The Reporter (17 page)

“Meg Davis?” Brown queried after a moment. Meg looked at her mother in bewilderment.

“It’s all right, darling,” Sally murmured, getting up and moving to her side. She put her arm around her daughter.

Officer Brown approached them. “Meg Davis,” he said, “you are under arrest for assault with a deadly weapon tonight on the
person of Maxine Poole. You have the right to remain silent….”

M
axi stood motionless in her study where the horrifying scene had taken place earlier that night, staring at her trembling
hands. The police had hustled out her front door, to try to find Meg Davis, she presumed. Ron was at the animal clinic with
Yukon; no word from him yet. She stood alone, scared, listening intently to the silence. A beep from her computer breached
the stillness. She turned to the screen to see a message flash across the top:

R
*
WIN
:
CALL ME
—3402

Richard Winningham. She dialed the office, and his extension. “News, Winningham,” he answered curtly.

“Richard, it’s Maxi—”

“Are you okay?” he blurted. “What the hell’s going on? Reese doesn’t know anything except that somebody broke into your house.
We picked up a report on the scanner that the police got there, but we couldn’t get any information.”

She gave him the highlights, then told him she had to rush to the vet to see her dog, and besides, she was too spooked to
stay in the house for another minute. Meg Davis must have come in
through the
walls,
she told him, because everything was locked up and alarmed.

“Give me the vet’s address and wait there for me,” he said. “I’ll go over there right after the Eleven O’clock News. You shouldn’t
go back to your house alone.”

“I won’t be alone,” she said. “Ron Ricco is staying—”

“What’s the vet’s address, Maxi?” he interrupted. “I’m on in twelve minutes, and I’m hammering my piece together.”

“I’ll dupe it to you.”

“Great; see you there,” he said, and hung up.

The animal clinic information was still up on her screen. She typed in Richard’s code and tapped the DUP key, sending it electronically
to his file. Sprinting into her bedroom then, she grabbed her purse and keys and went out through the back door to the garage.
She took her old SUV, in case by some miracle Yukon had sustained only minor injuries and she could take him home. Urging
the beat-up Chevy Blazer toward the Eagle Veterinary Clinic, well above the speed limit, much faster than the creaky old hulk
was used to, she begged God to let Yukon live.

Though the clinic was open twenty-four hours, the doors were kept locked at night. She rang the bell and was ushered into
the lobby, where Ron Ricco gave her a supportive hug.

“Yukon… is he—” she began.

“We made it, by seconds, Maxi—he’s still alive. His trachea was severed and he wasn’t breathing. The doctor set up a tracheostomy
site through the wounds, and he’s treating him for shock. Come on back; he’ll explain it better than I can.”

Ron steered her into a treatment room. Yukon was lying on his side on the table, an assistant holding him steady, dried blood
matting his coat, an IV tube connected to the cephalic vein in his front leg. His body was quivering, and he seemed to be
gasping for breath.

“Oh, God,” Maxi cried.

“Doctor, this is Maxi Poole—Yukon’s her dog. Maxi, Dr. Bill Sullivan.”

“I watch your news,” the doctor said, not looking up from the table where he was massaging Yukon’s head. “He’s responding.
I’ll be honest with you, it’s touch and go, but this is a strong dog. He has a slashed jugular vein, lost a lot of blood—”

“Slashed jugular! Good Lord, can you repair it?” Maxi pleaded.

“No,” the doctor said. “We’ll have to sacrifice that vein, but other vessels will take up the slack. I’ve given him a transfusion.
When the shock subsides, we’ll do surgery to repair his trachea.”

Maxi was sobbing now, seeing her big, lovable pet so critically hurt. “He’s five years old, Doctor.… Is he going to make it?”

“I can’t promise that,” the vet answered. “In severe trauma there’s always the danger of complications, the most common being
infection, which usually doesn’t show up for several days. He’s on heavy antibiotics—we’ll watch him carefully.”

Yukon was visibly shivering. “Can I stay with him during the surgery?” Maxi asked.

The doctor looked up at her. “You don’t want to do that,” he said. “It’ll be about three hours before we get him stabilized,
then I’m going to operate. The surgery will take another couple of hours. It won’t help you, it won’t help me, and it wouldn’t
be good for old Yukon if you hang around here and cry,” he said kindly. “Go home and get some sleep, Maxi, and come back in
the morning.” He rubbed Yukon’s head gently, saying to him, “And you’ll be more presentable then, won’t you, buddy?”

