Yeah, I wouldn't want to be in that sucker's high heels right now," the hostess laughed, satisfied.

At that point, Brad could not take it anymore. Pushing Hank aside, he stepped up to the desk. "Hi sweetie, please give us a table, I'm starving," he said, putting an end to a painful discussion.

The dinner was splendid like usual. Brad ordered a medium rare steak aux juice, with baked potato and coleslaw and a glass of red Sauvignon. Hank took a salmon and declined any alcohol. He was no longer hungry, and he wasn't thirsty either.

"The mayor's men? Doesn't sound right," he said, between two bites. "I know the mayor's habits. He doesn't have any mistresses, or men to take care of things like this."

The server came to change the water pitcher and refill Brad's wine glass. At that point, Hank had to stop speaking, which made him really annoyed. Once, he had been working on a project in a little Eastern European town, eating at local restaurants every single night. The food was good, but what he liked the most was that the waitress never came to his table uninvited. She would stand in a corner, supervising her section of the dining room. And like a hawk over its prey, she would dive in at any time a customer raised a finger. That's all you needed to do, raise one of your fingers and you got their attention right away. Since then, Hank couldn't stand the intrusive way some waiters would stop by, interrupting your conversation or whatever you were doing.

"Can I bring you anything else?" the waiter asked. Hank looked up, ready to say something not quite polite, but had to stop because the man was no one else than his source inside the old Institute of Chemistry.

Hank looked at him, puzzled.

"Hi Dave," he said, not even trying to hide his surprise.

"Ah... Hello Hank. I didn't know you are a Three Oaks customer."

"Yeah, and I didn't know you are a Three Oaks waiter."

"I guess we both found something to do here," answered Dave, laughing. "How have you been?"

"So, so," Hank said. "How about you? I see you have a new job."

Dave sighed. They used to be close when they worked together. They were young, out of high school, working as interns, learning how to navigate the big, bad world, along with bits of chemistry. They both shared a passion for magic potions, which came from reading too many fantasy books. When they finally decided that alchemy is just a myth, it was too late – they were hooked, loving chemistry beyond its magic facade. The Institute had given them the opportunity to get a head start as freshmen in college. The pay was low, but the fun was big.

"There were some problems... I cannot tell you, not right here and now," Dave said in a low voice, peeking around cautiously.

Hank's curiosity had been sparked. They had always shared secrets back in the old days. "Let's get together when you're done here. I have some questions for you as well."

"I get off at midnight," said Dave, taking the empty water pitcher, ready to leave. Except he didn't move. He looked troubled, Hank could tell.

"What's up, man?" he dared to ask.

Dave looked at Brad, as if wondering whether he should trust him or not. Brad caught the vibrations and excused himself, saying that he needed to use the restroom.

Dave took Brad's seat and spoke fast, leaning towards Hank. What he said in those thirty seconds changed the color of Hank eyes, which turned green every time he was happy and black when he was mad. Now, from a light brown color, which was expressing his neutral state, his eyes turned black, with two fires burning in the center. When Dave stood up to leave, Hank was struggling to regain his pose. "See you at midnight, man," he managed to say.

Brad returned to his chair to find his friend all done with his food, heavily drinking his wine. "I shall order one for you, too," he said.

"No," whispered Hank. "We are done."

"What about Alice? Have you tried calling her lately? Is there any way for you to find out if she's OK?"

"I already know what happened to her," he said. "I just don't know how to help her."

They paid and left. The hostess asked them if everything went well, but they barely took the time to answer before rushing out the door.

"I have to find out what's inside that file I copied."

"Makes sense," said Brad. "Where are we going?"

"To my office," said Hank, driving away.

The office was still open, and a few reporters were still struggling with their articles and photographs, trying to meet the deadline. Boss was in his office with the door open, watching the news on CNN, a bottle of frosted beer in his hands. Hank and Brad tried to sneak quietly past the office towards Hank's desk. But as had happened so many times before, Boss turned and smiled at them as they were going by. He must indeed have an eye on the back of his head! thought Hank.

Boss waved at them, inviting them in. He was lonely at this time at night and wanted to chit-chat with someone. Hank was one of his victims along with others, old or young. "That's what happens when you reach a certain age and no one's waiting for you at home," a journalist once told Hank after a two-hours beer and gossip time with Boss, at night.

"Hi boys. What's up? How's the story coming? Get yourselves a beer from the cooler."

He had a big, grey cooler box that he would bring to work every single day, loaded with beer, water and juice, and an occasional sandwich. At dusk, he would send one of the interns to the gas station to buy him a block of ice to cool his beer. He would initially open a bottle at about seven, when the first draft of the newspaper was ready. Then, by ten, there would be about ten empty bottles, most of them unloaded by all kinds of guests and employees. Nobody had questioned him so far, for he was truly the boss of that place. Once, the president of the company had come to visit, and Boss had offered him a beer. When the man declined, Boss had gone on with drinking his own and saying: "This is what's keeping the money coming, hahaha!" And indeed, this newspaper was the only one print outlet surviving the digital age. At a time when everybody else's magazines had died, his was more powerful than ever, flying off the newsstands.

"How come?" Hank had wondered one day.

"Because we give first, and don't ask for rewards," the Boss had said.

Hank was in a hurry but didn't have the guts to refuse the old man's beer. He took the bottle, put it to his mouth, and drank half of it in one gulp.

"Thirsty, huh?" said the Boss. "Now, tell me what you found at the Hills?"

"The cases are real," said Hank, taking the lead. "Basically, some dogs have died after being walked in the park, around the picnic area. People are getting worried that their children may become sick. They don't want to use the park anymore. Some of them have complained to City Hall, but they have been told that the Committee cannot open an investigation without some kind of proof: doctor's written reports, pictures, recordings and so on. But the vets are scared because – and here is where the story becomes interesting, if not creepy – two of them have received anonymous calls threatening them if they disclose anything about the dead dogs. We have a recording on tape. Tomorrow, we have a secret meeting with one of the vets."

"We?" asked Boss with a trace of irritation. "I am only paying Brad for one day."

"Then one day it will be," Brad said politely, while Hank stared at him. But Brad turned around and winked.

"Ah... all right then, and good job. Maybe we can have a nice story by next week, what do you think?" said Boss.

"It may be ready much sooner," answered Hank. "But I have to go back to it."

"Very well, very well. You go now and shut the door, would you?"

"Thank you, Boss. You are the best," said Hank, ready to leave. But Boss called him back. He picked up a yellow folder from the drawer of his desk and threw it across the table.

"Check it out," he said. "It is an interesting story from the late seventies. It may help you. Now, buzz out and good luck!"

Hank left with the folder under his arm, followed by Brad.

His desk was hidden in a corner of the big room, no paper walls around, just the massive structure of the building, ascending grey and heavy. A window in the far right broke the boredom. His desk looked small, like a mark on the foot of a giant. It was full of papers. On the floor, under the desk, there was an unorganized pile of what looked to be books, magazines and file folders topped with a dictionary. On the desk, hidden underneath newspapers, rested a laptop that Hank had to uncover by shoveling everything else aside with a wave of his hand.

Brad pulled out a chair and sat down, while Hank was still digging out his laptop. The yellow folder that his boss just gave him had already fallen under the table and gotten lost among the others of the same color.

"Shoogar," said Hank, trying to guess which folder it was. It was getting late, and he still had to read the file. Finally, the computer was up and running. Hank pulled out the USB stick and plugged it in, pushing the laptop out in front of Brad, who took it gently. For two minutes, his fingers danced across the keyboard. When he stopped, all files where readable.

"Open it," said Hank impatiently.

They bent over the screen to read. "TopSecret" was the title. There were documents, pictures and drawings plus a list of numbers. Hank started reading, from time to time summarizing out loud what he had just read.

"The project is called 'Operation Blast'... Developed by Bucolian, Inc. in partnership with Art Goatdigger and City Hall... The objective is to test a new substance: atomice. Then comes the description of the substance and what it does: paralysis of the nerves, death...." Hank stopped for a second, shocked. Then he turned back and kept skimming through the files. "It is to be implemented by City Hall... A plan of action will be finalized by both parties... A list of expected costs is to be made... Then there is a negotiation and a map of the locations where action is to take place," said Hank as he finished browsing.

"Nothing new so far," he added, a little disappointed.

Brad puffed, exasperated: "You have the whole story in your hands! What are you speaking about?"

"I know, I know," said Hank obediently, but this attitude only lasted a moment. Next thing, he stood up and started hitting the concrete wall with his fist in anger.

"There has to be more... somewhere."

"What exactly are you looking for?" asked Brad.

"I don't know. I am sorry. I guess I just don't know."

He closed the programs and shut down the laptop. It was almost midnight. He was tired and worried, and had no plan.

Brad put on his jacket in preparation of the freezing cold outside. "Gotta go. Call me tomorrow after eight. I'll come with you to the Hills," he said and made his way out of the big office building.

Left behind, Hank looked at his wristwatch. He made one more call to Alice. He tried both her home and her mobile in a foolish hope that she might have returned from wherever she was treehugging that day. But the phones remained quiet. Now he knew what was missing: Alice, or some way to find her.

