I picked up the anesthetic and slipped the needle into Pru’s leg. Cleaning out an infected wound was going to hurt. Pru didn’t need to be awake for it any more than I wanted her to be.
Joaquin strapped her down without being asked, then removed the matted fur from the area. Cotton pads soaked in alcohol came next. Pru’s leg jerked even in her sleep, and the flesh rippled as if cold, despite being far too hot to the touch.
With the matted fur gone and the dried blood and weepy pus cleaned off, the wound seemed less like a graze than ever before.
Tweezers clattered onto the exam table. I turned my head to ask if Joaquin had seen something in the wound that needed extracting. His eyes were better than mine. But he stood on a step stool at the counter, reaching for more gauze on an upper shelf.
Now my skin rippled as if cold.
I should probably do an X-ray to make sure there was something in there before I opened it up again but …
I set my hand on her flank. I could feel an object in there—foreign, festering.
“Doc Becca?” Joaquin had returned.
I lifted my hand, frowned at the wound. It seemed to have healed more in the few minutes we’d been here. Which was impossible.
I blinked a few times. The wound still looked less open. Probably because I needed to open it more.
“Scalpel, please.”
I planned to make an incision, clean the wound thoroughly, perhaps insert a drain for the infection, inject antibiotics. My hands had other ideas.
I cut deeper. A whole lot of nasty flowed out. Joaquin handed me some of the gauze he’d retrieved and I blotted, swiped, then touched her flank again. Something shifted beneath the skin as though alive.
“What’s wrong?” Joaquin leaned in close.
Probably just her muscles fluttering. But I’d learned to follow my instincts. They’d never steered me wrong.
*
The police station wasn’t far from Becca’s office. Nevertheless, Owen got into his pickup and drove there.
Reggie wasn’t a service dog, and could therefore not waltz into any building that he wanted to. Owen would have to leave him in the truck, and he’d prefer to keep the truck, and Reggie, nearby.
Inside the Three Harbors police station a phone was ringing, ringing, ringing. He waited for someone to answer it, except he didn’t see anyone in the room to answer it.
The chief’s office was empty, as was the bullpen and the dispatcher’s desk. Owen stood on tiptoe and checked the floor behind the reception area. Nobody.
He settled back on his heels as the phone stopped ringing. He listened for distant talk and laughter. Maybe it was doughnut day and they were all in the break room.
Or maybe his mom had slipped her leash and—
“Hello?” he shouted.
“Yeah!”
All the pent-up air in Owen’s lungs rushed out. At least one person was left alive.
Candy Tarley shot out of a doorway and hustled in his direction. She was of an age with his mother, though she appeared fifteen years younger, perhaps because she possessed hair the shade of cherry Kool-Aid. Or perhaps because she hadn’t touched anything harder than Kool-Aid all her life.
“You waiting long?”
“No, I just—” What? Been worried that his mom had gone Walking Dead on the entire police force?
“Owen!” Candy’s polite expression went positively cheery, or maybe that was cherry. She came around the reception desk and took his hand, but instead of shaking it she sandwiched it between hers and squeezed. “Thank you so much.”
“For?” He tried to pull back, but she held on and patted him a few times for good measure.
“For all you’ve done.”
He racked his brain, came up with nothing. He hadn’t been in Three Harbors for ten years, so he hadn’t done anything. Maybe that was what she was thanking him for. When he’d been in town, he’d done plenty. A lot of it was probably recorded around here somewhere.
Candy released him with a final pat. “Your service, Owen. Thank you for your service.”
“Oh—uh—yeah.”
He still hadn’t gotten accustomed to people not only thanking him with words but with deeds. In the airport someone had paid for his Starbucks. On the flight someone had bought him a beer. When he’d rented the pickup, a woman in line behind him had insisted he use her Triple A discount, and the woman at the counter had let him.
What he was accustomed to was being cursed at, shot at, blown up. Being fawned over was a new and not altogether pleasant experience. He felt like an imposter because the true hero was Reggie not Owen. But whenever he tried to explain that, folks just laughed and bought him something else.
“Your mom got off just fine.” Candy returned to the chair behind the reception desk.
“She what?”
“She’s on her way to the mental health facility.”
“I was supposed to meet her caseworker here.”
“Your mom was … agitated.”
“Still banging her head?” Owen asked.