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Jenklin and the Secret Eye Theo S Bernard I'd just poured a glass of Scotch and put my feet up on the coffee table when my doorbell rang. It's a comfortable apartment, nothing fancy, but better than you might think when you see the outside of the building. "Grimy" is a popular word in these parts, along with "seedy". The ringer had lost its ring decades ago and now emitted only a faded rattle, in keeping with the state of the neighborhood. I remembered that someone from the precinct was supposed to drop off a forensics report, so that explained the unexpected noises from the bell. My shirt lay crumpled over the back of the armchair. Being a Kangal mix, I found the summer temperatures about as comfortable as the heavy woolen sweater that your mother knitted for you and you can't really throw away. I grabbed the shirt and pulled it on, but I didn't bother to button it up. It was after hours. I'd made Detective rank through hard work, a bit of luck, and taking more than a few hits for the sake of the thin blue line. Being well-dressed never really figured. I expected to find one of the dusty little dogs from the forensic lab outside my door, and I'd already formed a picture of a gray suit and brown shoes, and maybe even a white coat. Instead, I found a big slab of young Rottweiler almost as tall as me. A short sleeved uniform shirt stretched over well defined muscles beneath glossy black and tan fur. A broad friendly face regarded me with a look of excitement and dedication which was almost comical except that it reminded me of my own youthful innocence from long ago. My plan had been to take the report and send the underling away, but now that thought melted like the Christmas snowfall you were really hoping for as a puppy. It seemed rude to send the young dog off into the Friday night darkness with nothing but a perfunctory nod, so I invited him in. "Harry, isn't it?" I asked. "Yes, Detective Jenklin." "Jenklin is fine. You can put that report on the table". I ushered him in. "Care for a drink?" It turned out Harry had a nose for a decent whiskey, so we had to sample a few from my special collection. What with the warmth and the rosy glow of Highlands Finest, it seemed pretty natural to shrug off my crumpled shirt and toss it away. The young officer hesitated a moment when he saw that, but I did see a glint of excitement in his eyes as he watched me. He took another sip from his tumbler, then unbuttoned his own shirt and pulled it off. Now it was my turn to gaze appreciatively at his muscular torso. My Kangal ancestry gave me a lean frame and soft white fur. I guess I'm reasonably attractive. But I also knew that the young dog idolized me and desperately wanted to be a detective one day, so taking advantage of him would be highly unethical. I leaned in to kiss his muzzle, and his rich canine smell filled my nose. I never claimed to be a Good Dog, you know. He was only too eager to return my kiss, and I felt my desire stir. I fumbled with my belt and finally managed to wrestle my trousers off, and gently pushed the Rottweiler's head down. He got the hint and was only too happy to oblige. I felt strong paws wrap around my sheath and then that lovely big tongue enveloped my cock. Maybe I was taking advantage of the young dog but this certainly wasn't his first rodeo. He knew just how to ease my sheath back and squeeze my knot as it swelled, while my shaft stayed buried in his muzzle. I couldn't help but grab the back of his head and thrust my hips a bit, pushing myself more deeply into his mouth, and then I was gasping as I gushed my cum into his throat. His tail wagged as he swallowed eagerly. "Good lad," I growled. At that point, pants seemed as pointless as a condom machine in the Vatican, and much more uncomfortable, so I kicked them off and let the Rottweiler lick me clean. I took another sip of single malt, and that added to my dreamy mood. I needed to see more of the young lieutenant, just to evaluate the future of the police force, so I helped him out of his blue uniform trousers. His rather fine sheath and heavy balls reassured me that the quality of younger recruits wasn't all bad. And when his strong paws pushed me back on the couch, and that lovely young cock slid in under my tail, I started to feel quite hopeful. I'm better known as being a sucker for the dames, but I can make an exception for a good-looking dog, and Harry didn't disappoint. --- After I'd sent Harry home, I scanned through the report he'd delivered. It was drier than the main street during prohibition, but one detail caught my eye. Toxicology found an unusual substance in the victim's blood. "Possibly some kind of hallucinogenic drug", the pathologist speculated. No booze, though. The stiff had been found on a building site after taking a dive from the unfinished fourth floor. Obviously just a drunken dare which ended badly... Except for the lack of alcohol in what remained of his blood, and that strange substance. But I still didn't have anything useful - just a hunch which prickled at the back of my mind: there was something fishy about this accident. --- "Detective Jenklin." It was unusual to see the pointed ears and grizzled snout of Police Chief Curnow at my office. When the big German Shepherd let himself in and shut the door, I started to get nervous. He usually summoned underlings to his office. "Chief." The Shepherd had been my boss long enough to dispense with formalities. I like to think I'd earned his grudging respect over the years, or at least that I knew too many secrets for him to fire me. He was not the type for idle chit-chat, but beneath the gruff exterior, I believed that he was a decent dog, and less crooked than most. That made him an exception in this town. "I've got an assignment for you." The chief looked uncertain, and that only added to my unease. I waited for him to continue. "It's about my wife. She's become involved with a group, and l don't like the look of them. It's probably nothing, but I want someone to look into it, see if it's all above board. Discreetly, of course. Jennifer has had some... challenges... in recent