A few minutes from now, he was supposed to meet Dave in a bar close to his home. He had to leave soon to make it there on time, being that he would not drive but ride his bike. He put the car keys in the hallway, on the hook under the name of the car, and left the building. He recalled Alice's bike still standing under the oak at the restaurant, alone. He should have taken it and put it in his car, then dropped it off at his place. Or at least he could have tied it to the tree.

It is my fault, he thought, remembering how she wanted to leave, but he had run after her and somehow convinced her to stand by him and help with the story. And now she was nowhere to be found. Worse, her life might be in danger. Adding to his guilty conscience, he hadn't even told her the truth about his drunken driving record, even though she had every right to know. Most of all, he recalled the hurried kiss on the bench and the happiness that had invaded him.

He was biking fast, hair flying in the air, jacket unzipped, frozen blast smashing against his chest. His feet were turning the pedals with fury. The bike was cutting into the night like a knife slices into a piece of dark chocolate cake. He turned the corner and – leaving the safety of the bike trail – went into the street, keeping right, dancing through the few cars that were caught in the nocturnal traffic. That had been his favorite sport as a teenager, a troubled kid that was looking for adventures in the worst possible places. That's how he got the scar on his upper leg. A car had clipped him and dragged him across a street paved with stones. It was ugly and painful, but that didn't stop him. He only gave up when he realized that some drivers are truly idiots, and that to die after being hit by an idiot is the most ridiculous thing. But not tonight, for he did not care, he just wanted to run away.
CHAPTER 9

Dave was sitting at a table with a full glass of beer and an almost empty glass of water.

"I don't drink anymore," he said to Hank. "My doctor told me that if don't refrain, my liver will probably explode, or implode, or do something – I don't remember what. In any case, I had to stop, which is fine. You know, I never really enjoyed it."

Hank glanced at the glass full of beer.

"He, he... I had to order something, otherwise they'd throw me out," Dave said, laughing. "I know how the industry works."

"Tell me again, how did you end up at Three Oaks?" asked Hank.

Dave told him the story, which involved him, and his wife being separated, which led to massive alcohol intake, which in turn led to skipping work and getting fired. "And I got very bad recommendations everywhere I went," he said sad. "The thing is, I'm not sorry for losing my job. The guy that ran the lab after you left was a complete moron, nobody was happy working with him. But the company went crazy. I'm telling you, they are on the verge of being a public danger."

"How do you mean?"

"They have developed that pesticide, as I told you. It is called atomice. Their tests revealed that it is too strong, but they don't want to change the formula because that's all they have to sell to avoid bankruptcy, relying instead on pure luck. Then they rummaged through the region, advertising under the table..."

"You know," Dave went on, "they bribed the city officials to buy their product. They went to farmers as well, promising them a pest-free crop..."

Hank was astounded by what his friend was telling him. "How do you know these things, I mean all the bribery?" he asked.

"Because that's why my wife left me. She had become the program manager for the CEO and his clique. Very high level of involvement, top secret as well," Dave sighed. "I have asked her to quit, but she says she knows too much. We had no choice. Otherwise..." Dave glanced at his friend, who could not help but notice the doubt in his eyes.

"It's OK. You don't have to tell me, but it would be better if you did," said Hank.

"The monstrosity of the project she was managing became clear when she had to balance the costs. There was money with no destination but earmarked as investments in City X or Farm Y. Very little money but enough for a single person to take as an incentive of some kind. She became restless, and they sensed it. She looked up the formula of the new substance; and once she saw it, she went crazy. She came home that night and told me that she doesn't want to have kids, never ever in her life. One night when she was wrapping up the work on her desk, Ratberg stopped by. He said she had been constantly monitored, and they had determined she was a trusted employee. Then the next day, she was invited to a secret meeting. Since then, she hasn't spoken with me, not once. She rented a 1-bedroom apartment in the building across the institute and packed her stuff in my absence."

Dave fell silent, and the two friends looked at each other.

"Have you seen her since?" Hank sounded curious.

"No, but she had kept our reserve key, and one day I found a note on the kitchen table." Dave took out a folded sheet of paper from his pants pocket. "I keep it with me every single day," he said, handing it to Hank. "I think it was a message from her."

Hank took the paper sheet, which looked old and frail from so much wear, with shades of black around the shredded corners. He unfolded it gently, afraid of tearing it apart. It was standard printing paper, and its contents were written in Helvetica font by using a word processor. It only had three sentences: "Don't come where you are not invited. Don't look for what you don't have. Be smart and think safety for all!"

Hank was surprised by the note, which read like a friendly reminder as well as a warning. He folded it and handed it back to Dave, who declined to receive it.

"I don't want it. I know its contents by heart. I want you to keep it."

"Why are you telling me all this, Dave?" asked Hank, his curiosity having turned into surprise.

"I've been telling you things ever since you left. I know you are a journalist, and I cannot call the police on this one. I considered writing a letter to our congressman, though."

Dave took a sip of water. The beer was still resting on the table, untouched.

"I think the note is telling me she is in grave danger. She said 'be smart' then 'think safety'. I honestly believe she needs to be rescued and I need to find a hero," he said.

"What happened last night?" Hank interrupted his friend's dreaming without much formality.

"They took a girl," Dave said, and Hank got caught mouth open, glass in the air, just as he was getting ready to drink.

"What girl?"

"The one you dined with," said Dave without much of a care, watching Hank choke on his water. "I saw you with a nice blond girl last night. I didn't know where you went, of course, but I saw her return to sit at the bar. When the whole rat thing happened, I watched her leave, but two men followed her as she exited the bar. I recognized them. They were Ratberg's bodyguards, who were around because he was meeting with the mayor." Dave paused.

"That's all?" Hank asked impatiently.

"They came after her, outside. They took her at gunpoint into a black SUV, a Chevy."

Hank couldn't believe his ears. He had suspected that something terrible might have happened, based on what the hostess had told him and Brad. But actually, hearing the details from someone who'd actually seen it, now that was something else! "Oh man," he managed to say.

"Were you two romantically involved?" Dave asked, just as Brad had wondered aloud a few hours earlier.

But Hank's mind was somewhere else. "So, you're telling me that Ratberg had dined with the mayor. Then there was a rat that interrupted their meal. Then the girl left, and Ratberg's bodyguards kidnapped the girl?"

"Yes, that's right."

"Why?" asked Hank, even though he could almost have answered the question himself. He and Alice had been making plans on that old wooden bench. Again, he felt the guilt bite.

"Because they thought she had surreptitiously recorded the mayor's and Ratberg's conversation." Dave finished his drink. "That's the story," he said, seeming a little unsure about what was appropriate under the given circumstances. Then he called the waitress and paid, giving her a generous tip. "Well, nice to see you again," he stated. Then he simply walked away, whereas Hank kept sitting there, head hanging down, speechless.

* * *

Pepper knew he had a mission to accomplish, but he couldn't help it. The night was so quiet and his improvised pillow so soft and sweet that sleep came naturally. No sense in resisting it. When he woke up, the moon was high and bright, shining through the branches of the tree raising above his head. He had returned to their sentinel post, from where he was supposed to watch the road crossing for any sign of danger. He had expected to find Wizzy there, but that didn't happen. With the backpack tucked under his head, Pepper had lain down in a comfortable position so that he could keep an eye on the road. Since nothing was happening, he had soon fallen asleep, collapsing into weary dreams.

He woke up after he heard the noise of a dead branch snapping, as under a heavy step. Confused, he opened his eyes to see the moon rays diffused over the park and, up in the night sky, the huge yellow ball suspended over the tree. Then a scent came to him from behind the bushes; and when he raised his head, he saw a pair of glittering eyes spying him. He yelped, recognizing the scent, and out of the evergreens came Puppanela, wagging her tail so fast that it took Pepper a second to identify that thing attached to her back, moving like a windshield wiper on heavy rain.

Puppanela yelped back, rushing toward him. She gave him a sniff and a lick, then turned her chick to be kissed.

"Hi girl," he said, happy to see her. "How did you find me?"

"You haven't been at the oaks, nor in your park. So, I traced you."

"Got to stay here and keep these roads under surveillance."

"Why?"

"Long story," said Pepper.

"Well," she said, "make it short. I have to sign in before Tank and his gang notice that I'm missing."

Pepper was surprised by her attitude. She had bothered to look for him in the middle of the night, when all creatures – except for nocturnal ones – would rather be sleeping. And it wasn't the first time she had checked up on him. Now, she wanted to know the story? Her interest aroused Pepper's suspicions. Heck, and the mouse is not here, he thought. After a few moments of hesitation, he said: "What do you care? Come sit by me. I'm still tired, let's take a nap together."

"No," she said, "I don't have time for cuddling. I was worried about you. But now that I see you are OK, I would rather go back."

"Wait a minute!" said the dog, but Puppanela was already departing fast. "Puppanela!" he barked, running to catch up with her. "Puppanela, wait!"

She finally stopped and waited for him. "You don't trust me. I can smell it."

"It's not that," lied Pepper, still a few steps away.

