Heat of the Moment (21 page)

“I hope it isn't the last.”

He blinked as his words came out of her mouth.

“You aren't leaving.”

“I am,” he insisted.

“I meant—” She reached for her panties and pants. “Not right away.”

“No,” he agreed.

“Then we don't have to stop.”

He almost asked what had changed since that morning, when she'd said she didn't want to see him any more while he was here. But, really … He didn't want to know why. He was just glad that it had.

“Unless you want to,” she continued when he remained silent.

“Hell, no,” he said. In fact, his penis, which had been unresponsive, to say the least, for months, now twitched at the sight of her bare bottom in the twinkle of the early afternoon sunshine. Apparently it didn't want to stop either. And that was so fantastic, he didn't notice at first that she'd stilled, head tilting, forehead crinkling, listening to—

The long, low, not distant enough howl of a wolf.

“Shit.” He grabbed his own underwear and jeans. “Reggie!” He whistled.

“She won't hurt him.”

“She already did.”

“Not on purpose.”

“How do you know?”

She bit her lip and didn't answer.

The idea of that wolf, or any wolf, and his still injured dog tangling out there where he couldn't stop them had Owen's heart pounding nearly as hard as it had not so long ago, but for a much less pleasurable reason.

A gunshot sounded.

The two of them scrambled out of the truck and ran for the trees.

*   *   *

The howl that rose before we'd gone more than fifty yards was distinctly different from the original.

Dog howl, not wolf howl. That couldn't be good.

“Go,” Owen said. “Don't wait for me.”

I didn't have to be told twice. I went.

I glanced back once; he was doing amazingly well. His gimp seemed a lot better. Which made no damn sense at all. But what did lately?

In a copse of birch trees, the sun glancing off their autumn-yellow leaves, the wind rustling them and making the sound of ghostly whispers, Reggie sat next to a prostrate Pru, nose tilted upward, howl vibrating his throat. They were alone. No one with a gun, at least that I could see. I probably shouldn't blaze into the open, but I didn't have much choice.

“Hush,” I ordered as I did just that.

Reggie lowered his snout.
Hurt.

I went to my knees next to Pru. My fingers fluttered over her blue-black fur. I didn't see anything, not even blood. “Where were you shot?”

Pru lifted her head, but almost immediately it fell back down. Her “voice” was weak.

New Bergin.

“That's a hundred and fifty miles from here.”

Her chest heaved faster than it should, even for a wolf.
Wasn't today.

“I heard a shot.”

Wasn't at me.

“I don't understand.”

Reggie yipped and trotted into the trees. From the rustles, Owen was almost here. I'd have to stop talking to Pru soon.

I went to New Bergin.

Wolves didn't usually wander that far. They had a territory and they stuck to it. Of course, Pru wasn't your average wolf.

“Why?”

He shot at me before he knew.

I opened my mouth to ask “He who?” or maybe “Knew what?” but she kept going.

Just grazed my flank. Burned like fire, but it proved I wasn't …
She panted several times very fast.

“Wasn't what?”

Dangerous? Rabid? How could a bullet prove that? How could a bullet “prove” anything?

I thought it was healed, but—

Pru's rear leg jogged as if she were running in place, and I caught a whiff of something foul. I set my hand lightly on her flank, and she whimpered. A section of fur was damp, a little oily. I pushed it to the side.

“This is infected.”

Pru didn't answer. She'd passed out. Which was all to the good. It allowed me to probe what did not look anything like a graze.

“That's a bullet hole.”

“Since we heard a gunshot”—Owen emerged from the trees—“that makes sense, though why is she unconscious from a bullet to the butt?”

“This isn't fresh, and it's festering.” I needed to get her to the clinic where I had antibiotics and alcohol and anesthetic and other great things that didn't start with A
.
I started to slide my arms beneath her.

“Whoa.” Owen set a hand on my shoulder. “That's a wolf.”

“No moss on you.”

“You can't take a wild animal into your clinic.”

“Can. Will. Am.” I didn't mention that she'd already been there.

“What if she wakes up while you're walking to the truck? Or in the truck? Did you ever see that YouTube video of the guy who put what he thought was a dead deer in his backseat?”

I had. It wasn't as funny as everyone seemed to think it was.

“I'll put her in the truck bed,” I said. “Then sit back there with her.” All I'd need would be for her to regain consciousness, jump out, and disappear into the forest. She'd die. I couldn't, wouldn't let that happen. She'd saved my life.

“What if she wakes up on the way to the truck and eats my face?”

“Your face?”

Owen scooped up the unconscious wolf and started back the way we'd come. “You don't think I'm going to let her eat your face, do you?”

*   *   *

Twenty minutes later Owen parked the truck in my lot then carried a still unconscious Pru inside. Reggie padded behind him as if Pru were a long-lost friend. I had to wonder what had taken place out in those woods and changed things.

The crime scene tape cordoned off the stairs to my apartment, but my clinic was clear. I motioned for Owen to set the wolf on the exam table as I washed my hands, then started to assemble what I'd need, moving past the As and into the wonderful world of S—scalpel, scissors, sutures. Med school
Sesame Street
.

“You need help?” Joaquin stood in the doorway.

“Thought I told you to go to school.”

“Did.” He stepped inside. “Done.” I narrowed my eyes, and he held up one hand. “Swear.”

“Scrub in.”

Reggie whined and set his front paws on the operating table, then licked Pru's chin. A stainless steel bowl fell off the counter, clattering against the floor as loudly as an alarm clock. Owen jumped, then squatted, hunching his shoulders and lowering his head as if to avoid a projectile.

“Sorry!” Had I shifted the bowl too close to the edge when I was grabbing supplies? I could swear I'd actually moved it farther back to avoid just this problem.

My next thought was “Henry” though I couldn't figure out why Pru's ghostly cohort would toss a steel bowl.

Owen lifted his head, then straightened. “Sudden noises.” He gave a sheepish shrug.

Reggie kept his gaze on the shiny silver bowl in the corner as if he expected it to fly through the air and smack him in the head.

“You're gonna need to get him out of here,” I said. “And you told your mom's caseworker you'd meet her at the police station.”

Owen had made the call as soon as the truck hit the highway and cell service resumed. I was impressed he'd remembered. My mind was befuddled enough with the sex, let alone the unconscious wolf in my lap.

“Your mom's in jail?” Joaquin appeared at my side.

“Kind of.”

“What did she do?”

“What didn't she?” Owen hooked a lead to Reggie's collar and practically dragged him out the door.

The dog still stared at the steel bowl, or perhaps at the empty corner behind it. I couldn't decide. Which made me think that corner wasn't as empty as it seemed.

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.

Candy lifted a shoulder, which was answer enough. “Peggy wanted to get her back to the environment she's used to. She said you could come out there, or give her a call in a few hours.” Candy patted his arm again. “You okay with that?”

He wasn't sure why he was disappointed that he hadn't gotten to say good-bye. He doubted his mom would remember him any better here than she had at the house.

The phone started ringing again. This time Candy answered right away. “Three Harbors Police Department.”

Owen started for the door.

“What was that?” The cheery in her voice fled, leaving something behind that made Owen turn. “All right. Someone's on the way.” She disconnected. “It's your mom.”

“What happened?”

Candy lifted one finger as she used the radio. “George, we've got 417A on Route GG.”

“Roger that. I'm on the other side of the lake but I'm on my way.”

“What's a 417A?” Owen asked.

“That was Peggy who called.” Candy used the radio again. “Need an ambulance to Route GG. Assault with a knife.”