years, and this seems to be making her happy, so I don't want to ruin it unless I have to." "Sure..." I said. I sounded about as enthusiastic as a detective with a hangover on a wet Monday morning. "But wouldn't one of your junior boys be more suited for the job?" Curnow scowled at me for making him spell it out. "This needs a delicate touch, Jenklin. I know it's a bit outside your normal duties, but I'd really appreciate it." The Chief knew my reputation with the ladies (who didn't?), and yet he didn't want anyone other than me involved. That was funny-ha-ha, and also funny-peculiar. It told me one thing, though: He was worried that I would uncover something unsavory, something which would make him and his beautiful wife look bad in high society. Hence, he wanted help from someone who he could count on to stay quiet. The Chief knew a few of Jenklin's secrets, too. Hey, you can't get far in this town without making some compromises. Nothing a dog can do about that except have a sip of good single malt and try to forget about it. I suppose I could have said "no", in the same way you can say "no" when the landlord asks if you'd like to pay the rent. But I had to admit, I was curious to find out what the Chief's pretty (but aloof) wife was involved in. "OK. Let me know the details." The details turned out to be a pamphlet for something called "The Society of the Secret Eye". They offered a range of "life transforming experiences", from energy healing to communion with spirits of the departed. Consultations "by special appointment only", just to give it a feeling of exclusivity. I was willing to bet that a session would cost more than my week's paycheck, and then some. Well, if rich folks wanted to squander their cash on charlatan mystics, I wasn't going to stop them. "I want you to go along to one of their sessions," Curnow had said. "Don't worry, we'll reimburse you for the expense." The Shepherd's gaze had scanned my creased clothes with disdain. "And try to look presentable. I have a feeling they will be more welcoming to someone who smells like money rather than cheap booze." That was a low blow since I only drink the good Scotch, but the Chief was right about my dress sense. When you spend half your time lurking in festering back alleys talking to whores and drug dealers, you don't bother dressing up. --- The boss might actually have been impressed if he saw me get out of the cab that night. I scrub up okay when I need to, although the fancy suit made me feel like a fish who's not just out of water but already on someone's dinner plate. The address was a solid stone edifice on the fringe of mid-town. Respectable enough for the wealthy clientele, but discreetly located on a side street to give it a sense of privacy and mystique. Inside, the foyer was sheathed in deep red carpet. Subtle lighting played across fake marble columns decorated with elaborate hieroglyphs which hinted at arcane knowledge. A mural depicted a stylized eye. A hint of incense hung in the air. It was obviously a sham, but I had to admit it was a classy one. The well-stocked bar was certainly genuine, and I needed a drink to help me blend in - a Martini instead of Scotch, in keeping with my cover of a rich dilettante. The prices were outrageous, but the chief was paying. I took a sip and scanned the room. A handful of suited dandys and posh middle-aged dames were already standing here and there, conversing in lowered voices. I was glad I'd dressed up. An exotic borzoi appeared from a curtain at the back of the room. She was tall and thin, and her fur was pure white. She wore a flowing black robe decorated with sequins which caught the light as she moved. A silk scarf with gold tassels covered her head. She sauntered around the room to greet the guests, and her familiar tone indicated that many were regulars. I felt like an outsider and a gumshoe, but I'm pretty good at bluster. Fake it till someone threatens to break your kneecaps, as the old saying goes. "Welcome to the humble house of the Secret Eye," she said, proffering a paw for me to shake. Her silken voice flowed like the curves of her robe, and a spicy perfume filled my nose. "I am Madam Seraphine. You must be Milo Jeffreys." "Indeed, Madame." Mild-mannered Milo, that was me. I ought to have a back-story to go with the fake name: perhaps a wealthy orphan, heir to a modest fortune and patron of the arts. "I'm excited to explore the mysteries of the cosmos." It was a bit of bunkum straight from the pamphlet, and I hoped I wasn't overdoing it. Milo was curious, but he liked to think he maintained a healthy skepticism. "And what do you seek, Mr Jeffreys?" "I think there's some hidden truth which most people can't see. I want to find it." Did Madam Seraphine's eye narrow a bit at that? Perhaps she was shrewder than she looked. Careful, Jenklin... You don't want to give the game away. "Well!", she said. "I think it's time we got started." She clapped her paws to get attention, and then led the group past the curtain. I drained my glass and then followed along, like a wolf dressed as a lamb and thinking he was smarter than the other sheep as he walked right into the den of hungry dragons. The room was lined with dark curtains, and rows of chairs faced a small dais. Madam Seraphine arranged herself behind a round table draped in a black velvet cloth, while the other followers seated themselves. I took a seat at the back of the group, and prepared for the show. The only illumination came from flickering candles. Madam Seraphine sat with her eyes closed and paws on the table, palms upwards, as if in meditation. "Close your eyes," she intoned. "Feel the energy of the universe. Let it flow through you. See the deeper truth with your inner eye - your secret eye." I could feel the energy of the Martini flowing through me, but that was about it. The setup was classy, but Madam Seraphine quickly moved to the old parlor tricks - "I sense a presence. Someone has lost a dear relative...", that sort of thing. Well, maybe she believed her own hype, but it looked like somebody was making a decent pile of cash out of the operation. I decided to stick around and see if I could