The room hadn’t changed much. It had the same dirty, off-white walls. On the north wall was a large twenty-paned, wood-casement window. Next to it in the near corner an antique Philco refrigerator, repainted white with a coarse bristle brush, made a steady hum. A well-packed feather mattress topped an old army cot against the far wall to the west. It was made in bright white sheets and a well-used, olive drab, wool army blanket, stenciled with a big black US. The old metal writing table he’d used years ago with two ancient metal folding chairs and a single, dark-green wall locker were along the east wall.
Doc White Cloud quickly took one chair, and Parker sat on the edge of the writing table with one foot on the seat of the other chair.
No, the room hadn’t changed much. Evidently, Truong wasn’t much of a decorator. But he was obviously a neat nut. The bed had been made tight, in true military fashion, complete with turndown and hospital-fold corners. It would easily pass a drill instructor’s dime-bounce test. A pair of brown work boots along with a pair of black tennis shoes lay neatly lined up under the middle of the bed. Nothing else lay on the shiny-waxed linoleum floor. The writing table was as neat. An old black rotary-dial phone sat on top of last year’s Wichita phone book. Beside it were a yellow legal pad with a well-sharpened number two, yellow pencil on top, a neatly stacked pile of five or six Time magazines, a Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary and a hardcover Bible of some version.
“I’m really puzzled, Doc. All these violent attacks, and I don’t think it’s rabies.”
Doc nodded.
“Why are there so many of them?” Parker asked.
“Good question. Can’t just be coincidences. I don’t have any good answers for you, Tony. Maybe it’s evil spirits. I’ve been proven wrong before, but I don’t think it’s rabies, either. Of course, if it is, I suppose they’ll quarantine me. And we’ll have to bring all the animals back in that we’ve given rabies shots to over the last few days for observation.”
“I was hoping you’d be able to give me some ideas with your infinite wisdom.”
“Don’t have a clue, Tony. Believe me, I wish I did.”
Parker rose from his chair. “You want to help me bring in the dogs?”
“Sure, and after that, I’ll just give the university a call and see if they’ve got anything for us, yet.”
Parker opened the door and almost tripped over Truong, who appeared to have been sweeping the floor in front of it.
“Excuse,” Truong said and moved quickly out of the way, still sweeping with his head down.
Parker caught himself with a half step and answered, “No problem.”
Patsy followed Doc and Tony outside as Mrs. Ziebart drove out of the parking lot in a black BMW. With Patsy’s help, they took the cage and a very passive greyhound out from the back of the truck and carried it over to an out-building where the animals were boarded. They went back to the truck for the dead dog in the bag when Truong shuffled out the front door.
“Dr. White Cloud,” he called timidly, looking at the ground as he talked.
“Yes, Truong, what is it?”
“University call. Say rabies test positive, both dogs.”
Parker noticed Patsy frown before Truong had announced the test results and thought it to be curious, but forgot about it when Truong said, “positive.”
“Are you sure, Truong?” Dr. White Cloud asked in a puzzled tone of voice.
“Yes, Doctor. Both dogs positive, rabies. Send paperwork three days.”
“Well, there you go, Tony. I’m wrong again.” The old vet was noticeably upset. “Better put a closed sign on the door. No more animals in or out of this place for a while.”
“What’s the deal, Doc? They both had their rabies booster from you just in the last few days, and I’d guess they were current from before. Could it be the batch of vaccine you used?”
“Gee, vaccine-induced rabies? I wouldn’t think so, but it kind of points that way, doesn’t it? I started on a new batch the middle of last week. We’ll send it off and have it tested.”
They carried the dead greyhound in and laid it on the examination table.
“If you’ll give me all the names and addresses of Wichita clients who have had their dogs vaccinated from that batch of vaccine,” Parker said, “I’ll pay each of them personal visits and tell them to get their pets in right away. That’ll just leave you the ones in the county to call.”
“I appreciate the help. There isn’t but a couple,” Doc said, walking over to the file cabinet. “Betty Nightingale, she has three miniature poodles. Roary Rapids, six Dobermans.”
