“Thank you. Anyway, he was not what you’d call well liked, so no one was too upset when he got shipped out.”
“Shipped out?” The alley is hot with no breeze. It smells like palmetto bugs, and I begin to feel dizzy.
“Yeah, they stuck him on a container truck from Seaboard, heading for the Keys.”
I know all this from Victoriana, but maybe the rat knows more. “And?”
“Like I said, he wasn’t missed.” The rat’s voice is tiny, and I lean farther down to hear it. “Good ribbons to bad rubbish and all that. So I di’n think anything more about it ’til last week, when some folks started snoopin’ around.”
I know this too. “Big guys? With a bloodhound?”
“Nah, not them goofballs. Ah, they was here for like ten minutes, sniffing. That dog didn’t even try and talk to the other animals here. Real snotty, like. If they’d really been lookin’, he woulda talked to us. That’s what bloodhounds is famous for.”
“Talking to animals? I thought they just sniffed.”
“Ah, that’s what people think on account-a bloodhounds have them goofy noses. But in actuality, they’re experts on interrogation. That’s how they find their man.”
Who knew? “But this one didn’t do that?”
“Didn’t even try. It was like they didn’t tink da frog was here. Or maybe they didn’t want to find him. But a few days later, some other guys showed up, guys with accents. Dogs with accents, German shepherds. They talked to everyone, and that’s when I got interested.”
Accents. I remember Victoriana’s voice. And her guards. She must have sent someone different the second time, and he did a better job.
“So what happened after you got interested?”
“After I got interested, I was interested. Interested enough to do some investigating myself about where that container went.”
“And where did it go?”
“Key Largo, full of goods for the Underwater Hotel, which is good news for you.”
“Good news? Why’s that good news?” Key Largo is the closest key, but it’s also one of the longest and most populated. The frog could be anywhere.
“Good news ’cause right next to the Underwater Hotel is a bar called Sally’s, rough place, rough crowd. The animals what hangs there is rough too, probably on account of some of the rough garbage theys eats. They’d probably eat that snooty-pants prince in frog skin alive too.”
“Oh.” Well, that doesn’t sound good.
“But there’s this fox there. He’s a good guy, and he sorta runs things down there. He’s one of us used-to-bes.”
“Used-to-bes?”
“That’s what we call ourselves, ‘used-to-be humans.’ Anyway, this fox was a fisherman down on the MacArthur Causeway until one day, he disappeared.”
“Disappeared?”
“That’s the story with all us used-to-bes. We’re the mysterious disappearances, the unsolved mysteries. Cold cases. Everyone assumes we’re down in the river with cement overshoes or else ran off. But the truth’s way weirder.”
Used-to-bes. I think about it, imagining all the animals I once thought were just animals, who had actually been human until, one day, they disappeared without a trace. Probably their families stopped looking for them. God, it made you not want to take a shower in front of the cat! “Can all used-to-bes get transformed back?” My thighs hurt from leaning down so long.
“Yeah, but it’s harder for some than others. Some of us have pretty much given up. Anyway, the fox’s name is Todd, and he’s friendly. If you talk to ’im nice, he’ll pro’lly help you out. Tell him Cornelius sent you.”
“Cornelius?”
“Fancy name for a rat, right? I used to be a senator. Just be careful not to talk to the fox in front of anyone else. I don’t know who those guys were that was looking for the frog, but they looked scary.”
Suddenly there’s a sound close by. Footsteps. A night watchman, maybe. I try to squeeze closer in between the two walls, but there’s nowhere to go. The rat scurries off, and I lean, frozen, feeling the ache in my thighs but unable to take a single step. I’m hot and pained and dead. Deaddeaddeaddead. The footsteps come closer, closer.
I wait a minute, then two, to see if they come back.
Finally Harry whispers, “I think he’s gone.” The first words he’s said since we got here.
“Yeah,” I whisper back. “That was close. We should go.” I have the information I need, even though it sounds impossible. Sally’s. A fox named Todd. Cornelius sent me.
Since Harry’s behind me, he moves out first, and I follow. But as I get close enough to see the lights from Seaboard Marine, I hear a familiar roar. A motorcycle! I feel a whoosh of air, then hear a boom and see a flash of white light. A gunshot! Harry’s on the ground behind me.
“Harry!” I can’t stop myself from screaming his name. I dive to the ground beside him.
“Got him!” a voice says.
Then, a second voice. A woman. “Nein. There is someone with him.”
Oh no. I know what I have to do. I unzip my backpack and pull out the cloak. “Stay with me, Harry,” I whisper.
“No,” the swan whispers. “It is time for my swan song. Save yourself. Run!”
The motorcycle’s wheels shriek in a circle. I fumble with the cloak, finally wrapping it around both of us. “Hang in there, boy! Don’t start singing yet!” I clutch at the swan, feeling the smoothness of its white feathers, the warm stickiness of blood. I hear the motorcycle roar again, coming toward me in the same whoosh of air.
I wish I was back at the hotel, I think.
And then, there’s a flash.
Chapter 15
I recognize sounds first. Car horns. People yelling. Crashing waves from the beach. The crackle of neon. I’m on South Beach. In a cloak. Holding a bleeding once-human swan.
I lift my head to see if anyone’s watching us, but no. It’s the usual South Beach oblivion, people zombified by lights and the liquor. Still, I unwrap the bloody cloak and hide it inside my backpack, then look down at Harry.
He blinks at me. “How . . . how are we here?”
“Shh.” I glance at the stain spreading across his snow-white breast. “We’re here. I’ll get someone to help.”
“But . . .” He moves his beak, but no sound comes out.
“Hold that thought,” I say. “Don’t die on me.”
Zipping my backpack as I go, I run into the empty lobby. I can’t handle the idea that this guy might die as a swan. I’m even more worried that he might turn human after death.
The night clerk is gone, and I glance first left, then right, seeing no one.
“Help!” I yell. “Outside! Someone’s shot a swan!”
I run back toward my shop, meaning to use the phone, to call 911, and tell them . . . I don’t know what. I expect to see no one, but instead, I find Meg. She takes in my panting face and bloodied shirt. “What is it?”
“Outside on Collins. Someone’s shot a swan!” I can’t explain to her that it’s not a swan, but a man. “Call nine-one-one.”