Heat of the Moment (6 page)

Owen cast a glance at the table, swallowed, and turned away. He could see why.

“Veterinary forensics involves cases of abuse, mutilation, fighting rings—dogs, roosters.” Becca jabbed a finger at the spectacle that had ruined Owen's living room. Probably forever. “And that. Whatever it is.”

“What are we going to do?” Chief Deb asked.

“We?” Owen repeated. He had no clue about forensics—human, animal, or otherwise.

“I can call the professor,” Becca said. “See if he has a recommendation.”

Deb hesitated. She probably didn't want to admit the inadequacy of her force—who would?—but in the end what choice did she have?

“That would be good. Thanks.”

Becca took her phone out of her pocket, touched the screen. “I've got his number.”

If she hadn't taken the class, then why did she have the professor in her contacts list?

She lifted the phone to indicate upstairs, where the cell signal lived. “I'll give Jeremy a call and be right back.”

If she hadn't taken the class, why was he
Jeremy
? If she
had
taken the class why would he be
Jeremy
? Wouldn't he be Professor Whatever?

Owen stood in the hall stewing while Chief Deb poked around the crime scene. He didn't think that was a good idea. Wouldn't it be better to leave it alone until an expert showed up? But she was the cop, not him.

At the sound of footsteps on the staircase, Owen moved into the living room so Becca wouldn't see him hovering in the hall trying to eavesdrop on a conversation he had no prayer of hearing over that distance. He didn't have ears like Reggie.

“He's coming himself,” Becca said.

“Swell,” Owen muttered.

“He's the best forensic veterinarian in the Midwest.”

“How many are there?”

“Don't know, don't care. Jeremy will be here in the morning.”

“Doesn't he have a class to teach?”

A coed to boink?

“He'll cancel.” She waved a hand toward the five-pointed star on the wall. “The pentagram intrigued him.”

“That's a pentagram?” Deb asked, tilting her head right, then left, then right again as she studied it.

“Isn't it?” Becca glanced at Owen.

“My geometry grades were shit.” Along with the rest of them.

“Mine were more like crap, but I think that's what they call those. If not, Jeremy should know.” Becca bit her lip, sighed.

Owen knew that look, that sigh. “What else?”

“Jeremy said that a pentagram is a Wiccan symbol.”

“He thinks witches did this?”

“No.”

“You just said—”

“A pentagram
is
a Wiccan symbol, but those who practice Wicca believe that they should harm none.” She pointed at the table. “That's pretty harmful.”

“I never thought I'd see anything like this in Three Harbors,” Owen said.

“None of us did.”

Silence settled over them.

“Well, let's move along.” Chief Deb made a shooing gesture.

Becca moved; Owen did not.

“Good night,” Owen said.

The chief blinked. “You can't stay here.”

“It's my damn house.”

“It's a crime scene.”

“Not really.”

“Yes, really,” Becca interjected. “Jeremy said we should leave it as undisturbed as possible.”

Owen had to force himself to unclench his teeth, which had automatically ground together the instant she said
Jeremy
again. He indicated his trashed house. “I think that ship sailed a long time ago.”

“Nevertheless…” Chief Deb shooed him again.

Though he didn't want to stay here, not with that there, Owen refused to be shooed. He'd taken great pains not to be seen walking today; he wasn't going to ruin that now.

“You'll have to stay somewhere else, Owen,” Deb said.

“I don't have anywhere else.”

The silence that followed that statement made him wish it back even before Becca spoke.

“You can—”

“No.”

“You don't even know what I was going to say.”

“I'm not staying at your place.”

“I didn't ask you to.”

“She can barely fit in her place.” Deb eyed Owen. “You never would.”

“Where do you live?” he asked.

“Above the clinic.”

“In Doc Brady's room?”

Owen had been there once with Becca when they'd brought him a bird with a broken leg. Oddly, by the time they got there, the creature was hopping around on it pretty well, and it had flown off as soon as Doc Brady held it out the upstairs window of his teeny-tiny abode.