“Can I hold him for a while?” She was still weeping.

“Now,
that
would be good for him,” the doctor said. “He knows you’re here, he can hear your voice, but you’re going to have to calm
down. If he senses that you’re upset,
he’ll
be upset, and we need him to feel secure.”

The outside doorbell rang, and the vet’s young assistant went
to answer it. She brought Richard Winningham into the treatment room; he gasped when he saw Maxi covered with blood. It took
him a few seconds to realize that it wasn’t her blood, it was Yukon’s. Dr. Sullivan had moved Maxi close to the examining
table and was showing her how to apply light, soothing pressure to the dog’s head and body, and talk to him in tranquilizing
tones.

Maxi smiled wanly at Richard. “I’m going to comfort Yuke for a while,” she told him. “Then the doctor’s throwing me out of
here. He’s going to operate.”

“I’ll stay with you,” Richard said, “and I’ll follow you home. I know the evidence guys will be out in the morning, and they
don’t want my fingerprints all over the place, but I’d like to take a quick look at your locks, okay?”

“You don’t have to do that—” Maxi started.

He raised a hand to stop her. “I want to,” he said.

“Then I’m grateful.” She sighed.

The doorbell rang again. “We’re an all-night clinic,” the doctor reminded them, and leaving Maxi to stroke Yukon, he went
to the door himself. Through the glass partition he saw a man and a woman standing at the top of the stairs. The man held
up an ID card that read
Los Angeles County Sheriffs Department, Serology Technician.
Dr. Sullivan let them in.

“I’m Officer Jim Peterson, and this is Officer Valerie Craner. We understand you have an injured dog here belonging to Maxine
Poole—we need to see the dog.”

The vet brought the pair back to where Yukon was being treated. The two looked at the dog; then Peterson informed the doctor
that they were there to examine his wounds.

“What kind of examination?” Sullivan asked.

“We need to measure the lacerations and cut away some of the surrounding tissue to bring to the lab for tests. We’re attempting
to identify the weapon that did this.”

“No,” Sullivan said, “I can’t let you do that. This animal is severely
compromised, and may not pull through surgery in the best of circumstances. If you touch him now, it will kill him.”

Maxi let out a cry. “Please, no—” she begged.

Reaching into his inside coat pocket, Peterson produced a piece of paper and handed it to Dr. Sullivan. It was a court order
mandating the examination. “Can’t help it,” the officer countered. “We’ve got a murderer out there.”

“I’m going to ask you to wait until the dog eases out of shock and gains strength from the transfusion, and can be prepared
for surgery,” he told the technicians. “This animal absolutely cannot sustain the kind of assault you intend right now. You
can’t cut without anesthetizing him, and if you put him under now, before he’s stable, the dog will die. There’s no question
about it.”

Richard came around and put an arm around Maxi, who continued to massage Yukon. She tried, but she couldn’t control the deluge
of tears.

“How long is it going to take?” Peterson asked.

“Two to three hours,” Dr. Sullivan answered.

Peterson was silent, weighing the life of this dog against the urgency of a murder case in which one woman had been killed
and the owner of this dog
might
have been killed. It struck him that Maxi Poole almost certainly would be dead had it not been for this big, shuddering husky
who was now fighting for his life.

His partner looked at him. “Let’s give them the time,” Valerie Craner said quietly. “I have a golden retriever who’s my only
family. I know how Ms. Poole feels.”

“Okay, you’ve got it,” Peterson said, shrugging. “We’ll be back in a couple of hours.” He justified that decision by telling
himself the most likely suspect was probably already in custody.

“One more thing,” the vet said to Peterson and Craner. “I’d like to assist. I can give you what you need with the least intrusive
technique. I want to save this dog.”

“We’ll welcome your help, Doc,” Peterson returned, and he and his partner left the clinic.

Dr. Sullivan approached Maxi. “I don’t want you here when they get back,” he said, “but believe me, I’m going to do my damnedest
to save Yukon.” She thanked him, and wiped away her tears. She felt her world slipping further out of control.