"What is it then?" she asked, stepping forward.

"So many things have happened that I don't know what to think anymore," he said.

"Here is what you should think," she said, upset. "Tank doesn't like you. He's agitating the gang against you. They plan to find you and tear you apart. That's the usual entertainment. That's what happens with some naughty cats when don't obey the Master Cat. I have seen bigger dogs chased to their death as well. And it is fun. Now, I came here to warn you; but if you resist, then there's nothing else I can do than join the fun." She finished speaking and turned away to leave, apparently still very angry that she had to spill out the whole deal. But Pepper remained unmoved. And he wasn't afraid, not having heard of such a thing.

"And you are the official warning dog?" He barked louder, as she was getting farther away.

"No, you stupid!" she barked back, stopping and turning to him. "I am the official idiot here because I care about you," she added and took off running.

Pepper took a minute to fully understand what she had just said. When he sobered up, she was gone. He was so sorry that he started crying, clear tears freezing down his dog face. Nobody had said that about him before. And nobody had come to check on him twice to make sure he was OK... What a loser! he said to himself. He looked around. There was nobody – no Wizzy, no Puppanela. Just a big, stupid dog under a yellow, fat moon.

Pepper returned to his spot. Picking up the backpack he had slept on, he pulled it inside the nearby bushes, concealing it as good as he could. Then he sniffed the spot where Wizzy had sat a while ago. A faint trace ticked Pepper's nose. He followed it to the crossing, then the trace went up one of the alleys. Pepper kept going till he reached the end of the park, losing the trace as soon as he stepped out. He was now torn between searching for Wizzy or looking out for the bad guys, both jobs very important. On one hand, a whole town of mice was relying on him to tell them when their homes would become unsafe. On the other hand, Wizzy was not only his friend but also a very important mouse and wizard. Unable to decide, Pepper sat by the edge of the road. He perked his ears and pushed his nose up in the air, ready to catch any unexpected odor or noise. Then it dawned on him that Tank and the gang might be looking for him; and if Puppanela had found him, then so could Tank. He decided to go on and search for Wizzy; perhaps the mouse could fix things if they happened to go bad.

He kept going straight down the road, sometimes sniffing bushes or light poles, collecting information about other dogs or animals that had been passing by. He even found Puppanela's scent, wondering why and how she got there. Was she the postman, delivering messages around the neighborhood? Because if that was the case, then she had the worst job among stray dogs. Pepper had tried that once in his life, and ultimately had to fight his way out of it with the strength of his paws and the sharpness of his teeth. And once out, he never looked back.

Pepper was a few blocks further down, following a familiar smell along a wall of bushes, when he bumped into a cold snout of a dog. Then he took two steps back and looked up. It was one of Tank's lieutenants, as he recognized it from previous encounters.

The dog, a lab mongrel, was tall and heavy-set, with a square jaw and sharp teeth – the ones that had wrecked Pepper's hip that first night at the restaurant. His growl raised the hairs on Pepper's back; he was calling his gang.

"Come on here, guys! found you a toy tonight..."

In less than ten seconds, Pepper was surrounded by Tank's pack, all baring their teeth in a mean snarl.

"Listen up, pals," he said, showing no fear; for in the animal's world, showing fear would almost definitely get you killed. "Listen up, I am very happy to meet you tonight." He was slowly backing up; but looking behind him, he saw that he had nowhere to go. There was Tank, big and bad, waiting for him.

"No one happier than me," the big dog said, waiting for Pepper to wimp out.

But Pepper had different plans. Coming a step closer but keeping at a safe distance from Tank's bite, he bowed in respect, bending his front knees. "You may find pleasure in hunting and killing me tonight, but soon enough you will discover that all this entertainment will turn against you and your peers."

"So you say," nodded Tank, gnarling. "Listen up everybody, this nonsense is threatening me and you," he said, laughing.

The pack roared.

"I'll say it is time to teach him a lesson," a young pal said.

"You do so, and you'll never know what could hit you tomorrow," said Pepper angrily, growling louder than the crowd.

"It is true!" A high-pitched voice managed to sneak inside a gap between laughs. "Have you not heard of the dead pets in the Hills park?" The dog speaking emerged from the back of the pack and joined Pepper in the middle of the circle that was tightening around him.

It was Puppanela. "Hello smarty," she whispered once she got close to him.

"Can you forgive my rudeness?" asked Pepper, ashamed. At this point, he would have put his head on the ground and turned upside down in a position of total humility, hoping to be spared. Then he would happily ask Puppanela for mercy. She would come and, nosing him, forgive him with a smile. But today, a gesture like that would bring him nothing else than defeat and maybe the loss of his and Puppanela's lives. Obviously, the gang was waiting for the smallest sign of weakness.

"We'll deal with that later," she whispered to him. Then, turning to the crowd, she yelped: "There's something I didn't tell you yet," arousing a loud murmur. She waited for the dogs to calm down before continuing. "As your mailman, I travel a lot, all over the city," she said, startling Pepper. Aha, he said to himself, I was right.

Puppanela spoke, turning to look each dog in the eye, until some of them retreated or flattened on their bellies. "On my routes, I collect all kinds of information that you are not asking for. I know things about everything and everybody." She paused to make sure she had been understood. "That's how I know that there have been a few dogs that got sick and died in unbearable pain. There have been mice, too. All over the place. No one knows why. And here is someone who may know something and even help avoid a bigger catastrophe. Then what do we do?" she asked in an inquisitorial tone. As nobody answered, she spoke again. "We don't even give him the chance to tell us what is going on. We kill our only chance of survival."

The pack sat quietly, Tank looking around, considering the news. His lieutenants looked worried, and he was well aware that the girl had shaken them somehow. They all knew that she, being the mailman, was able to learn about all kind of things.

"And why did you remain quiet all this time?" said Tank harshly.

"That is the question I was waiting for," she said, looking Tank right in his tiny peepers. He narrowed his bulldog eyes, and the skin was wrinkling in big folds around his snout. He stepped forward, ready to attack.

She has better make sure she's not humiliating him, otherwise she'll be history in no time, thought Pepper, stepping between Tank and the girl.

"Step aside, mutt!" said Tank, irritated.

"Why don't you let her speak," said Pepper loud enough for everybody to hear.

"Because she has nothing to say," the bulldog said slowly, addressing his pack. "We all know dogs die, especially the ones that are kept as pets and not as companions. They feed them too much, they work them even more, and they don't give them love or freedom. Poor pet dogs have no choice. They would rather die, anyway."

"That's not true," said Pepper, confronting Tank. Then he turned around and spoke to the other dogs. Now they were making room for him, eager to hear what he had to say. "How many of you here have had a master before becoming homeless?" he asked. A longer than usual pause followed.

"Me," a tiny voice to his right finally said.

"Me too," said another to his left.

"Me three," barked a little Chou Chou.

"Lots of us," concluded a tall dog from behind.

"Like you, I was once a pet dog. I was a pet and a companion, and there was no difference. I was enjoying a good life. I had food when I needed it, shelter, love, care. An unfortunate accident happened, and I am now a stray dog looking for the right master. Like you too," finished Pepper, eager to hear the crowd's response. But they remained quiet. Then he continued: "This girl is telling the truth. Dogs have died after playing in certain spots in the park. If you don't believe it, you take the responsibility of being the mailman for a day or two. The thing is that if you kill me tonight, then you will suffer the same fate as the pets that died. But if you leave me alone, let me do my job for which I am here, you may have the chance to live to find the human companion you've all been looking for." Pepper was done barking. If he couldn't persuade the dogs now, he and Puppanela could well be history. So, he waited, still in the middle of the circle, with Puppanela pounding heavily.

At some point, the circle broke into smaller groups. There were maybe thirty dogs, as far as Pepper could tell. All shapes and sizes, all colors, boys and girls, young and old. One mother had two youngsters by her legs. Pepper recognized some of them from the night he was attacked.

The dogs were debating and deliberating. He could tell who was ready to give him a chance and who was not. Tank didn't bother to join any of the groups. He was standing apart, watching them all.

"All right," said Tank, putting an end to their free discussion. "I think we have had enough." Pepper listened in surprise. Tank's voice was now different. He wasn't bullying them anymore, not even trying to patronize them. He was just bringing them to order, like a moderator. He is smart and dangerous, thought Pepper, who was hoping to stir a little unrest among the pack. But instead of suppressing their will, Tank had just let them take the lead, even for a few short minutes. Now, he was calling them back to order, showing them that they already had a leader to lead them through rough times. The circle around Pepper tightened again.

"So, my loyal followers," started the bulldog, "have you reached a conclusion?" The dogs shook their heads, some yelped, some barked, some growled. "All right, all right," repeated Tank. "Maybe we should give him one more night. Ultimately, it is late and we're all tired." The crowd approved.

"So, here is the deal." Tank spoke again, turning to Pepper, who still stood in the middle, guarding Puppanela. "You are spared for now, and we'll leave tonight as well, just out of generosity. But Friday night, if none of your talk becomes reality, consider yourself fair game."