There wouldn't be room for him and Reggie in Doc Brady's—make that Doc Becca's—place, even if he were willing to go there.

“I can stay at a bed-and-breakfast. There must be a hundred of them.”

More like a dozen, and at this time of year, just after prime leaf viewing, they should be pretty empty.

“Unfortunately none of them accept pets,” Becca said.

“Reggie's better behaved than most of their clientele.”

“No doubt,” she agreed. “But their clientele doesn't drool and shed.”

“I bet some of them do.”

“What about Stone Lake?” At Owen's confused expression Chief Deb continued. “Big-city lawyer got sick of lawyering and bought Stone Lake Tavern. Built some cottages on the water.”

“He lets dogs stay in them?” Owen asked.

“Only when they bring along their duck-hunting owners to pay the bill.”

Stone Lake was more of a pond than a lake but ducks still floated on it.

“Sounds perfect. I'll just pack up and be on my way. Don't feel you have to wait for me. I promise not to touch—” He waved at the altar.

“Not so fast.” Chief Deb held up her hand like a crossing guard stopping traffic. “I have questions for you that I want answered before you go anywhere.”

Her shoulder mike squawked static. “Say again,” she ordered, moving into the kitchen, nearer to both an open window and town.

 

Chapter 5

Owen was acting strangely. Not that finding dead things in your house wouldn't make anyone kind of off, but—

“Why is it your house?” I blurted. “I thought it was your mother's.”

“She signed everything over.” Owen's gaze went to the mess and stuck there. “Lucky me.”

“I'm sorry.”

“You didn't trash the place.” His eyes came back to mine. “Did you?”

“Once upon a time, I might have.” I'd been hurt, angry, young, but I also hadn't been here. By the time I'd returned to Three Harbors for good I was Dr. Carstairs, and I had better things to do.

“Doubtful,” he said. “You were always a Goody Two-shoes.”

He was right. The one rebellion I'd ever made was him. That had worked out so well, I hadn't bothered with rebellion, or men, since. Animals were more my speed. They were honest about their feelings. If a dog loved you, you knew it. If it hated you, you knew that too. Pretty damn fast.

Chief Deb reappeared and beckoned me. I followed her into the kitchen. She tapped her shoulder mike. “Emerson's asking for you. Duchess has been in labor for hours.”

As the only Emerson in Three Harbors was Emerson Watley, we were talking Duchess the cow, rather than Duchess the dog, or Duchess the duck. I did count all of them as patients.

“That's not unusual. But … how did he know where I was?”

“Office is closed. Your cell isn't getting a signal.”

So he'd called the cops. I wasn't really surprised. It had happened before with other clients. Usually people called my parents first. Emerson might have, but they wouldn't have been any help.

Often, if I knew I was going to an area where my phone would be useless I left word with dispatch. Three Harbors was a small town. Eventually, everyone called dispatch. Though this time I hadn't left word because I hadn't planned on a side trip. Thanks to the nightmare in the living room, the cops still knew where I was.

Deb's mike hissed with static loud enough to crack a window if there'd been any left to crack. She leaned out the gaping hole in the wall in an attempt to get a better signal.

I joined her, standing as close as I could to hear the dispatcher—sounded like Candy Tarley, whose hair color fluctuated between cherry Gummy Bear and lemon Life Saver, depending on the month and her mood.

“He says—” Snap, crackle. “… doesn't like—” Pop! “… looks of her.”

Emerson Watley had been a dairy farmer for over forty years, like his father before him, and his father before him, and knew what a calving cow should look like.

“Tell him I'll be right there.”

“Okay, Becca.” Deb turned her head toward the mike, obviously waiting for the atrocious static to clear before she did so.

No one had called me Dr. Carstairs since I'd graduated. A few went with Doc Becca. Didn't matter. As long as the checks they sent to Three Harbors Animal Care didn't bounce—I had
huge
school loans—they could call me anything they wanted. I just needed them to call.

I had my hand on the front doorknob before I remembered I had no car. But Owen did.

The hall was empty. I walked back to the living room.

“Huh.”

