THREE
I finally arrived at work two and a half hours late. Even though I'd called to explain, I felt conspicuously guilty as I moved through the vast white labyrinth of corridors. I kept wanting to announce to the people I passed in the halls that I'd left home as quickly as I could, borrowing thirty dollars from Hunter and leaving him to call my bank and the local police office. I hadn't wasted a single moment.
Aside from that little aberrant time-out as a slave girl.
I found my medical ser vices group S.O.A.P.'ing a few of the noncriticals. Dr. Malachy Knox, the staff veterinarian in charge of our unit, was holding a limp rag of a cat with the distinctive uremic smell of kidney failure.
“All right,” he said, “let's see what we've got here. Now, what does the S in S.O.A.P. stand for?”
Sam rolled his eyes at me: Even the Institute vet techs knew the acronym for Subjective analysis, Objective data, Assessment, and Plan. But that was Malachy's style—he drawled out his questions in his plummy British accent as if he thought we were all a bit slow. Of course, in Sam's case, he might have had a point.
“S stands for Subjective analysis,” said Sam. “My opinion? He looks half dead.”
“I'd list that as unresponsive.” Malachy glanced over at me. “Welcome to morning rounds, Ms. Barrow.”
I flushed, realizing that he must not have received my message. “I'm so sorry I'm so late, but my pocketbook was stolen on the train.”
Lilliana, my favorite member of the team, gave me a sympathetic smile, while the humorless Ofer pushed his glasses up on his nose like an officious gnome. Malachy just looked at me assessingly, his hands still stroking the cat's abdomen, feeling reflexively for the state of the cat's skin, the size of its spleen, its bowel loops.
As Malachy described what he was doing, Sam kept watching the older man intently as if he were expecting some sleight of hand. Even though Sam hulked a full seven inches over Malachy, and both men wore the AMI uniform of white lab coats and khakis, even a casual observer would have known which one was in charge.
The question of late was whether he would remain so. Dr. Malachy Knox, a.k.a. “Mad Mal,” was the Institute's resident rock star, a brilliant researcher with a reputation for thinking outside the box and using unorthodox methodologies. In vet school, I had studied his infamous experiments transplanting the brains of rhesus monkeys, and had been torn between horror and awe at the implications of his work. More recently, he had been involved in isolating the so-called lycanthropy virus, a rare disorder that caused some individuals' cells to behave like fetal or stem cells, rendering them capable of radical shifts in form and function. Despite the name, the virus did not actually turn the host into a wolf—or, at least, that was the prevailing wisdom. Malachy himself would only say that the virus manifested itself very differently in different hosts, and that canid DNA was among the most plastic in the animal kingdom. He also liked to point out that humans and wolves had been associating with each other since the days when our own DNA hadn't yet been fixed in its current arrangement.
I wasn't entirely sure what Malachy had done that had resulted in his ouster from the research unit and had brought him down to the far humbler position of, as he put it, “shepherding yearlings around.” But what ever it was, it had affected his health as well as his career.
Underneath his wildly curling black hair, Malachy's craggy face was pallid and drawn, and where his wrists were visible under his lab coat, they appeared almost skeletal. I knew for a fact that he was forty-six, but he looked a good decade older.
“Well, Ms. Barrow,” said Malachy, bringing my attention back to the here and now, “I can only assume that your current state of vague disinterest with our feline patient is the result of your brush with the city's underbelly. Although a countertheory might involve the fact that your husband has just returned from a long trip. He was in Romania, researching the legendary Un-wolves, was he not?”
What ever was wrong with Malachy Knox clearly did not affect his intelligence. He had gotten my message, I realized. He had just wanted to keep me off-balance.
“Yes,” I said, “Hunter was looking into the stories about giant wolves.”
“I'm sorry,” said Ofer, not sounding it, “but what could it possibly matter if her husband is wasting his time looking for vampires in Transylvania? Shouldn't we be concentrating on our patient?” He pointed with one stubby-fingered hand, indicated the limp cat lying glassy-eyed on the examining table.
“Not vampires, Ofer—lycanthropes.” Malachy wrote the word out on the whiteboard behind him with a dry erase pen. “Although many people confuse the Greek vrykolakas with the Slavic vrcolac, the former was supposed to be a sort of undead creature, not unlike a vampire, while I've heard the vrcolac variously described as a wolf demon or a wizard with shapeshifting abilities. The pricolici, on the other hand, are large, wolflike creatures inhabited by human souls—Unwolves, or, more commonly, werewolves.”
Malachy's blue eyes seemed to glow; I had never seen him so animated. Behind our staff leader's back, Sam pointed a finger at his temple and twirled it, indicating his opinion of Malachy's mental state.