He stopped so the pack could cheer. Turning to Puppanela, who had remained by Pepper all this time, he said spitefully: "And you too." Then he turned around and left, followed by the other dogs.

Alone in the middle of the alley, Pepper and Puppanela stared at each other in disbelief. "Let's get the heck out of here and lose our track before we run out of luck," whispered Pepper.

CHAPTER 10

Hank woke up with a huge headache. He had been sleeping on the sofa inside his living room, still dressed in work clothes. Only the shoes were missing, since he always took them off at the entrance. His head was propped against the side of the couch while the feet were propped to the other side, so that he got compressed and shrunken to fit in the sofa as in a Procrustean bed.

It was still early when he looked at his wristwatch, not even six a.m. He had been sleeping for less than four hours. After Dave left, Hank had remained at the bar and drunk a bottle of vodka all alone, feeling sorry for himself while also blaming himself for Alice's fate. He had walked his bike home, leaning it against the front entrance, then climbed the stairs to his apartment, unlocked the door, dropped off his shoes at the entrance, and collapsed on the sofa. Now his head was heavy, a dull pain climbing from the back of his head and into the forehead, blinding him. As he stumbled over the coffee table on his way to the kitchen, he remembered that it was Thursday, his article deadline.

Hank turned on the cold water and let it run until he recalled why he came into the room in the first place. Then he made coffee and cleaned himself while it brewed. While taking a quick cold shower, he tried to decide what to do next: eat or take an aspirin, or maybe both. Finally, wrapped in his blue bathrobe, he filled up his coffee mug and sat down on the sofa. He couldn't care less about the article. All he had in mind was Alice. Although his article was indirectly to blame for her disappearance, Hank didn't seem to put two and two together.

The doorbell rang about eight o'clock. Still wearing his blue bathrobe, Hank looked through the peephole. There, in front of his door, stood Brad, his body pumped up in the middle by the concavity of the glass. Hank was busy studying him, amazed that he had never noticed how funny people appear through a peephole. Suddenly, Brad's hand stuck up, big and hairy at the fingers' end and getting slimmer close to the body. His hand was now covering the whole view, Hank noticed from inside. The bell rang again, making him jump back, startled.

Hank opened the door, and Brad came in.

"You are still in your pajamas," he said. "We are supposed to meet with the vet in thirty minutes."

"I don't know," said Hank.

"We've got my car. Come on, hurry up. Get dressed."

Hank put on a pair of jeans.

"Did you meet Dave afterwards?" Brad asked.

Hank fished a dirty T-shirt from his laundry basket and put it on. "I have bad news. Alice has been kidnapped. Ratberg's men got her. Dave told me that."

While he put on his socks and shoes and threw a jacket over his wrinkled T-shirt, he told Brad everything he had found out the night before. "I have to do something, I don't know what yet," he continued. "Alice has been kidnapped because of me and my stupid, selfish article about the mayor's bribery."

"Let's go meet the vet," Brad insisted.

"What for?" Hank asked absentmindedly.

"Because things are related, and you cannot see clearly right now."

"What do you mean I 'can't see clearly'? I have got to find Alice, I don't have time for the vet."

"Oh yeah? And how exactly do you plan on doing it?"

"I told you I don't know yet. I'll figure something out."

"Sure. And while you think up a plan, why don't we speak to the vet first?"

Hank agreed to that, but first he needed to stop by his desk to ask someone a favor.

"I am looking for a black SUV," Hank explained to his assistant. "A Chevy. It's not a family car, more like a work car, 'running errands' type of vehicle."

"More like 'cover my trace' type," added Brad, who had accompanied his designated client into the office to make sure he was coming back.

"Thank you for helping out, man," Hank said to his assistant while standing by the door, ready to leave. "Oh, and there is something else. The car must have something to do with the Hills."

Once outside, Brad asked what link there was between the black Chevy and the Hills.

"Nothing specific. I just have this gut feeling, even though noting converges so far."

But that wasn't true, as Brad was quick to point out. "The truth is that they have tested the park on the Hills and know about the dogs that died, but they don't want to acknowledge it."

"Amen!" said Hank.

* * *

It was a sunny day, and the dew was glittering under the rays of the morning sun. The parking lot was empty, unusual for such a popular park. But word had spread, and nobody wanted to bring their dogs there anymore. Here and there, an occasional runner would appear and disappear like a meteor.

The Hills had been the city's first settlement, and its park was one of the oldest in the city. The area, which had an irregular shape, bordered on a lake and hosted whatever was left of the oldest forest around. Even today, there was a big ongoing debate about why people once chose to cut down the trees; some debaters claimed that the forest was cursed, while others thought that people had just been in need of wood for heat and cooking.

Hank and Brad had left the car in the parking lot and continued on foot, but not until Hank had taken his bike from the large trunk of Brad's pickup truck and secured it to the bike rack. They were cutting straight through the little forest towards the center of the park, where they were supposed to meet the vet. The doctor didn't want to meet them unless they brought a pet along, but none of them had pets. "I'll just tell him the dog is running around the park," said Brad, who was the one that had agreed to this condition and lied that indeed he did have a dog.

They were late, but Brad was hoping that the good man would still be there. He seemed to be very brave, considering the threats he had received. Since there was no one up there at the crossing, the two men found a bench and sat down, waiting. They did not speak, and you could feel the tension in the air growing thicker and thicker.

"Will he be here soon?" asked Hank. "I should really be looking for Alice." He sounded impatient and grumpy.

"Actually, you should speak with a police officer instead of trying to deal with this situation alone," replied Brad.

"And tell them what? That she was going to tape the big guys and write everything in the paper the next day? That she was kidnapped at gunpoint by the most powerful man in the region, who is probably sponsoring half the police station? And how long will they need to start an investigation?" asked Hank bitterly.

"Well, they will wait for her family or her workplace to report her missing before declaring it a disappearance. But if they are unsure, or if it's part of her job to be gone days at a time without checking in at work, then it may take a while," Brad explained.

Hank stood up. "I cannot wait anymore." He started pacing up and down the alley.

Brad's phone rang at once, its trumpet breaking the eerie silence of the park. Brad pulled it out of its case, looked at the caller ID, and answered. "Hi," was the only word he said, and then he listened while looking down at the tip of his shoes. A few moments later, he hung up – or was hung up on, Hank couldn't tell. Then Brad left in a hurry. "I've got to go!" he cried while moving down the road.

"Oh, great!" said Hank, watching his friend run in the direction of the parking lot. Now alone on the bench, he glanced at his watch. It was nine-thirty in the morning.

* * *

From behind the bushes, one pair of eyes had been watching them. It was Pepper, who had returned to the park last night together with Puppanela after escaping Tank's pack. Pepper had told her virtually everything he knew, making her curly hair standing up with fear.

"And, you know, I can understand people talking," he added candidly while leaving out some details.

Puppanela had responded with disbelief, and he had looked at her surprised face. "I'm not kidding, I think it is a miracle," he then added, omitting Wizzy's involvement.

Puppanela still didn't believe him. That was crazy, nobody could do that, she said. What Pepper meant was that he was able to understand human commands, maybe.

"No. I can tell what they say, word by word," he insisted, but she continued expressing doubt. Noticing a funny look in her eyes, Pepper thought it would be better to change the subject.

"Are you hungry?" he had asked her.

"Yes, I am," she had replied. "I hadn't a chance to go to Three Oaks tonight being..."

"...Busy to come and warn me." Pepper had finished the sentence.

Puppanela smiled tenderly. "In a way," she replied.

Then he had brought her to the skinny tree and sniffed around. Once he found the spot he was looking for, he dug in the dirt and came up with a big bone, which he then dragged to her feet.

"That's all I have," he said.

"That's all I need," she answered, taking the offering with a wink.

The night had passed quickly and uneventfully. They took turns guarding the crossing and sleeping. When dawn came, which Pepper thought was way too fast, they hid in the bushes behind the bench facing the crossing.

"I am so worried for the old mouse," he had said. "I want to think he is OK."

Puppanela then offered to go looking for Wizzy. Taken by surprise, Pepper didn't answer right away, but she seemed sure of what to do.

"Look, there is no point in me staying here and waiting for events to unfold. You can do that alone, can't you? I'll be more useful out in the field. Don't forget, I am still the mailman, so I can gather and deliver messages. And by the way, I have some friends among cats as well."

"All right," he finally said.

They had agreed upon ways to communicate. They were to use a certain bush as a home base, look for each other at certain times, and – if not present – check for symbolic messages. Puppanela then took off, leaving Pepper behind to watch the alleys.

When Brad and Hank came and sat down on the bench, the dog was coiled in a little gap inside the evergreen shrub, so he heard every word spoken. Now, having found that backpack made more sense to Pepper, but some of the pieces of the puzzle were still missing.

So, he said to himself, a girl has been kidnapped by the people working for a very powerful man. Could she be the nice blond girl who was kissing on the bench the other night? By the smell of it, I think it was her backpack I found; the one those two dudes were looking for last night. And this young man here is worried and wants to find her.