Ron told them he was going to start back to the house. “Maybe you shouldn’t be there alone,” Maxi whimpered. “That woman had
no trouble getting through all the barricades—”

“I hope the hell she
does
come back,” Ron said. “Believe me, I’ll be ready for her.” Steely hatred blazed in his eyes.

“Ron,” Maxi said, “she’s
insane
….”

“She killed my mother,” he uttered through clenched teeth.

It was nearly two in the morning by the time Maxi drove the Blazer up through Beverly Glen canyon, with Richard Winningham
following behind in his Audi TT convertible. She kept turning everything over in her mind. Could it have been Meg Davis who
killed Carlotta? But why? Was Debra right—had she been trying to get to Janet? And then to herself? For some twisted reason,
was Meg Davis trying to kill all of Jack Nathanson’s wives? But it was useless, she knew, to try to bring logic to the scenario,
when Meg Davis’s mind was in chaos.

She was exhausted, but the closer she got to her house, the more intensely her fear grew, until with a sudden lurch she pulled
over to the side of the road. Richard drove up beside her in his open car. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I’m scared to go home,” she said.

Richard studied her in the dark, pale and drained behind the wheel of her battered Blazer. He could see that she was weeping.

“I’ll stay with you. Maxi,” he said quietly, “I have a gun.”

“I can’t,” she whispered. “I can’t go back there. I don’t know what to do.”

“Okay, I’ll take you to my place. I’ll put you in my bedroom and I’ll sleep on the couch. Tomorrow, we’ll bring candy and
flowers to Yukon, and we’ll find out what’s going on. I’m sure the
police will have Meg Davis in custody by then, if they don’t already, and you’ll be safe.”

Tears were streaming down Maxi’s cheeks. Richard pulled ahead and parked in front of her. He walked back to the Blazer and
put his two hands on the door. “You’ve been through hell tonight,” he said. “I’m taking you home with me—you’ve got to let
someone take care of you, and I’ve just appointed myself the guy. Dry your eyes and follow me, okay?”

“Okay,” she sniffed. He got back in his car and made a U-turn, and she followed.

Richard’s high-rise apartment in the Marina was spacious, efficient, minimal, and male. He presented her with a new still-packaged
toothbrush and a pair of his pajamas, and showed her to the bathroom, a definitely masculine space carved in black granite,
chrome, and glass.

“Is there toothpaste?” she asked. He laughed, following her gaze over the gleaming black countertops, empty except for a stainless-steel
soap dispenser. “I have few needs,” he told her, pressing a panel of glass, which opened to reveal a medicine cabinet with
very little in it. He produced a tube of Crest.

“If I lived here, I’d have the whole place completely cluttered in fifteen minutes.” She chuckled.
Good,
he thought.
She’s cheering up a little
.

“Okay, now let me show you how the shower works,” he said, opening a glass door. Black granite steps led down into a steam
Jacuzzi shower with a panel of high-tech controls.

Maxi put her head inside. “Whoa, you have to start it for me,” she said. “I’m not checked out to pilot a nuclear sub.”

“Okay, are you ready?”

“Yah, uh, start it, then leave. But don’t make it too hot, okay?”

She stayed in the shower for so long she was afraid Richard would begin to worry, but she hadn’t realized how good it would
feel. There was a selection of soaps and shampoos tucked into a niche in the wall, and she helped herself. Idling in the steam,
and surrendering to the cleansing rivulets of warm water surging over her body, she felt the blood and filth of this day and
night being purged from her being.

Finally, she stepped out of the steamy bathroom into the bedroom, damp and rosy and very small in Richard’s black silk pajamas,
carrying her own clothes wadded up in a crumpled, bloodied, forlorn pile. Richard was sitting in a leather chair with his
feet up on an ottoman, his hands behind his head, getting an enormous kick out of the picture she presented.

“Gosh, what’ll I wear tomorrow?” she asked, as she set her ruined things down on the stone surface of a built-in bank of drawers.

“Well, let’s have a look,” he said, getting up and opening one of the drawers. “Here’s a possibility—” He pulled out a pair
of black stretch bicycle pants that he wore for running. Then he went over to a mirrored wall, touched something, and the
glass doors parted, revealing a massive closet with very little wardrobe and several rows of empty poles.

“Wow,” Maxi gasped. “You actually have unused closet space. I’ve never
known
anybody who had unused closet space.”