by Nick Trout
“Uh-huh,” says Amy, as though everyone has at one time or another.
“Well, Greer told me he woke up because Toby did not bark.”
“How could the dog bark if he was poisoned?”
She has a point. Why am I getting hung up on this stupid failure-to-bark thing? Because, like Lewis said, I may not have been blessed with a sixth sense but there may be an advantage to seeing cases from a different perspective. For the past fourteen years, when some small detail niggled me, the least it deserved was consideration, even if I wasn’t smart enough to know where it fit in.
“Do you have to be somewhere?”
She checks her watch. It’s nearly eleven.
“I need to pick up a prescription for my grandpa. And I’m working the lunch shift. But I’m okay for a while, why?”
Once again I am making excuses to keep this woman around, hoping that eventually I might say the right thing. “Mr. Greer and your friend the Chief—”
“The Chief’s not my friend. We happened to go to the same high school, but, given our age difference, I was probably in kindergarten when he was a freshman.”
“My apologies. Mr. Greer and … what … your … vague acquaintance”—Amy gives me an approving nod—“Chief Devito, seem bent on blaming Toby’s illness on Sam because Sam vented about silencing the dog once and for all with rat bait.”
Amy looks confused. “When?”
“My first night at the diner.”
“That’s awful.”
“I’m pretty sure it was an empty threat. But, given what’s happened, I’d like to have proof. I wonder … no … you’ve got stuff to do, I can do it.”
“What?”
I meet her eyes and find a genuine desire to help. “I think Toby’s doing better. I want to prioritize Clint, but I’d hate for Mr. Greer to do something he might regret. If I take another view of Clint’s chest and two more views of her abdomen is there any chance you could look something up for me?”
Amy purses her lips, like she’s puckering up for a kiss. “You’re worried about another awkward moment in the darkroom?”
I don’t do witty comebacks.
“Sure,” she says. “Point me in the right direction.”
Knowing it will take a while to set up the new Wi-Fi on my laptop, I lead her over to the cabinet housing the textbooks and select a few on general and emergency medicine. “I’d look under ‘rodenticide poisoning’ in the …”
She turns me to stone with a look that says, I think I know how to use an index.
“You know where to find me,” I say, chastened.
Fifteen minutes later, having placed Clint in a nest of freshly laundered towels in the run next to Toby, I begin reviewing her new X-rays. It’s rare for me to study these cryptic images of disease. Why bother when you can touch and feel the real thing? Hard as I try, squinting, imagining, willing something to leap out of the shades of gray, I still cannot define the cause of Clint’s malaise.
“This might help.”
I join Amy where she has laid out three thick books.
“A few of Toby’s signs do seem to fit for rat poison. But according to this, he should be much sicker by now.”
I inch closer, careful not to make physical contact, my eyes darting over the text, sucking down visible information.
“It’s hard to remember all these details, you know.”
“Sure it is.” She doesn’t sound convinced.
I run my fingers down a list of differential diagnoses, other toxins that could be mistaken for rat bait poisoning. And then my finger stops. There, to my surprise, is the answer to why Toby had not barked.
“We need to make Toby vomit,” I say sounding ridiculously frantic.
Amy looks confused. “Okay. How do you want to do it?”
Suddenly I have no idea except the certainty that I should. No excuses for not knowing this one and no way to look it up in a textbook with her standing beside me.
“You want to try a little hydrogen peroxide solution?” she asks.
Is this a trap?
“Of course, I just don’t know where Doc Cobb kept it.”
If she suspects my flawed knowledge of the practical aspects of the job I can’t read it in her face as she begins opening cabinets and drawers. And it doesn’t help that she finds it before me.
“You got a syringe?”
I head through the back door to the examination room and return with the biggest one I can find.
“Come on, Toby’s a terrier not a Great Dane.”
