Roughstock (A Gail McCarthy Mystery) (16 page)

FIFTEEN

I drove toward Apple Lane praying. Please God, don't let this be too bad. Don't let me find this horse in terrible pain. I'd been a vet for almost three years now, but I'd never grown used to dealing with terminally suffering horses. The best thing I could do was put them out of their misery, but it was never easy.

I knew Apple Lane, a short side street in the orchards behind Watsonville, and the accident scene was obvious. The blinking yellow flashers on the car by the side of the road, sharp in the twilight, drew me like a magnet. I took a deep breath as I got out of the truck. Hold it together, Gail; just hold it together.

I walked toward the little knot of people standing by the car. I registered an older woman, a middle-aged man, and a teenage girl. Then I saw the horse.

I t was on the verge, screened from passing traffic by the car and people. I knew instantly that it was dead. There is a certain stillness, a flatness to a dead animal. I let out my breath in relief

Dead was bad, but suffering was worse. I approached the group of people. No hurry now.

The girl didn't know that, though. She'd spotted me and ran in my direction, grabbing my arm and pulling me toward the horse's body. "Please, you're the vet, aren't you? Come look at her. She's not dead. She was moving."

I followed the girl.

There was a lot of blood. Dark and viscous, it was puddled on the pavement, looking black in the colorless light of dusk. I could see where the car had plowed into the front end of the mare's body, causing the gaping wounds in her shoulder and what looked like a broken right front leg. But it was the head injury, I thought, as I stooped down, that had killed her. The back of her skull was crushed.

Even though I was sure, I pressed my fingers to the horse's jugular vein for a full minute, wanting to comfort the girl. "She's dead," I said, as gently as I could.

"She can't be. She was moving."

"They do that," I explained. "Even after the brain is dead, the body makes little involuntary movements. They're automatic, reflexive." I searched for the right words. "She wasn't in pain, or anything. She died of this head injury. It was probably pretty sudden and painless for her."

The girl gulped and nodded, holding herself together with an effort. She was about fifteen and had a sweet, immature face, the sort of teenager who was still more interested in horses than boys. And this was her worst nightmare come true.

"I was just letting her eat grass here along the driveway. She loves the green grass. Something scared her and she jerked the lead rope out of my hand and ran out on the road. Her name's Mandy." Sobs were overtaking the words.

I looked around frantically at the two adults behind us, and the man stepped forward and put his arm around the girl. "It's okay, Shelly. There's nothing we can do."

"Are you her father?"

"Yes."

"I think it would be better if you got her away from here. It can't be helping her to look at her horse like this." He nodded and shepherded the girl off. I turned to the woman. She said quietly, "I hit the horse. It wasn't my fault; the damn thing ran right in front of my car. I didn't see it coming." I looked where she pointed; a large, dense holly bush obscured the driveway entrance completely. "It just ran out from behind that bush as I came by. I didn't have a chance to miss it."

I nodded. I didn't blame her.

"My car's a wreck."

Sure enough-the front end of the station wagon was completely crumpled. "It's really these people's fault," she went on, "but I feel terrible."

"Are you all right?" I asked her.

"Oh, physically, yes. I was wearing my seat belt. I'm fine. I just feel sick about the poor horse, and that little girl."

"I know," I said inadequately.

"I guess I'd better get their name and number and insurance and all that." She sounded tired and sad.

"Yes. And probably call the cops."

"And a tow truck."

"I've got a car phone in my pickup," I told her. "You're welcome to use it."

"Thank you."

The next half hour passed in the dull trivia that follows tragedy. Numerous phone calls and consultations took place. I got a tarp out of my truck and covered the mare's body.

Cops arrived; so did a fire truck and an ambulance, which were sent on their way. The girl's father returned, helpful and apologetic. Nobody wanted to sue anybody. A little of my faith in human nature was restored.

Details got taken care of one by one, but eventually I realized no one had a clue what to do about the mare's body.

"Shall I call the tallow truck for you?" I asked.

The man, who had turned out to be one Bob Walford, gulped a little over this. "Poor Shelly," he said anxiously. "She'd hate that. "

"You've got to do something with the body," I pointed out. "You could bury her, if you've got a place that's suitable and a backhoe handy, though I believe it's technically illegal."

"No, no we can't do that. I guess you'd better call the ... what do you call it?"

"The tallow truck."

"What does it cost?"

"It's free. He makes his money on the carcass."

It sounded brutal, I knew. But what else was there to say? The mare was gone; the living creature the girl had called Mandy had fled. All that remained was inanimate, dead flesh, the waste of her empty body, which did need to be disposed of.

