Panicked, much less certain now of what it should be doing, it swung to face the hallway up here, looking for a place to hide. It scurried. But at least the place was dark up here. At least its eyes no longer hurt.
SIX
"You've got to help me."
The medical examiner blinked at the shirtless man. The television news was droning.
"I don't-"
"Hey, you didn't give me any choice. I didn't mean to hit you that hard."
The afternoon came back to him. His head hurt when he moved it, and his lips and nose felt like they belonged to someone else. When he touched them, they were senseless, swollen, but he felt the blood, and he was groaning.
"Look. My dog. You've got to help me," the man said.
"What's the matter?"
"She's not moving. She just lies there, staring at me."
"Jesus, stay away from her."
"I am. My Christ, if only I had listened. Can I get it if she licked me?"
The medical examiner struggled to sit up. "When?"
"This morning. She was acting fine then."
"Wash your hands! I hope you didn't touch your mouth. You don't have any cuts she might have licked?"
"I can't remember."
"What?"
"I don't have any cuts. I can't remember if I touched my mouth."
"I told you, wash your hands." The effort of the conversation made him dizzy. He slumped back. "Use disinfectant. Mouthwash. Gargle. Change your clothes." He gripped the sofa to brace himself and stand. He fell back. Then he took a breath and made it to his feet. The blood was all across his tie and shirt. He started feeling angry, and that helped him. "Hurry up. Wash your hands." Then suddenly he thought about the hand that had split his lip and smashed his nose. He bolted down the hallway, shoving past the man who was going into the bathroom. "Get away. I've got to wash my face."
The medical examiner soaped his hands and scrubbed his face, scrubbed it until it hurt, and still he continued scrubbing. He peered at the blood that mingled with the soap upon his hands and dripped down toward the swirling water in the sink. He continued scrubbing. Then he grabbed a towel and scoured his face until the porous cloth was bloody.
"Rubbing alcohol!" he ordered, fumbling in the cabinet behind the mirror, but he couldn't find it. "Alcohol!" he shouted, and the man jerked open the door below the sink. They saw the bottle at the same time, and the medical examiner grabbed it, twisting off the cap, and splashing his nose, his lips. But he needed more. He leaned his face down sideways toward the sink. He poured. The hot sweet alcohol was flooding, burning. He snorted. Then the effort took its toll, and he sank onto his knees.
"My God, you're just as crazy as that dog out there," the man said.
"You don't know the half of it. Just wash your hands and face and gargle like I told you."
He slowly came to his feet. The man was at the sink, swabbing soap around his hands. The medical examiner cringed. Lord, I might need shots. Then he stumbled from the bathroom, down the hallway toward the kitchen. Out there, through the window, he saw the dog stretched out, the blood and foam around her mouth, slack-jawed, staring off at nothing.
That was all he needed. He groped from the kitchen toward the phone.
He had to concentrate to dial. The phone kept ringing on the other end. At last, an answering machine told him to leave a message. What's the matter with them? Saturday. He peered down at his watch. Of course. They're only open in the morning. They won't be there this late. He was flipping through the phone book. Vets. Vets. And then he had it, dialing.
This time someone answered. A woman.
"Dr. Owens," he blurted.
"Who's calling, please?"
"The medical examiner."
"I'm sorry. He's not in right now. Give me your number. He'll call you back."
The medical examiner felt his heartbeat stop.
"No, wait a second," she said. "He's just coming in the door."
Muffled voices. Bumps and echoes as the phone was being transferred.
"Dr. Owens here."
The medical examiner identified himself. "There's a dog I think has rabies."
The vet didn't speak for a moment. "Rabies? You're certain."
"No. I told you I just think that's what it is. The dog has got some kind of collar that sends shocks to stop her from barking. Hell, this could be heat exhaustion or distemper. I don't know. You'd better get over here."
"Don't touch her."
"Hey, don't worry."
"Slaughter called and said this might turn up. I hope it hasn't."
"Well, we'll know damn sure in a little while." The medical examiner saw the man come down the hallway. He asked for the address. Then he quickly told Owens, and he hung up, and the two men tried to keep their eyes away from one another. "Turn that television off."
"-Fifteen other steers have been discovered, disemboweled the same way. Local ranchers still are baffled, " the announcer finished saying.
"No. I changed my mind. I want to hear this." "Weatherwise, the weekend has been-"
"Turn it off."
The man went over, pressed a button, and the screen became blank, mercifully silent. The man shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "I don't know how to make this up to you. You want a beer?"
"I'd like a couple, but I can't right now." The medical examiner stared at his trembling hands.
"I didn't mean to hit you that hard. Hey, I'm really sorry."
"Just forget it."
They waited.
Thirteen minutes later, the van pulled up in front. It was white and dusty. animal associates, the red words said along the side. A young man got out, tall and trim. As the medical examiner hurried from the house toward the sunset-tinted street, the man yanked at the back doors of the van and leaned in to get something.
"You're the medical examiner?" the man asked, puzzled by the blood on his shirt.
"That's right."
"I'm sorry I took so long. I had to go down to the clinic for this van. I don't like taking chances."