Damn, I knew I shouldn’t have invited her back here. I say nothing. Use your brain, Cyrus. If the biggest is appropriate for a Dane, then a tiny 3-cc syringe should be about right for a terrier. I go back, grab one, and hand it over. Amy approves and, with confident dexterity, loads it with a small volume of the peroxide solution.
“Here you go.” About to give me the syringe, she snatches it back. “You going to tell me why you want to make him throw up?”
“Not yet,” I say, taking the syringe as we round on Toby. My attempt to get near his head is greeted with what, for Toby, are tepid, mouthy lunges at my hands.
“Here, let me,” says Amy, kneeling down, soothing Satan’s sidekick as, with an unnerving ease and a magician’s sleight of hand, she has the contents of the syringe unloaded into his lip folds and down his gullet. “Grew up with dogs. Help me up?”
I reach down, grab her hand, pull her to her feet, but she refuses to loosen her grip, inspecting my wrists, my forearm, and finally the front and back of my hand.
“Don’t tell me you read palms?” I ask.
“If I did I’d never guess you were a veterinarian.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Because your hands are wrong. When did you graduate?”
“Fourteen years ago.”
“Plenty of time.”
“Plenty of time for what?”
“Plenty of time to get bitten, to get scratched. There’s not a scar, not a blemish, not a mark anywhere on your hands or forearms. How can that be, working with animals for fourteen years?”
For a moment, I feel like I have a flock of hummingbirds trapped inside my rib cage. I can’t read her features. Disparaging? No, I don’t think so. Perhaps I should keep my mouth shut, but there is something about this woman that makes me want to stop running from the past, stop living this facade. “Dead dogs don’t bite or scratch.”
“I don’t follow.”
“I’m saying that before I came back to Bedside Manor the only animals I’ve ever worked on have been dead. Yes, I graduated vet school, I’m a qualified veterinarian, but I trained to be a veterinary pathologist not a general practitioner. As you can tell I skipped the lecture on how to make a corpse puke.”
I brace for an acerbic comeback, but Amy surprises me with a look that feels more lenient than judgmental, a look that encourages me to go on. Relief and the weightlessness of a secret shared suffuse me. “It was my mother’s fault. She was a perfectionist, and back here in this house she haunts me. I mean that in a good way. Even if I’m not sure what I’m doing I’m always striving for excellence. I hate not knowing enough, not being practical enough. Ruth Mills taught me never to do mediocre.”
“And what did your father teach you?”
I am open, ready to vent, but I hold back. “Indirectly, he taught me it was dangerous to get too attached, to care too much.”
She tips her head back, narrows those brown and blue eyes, and with just enough humor to give me hope says, “Really? And how’s that working for you?”
And that’s when Toby comes to my rescue.
“What the …”
“Chewed macadamia nuts,” I say, squatting down to examine a large pool of vomit at my feet. “They’re poisonous to dogs. I noticed them on the list of poisons causing clinical signs similar to rat bait poisoning. Last night, I was over at Greer’s house being interviewed about delivering Denise’s baby, and he had a big bowl of macadamias sitting
out on a coffee table. Now it makes sense. Toby barks every morning because he wants his breakfast.”
Amy smiles, catching up.
“And Toby doesn’t bark if he’s already eaten his breakfast. I like it.”
“Exactly.”
“That’s brilliant.”
“Not really.”
“No, it is,” she says with a sassy smile, “for someone pretending to be a veterinarian.”
And that’s when Lewis charges into the center of the room and, nearly stepping into the puddle of vomit, cries out, “Tell me that’s from the dog and not one of you two.”
“And that’s when you walked in,” I say, joining Lewis on the floor. I insisted he give me a second opinion by examining Clint. It’s time for him to share some of my guilt for not discovering what’s wrong with the poor dog.
“I’m pleased you’ve found someone you can open up to,” he says, lifting up a lip, pressing his thumb into Clint’s upper gum, releasing his thumb, watching as the tissue blanches white and blushes pink.