While the dog was trying to decide what to do, another guy came up the alley. Pepper pricked his ears and raised his nose, trying to catch the scent of this new human. It was sweet and sour, he could smell sweat and a mix of animal odors. There were lots of cats and dogs, plus an occasional turtle and hamster. Wizzy had told him that the humans who would come to spread poison most likely would be looking like a plastic bag with a hard shell over their head and a glass-like cover over the face, that plus a a tube sticking out of their mouth. "Very weird looking," Wizzy had said thoughtfully, not knowing that humans wear such contamination suits to protect themselves against dangerous fumes.

But this man didn't fit that description at all, nor did he carry a spray bottle. From what Pepper could tell, he was an old guy with a bag on his shoulder and a... yes, a cat!... sticking out of it like a French baguette from a grocery tote. The man moved quietly, glancing around with every step. Once closer to the bench, he stopped.

"Greeting to the master," the man said to Hank, who was startled because he had been busy flipping through his phone and hadn't seen anyone approaching.

"Greeting to the vet," responded Hank in an apprehensive voice, checking out the stranger.

"May I sit by you?"

Hank nodded, and the vet sat down, carefully placing the bag between them.

"What's your name?"

When Hank introduced himself, the man immediately picked up his cat and stood up, ready to leave.

"I'm sorry," Hank said in a hurry. "I know you were expecting to meet Brad as well, but he had to leave."

The vet stared distrustfully at Hank. "And where is your pet?"

"My pet?" Hank replied, even though Brad and he had been discussing it.

"Yes, you and your pal Brad were both supposed to come here with your dogs. He said you'd bring yours as well. That was the only condition I had for the meeting to take place."

Hank, mouth still half open, was staring at the man in front of him. Down on the ground, a dog was crawling a little closer as the conversation was being reduced to a whisper.

"Oh, my pet!" said Hank, like he just now understood what he was being asked. "I let him loose in the park. He needs his exercise, you know how it works," Hank managed to say. But Pepper smelled a faint trace of fear on his voice and, wanting to help, let out a loud bark.

Hank was startled and looked lost for a second, but then he hurried to take advantage of the opportunity. "Hey, that's my dog. And now that I see you brought your cat, I think we should hurry because my dog doesn't like cats at all, and I cannot stop him from chasing them."

The old doctor gave him a quick look, then sat down again. "All right," he said. "Let's hurry."

Only then did Hank realize that he had no idea what Brad had spoken with the old doctor about. At the time when he passed the call over to Brad, Hank had been busy getting out of a tangled highway, with state troopers pushing him from behind. "Tell him we want to speak about the suspicious deaths of some dogs on the Hills," he had instructed Brad, turning his attention back to the road.

"As my colleague Brad told you yesterday, we are investigating the cases of dead dogs," started Hank.

"I don't know anything about that," said the doctor defensively. "But I brought what you asked for." He handed Hank a little plastic container that he pulled out of his coat jacket.

"What's this?" asked Hank surprised, holding the little container, which was no bigger than his thumb.

"That's what you are looking for," the vet said. "The proof. I've run the substance up against as many as I know. Its formula doesn't match any pesticide or insecticide or other pest control chemical that I know of. And I know them all because that's my expertise. This probe was collected right after Amy's dog had died, so it was fresh and accurate when I took it." The old doctor sighed and stood up. "I must leave now. Say hello to your friend, and come visit me with your dogs when you have a chance." Then he picked up his cat and left.

Hank put the little container in his pocket, wondering what to do next. Since he was here already, he might as well go check out the picnic area where most of the dogs had gotten sick. He took the right side road, walking fast to shake off the chill of this November morning.

Following him at a safe distance was Pepper, who was trying very hard to remain concealed behind bushes. But there was this big open space he had to pass. He decided to let Hank go ahead; and when the man would be almost out of sight, the dog would make a run from one end of the field to the other. His plan would have worked flawlessly had it not been for Hank having to stop and look for directions, since he had no idea where the picnic area was. Turning halfway around, Hank did see a dark shadow speeding through the field and getting lost inside the evergreen shrubs.

Hank continued walking without paying too much attention to what was happening around him. Mostly, he wanted to hurry up and go somewhere, but exactly where he had no idea. It took him less than five minutes, two corners and a big road to get there. It was a large clearing with five long tables in rows. The area was paved and covered. There were many grills and water fountains. There was a little pavilion in the south corner with big windows, plus a few benches and a table inside. On the north side, concealed by a group of trees and shrubs, were the restrooms.

Pretty nice, thought Hank. Looking closely, he saw evidence of mice passing. Maybe the mice may reside here as well, feeding on people's food scraps that often make it into garbage bins that are spread all over the area.

While he was looking around, snapping pictures with his phone, Pepper snuck closer, trying hard not to lose sight of the man and debating if Hank was trustworthy enough to be told about the backpack. Pepper decided to wait and see, as there wasn't much else he could to do.

But Hank wasn't done with his inspection. He was looking for the very places where the poison might have been spread, and there were so many possibilities. For a short time, he went behind the restroom area, and Pepper almost panicked. Leaving his hide-out, he followed Hank, sniffing around until he got his trace. It led him around the trees and bushes, into a maze of circles, coming and going the same way. The dog was so focused on his job that he didn't even see Hank standing and watching him until he reached the man's shoes. Pepper looked up for a second, his body tense, legs in a jumping position. His instinct told him to run fast and far away, but his heart pleaded with him to stay and make a human friend, something he was so longing for.

But sometimes even one second is too long. When Hank crouched in front of him, Pepper didn't run like he still could. Instead, he raised his head, sniffing Hank's extended hand, getting his personal and intimate smell, his fears and hopes, his goodness and his badness. It's not bad at all, thought Pepper. Wagging his tail, he licked the back of Hank's hand. This is the man who sat on the bench at the restaurant, the one who kissed the girl, concluded Pepper after deciphering various odors emanating from Hank's clothes.

"Friends?" asked Hank, like the dog was able to answer him.

Pepper wagged his tail again and fawned.

"You shouldn't be here," said Hank again. "This place is poisoned. Dogs have died."

Pepper needed a little time to process what Hank had just said. If it was the truth, then he should get out of here in a hurry. Now he understood why Wizzy came in this park in the first place. And thinking about Wizzy also made him remember Puppanela, who had said the same thing. He needed to warn her as well. He barked briefly and ran a few steps away, then stopped and looked at Hank in anticipation. Hank came closer.

"Yeah, let's go, buddy." And both of them walked away, leaving the picnic area behind. As they approached the crossing, Pepper became anxious, running away and back again. Hank, who had little to no experience with dogs, was wondering if there was something wrong with this one.

"Hey buddy, what's your name? Hey, wait for me!" Pepper stopped and waited but not for long, as Hank was just about to turn down the alley leading to the parking lot, where his bike was secured to the rack. The dog took off. Hank stood still and waited, thinking that the dog would stop and return like he had done all the way. But this time was different. He watched the dog disappear behind a row of big evergreen bushes.

"Hey dog, what's-your-name, where did you go?" he asked. But nothing happened, and Hank came a little closer, cautious as if wondering what might lie ahead.

"Hey, what are you up to, spooky dog?" he called jokingly, taking another step. As he finished speaking, a loud bark arose from the bushes, which were now shaking and rustling. Hank was startled and stepped back.

The dog came to light, all full of dead leaves and little sticks, barking happily and wagging his tail like crazy. He stopped by Hank's feet and licked his unpolished shoes diligently.

"Eew!" said Hank, petting the dog's head and scratching him between the ears. "Calm down, spooky dog. Stop licking my shoes. They are dirty..."

And as he finished speaking, Pepper turned around and ran to the bushes he had come from, then buried himself among the branches again. Hank was puzzled and decided to go and see for himself what was there. He came closer and peeked inside. There was the dog pulling very hard on a black bundle that was stuck in the tangled branches of the shrub. Hank bent over, trying to see the shape of the object and decide if it was safe to touch it. At a first look, he couldn't make a sense of the black cluster. But then, when he crouched again and reached inside, extracting the thing and bringing it out to light, he let out a cry that took Pepper by surprise. It was Alice's backpack, the one Pepper had found the night before.

Hank then held the bag up in the air and turned to the dog, millions of questions fighting to be turned into words first.

"How come... where did you find it?... Where is she?... You, spooky dog, speak to me!" Hank was both frustrated, happy and frightened, spinning around and looking all over as if he'd expect her to appear from nowhere. Pepper was jumping up, barking and running around, tongue sticking out, legs in a hectic movement, tail beating the air in all directions.

Finally, Hank calmed down. He inspected the backpack, taking a thorough look inside, making small noises as he went through the pockets and compartments, examining the items with Pepper watching curiously. When he was done, he threw the backpack onto his shoulder, getting ready to leave. At the last moment, he took a picture of the place, then walked away. Pepper watched him going down the alley, not even barking, a little disappointed that the man didn't say goodbye to him. But his mission was complete, now it was up to that human to find the girl. He had to remain at the park, guarding it like an angel over an earthly heaven.
CHAPTER 11

Things do not always go as planned; and sometimes, the more you plan, the more differently things will turn out. That was certainly the case with respect to Pepper.