learn more after the session. After helping a couple of the patrons seek reassurance from their departed relatives, Madam Seraphine guided us through some meditation exercises to open up our inner energy channels. It was certainly an enlightening experience; I learned that I really needed a burger followed by a decent whiskey. Eventually she called it a night, and the other patrons filtered out. I was hanging back, surreptitiously sneaking glances at the curtained walls and wondering whether I could explore a bit without being noticed. Then I detected a cloying waft of incense as the Madame sidled up to me. "Mr Jeffreys," she whispered in my ear. "Did you find the evening to be... enlightening?" It was more of a scam than a pyramid marketing scheme selling snake oil, but I hadn't learned anything useful, and I didn't want to burn any bridges just yet. "Sure thing, Madame Seraphine," I said, playing the role of wide-eyed innocent. "I could feel the energy in the room!" I thought I'd overdone it on the "enthusiastic new devotee" thing, but the borzoi wasn't deterred. "Well," she said, "If you are ready to go deeper, I would like to invite you to a private consultation reserved for our most special clients." She led me through a side door into an adjacent chamber. Here the walls and floor were dark marble, carved and inlaid with occult symbols. The door swung shut with an ominous click. I had that crawling sensation up and down my spine which told me I ought to get out of there. Maybe it was a gumshoe's intuition, or maybe it was just the horned death's head with the glowing eyes carved into the wall which was giving me the hebee-geebees. Still, I had been trying to find out more. Maybe I'd learn something if I played along. One middle-aged borzoi mystic didn't seem like much of a threat. Two high-backed chairs stood at opposite sides of a low table, on which sat a globe under a black velvet cloth. "Have a seat." Madame Seraphine indicated one of the chairs. I dutifully sat, still playing the part of the eager inductee. The borzoi disappeared behind me, and returned in a moment wearing a hat with a dark veil which hid her face. She sat opposite me. "Now, Mr Jeffreys, we're going to start with a guided meditation to help you become one with the cosmos. Just relax." She held her paws up in a meditation pose again, and I noticed the smell of incense as a fog of smoke started to seep out from under the table. Cool trick, I thought. The theatrics were all top-notch, and I could easily see how credulous rich people could be taken in. Far to late, I recognized the cloying anesthetic smell hiding behind the incense. I would have jumped out of the chair and made a run for the door, except that suddenly I felt like a very realistic and quite sexy dog-shaped shop mannequin, and no movement occurred. As my awareness faded to black, I thought I saw Madame Seraphine lift her veil to reveal the gas mask strapped over her narrow muzzle. --- When the world swam back into some kind of focus, I knew I was tied to the chair. I couldn't move anyway; my body felt like it was made of lead which had eaten too much turkey at thanksgiving. But being tied up was less disturbing than all the mystical mumbo-jumbo. It was familiar, almost comfortable. A surly mastiff in a pinstripe suite approached me. He reached into my coat and removed my gun. Almost like he knew it was there, I thought. Then he pulled out a syringe from a pocket and stuck it into my arm. That seemed very uncool and a bit alarming, but I still couldn’t move. Perhaps it was a tetanus booster, but I doubted it. When he had finished injecting me, he untied the webbing which bound my ankles and wrists to the chair. Interesting, I thought, feeling like I was coming back to my body just a bit. Perhaps I could leap from the chair like an angry gazelle and land a solid punch on the mastiff's face before he could react. I tensed and then sprang from the chair, my fist swinging. At least, that's what I imagined would happen. What actually happened is that I slid off the seat and crumpled sideways to the floor, in a good impression of an angry deflated balloon. I think pinstripe laughed, but I could only see the patch of marble floor in front of my nose. “Well, mister Jeffreys – or should I say ‘Detective Jenklin’,” I heard him rumble. “I hope you are having an enlightening experience with us!” I coughed, and felt like maybe I was together enough to try for a stinging retort. "Quite a good racket you have going on here," I mumbled to the floor. "You don't know anything, gumshoe! But you're going to find out." His voice took on a note of glee which was more frightening than being tied to the chair. "You'll wish you'd stuck to your beat, but it'll be too late. You won't be troubling us anymore." Ominous, I thought, as Pinstripe Mastiff strode away, chuckling to himself. I heard the door click shut again. The knockout gas was fading fast, though. After a few seconds I was able to pull myself up using the chair, and stagger to the door. It was as locked as the liquor store when you're out of Scotch and forgot that they close early on Sundays. I leaned against the chair, feeling almost normal again. That gave me time to wonder about just what the hell was going on. I knew too much, that was clear. But they hadn't just killed me, so they must have some other plan. A plan involving a locked room and an injection. I figured I would find out eventually, and I wasn't looking forward to it. I didn't have to wait very long. The light had been fading, and now a cold fog seeped out of the dark corners of the room and flowed across the floor, its tendrils reaching for me like hands. Suddenly I felt anxiety building like a ball of acid in my guts. The occult symbols around the walls pulsated with a faint red glow. I heard whispers, but I could see nothing through the swirling mist. Opposite me, the demonic horned skull leered out of the marble wall, its eyes glowing red. I blinked and tried to remind myself that there was nothing there, even as my heart pounded and raw terror rose like bile in my throat. Faint shapes glowed in the mist with a pallid gray light. I gripped