Oberon’s Meaty Mysteries: The Squirrel on the Train
Copyright © 2017 by Kevin Hearne.
All rights reserved.
Dust jacket illustration Copyright © 2017 by Galen Dara.
All rights reserved.
Print version interior design Copyright © 2017 by Desert Isle Design, LLC.
All rights reserved.
Electronic Edition
ISBN
978-1-59606-848-3
Subterranean Press
PO Box 190106
Burton, MI 48519
subterraneanpress.com
Table of Contents
Cover
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Epilogue
Chapter 1:
Squirrel,
Interrupted
I do not understand why humans tend to fear clowns more than squirrels. Atticus says it’s probably all Stephen King’s fault, which doesn’t make much sense to me, but I’m sure he’s right. That still doesn’t explain why people are ignoring the mountains of evidence that squirrels have a sinister agenda and the ability—the agility!—to carry it out. They can climb trees and dang near anything else and circumvent the most sophisticated security systems. They’ve stolen my snacks and eaten them in front of me from the safety of a tree branch high above my head. That’s evidence of raw, unchained evil for you, right there.
Know how many clowns have done that to me? Zero. And if a clown wants to try anything, how fast is he going to move in those oversize clown shoes? Not fast enough, no sir. He certainly won’t be climbing a tree in them.
Whenever I try to convince Atticus that squirrels are most definitely involved in a shadowy plot to kill us all, though, he dismisses it and says, “I should have named you Mulder,” because apparently, I’ve crossed a line somewhere that makes me an unhinged conspiracy theorist.
But Orlaith believes me, and Starbuck too. Starbuck is starting to learn some words, and so far he has divided the world into
and demonstrating that he’s got a fine head on his shoulders, even if his ears are sort of batlike and his face is all smooshed in without a proper snout, like all Boston terriers.
I bring up the Looming Squirrel Peril because of what happened on the train to Portland. Atticus and I had met Starbuck in that city and adopted him after his human died, but we both wanted to go back and show Orlaith around. There were parks laid out all over it and some of them were bound to have rabbits hiding in them, and there was also that one pie bar that made some pretty fine chicken pot pies with a delicious gravy inside.
After we saved Jack the poodle and brought him back to Eugene, reuniting him with his human, Atticus thought maybe he should stop renting stuff and buy a vehicle to drive around in, since Orlaith couldn’t shift planes until after she’d dropped her litter. He bought an old truck that he said was a classic, a 1954 Chevrolet. He got it for cheap since it had a lot of rust damage, but he didn’t care about that. He called on Ferris, the iron elemental, to help him get rid of the rust and rebuild the steel where necessary. It was a few days’ work restoring it and painting it a shiny blue, and by the time he was done and asked us where we should go, we told him we wanted to go smell all the things in Portland.
“All the things?” he said.
Atticus said he’d never let me watch Lord of the Rings again, but then he added that the truck got terrible gas mileage and he didn’t want to drive it anywhere but Eugene and back, so that’s why we wound up taking the train and running across the path of the most diabolical squirrel in the world. At least the ride to Eugene was great. Orlaith and I stuck our heads out the window to sample all the scents of the Willamette, and Starbuck squeezed in between us and sneezed a lot.
Starbuck said, which meant he was happy. Or hungry. If I’m being honest, sometimes those things smoosh together into the same thing with us hounds.
The train station didn’t smell particularly good. I’m not sure any train station, anywhere, is super-duper fragrant in the positive sense. If you want to make your nose happy, train stations are unlikely to make your top five million list. I mean, there’s a lot of urine, and that’s interesting, no doubt—don’t get me started on fire hydrants!—but it’s not what you seek out if you’re in search of something pleasant. It should smell like food if it wants to impress me, but instead it smells like mothballs and cleaning products and this stuff Atticus says is an unholy body spray marketed to teenage boys.
Atticus bought two business class tickets for himself and planned to smuggle us on the train since hounds of our size just aren’t allowed. The train bosses said you have to be Chihuahua class and fit under the seat to travel with your humans, but luckily Atticus didn’t much care for that rule. He cast camouflage on us and told us to be quiet while boarding, and we all agreed just before we saw a squirrel on top of the train car and promptly forgot our promise. We got to woofin’ and that squirrel chittered once and looked around for us, his tail swishing while the rest of him stood still.