As for Hank, he untied his bike and drove back to his office, where he had a vague feeling that a piece of information was hidden somewhere. It had been overlooked by everybody because it was so obvious, and that piece of evidence was the missing part of the puzzle that would lead him to Alice. He had been looking around the park, through the bushes and even inside the few garbage bins scattered here and there. He had walked around the little forest and all over the lake shore before he had given up his searches, somehow happy that he had not found anything else related to Alice.

Once at his office, he opened her backpack again and pulled out the recording machine, still hooked to the wire that had the microphone at its far end. With febrile hands, he hooked the recorder to his headphones and turned it on. He listened. There was the mayor and another man – aha, Mr. Ratberg! – speaking, negotiating, bribing, plotting... Then – oh my gosh, what is happening? – the whole rat thing that he had heard about at Three Oaks. Then there was Alice warning someone followed by a muffled noise, then steps walking away, a door opening and closing... and a short scream, Alice's scream! Hank felt a chilling sensation. Here it was, Alice's voice, recorded on her own tape as she was taken and thrown inside a car, herself describing what was happening in a scream-like voice, probably being aware the taping machine was still on. Then for about fifteen minutes, Hank could only hear unintelligible mumbling and the noise of a car in motion. Then the car stopped, and a door was opened, someone walked out... Then a few seconds of silence followed by another door being opened... and a short rattle followed by a loud crush... Then a short scream, and then... nothing.

Hank picked up the recorder and looked at it. It remained on, but no sound came out. The sound of Alice's last scream was still ringing in his ear.

Hank placed the machine inside his drawer, locked it, and put the key in his pocket. Then he opened his laptop and read the mayor's document again.

While he was looking for clues, his boss stopped by and asked him about the investigation. Hank said that he was still in the process of collecting proofs.

"Have you looked through the file I gave you last night?" Boss asked.

"I was just about to," answered Hank, suddenly realizing that he had forgotten all about the yellow folder. Eyes wide open, he glanced at everything on his desk and underneath it. There were yellow folders everywhere, so where should he start?

* * *

The way the man had spoken to Pepper must have resonated with him, somehow. If he hadn't been on duty to look for the pest control team, he would have gladly followed the man.

It was getting warmer, and he felt hungry. He took the bone that had been chewed by Puppanela and finished it off. Nothing was happening in the park. A few crows were circling overhead, a squirrel was jumping from branch to branch. Pepper fell asleep watching the clouds passing.

But his sleep was abruptly interrupted by a paw scratching his belly.

"Wake up, wake up, you lazy mutt!"

It was Puppanela. Pepper blinked and jumped on his four legs.

"Puppanela," he muttered, "I have things to tell you."

"Me first," she said. "I found your friend." Puppanela pointed to a little bundle resting lifeless on the ground.

"Is he dead?" Pepper asked.

"I don't know. He sure looks that way."

Pepper came closer and sniffed the mouse. "Wizzy, Wizzy my friend," he yelped with disbelief. "What have you gotten yourself into?" Pepper looked at the mouse's little body, tears rolling down his cheeks. But his sorrow didn't last, as the mouse moved one of his legs, then his head, before opening his eyes.

"Wizzy, you are alive!" Pepper exclaimed, barking loudly. "It is the best day ever. Tell me, tell me what happened," he rambled, moving from one topic to another.

Each of them told their story before Puppanela turned to Pepper, demanding to know in some detail what had happened to him. The two dogs and the mouse subsequently fitted the pieces together without too much difficulty. The plan to kill the mice was real. It would start at the Hills, namely in the park and around some warehouses. One of those was hosting the poison, Wizzy had found out before being knocked out by a human. But he didn't know which warehouse it was. As it turned out, the humans in charge of executing the plan were the same as those who had kidnapped a girl. That girl was now being kept as a prisoner somewhere, but she had managed to drop a very important device; the one those two men were desperately trying to find last night. The three animals concluded that the device must have been inside the black backpack that Pepper had found and passed on to Hank.

"And now what?" Puppanela asked.

"Now," said Wizzy, "it is my turn to guard the park. You must find the girl. Alive."

The two dogs looked at each other. "Yes, sir," said Pepper. Without waiting for another word, he led Puppanela inside the bushes where he had stashed the backpack away. There was also a red scarf he had kept just in case, as he would later tell the mouse. The two dogs both sniffed it one more time and took off.

"See you here tomorrow morning," cried Wizzy. But before they could reach Pepper's ears, his words were blown away by the cold November wind.

The two dogs kept following Alice's trace until they reached the end of the park, where the odor suddenly disappeared. Pepper and Puppanela had a short brainstorming session before deciding what to do next.

"How many warehouses do you know in the Hills?" asked Pepper.

"There are three of them. One holds large quantities of food supply, another stores wood and other construction products, and the third is empty."

Pepper thought briefly. "Let's check them out," he said.

"Where are we going first?" Puppanela asked.

"The empty one."

"You got it," said Puppanela, taking the lead. Being a mailman, she knew the ways to get there by heart.

* * *

While the two dogs were creeping through deserted streets, trying to stay clear of other stray dogs and cats, Hank was creeping out from under his desk, holding a yellow folder and speaking on the phone.

"Hey Brad, here's Hank," he said with that kind of voice you normally use to speak to an answering machine. "I just want to let you know that I may have an idea where Alice is, and I am heading there. In case I don't come back by tonight at closing, check your inbox and tell my parents that I love them. Thank you."

He closed the yellow folder and set it on his desk, on top of his laptop keyboards. He had found it after long and frustrating searches, all the time promising himself to clean that mess as soon as he would have a fair chance. The folder had slipped under his table and gotten mixed in the pile. But he knew every single sheet of paper by heart, and that was what ultimately enabled him to recognize the folder Boss had given to him the night before. With trembling hands, he had opened it while kneeling under the desk, holding a flashlight. And there it was. An old file of an unsolved case in one of the warehouses in the Hills. The newspaper reports were saying that the police had discovered a large quantity of a mysterious substance that had been blamed for poisoning the fishes in the lakes around. The journalist, no other than his boss, was citing sources among the locals and an open case at the police station. The substance was taken by the Institute of Chemistry for analysis and was never heard about again. The warehouse was closed as being considered dangerous to humans, but remained under the administration of the same Institute. Hm..., thought Hank, I never heard of it, and no wonder why!

Finishing his phone call and coming out from under the desk, Hank took out the little container he got from the vet. He placed it inside an envelope, wrote a note on it, and called his courier. "Can you please run this package to Three Oaks restaurant? Give it to Dave, he should be there waiting for you, as I've already texted him you are coming." And for the first time, he was happy that he and Dave hadn't gotten rid of the old chemistry lab they had set up in the garage when they were teenagers.

Then he set up his GPS with the address of the abandoned warehouse mentioned in the article and left the office. Outside in the brisk air, the clouds were gathering, becoming thicker and heavier. He looked around trying to spot an available car he possibly could use, but didn't see any. Biking would take forever, for the warehouse was at the far end of the Hills neighborhood, miles away from his office at the opposite end of town. But waiting was not an option, either. He briefly considered taking a taxi, but none seemed to be around, as taxis were very rare in this city.

Sighing but determined, he hooked his backpack to his bike one more time and left. "I just have to use my strong legs," he said to himself.

* * *

And that was exactly what Pepper and Puppanela were doing, since they had been running for quite a while. Puppanela was exhausted and would have asked for a break, but she knew how important it was to find that girl alive, so she kept running, keeping up with Pepper, whom she considered very fast. Finally, there was just one more block and a corner, then they would be at their destination, an old and supposedly empty building.

They slowed down, as the tall warehouse appeared on the horizon. "Stay back!" ordered Pepper, and Puppanela executed his command. He perked his ears. No noise was coming. They walked closer, Pepper smelling the air. They stopped at the corner, and Puppanela finally got a chance to catch her breath.

"How do we know if the girl is here or not?" she asked, peeking from behind him.

Pepper turned to her. "I will be able to tell. I can smell it. Now, I want you to stay here for a moment," he continued, and took off. She remained still, watching him cautiously move ahead, sliding along a fence, nose up in the air. A minute passed, and Puppanela decided to follow him.

"She's here," he said. "I'll go in, you better turn back to the mouse or stay behind." His voice was firm.

Puppanela looked at him, upset. "That's not going to happen. We both go inside."

"Puppanela, please do as I say." Pepper was trying to be nice, but his voice was telling her he was deeply concerned and maybe even afraid. "If one of us is to take such a risk, that one would be me. I was the one to drag you into this mess. You need to stay out of it from now on. Just watch my back and go for help if necessary," he finished.

"I am your help," she said, underlining her own importance. And she looked at him the same special way she had done in the park the night before. "Don't mess with me!" she added, just to help him come to the right decision.

"All right," he conceded. "Here is what we need to do..."

And they set up a plan on how to get inside and what each of their roles would be. They moved closer, stopping on the sidewalk just before a huge gate in front of the building.