the chair and tried to stay still as shapeless panic threatened to overwhelm me. But then the nearest light started to drift towards me, and the shape coalesced into the form of a pretty young Samoyed, her gaudy dress drenched in blood from the gaping cut which had opened her throat. But where there should have been the bright red of blood, there was only the quiet grayness of the grave. Her dead eyes seemed to stare right through me, leaving an unspoken accusation. Other shapes were crawling out of the fog now. Dark dried blood, gaping bullet wounds, vomit and bruising. From the garbage-strewn alleys and dank basements and cheap hotel rooms, they were all coming back, all the ones I'd failed to save, all the ones I'd killed. The lost souls of this soulless city, all staring at me, all demanding answers. Their dead hands reached towards me through the cloying fog. I heard myself screaming. The chair crashed to the side as I scrambled back, away from the dead and their wordless cries of damnation. I staggered towards the back of the room and the door, fumbling desperately for the handle as my mind reeled. The handle turned and the door crashed open. Blind with panic, I stumbled down a short hallway. I felt like I was fighting against a torrent of darkness which threatened to pull me back, down, into the cold hands of the ghosts. Dark mist swirled around me, full of incomprehensible cries. My mind contained only hopeless fear, with no chance of escaping. I couldn't comprehend the words of the "Emergency Exit" sign which appeared in front of me, but muscle memory enabled me to push the crush bar when my grasping paws fumbled onto it. I tumbled out the door and crashed against a steel railing. I fell to my knees and vomited onto the filthy concrete of an alleyway. I stared around with unseeing eyes as the ghosts of the past filled my mind with their silent stares. I hauled myself up and staggered away down the alley, knowing only a blind need to escape from the ghosts and the terror which filled my mind. Somewhere, perhaps halfway across town, perhaps just around the corner, I came to a dark crevice behind a dumpster. I collapsed there, curled into a ball, as my tortured mind lapsed into merciful unconscious under the flickering neon sign of a cheap hotel. --- I clawed my way back to consciousness in the cold gray of dawn, with a jackhammer in my head and the taste of stale puke in my mouth. The city seemed familiar and yet alien, a jumble of shapes devoid of purpose or meaning. The dead lurked behind every cheap facade, and horror tore at the corners of my mind. I staggered down the street, and the people I passed glanced at me with pity and disgust as they stepped aside to avoid me. I was just another crazy deadbeat. Only one thought penetrated the haze of fear: I needed a Scotch. Somehow I found myself at a familiar door, and fumbled with the impossible act of getting a key into the lock, expecting the bony fingers of the dead to grab me at any moment. Finally I was able to get inside. A bottle of amber liquid drew me to the sideboard like the glow of a lighthouse in the midst of the storm. My paws shook so much that only half of it ended up in the glass, but it steadied my nerves. I downed a second measure, and felt its warmth spread through my core, leaving a bit less room for the screams. After the third, I almost had the capacity for rational thought, albeit sluggish. By the time I'd washed and changed, I felt steady enough to handle life, so long as I could hide from the ghosts for the rest of my time - perhaps in the closet or under the bed. The thought of leaving the apartment brought back rolling waves of terror. But I knew I had to; my choices were to confront the fear now or slip down into paranoia and madness. I took another shot of Scotland's Finest, armed myself with a small jimmy bar, and forced myself to walk out the door. Getting to the Secret Eye was like wading uphill against a river of blackness which dimmed my vision even though it was day. When I finally reached the emergency exit where I had emerged the previous evening, I almost turned and ran. I kept myself together by focusing on the cold weight of the jimmy bar in my paws. Levering the door open was easy enough, but walking inside was the most difficult thing I'd ever done. In the cold light of day, everything suddenly became mundane. The marble-lined room with its illuminated occult symbols was cheaply built with plywood and veneer. Vents in the corners connected to a couple of fog cannons. Loudspeakers inset into the walls and ceiling could be used to generate the soundtrack. Through a side door I found a control room where the experience could be tailored for the customer. Of course, the whole sham wouldn't have fooled a gullible child at the fairground, but that was where the drugs came in. The correct concoction would generate a suitable mental state so that the suggestive power of the sound and light show had maximum effect; the victim's imagination would do the rest. So this was their game. Their "special" clients would be drugged and induced to speak with deceased relatives - an experience which was intense enough to keep them coming back and paying the big bucks. And if anyone uncovered the scam, they got a special dose (I suspected Sodium Metachlorinol) and an experience which would drive anyone permanently mad with terror. It was tidy: no missing clients and no bodies to dispose of. It also explained the recent epidemic of wealthy people in asylums or jumping off buildings. With the truth in front of my eyes, the fear finally dissipated. Mostly. I entertained a fantasy that I had survived because I was unusually smart and mentally tough. More likely I was already emotionally numbed and insulated by years of detective work and hard liquor. In any case, I'd seen enough and I thought I heard footsteps, so I made myself scarce. --- "Gods," muttered Chief Curnow when I laid it out for him. "Can we prove any illegal activity?" "Not yet. I'm working on that. But in the meantime, I'm concerned that they might make a connection between me and your wife, and see her as a troublesome loose end". The