I wonder if he feels slighted, like I chose Amy over him.
“When’s she coming back?”
“Around three,” I say. “You think I should have kept quiet?”
Lewis places his fingers on Clint’s lower jaw, gently pries open her mouth, and takes a good look at the back of her throat.
“Did you mention the license?”
“Course not,” I say, though part of me wishes I’d got that off my chest as well.
“Good. If she’s any relative of Harry Carp she’s not going to say anything. Like I said, I’m glad to see you let your guard down. You should do it more often. Folks prefer someone who’s flawed over someone who needs to be a perfectionist.”
“Hey, I opened a crack, if that, with one person, in private. The rest of Eden Falls can take me on face value.”
Lewis glances my way, squeezes the lymph nodes around Clint’s throat, causing her to swallow. “It’s not your fault, the way you come across.” Like an experienced chiropractor he begins to manipulate Clint’s neck, up and down, side to side, gently flex, gently extend. “Why the long face? You know exactly what I’m talking about … aloof. Like Dr. Minch only less round.”
“Please,” I say, rising to his temerity, “there’s a big difference between being antisocial and preferring my privacy.”
“It’s one thing to be private.” The old man acts casual as he slips on his stethoscope. “It’s another to be a recluse.”
“Just because I don’t see the point of inane conversation, doesn’t make me a recluse.”
“Okay, then answer me this. For the past fourteen years what have you been doing with yourself when you’re not at work?”
The fact that I need to think about the answer only adds to my frustration. “I consider myself something of a movie buff .” Saying this out loud only affirms my status as a total geek.
“Okay. What else?”
“I read.”
“Let me guess. Journals, textbooks.”
“I travel.”
“Yes, where?”
“All over. Peru. China. Egypt. Iceland.”
Lewis raises an index finger, requesting silence as he hangs on the rhythms and breezes inside Clint’s chest. He removes the earbuds and slings the scope around his neck.
“Alone?”
“Does it matter? I choose places that interest me, places with unique and different cultures.”
“You mean places that don’t speak English? Never been tempted to take a cruise, relax at a resort?”
“What’s the point of travel if it doesn’t broaden your mind?”
“Fair enough. But, what’s the point of living if it doesn’t broaden your mind?”
With a deft and gentle touch, Lewis eases Clint into a position in which he can rummage the contents of her abdomen, feeling for any peculiarity. The cracking sounds come from Lewis’s arthritic knees and ankles.
“How about sports?”
“I run. Try to stay in shape.”
Lewis meets my eyes but keeps his hands on the move. “Running, not exactly a team sport.”
I’ve had enough of this. I get to my feet. “What are you trying to say?”
Lewis looks up at me, working that chipped incisor. “I’m trying to make you see that there’s more to life than what you left behind. Oh, I know this practice is in big trouble and I know Eden Falls is a far cry from Charleston, but deep down I also know there’s a part of you that’s finally coming alive.”
I shake my head and grapple with a smile because it still feels like the right thing to do. That’s when Clint cries out in pain.
“Easy girl, I’m sorry,” says Lewis, meeting her eyes, making sure she understands that he meant no harm. “It’s between her shoulder blades. If I press down hard like …”
Once more Clint flinches, but this time, taking no chances, she trots off to the other side of the room.
Lewis gestures for me to give him a hand up.
“What do you make of that?” I ask.
“I don’t know. I didn’t feel anything, and the X-rays look fine. But in a stoic dog like Clint I have to believe we’re on to something.”
I wipe my palms down my face. “This is so much harder than I remembered.”
Lewis interrupts the minor adjustment to his bow tie (today’s number is navy-and-white plaid) in order to squeeze my upper arm. “You know, the more you care, the harder it gets.”
I’m not impressed. “You steal that one from James Herriot?”
“No,” says Lewis. “Dr. Robert Cobb.”