* * *

Hank was pedaling along Grand Avenue, slaloming among cars and breaking all traffic rules. At the same time, Brad was pulling into the newspaper's parking lot. He had received Hank's message just minutes after his own phone rang inside the park but hadn't listened to it right away. Working as a bodyguard, it was his duty to protect some pretty important people, and his manager had called about a task so urgent and confidential that Brad had to leave Hank behind. Now he was free again, and hopefully he could still be helpful with the investigation. As a matter of fact, he had already been putting on his jacket when he turned on his phone and listened to Hank's message.

Leaping two steps at a time, Brad climbed the stairs to Hank's office in no time at all.

"Hank!" he said so loudly that a bunch of heads came perking up from behind computers to look at him. "I'm looking for Hank Peterson," he said straightforwardly, expecting them to answer with a 'Yes Sir'.

"He's not here," said someone; and when Brad looked at the individual like he had just seen the dumbest person in the world, the man added: "He left a while ago. But don't ask where, because we don't know, OK?"

Brad sighed. "Thank you!"

At Hank's desk, he opened the yellow folder that was resting on top of the laptop. It contained lots of articles and papers written on a typewriter. He sat down in Hank's chair and started reading piece by piece, convinced that this was the only way he could find out where Hank had gone. More than half an hour had passed before Brad reached to the end of the folder's contents. Finally, the last page contained an address highlighted in yellow. "Aha!" he exclaimed.

As he was writing the address down, he heard steps approaching the desk. It was Boss, who stopped by to say hi and ask how the investigation was going. Then, without even waiting for an answer, he added: "I will not keep the edition open. The pages are already full."

"You may want to make room for the most important story, which is just about to unfold," Brad said. Then he left, ignoring Boss, who was telling him to come back and explain everything.

While out in his car, Brad pulled out his phone and made the call to 911 he didn't dare to put off any longer. He gave the dispatcher a condensed version of the most recent events and explained about Alice's disappearance. "I think her friend is trying to save her from her kidnappers, maybe putting himself in danger," Brad said. "From what he said in a message he left me earlier, he is heading to the old warehouse on the Hills," he added and gave the dispatcher the address he had written down from the folder.

"We'll send some patrol cars right away," the dispatcher promised. "If you want to meet the officers down there, please be sure to stay outside the building and keep yourself protected at all times. Do not let your presence be known before the officers arrive, so be sure to remain quiet and talk discreetly."

"Message understood. I will see your officers out there." Brad put his phone back in his pocket, turned on the engine, and took off.

* * *

Pepper was contemplating the settings. From his eye level, which was no higher than the knee of an average person, he could only see the heavy metal gate and wire fence surrounding a big lot. Deep inside it, some grey walls had been erected on four sides. The building was no taller than any regular two–story house, but what had struck Pepper was the absence of any windows through which he could peek inside in the hope of spotting a young girl with golden hair. He was afraid that there wouldn't be any way for him to get inside. But after having looked closer at the warehouse, he decided to find a way to get behind the fence as the first step.

The two dogs split, with Pepper going left and Puppanela going right, around the fence. Looking for a gap, he sniffed and searched every single hole around, finding nothing useful. He met Puppanela on the other side. "Nothing," he said.

"We shall dig underneath," she said and started scraping the ground, blowing out dirt and dried plants. Pepper joined, and soon enough they had enlarged an opening under the wired enclosure big enough for them to crawl through. Once inside the compound, they glanced around and saw a large yard, overgrown with weeds that had spread over what was once a narrow driveway alongside the warehouse. In search of a door, they moved quietly along the fence encircling the building. Soon, they arrived at the gate, this time looking at it from the other side. There was a car parked right out front, like someone had just left it there. Pepper leaped to it and sniffed its doors. Alice's odor was now preeminent. Taking this new track, he flattened himself on the ground and dragged himself along, one sniff at a time. Puppanela was guarding him from behind the car, watching for any signs of danger. Pepper advanced far enough to be able to sneak closer to the building. Then he waited for Puppanela, who caught up with three leaps.

"What now?" she whispered.

"We will find an entrance to this prison," he said, staring up the gray wall. Then, with him taking the lead, they glided along until they reached a door. Pepper looked at it, but the door had no knob. It only had buttons, which made him presume that it opened with a code. He sighed and kept going. "Must be another one," he said, not losing hope. Soon enough, they reached a breach in the monotony of the facade, like a different type of wall was suddenly attached to the building.

"What is this?" he asked.

"It is the garage door," Puppanela answered.

But as they looked around, they found it closed and sealed, with not as much as a single little gap for a small creature to get in.

"I have an idea," she said and took off, running along the building. Pepper tried to stop her, but it was too late. He had to wait there for her return, and so he did. Before too long, he saw her in the middle of the yard with a little black box in her mouth. Before he had a chance to find out exactly what was going on, the garage door cracked open with a bang loud enough to scare him. But instead of running away or even trying to figure out what had just happened, Pepper seized the opportunity and snuck inside. Only after he was in, hiding behind a tall black barrel, did he figure out that Puppanela must have snitched the garage door opener from the car, presumably through the open window on the driver's side.

Before she even had a chance to jump aside, a big voice rose, causing Pepper's hairs to stand on edge.

"What is going on...? For God's sake... did you do that?" said a man who produced a tall shadow, and Pepper immediately recognized him as one of the men searching the park the night before.

Another shadow stood up. "Me? I must have sat on the remote," that person said.

Pepper dared to peek from his spot, as the daylight invaded the space more and more with every inch the garage door was being lifted up.

That was the other man from the park. And just behind him – on a chair, tied and bound, with duck-tape covering her mouth – was the blond girl, Alice. I was right, Pepper told himself, making sure to stay put behind the fat barrel.

"You dumb idiot!" said the first guy, a white-faced man with a long figure, skinny and tall, dressed in a black suit, with a black hat pulled all the way to his eye. "Close it up," he added.

The other guy, short and stocky, also dressed in a black suit, no hat, exposing a neon-like bald head, was looking around nervously. "Got it!" he said.

Within a second, Pepper heard a similar terrifying bang and saw the metal gate coming down. To him, it looked like something or someone crept inside at the last moment. He sniffed as quietly as he could, which made him realize that he had traced Puppanela, maybe on the other side of the door. With no way to communicate with her, he was fast assessing the scene to determine what he should do next. Once the gate had closed, the only light inside was a glow bulb hanging down from the ceiling, casting chilling shades around the room.

It was a disturbing sight. The girl sat on her chair with her head tilted to one side and her blond hair falling like a golden river. She was not moving, so maybe she was just asleep or very tired, thought Pepper. He looked at the two guys, who were now sitting at a huge metal table, playing cards. They had guns bulging under their suit coats. Their laughter was loud and mean, their odor very bad. Pepper was watching them, waiting for a distraction that would allow him to sneak across the large room, to Puppanela. And he didn't have to wait long. A phone rang, breaking the silence and echoing from wall to wall. The tall guy picked it up, placing his cards face down on the table, and throwing a warning glare across. The short one permitted himself to relax.

"Yes," the tall one said stiffly. Then he stood up. "Yes Boss, everything is all right." Apparently, he was then listening for a minute, looking straight ahead. "Right now?... Sure, no problem. Right away." Then he listened some more. "Yes sir, we will put it in the car and dump it at the landfill..." Subsequently, he stopped and took the phone away from his ear, mumbling: "Where in the world is the landfill?" He turned to the stocky guy and shouted: "Get up, you idiot! Mister R. wants her killed."

The other guy threw his cards on the table. "I'm no idiot... And, anyway, I was winning."

Pepper had taken the opportunity to crawl over on the other side while the two men were facing each other. Puppanela was lying on the ground, her white curly fur being very distinct from the black surroundings.

"You do it," the skinny man said.

"Do what? Kill her?"

"As you heard."

"Why don't you kill her? You are the one the boss called about this."

Now that the two dogs were together, Pepper listened intently. "Come on, let's move closer while those two are arguing," he suggested. Although Puppanela was unable to understand their words, she could tell that the two men were mad at each other. "They want to kill her," whispered Pepper, watching Puppanela's eyes getting bigger and brighter with fear. "Shhhh..., listen!" she replied, pointing at the men.

"Because I am your boss and you have to do what I say," the tall dude yelled, hands on hips and chin up high.

The little one seemed overwhelmed. He looked up but wasn't able to see the other guy's face. Then he jumped a few times – and you could see he was well trained on leaps and hops – till he got to his peer's eye level. "All right, give me your gun," he said in between sighs of effort.

"Why don't you use yours?"

"Mine is a toy, you moron," said the short one, grinning with his yellow teeth. Then he walked over to Alice and poked her upper arm with his chunky finger. The girl didn't move. "Maybe she's already dead," he concluded.

"We have to make sure."

They both looked at her, not daring to touch her or call her name. They quietly went round and round her chair several times.

"How should we do this?" the tall one asked.

"I don't know. You are the boss," said the short one.

"Here is my pistol. Make sure it is loaded," the first one said, handing the gun to his pal.

From under the big metal table, which was where he had crawled to, Pepper was hoping for a miracle.