Shepherd nodded. "I need a favor from you. I've got meetings until late tonight. Could you keep an eye on her for me? You know the low-down and I don't want to explain all this to one of the foot-pads who will probably be distracted eating doughnuts anyway." I was touched that the chief rated me higher than one of his doughnut-stuffing beat cops, enough that he'd allow me to sacrifice my evening to watch his wife. So that was how I came to be parked up in an unmarked squad car outside Chief Curnow's house as night fell and a cold drizzle started. I was still jumping at shadows, but an occasional swig from a hip flask helped with that. I watched lights turn on and off around the house as Mrs Curnow (wife of the police chief, I had to remind myself) cooked in the kitchen and then moved to the lounge. I saw her slender figure in front of the window at one point, and I wondered whether she was looking in my direction. I felt like a greenhorn straight out of police college, given a cushy late night stakeout. But then the front door of the house opened, and the lady of interest stepped out, carrying something and shielded from the rain by a long coat and an umbrella. I tensed, wondering where she could possibly be going and figuring out whether I could follow discreetly. But after glancing left and right, the chief's wife crossed the street and walked right up to my car. I almost jumped when she tapped on the window. Hastily I rolled it down. Her face wore a shy smile. Drops of rain sparkled in her fur. She was a German Shepherd like her husband, although a few years younger than him. Her large sensitive ears stood upright on her head, and golden brown fur blended to deep black on her large muzzle. Bright intelligent eyes looked down at me. Yeah, she was quite something. "Mrs Curnow," I said, careful to keep my voice neutral. "I'm detective Jenklin. Your husband asked me to keep an eye on things, just... for his peace of mind." I didn't want to say that I might have triggered the wrath of the Secret Eye and maybe put her at risk. Not yet, anyway. I noticed a mouth-watering smell even before she said anything. "I know, Mr Jenklin. I saw you arrive earlier. I thought you might like some dinner." That explained why my mouth was drooling despite my best efforts to look cool. She held a bowl covered in tinfoil; my nose informed me that it held sausages and potatoes. "Mind if I join you?" Before I could say anything, she had already crossed to the passenger side, folded her umbrella, and climbed in. "I was feeling a bit nervous all by myself in the house". I could have sent her back. I should have. But at that moment I realized there was something other than strong whiskey which could help to keep the lingering panic at bay. Also, I hadn't had any dinner and that bowl might as well have been from a five star restaurant. I tried not to seem like a starving wolf, and she watched as I ate. I set the empty bowl on the dash and leaned back in the seat. I was kinda wondering what she was doing - was it more than just food for a poor starving Kangal detective? It was nice, though, with the patter of the rain on the windshield and her warm scent filling the small space. Of course, I wasn't thinking anything inappropriate - she was the chief's wife, after all. But I was supposed to be taking care of her, and my car seemed like a pretty safe place. Safe from goons out to tidy up loose ends, anyway. "Mrs Curnow," I said, because the silence between us was developing a certain tension. "You can call me Jennifer," she murmured. But before I could call her anything, she leaned across and kissed me. When her muzzle met mine, and my nose filled with her enticing scent, I knew what I really needed to dispel the trauma from my recent drug trip. And I knew that I needed it badly, even though it was wrong and a terrible idea. So I leaned into the kiss as my paws explored her lovely Shepherd form. She swiveled around and bent down to undo my belt, and then I felt her paws caressing my sheath. I didn't discourage her. Instead, I eased the seat back, and let myself relax for the first time in days. My cock was already starting to swell, and when she pulled my sheath back and licked delicately at the tip, I knew that resistance was a waste of time. I helped her to ease my pants down and unbutton my shirt. Her subtle touch on my chest was like cool rain on parched desert. The terror receded far back into the dark corners of my mind as I kissed her muzzle again. She kicked off her shoes and climbed across to my side of the car until she could straddle me. Her smell and closeness were already inducing a preemptive swelling in my cock. Then she began to unbutton her coat, and I realized that she wasn't wearing anything underneath. The slow striptease had me panting and dizzy with excitement like a young pup on his first date. The coat fell away at last, and subtle orange light from the nearby street lamp fell across her naked body. She was every bit as lithe and perfect as my most secret imaginings. My paws stroked down her soft tan belly fur and over her shapely hips, and my gaze traveled down to dark mound of her sex, just visible enough to be enticing in the dim light. She wiggled forward until her soft fur pressed delightfully against my naked crotch, then she eased herself down onto my sheath until my cock slipped into her slick entrance. She was limber, that's for sure. I was a Bad Dog and a crooked cop for betraying the Chief's trust and not stopping her (but she was liberated woman and it was her idea, I told myself). But none of that mattered; I forgot about everything else as my doghood was engulfed deeply by her warm depths. I grabbed her hips and pulled her against me as I thrust up into her. When she bent down to lick my muzzle again, I was lost in a floating cloud of passion. I could feel my cock swelling inside her and her muscles clenching around my knot. Then I was overcome by a wave of pleasure as my hot Kangal cum gushed into her. It was wrong, but it was what I needed as I held her warm body tight and my cock kept pulsing into her. We lay like that for a long time as rain pattered softly on the foggy