He pulled out padded overalls, stepping into the legs, then tugging on the arms and drawing up the zipper. "Has it bitten anyone?"
"It licked its owner."
"I don't like that. What about your face?"
"The owner hit me."
"Broke your lip there?"
The medical examiner nodded.
"I don't like that either. Help me with this gear."
The vet brought out a padded helmet, its leather edges coming down around his shoulders. In the front, a wire grill kept the face protected, and the medical examiner helped the vet put on padded gloves.
"Tour name's Owens?"
"That's right. Help me with these shoe protectors. Where's the dog?"
"In the back."
"Well, let's get to it."
Owens grabbed his satchel, almost like a doctor's. As they turned, the medical examiner looked up to see the shirtless man on the porch.
"That's the owner?" Owens kept walking.
"If you want to call him that."
The man stepped off the porch. "Look, I had no way of understanding."
"Never mind that. Show me where the dog is." They reached a gate along the side, and Owens told them, "On second thought, you'd better not go in there." He shut the gate behind him, walking down along the side of the house.
"It's on a chain," the medical examiner said.
Owens peered around the corner. Then he straightened, walking slowly out of sight.
The medical examiner and the dog's owner frowned at one another. Without speaking, they crossed to the next yard and walked along the fence.
The medical examiner kept staring toward the corner of the house. He saw the backyard getting bigger as his line of sight improved, and then he saw a shadow. Then he stopped as he saw Owens standing by the dog. But he couldn't see the dog too well, and so he walked a few more feet, and he was gazing at the slack-jawed, bloody, froth-edged mouth, the blinking
eyes, the heaving withers. 'Jesus."
"What are you guys doing?"
The gruff voice came from behind them, and the medical examiner turned to see a man in tennis clothes come out the back door, staring at them.
"Get your face back in the house," the owner of the dog said. "You're the cause of this."
"I beg your pardon?"
"This man's dog is sick," the medical examiner explained.
"Yes, I know it is. The damned thing won't stop barking."
The owner of the dog started toward his neighbor.
The medical examiner hurried to stop him. "Don't be foolish. You've got trouble as it is."
Behind them, he heard Owens saying, "What a mess," and they turned. "Whose idea was this collar anyhow?"
"The neighbors kept complaining."
"Hell, I ought to see you jailed for this." Owens set his bag down, reaching in to get a hypodermic, leaning close, preparing to slip the needle into the dog.
The dog bit his padded wrist, and Owens squirmed. "Take it easy, girl. What's the dog's name?"
"Irish."
"Take it easy, Irish."
But the dog kept its teeth clamped onto the padded wrist, and Owens had to slip the needle in with one hand while he squirmed to free the other.
Still, the dog would not release the wrist. Owens had to crouch there, waiting. In a minute, though, he tugged his wrist free, standing, watching as the dog's head settled onto the ground, its eyes closed, motionless.
"Christ, you killed her."
"Just as well as far as I'm concerned," the neighbor said on the steps behind them.
The owner of the dog again started toward him.
"I didn't kill her," Owens said, "although I'll likely have to."
The owner didn't know which man to turn to. "Is it rabies?"
"Rabies? What the hell?" the neighbor said on the steps behind them.
"I don't know yet," Owens said. "I'll need to get the dog to the clinic and run some tests." He pointed toward the bowls of food and water by the back door. "This dog's chain is too short. She couldn't reach her water. She could just be vicious from the heat. What the hell is wrong with you?"
No one spoke then, only stared at where the owner looked around, then glanced down at the grass. "I thought the bowls were close enough. I guess I wasn't thinking. I've had problems."
"Sure, his wife moved out last week," the neighbor said. "She couldn't stand him."
The owner suddenly began to sob. When the medical examiner avoided looking at him, he saw Owens fumbling with his thick gloves to release the chain hooked to the collar. Owens tugged to free the chain from where the dog was tangled in it. Twisting, pushing at the dog, he had the chain at last unhooked. Then he peered down at the mangled back leg, shook his head, and stooped to pick the dog up.
Still the medical examiner could hear the owner sobbing. "Let's get you inside. You've had a lot of things go wrong today."
He tried to ease the owner along the fence. The owner shoved his hand away and stared as Owens straightened with the dog.
The dog was large and heavy. Owens stumbled with the weight. The owner hurried along the fence and opened the gate to let him through.
The medical examiner frowned at the neighbor.
"Well, I didn't mean to make him cry," the neighbor said. "How was I to know?"
The medical examiner gestured with contempt, walking away.
"At least, the dog quit barking," the neighbor said.
Furious, the medical examiner kept walking. He joined Owens and the dog's owner at the van, where the owner obeyed instructions and stepped inside to spread a plastic sheet on the floor of a cage. Then he got out, and Owens set the dog in, making sure to lock the cage.
The owner wiped at his tears.
"I'll handle it from here. You'd better go back in the house," Owens said.
"I'm coming with you."
"No, I've got a lot of tests to run. I'll phone you," Owens said. 'You'd be in the way."
"I promise."
"Sorry." Owens glanced at the medical examiner, then started walking toward the backyard. "I left my bag behind the house."