He handed Parker the files.
“Roary Rapids, the rock singer?” Parker asked.
“The same,” Doc said. He turned to Truong. “Truong, you take all the Sand Creek files and find the ones we’ve given rabies vaccinations to from the last batch. There should be only two or three. You can take them to your room and call from there.” He turned back to Parker. “The Sand Creek clients have made up the majority of my business lately with this mange stuff. We’ve been keeping all their files together. I’ll split the rest of the county up with Patsy. With all four of us on it, we’ll get everyone notified in no time.”
Parker left, thankful he and the rest if the animal-control officers had gotten the mandatory human rabies vaccinations from the health department and not from the batch Doc used. They used a little different vaccine on humans, anyway.
CHAPTER 28
Tony Parker had time to think on the way downtown, and he had a lot to think about. The state should have notified the health department by now, and the press would have the word out to the entire county within hours. With two verified cases of rabies and three possibles, one of them being on the loose and killing people, there was sure to be even more panic. This was especially so since all of the dogs had had their vaccinations recently. No dogs would be safe from scrutiny. Even more phone calls would pour in, reporting mad dogs. Most or all of them, as with the Jezebel sightings, would be false alarms.
“Dispatcher to AC One, come in, Top Dog,” the radio squawked.
“Yeah, Tyrone, go ahead,” Parker responded.
“Tony, you’d better get down to the health department director’s office right away, Alvarez sounds ticked.”
“I’m being called on the carpet?”
“Front and center, Vaseline in hand. Sounds like you’re about to get reamed.”
Parker returned the microphone to the dash without comment but clenched his teeth. He knew what was going to happen. Paul Alvarez was generally a fair and reasonable man. Normally pleasant, but always business-like, his Chicano accent was barely noticeable.
But when he got excited—when he was under the gun, the accent was thick and the fur flew.
But the welfare of the two dog owners who needed to be notified took precedence. Besides, the first was on the way.
Betty Nightingale had a cute little cottage on the river near the downtown area. She was a prominent figure in local politics and, more often than not, was mentioned in the society pages of the Wichita Post newspaper.
She answered the doorbell promptly.
“Hi, Mrs. Nightingale. My name is Tony Parker. I’m the animal control director.”
“Yes, Mr. Parker. How can I help?”
“I’d like to speak with you about your dogs, ma’am.”
“Do come in and sit down, then, Mr. Parker. Can I get you anything: iced tea, coffee, water?”
Water! Parker gagged unintentionally. He couldn’t understand why. “No thanks, ma’am.”
Mrs. Nightingale looked at him inquisitively. She turned and led him into the living room.
In her late sixties, she was still an attractive woman and stepped lively. The house smelled of age. Old and musty, yet with a Lysol cleanliness, mixed with poodle perfume. The awful concoction of smells was unusually nauseating to Parker. The three gray miniature poodles also greeted Parker in their hyper way, jumping up and barking. One of the tiny poodles ju
mped thigh high and actually nipped the side of his leg. Parker loved all animals, but there was something about annoying little poodles that put them in last place on his list— especially now.
A tremendous heat, like a ravaging forest fire, consumed his body and the wound on his neck, although healing nicely, began to burn and itch. His joints stiffened and ached. He rubbed his neck and wondered if it might be the flu virus—or maybe rabies flu.
Parker felt a sharp pain like a needle prick in his upper thigh and realized the high jumper nipped his leg again.
He looked down at it wild eyed. It looked back with head cocked. With Mrs. Nightingale’s back still turned, Parker stuck the toe of his shoe under the midsection of the feisty thing and boosted it up like a soccer ball. He caught himself thinking of slapping it against the wall and thought better of it.
The dog gave a surprised yelp, which made its master turn around quickly. Parker snatched the startled dog from midair and cradled it in his arm. He stroked the feisty creature with his other hand.
“Love your dogs,” Parker said with an overdone smile. He stroked the dog twice more, and then set it on the floor like it was a basket of thin-shelled bald-eagle eggs.