“Of course, I would be insane if I believed that, Sam,” Malachy said without turning around, making it clear he knew what Sam was doing. “I suspect that what the Romanians have are two distinct genetic strains of the lycanthropy virus. What I wouldn't give to get my hands on some tissue samples.” He dragged his hand through his already unkempt hair. “I kept trying to convince the board that I needed a research grant to go to the Carpathian Mountains, but of course all that got derailed.”
I exchanged a glance with Lilliana. This was the first time Malachy had alluded to the mysterious event that had precipitated his removal from the research department. “Which was why I was so pleased,” Malachy went on, a small smile playing about his thin lips, “when I learned that your husband was going there.”
Confused, I stroked the sick cat on the table, and a clump of matted fur came away in my hand. “I didn't realize that you were so interested. I mean—your research is medical, while Hunter's field is more sociological.”
“My dear girl, of course I'm interested. Here, hold our patient for a moment.” I put my hand on the dehydrated cat while Malachy turned to the computer on a nearby desk and tapped out a few commands. As he waited for the cat's X-rays to appear on the screen, Malachy said, “Not interested!” He gave a derisive snort. “Honestly, Ms. Barrow, did you think that my experiments with the lycanthropy virus had no bearing on my selection of interns?”
I felt as if I'd been slapped. “Are you saying—was that why I was chosen for this group?” I expected him to deny it, but instead, he raised his eyebrows.
“Oh, for Christ's sake. Don't overreact. Ah,” he said, as the cat's X-rays appeared on the computer screen, “there we go. Okay, kids, take a look and tell me what you notice.” As the others gathered around the screen, Malachy glanced at me sideways. “You're not going to sulk, now, are you? Obviously, you're a gifted veterinarian, but so were many applicants. And unlike Ofer here, you have no background in neurology.”
It was as if he'd figured out all of my secret fears and doubts and confirmed them. Worse still, he had confirmed them in a tone of voice so casual it implied that I, like everyone around me, should have been aware of my limited potential. I was the diligent, wonky grind, not the natural talent.
No you're not, said a stubborn little voice inside me. You have talent and drive. Don't let him define you. He's British upper class. They excel at only two things: gardening and disdain.
“I graduated near the top of my class at Tufts,” I said, my heart pounding in my chest. Nobody was paying any attention to the X-ray, or to the cat, who was seizing this opportunity to attempt to slide off the table. Holding him gently by the scruff, I went on. “My recommendations were glowing. If the only reason why you took me on was because of my husband's research, how do you explain your justification for choosing Lilliana? She's not even a veterinarian.”
Lilliana had been plucked from the Institute's social work externship program, which had struck Sam, Ofer, and myself as more than a little peculiar. As far as we were concerned, the social workers were around to keep our patients' owners from asking us questions that really had no answers, and to help them work through their confusion and grief. They weren't supposed to be a part of the medical team, or to be included in our decision-making pro cess. Mad Mal was known for thinking outside the box, of course, but privately I had wondered whether he had chosen Lilliana just for the sake of doing something unexpected.
Still, the moment the words were out of my mouth, I regretted them. Lilliana was brilliant, and my friend. The truth was, she had helped us make good decisions—she was extremely adept at anticipating an owner's reaction and helping us frame our responses accordingly. But I had to know if all my pride in being on Malachy's team was misguided.
“Ms. Jones has a degree in social neuroscience, as well as complete fluency in the facial action coding system. In addition,” Malachy said, with a slightly wry expression, “I recall her making a very persuasive argument while I was feeling distinctly under the weather.”
“You said something about my counterbalancing your lack of people skills,” said Lilliana, including me in her smile.
Malachy rubbed his chin, considering. “Entirely plausible. And, of course, you're an aesthetically pleasing individual. That may have unconsciously factored into my decision.” Lilliana had once volunteered that she had a Russian mother and an Ethiopian father. I had no idea what her parents looked like, but Lilli had the kind of subtle, willowy, doe-eyed beauty that charms other women as much as it does men.
Sam cleared his throat. “What about me?”
“What, indeed,” said Malachy, not bothering to look in his direction. Sam's mother owned an airline, and, presumably, she had donated heavily to various causes dear to the internship committee's hearts. “Bringing us back to the subject of wolves, we had some excitement with our hybrid while you were out, Ms. Barrow.”
It took me a moment to follow this abrupt change of topic. Two days earlier, a hard blond lady with biker tattoos had brought in a very lanky, nervous young dog. She said that she was visiting from out of town, and that her dog, Pia, had been attacked by a pit bull in the park.
I had examined a laceration on Pia's paw, and asked if she had recently been given a rabies vaccine. I added that Pia looked to be at least half wolf, and that there was some discussion over whether that particular vaccine was safe in wolves. Before Biker Lady replied, I added that every state has a different law concerning wolf hybrids: In New York, they're considered dangerous wildlife.