I try to defy the old man’s eyes for as long as I can, but I have to look away and pull back. I’m afraid of what might happen if he hugs me. Cobb’s best friend always seems to get to me. I hate being so vulnerable. No, it’s more than that. I hate being so transparent.
“I know what you’re up to,” I say. Of course Lewis wants me to stay, wants me to believe that Bedside Manor offers a clear path forward. He’s ignoring the fact that I was fired from my last job, leaving me jaded enough to think this new grass is a whole lot greener than it really is. “And I don’t want you to think I’m not grateful for everything you’ve done for me.”
There’s an empty pause in which I should have added, and my father.
“You make it sound like I’m wasting my time?”
Though I hear the question, I say nothing, because deep down where it counts I’m not brave enough to say, no you’re not, out loud.
Suddenly Doris sweeps into the room with tornadic fury. “Sorry to interrupt, Dr. Lewis, but the nursing home called to say you need to get over there right away.”
In the split second that follows, I watch as something bends and breaks inside the funny little man with the silk bow ties and it’s like a bucket of ice being poured down my back as I realize how trivial my concerns are compared to losing the love of your life.
“And, Dr. Mills, I found another hand-delivered package on the door step.”
With some trepidation, Doris hands over an identical manila envelope with my name on the front and no address or stamp.
I take it. Lewis seems to be frozen in place. For a moment, I wonder if he registered the word another.
“Go, get out of here, Lewis,” I say. “We’ll be fine.”
It’s all he can do to nod his appreciation and shuffle off , as though, finally, seventy-three years have caught up to him.
I wait until I’m alone, an ugly blend of emotions simmering nicely and coming to the boil. I reckon you can sympathize with the fear, the dread over what new damning evidence lies in my hand. But then, sadly, there’s a jealousy, a freshly kindled reminder of the way I never got to say goodbye to the person in the world I loved the most, my mother.
I rip the package apart and inside, stapled together, are nine sheets of paper. The title page reads:
The Vermont Statutes
Title 26: Professions and Occupations
Chapter 44: VETERINARY MEDIC
INE
What should be dry, boring legalese packs a very different gut-lurching punch when a single paragraph is circled in a bold, inky ring of black.
§ 2402. Prohibition; offenses
(a) No person shall:
(1) practice or attempt to practice veterinary medicine or hold himself or herself out as being able to so in this state without first having obtained a license from the board;
Though my hands are trembling, I’m more angry than scared. My extortionist may think he or she is clever, joining the dots, seeing the bigger picture, but there’s a difference between upping the ante and crossing the line. Forget about curiosity or amusement. This offense just got an upgrade from trying nuisance to full-scale combat. This is personal, and I will not be intimidated. Though it runs contrary to every fiber of my being, it’s time to fight back.
16
Ruth Mills would have been proud of me. Standing next to the microscope where she first introduced me to the delights of cytology and histology I can still hear her mantra: The answer lies before you, Cyrus. To find it, take in the big picture with a low power lens, see the woods before the trees, survey the entire landscape before you search for your culprit’s mug shot. Keep your mind open, weigh all the possibilities, be thorough, consistent, and entirely reproducible. I may be seething and my stomach may be tied in a gnarly bowline but I’m determined to remain rational (which is not the same as cool), to heed my mother’s advice, and get to the bottom of this treachery once and for all.
Cleary some form of coercion is inevitable and must be driven by one or more of three different motives: money, revenge or, most troubling of all, cold-blooded malevolence. Based on Cobb’s beloved status in the community I’m inclined to believe the target is me rather than Bedside Manor, and so, if I follow this logic, I can come up with four individuals with reasons ranging from making me squirm to ensuring I spend time in a federal penitentiary.
The first is McCall and Rand Pharmaceuticals. What better way to throw out a wrongful dismissal lawsuit against your company than discovering the plaintiff is practicing veterinary medicine illegally out of state? Though I can’t rule this out, this kind of blackmail feels a little heavy-handed for a multibillion-dollar company.