* * *

A miracle was what Hank needed, too. Almost throwing his bike on the ground by the gate, he jumped up on the wired fence. Clenched on its little gaps, he was breathing heavily while dragging himself upwards. There was no time for resting. He had biked across the city, cutting through parks and people's backyards, taking chances and making drivers furious. But he was finally here at the warehouse, where he thought Alice could be kept prisoner. His gut feeling even told him that as far as her kidnappers didn't have the recording, she might still be alive.

From his position on top of the fence, Hank jumped inside in one big leap. His background as a high school athlete was showing, and for once he was happy that he took his father's advice and went through all that trouble with training for hours each day.

He ran along the side of the building, trying to find a door to get inside. Twice, he circled it without being able to locate an accessible entrance. He was puzzled and mad. To have arrived here and not be able to get inside was so ironic... Alice could be a few feet away in real danger, separated from him by a ton of cement! Hank looked up, invoking God's name, something he had not done since childhood, and came up with an idea. He could climb the tree that rose just further down, then find some way to swing on a branch and jump up on top of the building. And so he did, shooing a few squirrels and a bunch of crows. He found a big branch that bent almost all the way to the side of the building. He slowly crawled to its end, swinging, then threw himself up in the air, landing on the rooftop just inches from the edge. Not far from there, he saw a hatch. He ran over and grabbed it. To his relief, it was open.

Climbing down the ladder into the dark and narrow tube-like chimney, he blamed himself for not bringing a flashlight. "But how could I think clearly in these kind of moments?" he said to himself.

Somewhere, he hit the end of his descent. A faint light was glowing in the distance. He stood there listening, but there were no sounds yet. Then he decided to go towards the light. His eyes got used to the dark, detecting little obstacles in his way, mostly barrels spread on the floor in a great disorder and some other forms that looked like stacked wooden planks. Suddenly, he felt the need to have a weapon of some kind. Reaching toward a pile, he picked up a plank taller than himself. That should do it, he thought, trying to figure out how to carry it. But as he was contemplating its silhouette, a gunshot broke the silence. The echo made the rounds a few times. Hank shook off his surprise and ran toward the light. Then came another gunshot. Hank's mind went crazy as he reached a steel wall, behind which someone was firing.

* * *

Alice was still tied to her chair; but from behind, a set of strong teeth was chopping up the rope, while another set was biting deep into the face of a man. The girl had lost any hopes of survival but was trying not to scream or cry. She wanted to die with dignity, as she had seen so many heroes do in the movies. When the short man took position in front of her chair and aimed his loaded gun at her, she only had time to say a little prayer.

"Fire it up!" the tall man had said. Then the gun went boom, so loud, so close, so frighteningly that when the noise was gone and she was still praying, it dawned on her that God must have heard her and she must have passed the gates of heaven without a second of suffering. But daring to open her eyes, she saw a very different reality; one that she didn't have time to analyze, for a second shot tore through her thigh. The pain came a few seconds later, just as she was watching a big dog bite on the face of a man, who lay on the ground. And for a few moments, their screams merged into a single huge roar.

With his teeth deep inside the guy's nose, Pepper was trying to keep him down, giving Puppanela time to untie the girl. However, the man was strong and fighting with all his limbs. He had lost the gun for a moment, but the tall one was rushing in to get it. "Oh no!" barked Pepper. Letting go of the nose, he jumped towards the gun and kicked it all the way to the wall. The tall one was running after him, yelling: "Get the dog, get the dog!" But Pepper, a fast runner, was barking as ferociously as he could, pushing down empty barrels and kicking wooden crates. "I'll get you, I'll get you!" the guy was crying, his long legs dancing through the air as he jumped over the obstacles that Pepper had laid on the floor.

Their chase was interrupted once a door was opened out of nowhere, knocking down the tall guy, who just happened to run by at that moment. Coming out of the dark, there was another man holding a long wide stick. By the time he recognized Hank, Pepper was knocked out by a stroke on his head. A few green stars appeared floating in front of his eyes and he passed out, but not before seeing Alice stand up and limp towards the garage door, which was slowly opening. Bravo Puppanela! he had time to think.

The two guys recovered quickly. The tall one attacked Hank while the other one dashed for the gun. But Hank was ready, he just had to swing his wooden plank strongly enough, and the man fell down one more time. Before jumping to his feet again, Hank threw his improvised weapon and waited for his attacker, fists clenched, chin down. Boxing was another skill he had learned as a young boy, at his father's orders. Hank hit the man so hard that he spun a full circle and collapsed on the floor. Turning his attention to the short guy, Hank saw him picking up a gun from the floor. In an instant, he plunged towards the guy and caught his leg, both of them rolling on the floor, fighting for the pistol. And just before he was overwhelmed by the weight of the short guy piled up on his chest, Hank saw Alice limping out through the open garage door.

On the other side, a squad of police officers, placed behind their cars, were holding up guns.

"Watch out, Alice!" he cried. Instantly, the girl threw herself on the ground while gunshots broke the cold November air. It was getting darker, with the clouds covering the sky like a blanket over a freezing world.

From his position among the officers, Brad had shouted: "Stop fire! She is the victim!"

There had been a moment of confusion when they thought that a criminal was running out the door. Especially, they were taken by surprise when the garage door was opened from inside. They didn't know it was a dog named Puppanela who had recovered the remote and bit on every button until one turned the darn thing on. Some officers ran to Alice and attended to her wounds, while others chased the short guy until they caught and handcuffed him. Then they spotted Hank and the other men, both down, unconscious. When they brought them out into the daylight, Brad came over. "This one is my friend," he said, pointing at Hank.

"Bring in the ambulance," an officer said through his walkie-talkie.

Puppanela was still watching the scene. No one seemed aware of her presence, and she was happy about that. She didn't like police officers. To her, they looked too much like the kennel guys. Once the officers were done searching the scene and were yellow taping the whole lot, she crept back inside and found Pepper, safe and sound. "Just waiting for them to leave," he said.

* * *

The whole thing was over in less than an hour. Hank came back to reality and found himself on a hospital bed, having a neighbor with golden hair.

"Alice," he started, "I'm so sorry!"

"For what?" she said.

"For putting you through all this nonsense."

"It was my own choice, remember? It is my cause, too."

"Ah, shoogar!" he said. He looked around and decided that, as long as no nurse was around, he could stand up.

Alice looked at him and tried to do the same thing. "Help me out of here," she said. She was dressed in a hospital gown, and her left thigh was bandaged.

"You have to stay," said Hank. "I'll run to the office and have the article done by midnight. Then I'll come back."

"You won't dare to do it without me," she said, smiling sweetly.

He helped her out of the bed.

"Now, turn around," she asked him. "And don't peek!" She took off her gown and put on her own clothes, dirty and bloody.

Getting out of the hospital was an easy job, as Hank's boss was waiting in the main lobby. They drove back to the office while planning the front page, the place of the pictures, and the way the story should go. Dave had called back with the lab results of his tests, and someone in the office had found out that the black Chevy was registered to Bucolian, Inc. Boss, who wasn't particularly fond of the mayor, decided to make the story as big as he could because a scandal of this magnitude had not been seen in the city for decades.

"We will finally bring them down!" Boss had announced to Brad, and he now repeated those words in the car with Hank and Alice. Heads were bound to roll, he reassured them. "Spreading poison to kill off all mice in the city seemed legit at first glance because it was authorized in a formal vote. But the mayor opted for a method so dangerous that he cannot survive politically, now that solid evidence is in our hands. The kidnapping can be linked back to the mayor through his involvement with Bucolian, Inc., and that should be another nail in the coffin. One fine day, the whole town will probably be amazed to find out why the mayor has been arrested and why Bucolian, Inc. is under federal investigation."

Riding in the car as passengers and listeners, Alice and Hank were recalling the events, each from their own perspective, happy to be alive and well.

"If it weren't for those two dogs, I never would have made it," said Alice, letting the words float in the air, light and glossy.

"What dogs?" asked Hank.

Alice didn't answer him. First, she needed to find out whether Hank loved or hated dogs, whether he had been drunk driving, whether he liked her, and so on. But the dogs were foremost on her mind. She was going to find them, and in her human language say a big "Thank You!"

The city's dogs and mice drew a collective sigh of relief as the news spread that the danger of mass poisoning had blown over. Exterminators had been spotted around the Hill the other night, preparing to fumigate, only to be recalled before they could do any further harm. Tank's gang conceded that Pepper was right: the threat of extermination had been real, so he was taken off their blacklist. Mr. Cat Whiskers and his followers arranged a final gathering, in which Pepper and Wizzy received a standing ovation.

THE END

About the author

C. C. Reverie is an independent author living in St. Paul, Minnesota, with her family. She started her writing career as a reporter for a small newspaper, later moving to television, as a producer and documentarist.

In her native country, C.C. Reverie and her sister have rescued, cared, feed and adopted many stray dogs which have become the inspiration for the series of books "Adventures in Happyland".

Other books by this author:

The Winter's Claws (Adventures in Happyland, book #2)

Connect with the author:

Website: ccreverie.com

Twitter: CCReverie1

This book is available through all major ebook retailers.

Ask your librarian about this book.

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