At this point, Pia's owner became very flustered. I think she would have taken her dog back home then, except that the poor animal winced when I palpated her abdomen, indicating possible internal injuries. Biker Lady agreed to leave her dog with us overnight. That was two days ago, and we had no contact number, which was worrisome. Because the Animal Medical Institute is a large teaching hospital, a lot of people assume that we charge discounted rates. We don't.
If Pia's owner had discovered this and realized she couldn't afford to pay us, she might not come back for her animal. And a suspected wolf hybrid was not the kind of dog that could be adopted out. If her owner didn't come back for her, she was going to wind up getting euthanized. And Pia was fine; X-rays had shown that her sore abdomen was just the result of some superficial bruising.
I tried to keep my voice even. “What happened to Pia?”
“According to Sam, she had, and I quote, ‘a major freak-out.' He was attempting to get a bone marrow sample from the chocolate lab in the cage next to her, and Pia just started howling her head off.”
“Maybe she didn't like your technique,” suggested Ofer.
Sam flushed. “Listen, you poison dwarf, I didn't do anything wrong. There's something wrong with that animal, and you know it.”
“Of course there's something wrong,” drawled Malachy. “She's sick and she's nervous. You will, presumably, have to deal with other nervous canines in the future, unless you plan on restricting your practice to healthy animals.”
Malachy gestured to the cat, which I was still holding. “In any case, Sam will take over your patient while you head up to the fourth floor. Maybe you'll have better luck getting the bone marrow sample. Lilliana, you'd better try to track down the hybrid's owner. After Pia's little serenade, we have been instructed to remove her from the Institute within the next twenty-hour hours. Now, Sam, let's try again to see if you can spot anything unusual in these X-rays.”
Lilliana motioned to me and we left Sam to Malachy's tender mercies.
“So,” I said, trying to clear my head as we waited by the elevator banks, “what exactly happened to Pia?”
“I'm not entirely sure. But whatever it was, everyone in the building heard her little call of the wild, and the board responded by letting us know that we are not licensed to treat potentially dangerous wildlife.”
The elevator doors slid open and we went inside. For a moment, I just watched as the numbers of the various floors lit up in succession, mulling over Pia's situation. “Lilliana? Do you think Pia's owner intends to come back for her?”
“Absolutely. I told Malachy that there is no way on earth that she is abandoning that animal.”
“How can you be so sure, Lilli?” I wasn't challenging her; I was merely curious. Lilliana's gift for reading people was like mine for reading X-rays.
Lilliana furrowed her brow. “It's hard to explain. I just can tell—Pia's a person to her, not a pet. I was going to ask you: if I help you hold Brownie for the bone marrow test, could you help me scan Pia for a microchip?”
“You must be a mind reader.”
Lilliana gave me a startled glance. “I wish.” The elevator stopped on our floor, and just before the doors slid open, Lilliana said, “The question is, if she isn't chipped, how do we keep Malachy from taking her home and experimenting on her?”
Until that moment, it hadn't occurred to me that Malachy might try to continue his research independently, but of course, knowing the man, it made perfect sense. I kept silent as we got off the elevator and another group of interns got on, not wanting to be overheard discussing our staff group leader, the mad scientist.
Once we were walking down the brightly lit hallway, I said, “I guess I could take Pia home for a few days and ask my husband to look after her while I'm at work.”
“Would he do that?”
“I'm sure he would,” I said. “Or, at least, I think he would. He does get a little funny when he's trying to write—doesn't like distractions.” Worried that this cast Hunter in a negative light, I added, “But I think he'd be okay taking care of a dog for a few days.” Lilliana was silent for a moment, the only sound the staccato beat of her heels on the hard floor. “On the other hand,” I said, trying to make a joke out of the whole thing, “if Malachy infects Pia with the lycanthropy virus and she turns human, she could sue him for malpractice.”
We rounded a corner and Lilliana nodded to an intern from another group who was walking in the opposite direction. Unlike me, she seemed to know everyone at the Institute. “Pia doesn't have the killer instinct. Turn that dog into a woman and she'll come down with a case of puppy love and follow him around.”
“Wait,” I said with mock-seriousness, “maybe we should really examine the possibility that Mal's engineering beast people. Take a close look at Ofer. Check out the monobrow. And what about Sam? You can't tell me he has a full complement of human DNA.” I hesitated, then put my hand on my friend's arm. “Hey, Lilli. I'm sorry if I sounded like I was insulting you before. When I asked why Malachy had chosen you, I mean.”
We stopped in front of the door to Ward B and Lilliana met my eyes. “I wasn't insulted. What did you think about all that talk about Unwolves, though?”