Atticus’s mental voice shouted loud in my head: Stop that right now! And he must have done the same to Orlaith and Starbuck, because they stopped barking too.
I began.
Starbuck added, and Orlaith started to say something too, but Atticus didn’t let us get any further.
The squirrel isn’t hurting anything, but your barking is hurting our chances of getting on this train without any trouble. He was looking around like all the other humans in the station, pretending he didn’t know where the barking came from. Forget about the squirrel.
When Atticus gets like that, his voice all commanding and tense, the thing to do is back up and be patient with your explanation. It works better than bulling forward because then he just gets angrier and won’t listen.
That’s not rational at all.
Oberon, there’s no way that squirrel can derail the train or do any other damage to it. We’ll be fine. And if the squirrel tries to ride along, you know what will happen?
He’ll be blown away by the wind. There’s nothing to hold on to up there. If he’s dumb enough to stay on the train, physics will take care of him.
Orlaith said.
Starbuck agreed.
Right. You can enjoy imagining the many possible deaths of the squirrel once we’re aboard. I need you all to be very quiet for the entire trip. Talk to me mentally all you want, but no barks
or growls of any kind. Just ignore that squirrel. Leave him to physics, all right?
We agreed and got on board with no more fuss, though we saw some people point at the squirrel and say, “Aww, how cute!” as if the squirrel didn’t want them all dead. They wouldn’t have said that if a clown had been staring down at them from the top of the train, would they? Nope. They would have retreated to a bunker and laid down suppressing fire before lobbing some grenades at it.
I heard Orlaith jump up into the seat next to Atticus and curl up as best as she could. I laid down on the floor and Starbuck laid down on top of me, sphinx-style, after much circling around and trying to figure out where I was. The people who sat across the aisle from us had no idea we were there. Above us, we heard the squirrel skittering around.
I’ll take the camouflage off you once we’re well underway and they can’t throw us off the train, Atticus said. I won’t be able to maintain camouflage for very long in any case. You’ll need to remain quiet the whole trip, though, especially once people know you’re here.
Yes. He poses no danger, I assure you.
Orlaith asked.
Probably not. There will be too much noise from the train moving at that point.
I said.
I’m sure he doesn’t even know he’s on a train, much less where it’s going, Atticus replied.
No, that kind of binding requires line of sight, and I can’t spare the energy anyway. Settle in, now. I’m going to read you a story while we ride.
Atticus pulled out a book called Wake of Vultures by Lila Bowen and read to us through our mental link so other humans wouldn’t think he was reading aloud to himself. But what was cool is that Atticus sent us mental pictures too, and we got to imagine what things in the story smelled like. It was a fun story, full of vampires and harpies and shape-shifters in the Old West.
Soon after the train got underway he let the camouflage drop off us and we were in plain view, but the people across the way didn’t even notice us for a while, since they were busy with their computers. The closest man looked super smart; he had his head shaved like Luke Cage but wore a sharp suit instead of a hoodie. When he saw us he blinked, then his eyes slid over to Atticus, and he smirked and muttered, “Portland, man.”
The lady on the far side of him was so involved in her own world she didn’t even notice us until an attendant came by to check if Atticus needed a snack and startled when she saw us.
“Oh! Those are…big dogs. You’re not supposed to have dogs on the train.”
Atticus shot us a reminder to remain quiet and still and flashed a grin at her. “Normally, no. I’m part of a pilot program with Amtrak to evaluate the feasibility of pets on the train.”
No, I’m just making this up. “So far it’s going great,” he continued. “You’ve received no complaints about my dogs, correct?”
“Well, no, but I haven’t heard about this program either.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Atticus sounded truly concerned. “They should have told you. I’m sure it was just an oversight. Here. I was told to give you this. Call that number and check up on me.”
He reached into this light jacket he had on and produced a business card with stuff on it.
Give humans a business card and they’ll think you’re legit, at least for a little while. It’s like Doctor Who’s psychic paper. I made up a business card with an Amtrak logo and a phony name and number. Chances are they won’t even call.
We’re going to make it to Portland regardless, and if they try to apprehend us at the station, we’ll just disappear. No worries.
The attendant read the card and then said, “And who are you?”
“Ah, right, that would help, wouldn’t it? I’m Connor Molloy. Here, I’ll give you my card too.” He produced one of the cards I’d seen before, the one that said he was an animal rights activist and dog trainer.