car windows. Did she somehow know that I had been floundering, barely keeping my muzzle above the dark waters of fear? Or was she just bored and lonely what with her husband out on the job most of the time, and did she just see a sexy Kangal detective pull up outside her house and decide to have some fun? In any case, the memory of our passion would linger like a bright flower in my mind, pushing back the nameless terrors. Eventually my knot shrank and she clambered off me and pulled her coat back on. I patted her leg. "I..." I began, although I'm not sure what I was going to say. "Shhhh," she interrupted. "No need to say anything, Jenklin." She smiled at me in the dark, and I caught a small glimpse of that warm place I'd always dreamed of but never quite found. Don't be a foolish sentimental pup, Jenk, I thought. Now is not the time. Just enjoy the moment. She was reaching for the door handle when a movement outside sent a jolt of apprehension through my post-orgasmic daze. A sleek black saloon had cruised to a stop outside the Curnow’s house. Something about it set my detective instincts tingling, and I respected those instincts for keeping me alive so far. Reflexively, my paw caught Jennifer's before she could open the door. "Wait a moment," I whispered. A stocky mastiff in a dark suit got out, hat pulled low against the rain. I stiffened when I recognized the muscle of Secret Eye fame. As he approached the house, light from the window revealed a paw reaching inside his coat and the distinct bulge of a gun. Pinstripe Mastiff tried the door handle, then took half a step back, just enough to give himself room. He knew just the right spot to kick the door so that the lock broke with minimal noise. A professional. He disappeared inside. We saw shapes moving behind the curtains as he moved around. Jennifer's paw gripped my wrist. "Who is that? What do they want?" Her voice remained steady. I admired her composure. "It's a guy from the Secret Eye establishment. He's not using a silencer on his gun, so my guess is that he plans to kidnap you and take you back there." "But they say they can reach my poor mother, and I'm sure it's her! That's the only reason I go. What can they possibly want with me?" "It's my fault, I'm afraid. I'm sorry to say this, but the whole thing is a sham and I believe they are laundering money, probably for organized crime cartels. They caught me snooping around, and now they want to find out if you or your husband are involved. My guess is they planned to give you a 'special consultation', and after that you wouldn't be in any state to tell tales." She tensed at that, and I regretted that I'm not the most tactful dog. "You mean they'd kill me?" Her voice wavered just a little. "Not directly. They prefer drugs. You know how there seems to have been an increase in crazies wandering the streets lately? Yeah, well at least some of those are the handiwork of the Secret Eye. I, er, I have first-hand experience." "Oh God," she said, "you poor dog!" When she leaned her head on my shoulder, it almost made the whole occult terror trip seem worth it. Almost. Her composure slipped a bit, and she gave a little sniffle. "I wanted so much for it to be real. But of course it wasn't. I guess I always knew, deep down." "Don't be too hard on yourself. They are very good at what they do." We sat in silence while pinstripe finished searching the house, got back in his car, and drove off into the rain. "You should be OK now," I said. "I don't think he'll be back tonight." She gave no sign of leaving. "I think I'll stay here a bit longer if you don't mind. I don't want to be alone in the house right now." It was warm and comfortable in the car, and I wasn't going to banish her to the empty house just yet, so I let her lean on my shoulder again. The rain still pattered on the roof, and I felt very relaxed. Just a little snooze, I thought. A few more minutes of quiet bliss to think about how life could be. --- I jerked awake to the sound of claws tapping on the car window. Through the foggy glass, I recognized the upright ears and grizzled muzzle of Police Chief Curnow. A faint snore and a warm scent reminded me that his wife was still beside me in my car. I'd meant to send Jennifer back to her house long before he was due home, but, like an amateur, I'd fallen asleep. I mean, sure, she'd been in danger, and maybe she was just waiting in my car for him to get home. Maybe we'd just been having polite conversation. And maybe the Chief didn't have an excellent nose, or a brain, and maybe I could get away with it. Maybe dancing pigs in fishnets would also fly past. "Chief..." I said as I rolled down the window. I saw him visibly stiffen. To my credit, I didn't try to make lame excuses. To his credit, he didn't punch me in the face. I heard Jennifer catch her breath as she came back to wakefulness and realized that her husband was looking in the window. I hurriedly climbed out of the car. The rain had stopped. "One of the Secret Eye goons came to your house earlier," I said. If in doubt, avoid the issue. Vintage Jenklin. "Fortunately, Mrs Curnow was... Not in." The chief's jaw muscles clenched like he was chewing an old boot. "So I see," he muttered. "We can't let this continue. We'll have to get a warrant tomorrow, and hope we can find something useful." I nodded. There was movement inside my car, Jennifer collecting the dinner bowl and making sure her coat was fastened. "Your wife is... very kind," I whispered. "Don't be too hard on her. I led her on. Any blame is on me." Curnow's eyes were hard. "You're damn right about that," he growled. It didn't seem like there was much to say after that. Jennifer gave me a nod and a little hint of a smile before she turned away into the night, and I was hit by a pang of loss like a knife in my guts. I wished the chief had hit me - it would have been less painful. I climbed into the car and drove off. There was no time to be a sentimental fool, after all. A shower and a good measure of Scotch would certainly help once I got back to my apartment - that was my usual strategy. But when I had locked the door and sat down on the couch, I realized that the