As Owens disappeared, the medical examiner told the owner, "Well, you heard him."
"This is my dog. I'm responsible."
"You should have thought of that before." And then, "I'm sorry. I didn't have to say that. Even so, he's right. There's nothing you can do. Just go back in the house. We'll call you."
"Hell, it's Saturday."
The medical examiner was puzzled.
"I'm all alone."
There was nothing the medical examiner could think to say. He turned as Owens came across the lawn, carrying his bag.
Owens peered in the van toward the dog and shook his head. "Even with that plastic sheet, I'm going to have to disinfect the van. I'm going to have to burn these clothes and get a new bag. What a mess."
"Well, maybe you won't have to. It could be this is something else."
"You wouldn't care to bet on that."
The medical examiner just shook his head.
"I thought not. Let's get moving. Do you need a ride?"
"My car is through those trees in back."
"I'll see you at the office then." Owens shut the rear doors.
Walking with him, looking in the front, the medical examiner was not surprised to see the plastic sheet that Owens had spread out where he was sitting.
"Hey, I think we ought to bring this man along." The medical examiner gestured toward the owner who was staring at the back doors of the van.
"Oh, that's just fine. That's really fine." Owens tried to keep his voice low. "Look, I did my best to play it down. I have to kill the dog to do the final tests. You want this man along to see that?"
There wasn't any need to answer.
"Fine then. I'll be at the clinic." Owens turned the key and got the engine going. Then he sighed and shook his head in disgust before he put the van in gear and drove away.
SEVEN
Dunlap stared down at his trembling hands. Everything considered, he was doing very well, he guessed. Oh, sure, he'd started shaking, and his stomach felt like he was going to throw up, but he hadn't thrown up, and although he was sweating, that was maybe from the heat as much as anything. Who's kidding who? The sun is almost down. The air is cooling off. You're sweating for a drink, and buddy, do you need one. There were times when he suspected he would scream. That's just dramatics, he told himself. You were looking for a story. Now you've got it. He was not yet certain what was going on here. Rabies, maybe. Could be something more. Whatever, it was getting out of hand, and if he screwed this story up the way he'd screwed up many others, simply out of weakness, there was no one he could blame except himself. You'll get your drink. Just keep control.
This thing tonight is almost finished.
Is it? Maybe it's just getting started. And he shook his head and gripped the dashboard as the cruiser swerved sharply around the corner, skidding past the swimming pool and up the tree-lined gravel driveway.
He watched as Slaughter grabbed the microphone. "It's Slaughter, Marge. I'm almost there. Make sure you send those other units. What about the ambulance?"
"It's on its way."
"I hope so."
Dunlap focused his gaze down past the trees and toward the park spread out below him-the lake, a stream that twisted toward it, swings and slides, and cages that looked like a zoo, and people down there staring toward the siren. When he glanced ahead, the road curved, and abruptly he could see beyond the trees up to the hilltop, a wide three-story mansion up there, the last rays of the sunset glinting off the windows. The place was old, expensive, of a size that nobody could afford to build these days, the driveway curving past the front porch, columns with a roof above the driveway, like a Southern mansion, showing signs of age though, dark and rough and grainy, somehow very western all the same. He saw the cruiser that had hurried here before them, and another car, civilian, and two officers w
ho stood at the front door, talking to somebody in there.
Slaughter skidded to a stop. Dust cloud settling, Dunlap got quickly out, Slaughter putting on his hat and hurrying before him through the dusk. They reached the front steps. These were stone, and both men rushed up, their footsteps scratching on the stone. The two policemen had already turned to them.
"He's up there on the second level," one of them said.
"Or the third. You're sure he's even up there?" Slaughter asked.
"Talk to these people."
A man was slumped inside the doorway, his shirt and suit a mass of blood, his throat ripped open, his hands clutched at his wound.
"The ambulance," a woman blurted.
"On its way. You're sure he's up there?" Slaughter asked.
"Mr. Cody-this is Mr. Cody-said the boy ran up the stairs as I stopped in the driveway."
"That's your car?"
She nodded.
"Better move it. There'll be a lot of traffic coming up here."
Even as he said that, they turned toward a cruiser speeding up the driveway. Just behind it, siren wailing, came the ambulance.
"Can you walk?"
The man nodded, struggling weakly to get off the floor.
"Here, let me help you. I don't want you in the way if something happens." Slaughter turned to face the two policemen. "Watch those stairs. Make sure the boy doesn't get away." Slaughter held the man and worked with him across the stone porch, then down the steps. Two attendants ran from the ambulance, policemen from the other cruiser running with them.
"Is there any place to get down from the second story?" Slaughter asked the woman who was helping him to move the man out of danger.
"A roof above the servants' quarters in the back. I don't know how he'd jump down and not hurt himself."
"The trees around the house. Are there any he could lean to and climb down?"
"I never thought… I just don't know."
"The back," Slaughter told the two policemen coming toward him. "Make sure no one leaves the building. It's the kid we're looking for."
"The kid?"
Slaughter realized that these two men had not been with him at the boy's house. "Never mind. Just make sure no one leaves. Be careful of the roof above the servants' quarters."
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