“I think he's gone beautiful mind on us. Let's face it, sometimes making unexpected connections means you're a genius, and sometimes it means you need an-tipsychotics. And if you start thinking people can turn into wolves, I know which group you're in.” I inserted the card key I wore around my neck into the appropriate slot and opened the door to Ward B. “Isn't that right, Pia?”
The wolf hybrid flattened her ears and tried to cram herself into the rear of her cage. Most people expect wolves to be massive, fierce animals with challenging, intelligent eyes and an air of coiled menace. I don't know whether Pia was typical, but she was the spookiest, shyest, most submissive-looking canine I'd ever seen in my life. It had taken all of us working together to get her into a big floor cage alongside Brownie the chocolate Lab and Duncan, the Bouvier who'd managed to get a fork stuck in his cheek while lunging for a bite of his owner's steak.
The Bouvier was no longer in the cage, but Brownie was still there, wagging his tail with indiscriminate Labrador affection. Pia remained supine with her long, narrow head between her paws, wary yellow eyes darting left and right to follow our movements.
I'd seen Yorkies with more pluck. Malachy said it was because in nature, most wolves weren't alphas, so if you chose one randomly from a litter, the odds were better than good that you'd wind up with a very submissive animal.
Not the kind of pet people who breed wolves are looking for, even though nervous animals can be just as dangerous as bold ones. Sometimes more so.
I knelt down in front of Pia's cage and gave her my fingers to sniff. Her fur rippled in unvoiced agitation. “Hey, girl,” I said as her muzzle wrinkled in a snarl.
Lilliana knelt down beside me. “That looks vicious, but it means back off, right?”
“In dog-speak, she's telling me she's nervous rather than aggressive. Easy, girl, easy.” While I contemplated my next move, I heard a deep, mournful bark from the other side of the wall. It sounded like Duncan, waking up in recovery. Pia scrabbled in her cage, trying to back herself into the corner, and I breathed in deeply, catching a strong smell of antiseptic and the deeper, muskier scent of flesh and fear.
I moved over to Brownie, opening his cage and caressing his big head. “You big lug,” I said, feeling guilty at the trusting look in the Lab's big, dark eyes. Even if I wasn't as clumsy as Sam, I was going to have to hurt Brownie. In order to get a bone marrow sample, you have to really screw the drill in to get to the deep tissue. Taking bone marrow is painful, even with a local. But there's always a risk associated with giving general anesthesia, and Brownie wasn't a youngster.
“You know what,” I said to Lilliana. “Let's move Brownie next door, so he won't make any sound that upsets Pia.”
Lilliana and I slipped the rope leash over Brownie's head and walked him over to the smaller room across the hall. It took all of our strength to lift Brownie onto the table, and I waited for a moment to get my energy back before administering the local and getting the drill in place. Brownie was a big, fleshy boy, and I had to use my body weight as leverage. Once I knew I had the drill in deep enough, I inserted the syringe. “I'm sorry,” I said, as the dog whined deep in his throat.
“We're almost done,” said Lilliana, her tone almost hypnotically soothing. “Perfect, Abra.”
I pulled the sample out and the dog snapped his head around toward me, then licked his mouth quickly as if he'd never really intended to bite.
“I know, boy, I know you didn't mean it.” I gave Brownie a last pat before walking around the operating table. I started to lay out glass slides on the instrument tray.
Lilliana shook her head admiringly. “You were in and out. He didn't have time to complain.”
“I wish.”
Lilliana watched as I placed a drop of blood on each of the slides I'd set out. When we were done, she helped me get Brownie down on the floor. “You know,” she said, “Malachy really does respect you.”
“Are you joking? He just told me that he hired me because my husband is writing about werewolves. Excuse me,” I corrected myself, “Unwolves.”
Lilliana touched my hand. “I know what he said, but his face told a different story.”
“Mal said you'd studied some sort of face reading system?”
Lilliana nodded. “It's called FACS—the Facial Action Coding System. It's basically an index of microexpressions that transcend cultural differences and slip out beneath conscious control. For example, when Malachy was talking about Sam, I saw a flicker of contempt. When he mentioned Ofer's background in neuroscience, his face remained neutral. But when he talked to you, he smiled—just for a fraction of a second, but it was a real smile.”
“Hmm,” I said as we reached the door to Ward B. “And what did his face reveal about you, I wonder.”
Lilliana's eyes sparkled with amusement. “I intimidate him, actually. Hey, I forgot to tell you about the man who came in earlier with a baby owl.”
“You're kidding!” I was just about to tell Lilliana about my encounter with the man and the owl on the subway when we opened the doors to Ward B and discovered that the day's excitement wasn't over.
Pia was gone.