place was empty and quiet, kinda like a tomb. I thought I was OK, but now little flickers of terror were pressing into the corners of my mind again, like birds pecking at the window. If they managed to break in, I feared that I would collapse into a mindless panic again. They would find me wandering the streets muttering gibberish, just another sad crazy lost to the city's dark alleys. I poured a generous glass of scotch and drained it. It pushed the panic back just a little, but it was a poor solution, and only temporary. I knew what I had to do. I had to go back. --- I already knew how to jimmy the door and slip into the Secret Eye headquarters through the back alley. But now it was night, and my mind conjured creeping horrors out of every shadow. I almost turned around and ran screaming back into the alley. I forced myself to move on. I wasn't going to wait around for a search warrant that we probably wouldn't get anyway. The Secret Eye had friends - the kind of friends who could make unwanted prying by pesky cops more difficult than getting a busking permit at city hall after you accidentally dropped your sousaphone on the clerk’s foot. It was time to ignore protocol. At least, that's what I told myself. But the whole Secret Eye building had become a swirling pit of screams and glowing red eyes in my tortured memory. So maybe I needed to find something mundane, some evidence of good old-fashioned crime, for the sake of my sanity. One solid memory persisted through the fog and whispers: a concrete staircase leading up from the lower hallway. It had the smell of dusty paper clinging to it, the smell of files and ledgers, so that seemed like a good place to start. Terror gripped me again, but the sight of the stairs at the end of the hall steadied me. At least they were real. I crept past the shadows, ignoring the tentacles which writhed just out of sight, and climbed up. Sure enough, the stairs led to a suite of offices on the upper floor. Here everything looked drab compared to the exotic decor below. The voiceless screams faded a bit as I contemplated a promising filing cabinet and a shelf piled with folders. I still pretended that I was looking for some kind of evidence, until I head the distinctive click of a gun being cocked from behind me. Of course they knew that I'd have to come back eventually, and deep down, I knew that they knew, and we all knew how it would go down, and here we were. Nice one, Jenklin, always a sucker for punishment. I put my paws up and turned around, real slow, just so they knew how much I knew. Now I don't have anything against mastiffs. Hell, they are pretty sexy in a chunky kind of way. But Pinstripe's smirk was starting to get on my nerves, and it might have had a satisfying appointment with my fist if not for that gun. A dog can dream, though. "Well well. You're made of some sturdy stuff, Jenklin, I'll give you that. Or maybe you're just stupid." "I left my coat here. Have you seen it?" It wasn't my best comeback, but it had been a long day. The big mastiff gestured towards the stairs with his gun. "You know," he said, as if commenting on the weather, "I could just shoot you right now. But that would be no fun, and I'd have to clean up the mess. So get moving, and don't tempt me by trying anything." He seemed pretty serious, but on the bright side, genuine danger had displaced my formless terror. Nothing like a bit of good old thuggery to clear the head, I always say. I retraced my steps back down to the lower hall, with Pinstripe staying just out of reach behind me, the gun held steady in his large paw. Soon we were back in the familiar ceremonial room with its fake marble walls and occult symbols. I knew the whole thing was a sham, but still the fear clawed at me like a drunkard who thinks he's falling off a wharf. At least it distracted me from the more obvious fact that Pinstripe meant to kill me properly this time. But he also wanted to play with me, like a cat with a sleep deprived Anatolian mouse. It bought me some time to think, although that didn't seem to be much help. "Sit", he growled, pointing the gun towards the ornate but sturdy wooden chair in the middle of the room. When I obliged, he held the gun steady, pointed at my face, while he fastened the straps around my wrists with the other hand. I thought maybe he'd be distracted by this little task, and glance down just long enough for me to slug him before he could pull the trigger. But the big mastiff must have had plenty of practice; he fastened the ties by feel while he watched me like a vulture watching a dying man in the desert. It was probably for the best. Given the shaky state of my fist at that point, in conjunction with the significant size of his head, the move would probably have worked out about as well as punching the wall. "Now we are prepared for the ceremony," he announced. "You thought that you knew fear before, but that was nothing. With the coming of our master Ba'al, you will know true terror, and then you will beg for a quick death!" The little speech sounded as authentic as a five dollar Rolex, coming as it was from a gangster thug in a cheap suit. "You can skip the theatrics," I grumbled, still trying to think of a way out. The mastiff just sneered at me as he reached into a hidden alcove and pulled out a tray with a familiar syringe. I felt my skin crawl at the sight of it. He left the tray in readiness beside the chair while he reached into the alcove again and made some adjustments to the control panel hidden there. The light dimmed to a red twilight, and wisps of fog seeped out from the corners of the room. Faint whispers and distant moans issued from the hidden speakers. I told myself that none of it was real, but still my heart pounded in my chest as panic swirled around me. The mastiff turned to face the far wall, where the outline of the horned skull leered down at us. He raised his arms in homage and began to recite an incantation. "Karam ahmey urrok Ba'al! Naran ahmey ahmoy Ba'al! Ba'al tush taruk karam!" He finished with a flourish. I wondered whether the smoke maker had gone wrong, because the mastiff was becoming indistinct even though he