The attendant’s eyebrows shot up when she read it. “Dog trainer, eh? Well, they’re certainly well trained.”
Atticus nodded. “They’re very good hounds. They deserve a snack.”
We all looked at Atticus when he said that and our tails thumped against the seats. Or at least, mine and Orlaith’s did. Poor Starbuck just has a little stump of a tail.
The attendant laughed. “They seem to know that word.”
“Yes, they’re very smart. But they’ll get their snack after a successful, quiet train ride.”
If you all remain silent until we’re off the train, I’ll find you something covered in gravy. That’s better than a snack.
The attendant turned around and asked the people across from us if we’d been any sort of bother at all. The sharp-dressed man said no, he hadn’t heard a peep out of us. The lady on the other side of him said she hadn’t even realized we were there until now. This satisfied the attendant and after another glance at his card, said, “Pleasant trip, Mr. Molloy.”
“Thanks.”
Atticus went back to reading and I guess they never checked up on his false story because no one bothered us, and you know what? That book he was reading was so good we forgot completely about the squirrel on the train!
Until we got to Portland, that is, and disembarked, and saw that same squirrel chittering at us! We weren’t in camouflage now and he could see us just fine. And it was okay to bark at him because Atticus said we only had to be silent until we got off the train.
I said while I was barking.
Orlaith said, and Starbuck added,
“Huh,” Atticus said aloud, no longer bothering to keep things private in the bustle of the train station. “He must have hidden between cars.”
I said.
“I didn’t think he’d be that determined to get to Portland. I assumed he would jump off once the train started moving.”
“What? Oberon—”
At that moment the squirrel took off for the front of the train, running along the edge, and the chase was on. He’d run out of train eventually and he’d have to come down, and we’d be waiting to pounce. If people would get out of the way—oops! Sorry, dude! Important hound business!
So many noises and things and stuff to dodge around on top of a squirrel to keep track of—I think Atticus was shouting for us to stop but he couldn’t be serious. There was a public hazard afoot! And though I shouldn’t have to state the obvious, I would like the record to show that everything that happened was the squirrel’s fault.
Ahead of us, we saw the squirrel leap from the roof of the train to the roof of a thingie like a veranda—it was just some posts holding up some shelter from the rain, where people would wait to board the train in between tracks—and I panicked for a moment, thinking we’d lose him forever. But then he did a spidery trick where he flipped down over the edge and leapt to a supporting post, and he scurried down it like it was a skinny tree trunk. Oh, we had him now!
He scampered across the first two tracks and slipped into the station with us on his tail. It was a terrible place to run, all slick stone floors, and sounds echoed off the surfaces. It was big and open, though, with benches like church pews in the middle, islands of wood in a sea of marble.
&nb
sp; He dodged around a couple of corners, our nails scrambled for purchase on the tiles, and for some reason people seemed more scared of me and Orlaith and Starbuck than the squirrel. Didn’t they know their enemy? We’re supposed to be humans’ best friends! But then the squirrel decided he didn’t much like all those people clomping around either and he whipped to the right toward the baggage claim area and headed straight for this doorway marked stairs that a police officer was opening. Was he running for the police? It was he who’d broken all natural laws!
The police officer was startled by the squirrel zipping past him and he said, “Jesus, what the hell—” and then he added, “Christ!” when we three hounds muscled past him into the stairwell.
But halfway up there were all these humans in the way, milling around the landing. They were seriously blocking our path, and apparently unhappy that we were coming their way. One of them, a woman with long dark hair and kinda darker skin, stepped forward and shouted at us.
“Stop! You stop right now!”
I would have ignored her in the interest of public safety except that I got a whiff of her breakfast—hot sauce and eggs and some terrible coffee—and recognized who it was: Detective Gabriela Ibarra. She was all about public safety.
I said to the others, and put on the brakes.
Orlaith said, and she was right. He was already past the humans and up the next flight. Maybe he wouldn’t be able to get through the door at the top though.
Starbuck chimed in.
So we pulled up in front of Detective Ibarra and stared at her, panting, while she crossed her arms and frowned at us.
“Irish wolfhounds and a Boston terrier? Where have I seen that before? Are you here for Mr. Molloy?”
Well, not for him, but because of him, maybe? I couldn’t tell her. I noticed that all the people blocking the stairwell were police. That was strange.