“And what can I do for you today, Mr. Parker?” she asked pleasantly as they sat in the living room.
“I’m afraid I have a little bit of bad news, ma’am. It seems there’s been an outbreak of rabies in the city affecting recently vaccinated dogs. In particular, dogs recently vaccinated at Dr. Johnny White Cloud’s clinic. It may just be a coincidence, but we’re investigating the problem now and feel we need to take every precaution until we’re sure of the cause.” Parker began to feel lightheaded. The room turned slowly. The fever inside his body intensified, and sweat broke out on his brow.
“Oh, my word!” she said, holding her chest. She looked at her still fidgeting dogs. “What does this mean for me, Mr. Parker?”
“Well, I’m afraid . . . ,” Parker began, but then forgot what he’d been saying. After a pause, he shook his head and started again. “ . . . I’m afraid—you’ll have to take your dogs in to Dr. White Cloud’s clinic to be quarantined, right away.”
“Oh, dear, will they be safe there?” Mrs. Nightingale asked apparently unaware of Parker’s worsening condition.
“I think—lot safer than here, ma’am,” Parker said, standing up. He stumbled slightly but caught himself on the back of the chair. Mrs. Nightingale seemed too involved with the thought of her precious dogs contracting rabies to notice him. Parker was glad. He knew he was okay. Probably just that damned flu bug. He’d go see a doctor, later, after this mess was over. He walked to the door.
Mrs. Nightingale stood holding the doorknob, noticeably shaken, as Parker stepped out the doorway. “If that’s what must be done,” she said as her phone rang. “Thank you, Mr. Parker. Excuse me, won’t you?”
Parker nodded and turned away to walk back to the truck, noticing Mrs. Nightingale had left the door open slightly. He was just glad to get outside in the fresh air. He took a couple of deep breaths and began to feel much better.
*-*-*
“Hello. . . . Yes, I remember you. . . . He just left. . . . Oh . . . ? That’s silly. You’re not serious…. Well, all right,” she said as she held the phone down low to the floor. “Come here, girls. Come on.”
The dogs neared the phone. Mrs. Nightingale watched through the living room window as Parker drove away.
*-*-*
Parker called into the dispatcher’s office and asked Tyrone to call Roary Rapids, since he lived on the other side of town. He’d hoped to find out if Rapids was home and then alert him about his dogs. If he was there, he’d go over and explain more. If he wasn’t home, it would make little sense to drive across town for nothing. There was no answer. Parker asked Tyrone to keep trying while he ran down to the health department. Things were sure to be buzzing there, and he did have an ass chewing to get over with.
A thin, frail woman met Parker at the counter of the health department.
“Hi, Mr. Parker, what can we do for you?” she asked, smiling.
“Hi, Gladys, I’m here to see Mr. Alvarez.”
Her smile faded. “Did you have an appointment? He seems very irritated this morning. You might be better off coming back another
time.”
“No, he asked to see me. I’m the reason he’s irritated.”
“Have a seat. I’ll tell him you’re here,” Gladys said. She pushed a button on her phone and leaned to it. “Mr. Alvarez, Tony Parker is here.”
“Tell him to wait,” the speaker barked. Even in the short command, his accent was obvious, the words loud and stern.
Parker knew there would be trouble. He sat on the edge of a black vinyl chair with his elbows on his knees and hands clasped, contemplating his defense.
“Has K-State contacted you about the positive results on the dog rabies tests, yet?” he asked Gladys.
“We haven’t heard anything of any dog rabies tests in weeks.”
“That’s odd, under the circumstances, I’d have thought they’d notify you first thing.”
“The last positive rabies test we’ve had was a week ago. It was fox, out in the county. A few days before, we had three cases of bovine rabies on a farm near Whitewater. Does this have anything to do with that Jezebel deal?”
“Yeah, they told Dr. White Cloud over an hour ago.”