was only ten feet away, and the far side of the room was lost in the fog. The whole thing would have been hilarious, except for the feeling of dread which washed over me, threatening to remove whatever thin vestiges of sanity I had left. Pinstripe was still smirking at me through the swirling mist, savoring my obvious fear. But then a new sound began, faintly at first, but growing in volume. It was the deep, slow breathing of some ravenous monster and it seemed to come from all around. At the same time, I caught the acrid stench of sulfur along with the stale reek of an ancient tomb. Through my rising fear, I had the mundane thought that the Secret Eye had installed some truly impressive special effects. But when I glanced at the mastiff, he had half-turned back towards the idol with a look of puzzlement which was quickly turning into abject fear. "What the hell?" I heard him mutter, then he vanished into the swirling wall of gray fog. The sound of monstrous breathing still echoed around the room. I felt like I was teetering on the threshold of some unholy portal. Get a grip, Jenk. He hadn't even injected me with the hallucinogen yet. "No! Noooo!" Terrified cries sounded though the fog. If only I could see something! "Just turn it off!" I shouted, clinging like a drowning man to the belief that the show was just smoke and mirrors. Then the fog thinned for a moment, and Pinstripe lurched forward, his face twisted with fear. He tell against the chair and clutched at my leg. The gun clattered to the floor. I got the impression that things weren't going to plan. "Turn it off!", I yelled again. He peered into the murk, then his wild eyes turned back to me. His voice was a harsh whisper. "It's not me!" He grabbed my arm. "I didn't mean to... It wasn't supposed to be... To be real... You've got to save me!" "Pull yourself together!" I yelled, but he was already dissolving into panic. He turned to stare back into the mist, muttering to himself. The sound of breathing grew louder. Then Pinstripe screamed. Something dark and sinewy coiled and writhed in the fog, but I couldn't make it out. The mastiff's hand tore at my arm and then he vanished into the gloom. He screamed again, and the scream ended in a chilling gurgle, the sort of sound that you know is going to need a lot of whiskey to erase from your mind. The breathing sounds faded in a sort of guttural sigh, and I thought I heard faint laughter. Suddenly the light grew brighter, and the fog dispersed. Pinstripe was nowhere to be seen, but a livid red stain suggested that a body had been dragged across the floor to a spot directly below the horned idol. The eyes of the carving were still glowing with a faint red light, which faded as I watched. I sat and stared for a moment, like a stunned fish tied to a deer caught in a particularly bright headlight. My dazed state was shattered when the curtains on either side of the idol burst into flames. Black smoke coiled upward and spread across the ceiling, and it was definitely not a special effect. Getting the hell out of there took on a lot more urgency. Pinstripe had done me one last favor. His clawing fingers had torn open the buckle which held my wrist to the chair. I was able to yank the arm free, and then quickly free the other arm. The flames seemed to be fueled by some unholy accelerant, and a fierce heat was already singeing my fur by the time I had fumbled the door open and staggered down the hall. I couldn't even tell whether the garbled screams were coming from the speakers, or my own tortured imagination, or a portal to some demon realm. The fire escape door crashed open, and I was back in the alleyway. The stench of car exhaust and stale booze from the city had never smelled so good. By the time I looked back, a dense pall of smoke had filled the hallway, and flames licked at the stairs to the upper floor. I wondered whether Madame Seraphine had made it out. One thing I was sure of: The pinstripe mastiff wouldn't be seen again on this earthly plain. I shuddered with residual dread, not quite able to process what I'd seen without a strong drink or two. The wail of sirens pulled me roughly from my dazed stupor. I really didn't feel like explaining why I was loitering outside a burning building without any kind of warrant. Not after the day I'd had. I turned up my coat collar and skulked off into the night. --- FIRE DESTROYS MIDTOWN BUILDING - ONE MISSING The headline made the whole thing seem as bland as a police station cafeteria dinner. Probably caused by an electrical fault, etc. I shuddered as memories of panic nibbled at the edges of my mind. Maybe the special effects machinery had just gone haywire, and it was just a normal fire, and my overstimulated imagination had seen things which weren't there. Maybe. I sure hoped so, because the alternative was not the sort of place I wanted to visit. The chief dropped the paper on his desk and scowled at me. "Well I guess that solves the Secret Eye problem," he growled. "It appears there were no witnesses and no evidence of arson. I won't even ask." "You wouldn't believe me anyway." It was a win, of a sort, but I wasn't sure what the long-term cost might be. Chief Curnow was still scowling at me, and I saw his muscles clench like he was thinking some more about punching me. And I suppose I deserved it. Thoughts of Jennifer kept intruding. I'd betrayed a trust, and things would be mighty awkward around the office after that. Curnow was apparently thinking the same. "They need a detective up at Harbourtown." His voice was carefully neutral. "I have the transfer forms here." He leaned back in his chair, and gave me a long cold stare before continuing. "I strongly suggest that you sign them." "No need, chief," I said, dropping my badge on the desk. My throat was suddenly tight, like I swallowed a bug. "I've been thinking about going freelance, anyway." So that was it, I thought, Bye Jenklin, and not even a farewell party. Still, it wasn't all bad. It was time for a change. Maybe I could achieve more from outside the system than inside. Yeah, sure, and maybe the faucets would dispense champagne instead of rusty water. Still, a dog can dream.