The living room was empty too.

*   *   *

The instant Becca moved into the kitchen with the chief, Owen gimped as fast as he could to the front door. Thankfully Deb and Becca faced away from the hall, the chief leaning half out the window as she tried to hear what the person on the other side of the fizzy radio was saying.

Owen quietly opened the door. Reggie sat on the porch, right where he'd left him. Together they headed for the rental truck.

After his injury Owen had been airlifted out of the field and taken to Bagram Air Base. Once he was stabilized he'd been flown to Ramstein Air Force Base in Germany, then transported to Landstuhl Regional Medical Center for surgery. Within a few days he'd been on another plane across the Atlantic to Walter Reed in D.C. Reggie had followed the same general trajectory—Bagram to Germany, though he'd been taken to Dog Center Europe, about fifteen minutes from LRMC.

It was unusual for a working dog to return to the U.S., which on the one hand had made Owen nervous about the extent of Reggie's injuries. On the other hand, Owen was glad he wasn't alone. He was used to being with Reggie twenty-four/seven. Without him, he'd be more lost than he already was.

Once Owen had been released from Walter Reed, he'd met Reggie's plane in New York. They'd flown from there to Minneapolis. They could have taken another hop to the small airport in Ashland, but the cost was astronomical.

Instead, Owen had rented a pickup truck, released Reggie from crate bondage, and driven several hours to Three Harbors. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept, eaten, or showered, and the desire for all three suddenly overwhelmed him.

Reggie climbed into the cab more slowly than he'd gotten out of it. He was favoring his injury more than Owen had ever seen. When he sat, he did so with his haunches against Owen's. Reggie only did that when he was overtired, stressed, or ill.

The tap on his window made Owen jump so high he banged his bad leg on the steering wheel. Becca stood on the other side of the glass.

“I need a ride.”

He was so tempted to put the truck in gear he actually reached for the shift.

“Don't you dare.” Becca yanked open the door.

Damn. If he'd put the vehicle in gear the door would have locked automatically.

“Always go with your instinct,” he murmured. One of the very first rules in bomb detection.

“I'm not letting go until you agree to give me a ride.” She glanced toward the house. “And if you don't want to be stuck here answering questions you don't know the answers to, we'd better move before Deb gets done talking to the station.”

“Then move.” He indicated the passenger side.

She ran around the front, shooed Reggie, who'd come over to greet her, back to the middle, and hopped in. Owen put the truck into gear, and they lurched toward the trees. Just in time too. In the rearview mirror, Chief Deb emerged from the house. At the sight of his taillights, she kicked the porch railing and it fell into the overgrown flower bed.

“Thanks,” Becca said. “I figured you'd drive off the instant I let go of your door and leave me behind.”

He would have if he'd thought of it. But he wasn't thinking very clearly or very fast on so little sleep.

“How'd you get out here?” he asked.

“Wogged.”

Owen blinked.

“That's what my brothers call my pathetic attempts at jogging. Faster than a walk, slower than a jog makes—”

“Wog,” he finished. He'd always liked her brothers, though not half as much as he'd liked her.

Owen cast a sideways glance in Becca's direction, then had to lean forward to actually see her since Reggie's big fat head was in the way. The dog stared at Becca too, mouth open, tongue lolling. Couldn't blame him. She was stunning.

Her hair was long, thick, and fire red. She'd braided it; she always did. Otherwise the heavy mass got into everything—her eyes, her face, her food, his mouth.

Owen swallowed and dragged his eyes back to the road. He should never have kissed her. Though, to be fair,
she
had kissed
him.
It didn't make the taste of her that still lingered on his tongue, nor the memory of how different things were—how different
he
was—any easier to bear.

“You—” he began, and his voice broke. He cleared his throat, tried again. “You always jog in the forest in the dark?”

“No. I wog.”

The dirt path had some deep ruts, the result of years of snow and ice and mud with no grading to even it out. The trees and bushes had encroached from the sides, narrowing the trail until branches scraped the truck. He was going to wind up paying for a new paint job by the time he returned it.