Parker’s lightheaded feeling returned but only spun his head for a moment. It made him think of the skunk. It made him think of rabies. Normally, it takes at least five days and sometimes as much as several months—normally. He had been bitten on Friday. Parker counted on his fingers: Friday to Saturday, one; Sunday, two; Monday, three; today; four. It would be sooner than usual to start developing symptoms. Besides, that was nonsense. He just had a touch of a nasty old flu bug, helped along by all the recent excitement. He wasn’t concerned. He wasn’t really worried. But he asked Gladys about the skunk anyway.
“Hmm,” Gladys answered, looking onto a page of a green ledger book, “no—no, I don’t show the animal control office sent in a skunk on Friday. It says here, they sent one in Monday, yesterday. It’ll probably be Thursday before we hear anything on that one. They kind of take their time on the general rabies tests in favor of the ones marked human exposure. Those we hear back on the same day sometimes.”
Parker remembered that he had thought about telling his people to tag the head of the skunk with “human exposure” but decided not to. It wasn’t really necessary. No big rush. He’d been vaccinated. But they hadn’t sent it in on Friday. They sent it in on Monday, and, now, it would be Thursday before it was tested. He could call them and rush it along, but no, that wasn’t necessary. After all, he had been vaccinated and had a high rabies antibody count. No big deal.
A woman working at a desk a few feet away had overheard their discussion and picked up a ringing telephone. She raised her pencil and waved it as she listened on the phone. She cupped her hand over the handset and looked at Parker. “It’s a doctor from the K-State lab in Manhattan. He says we have two confirmed cases of dog rabies and the vet, Dr. Johnny White Cloud, has been notified. We’ll get the paperwork within three days.” She put the phone back to her mouth and said, “Okay, thank you.”
“Wait a minute,” Parker blurted and stood up.
Too late. The woman at the desk had hung up the phone. “I’m sorry, do you want me to call them back?”
“No, that’s all right. I was just going to ask them if they were sure.”
Parker sat back down slowly and began to twiddle his fingers. He was anxious to get this over with. He looked at the big, round clock on the wall. It was already ten thirty, and there was so much to be done. He glanced at the coffee table and saw the typical waiting-room magazines. He didn’t care to read them. Across the room at the counter were several different pamphlets addressing health issues, like: “What Every Mother Should Know About Breast Feeding,” “AIDS and Safe Sex,” “The Flu and
the Elderly.” One brochure caught his eye, and he smirked, “RABIES: What to do in an Emergency”.
Wonder if it covers getting your ass chewed?
CHAPTER 29
Not far down the street from Mrs. Nightingale’s house was an old run down shack. A rusty, fifty-year-old Frigidaire leaned forward on the rotting wooden deck of the front porch. The wood-framed screen door had a gaping hole big enough for a rabbit to run through. Inside, an elderly couple, Calvin and Jane Tibbs, sat at their kitchen table, drinking coffee while watching a game show on TV.
“Put your hands higher up on the putter. That’s no way to address the ball,” Calvin Tibbs said, his pop-bottle-bottom-thick glasses on the end of his nose.
“Shhhhh, I can’t hear Bob Barker when you raise your voice like that,” Jane Tibbs said pawing the air at him.
The old woman caught a glimpse of something gray running across the living room. She watched for a second and then saw another furry gray blur run through the screen door and somewhere into the house. Her mouth dropped. The old man was still too involved in the show to notice. Another blur popped through the screen and into the living room.
“Sakes alive, what was that?” she said, standing up at the table and into the old man’s line of sight.
“Move, old woman, she’s putting for the little pickup truck,” he said.
“Screw the truck! There’s some damn thing running around in the living room. I told you to fix that screen,” Jane Tibbs said, grabbing a nearby broom.
“Oh, hell. It’s just your eyes. Maybe another damned mouse. Now sit down, or you’ll make me miss her putt.”
Suddenly, one of the miniature poodles charged, snarling at the old woman. She sent it sprawling back into the living room, handling the broom as if it were a hockey stick and the dog a puck.
“Jiminee Crickets!” the old man exclaimed. “That damn thing was big, and it growled, too.”
“Well, don’t just sit there on your dead ass. Help me. There’s more of ‘em.”
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