I arranged for the truck to come, and eventually got myself disentangled. I'd felt I'd been there for hours and was amazed that the dashboard clock only said six.

Jesus, what a day. I needed a break.

Stopping at a little Mexican restaurant down the road, I ordered a margarita from the waitress. "On the rocks, Cuervo Gold, fresh lime juice and lots of salt."

I had two of them, then ordered an enchilada, though I wasn't really hungry. Sometimes it seemed that all there was to being a veterinarian was facing tragedy head-on. There would be better days, I knew, days when I saved lives and saw tears of joy on my clients' faces, rather than tears of sorrow, but they seemed far away. I stared at the painting of a bullfighter on black velvet that hung on the wall next to my table and wondered, not for the first time, if I'd chosen the right profession.

I got home an hour later feeling drained and sad. The welcome jingle of Blue's collar on the other side of the door as I
unlocked it announced that he was fine, and Bonner came scooting in from parts unknown with a loud meow, slithering between me and the dog as I walked in the house.

Relief, deep as it was temporary, filled my heart. I rubbed Blue's head, then took him outside for his required walk. For the moment, at least, my little animal family was okay. Gunner and Plumber were safe with Lonny; the cat and dog were here with me. The dark, twisted thing that coils in our very cells, human as well as animal, that waits on the highways and lurks in the weather, the thing that had reached out and laid a finger on Rebby and taken the girl's Mandy, was elsewhere tonight. Soon I would grapple with it again; for all I knew my first call tomorrow would be another life-and-death struggle, but for now I tumbled into bed and fell instantly asleep, my mind empty of everything but sheer fatigue.

SIXTEEN

At
six the next morning, I got up, climbed my ladder stairway to the kitchen and made a pot of coffee, then showered and dressed. By the time I'd settled myself at the end of the couch with my favorite blue willow cup steaming into the cold air of the living room, first light was just graying the ridge top. Picking up the phone, I dialed Kris's number, hoping Rick wouldn't answer.

"Hello?" It was Kris.

"It's Gail. So how are you doing?"

"Okay."

"How's Reb?"

"The same." Her voice was flat.

"What did Rick say when you told him?" Kris's husband, though wealthy, had a marked aversion to spending money on medical treatment for horses. "I didn't tell him. Rick couldn't care less whether Reb lives or dies. He's already gone to work." Kris's tone was bitter.

I was startled. I didn't like Rick Griffith at all. I thought his good looks and superficial charm thinly masked a domineering and aggressive personality, and I noticed that Kris seemed dimmed in his presence, her normally forthright manner growing several shades more submissive. But I'd never heard her acknowledge any resentment toward him before. I'd always assumed she was unaware or unconcerned with the (to me) unpleasant dynamics between them, and simply enjoyed Rick's obvious looks, wealth, and, let's say, forcefully polite manners, well enough. Apparently I was wrong.

"Is something going on with you and Rick?" I asked hesitantly. "Oh, just the usual; nothing in common anymore. Not to mention I'm sure he has a girlfriend."

"Do you care?"

"I don't know. The one thing I do know is he'd fight me like a son-of-a-bitch for custody, and I'd never be able to keep the place, either. I'm not sure a divorce would be worth it."

"Oh." I was silent, thanking my lucky stars I was single and dependent on no one but myself for what I had. Losing her daughter, her property, her security-it would be a big price for Kris to pay. "I'm sorry," I said at last. "I didn't know things were like that."

Kris caught my awkwardness and jumped in. "There's nothing anyone can do. It's not that bad. Anyway, you'll call me when the blood work comes back."

"Right away," I said.

"Thanks, Gail." Kris hung up quickly.

I hesitated a second, then looked Joanna's number up in my personal book and resolutely dialed it. Joanna was a vet and no doubt operated on a schedule just like mine; early in the morning was probably the best time to call her. She answered on the second ring, sounding reasonably alert and cheerful. "Hello?"

"Hi, Joanna, it's Gail." Despite my good intentions, I was sure the primary emotion in my voice was the discomfort I was feeling. Striving for a more upbeat tone, I asked, "So, how are you doing?"

"Good." Joanna's tone was as emphatic as my own. "I'm doing good."

"Well, I was worried about you, after all you went through up there in Tahoe," I fumbled, hoping I was saying approximately the right thing.

Silence on the other end of the phone. Joanna's voice, when it finally came, sounded cool. "I'm doing better now."

Resisting the impulse to say, I hope you're getting over what's his name, I asked, "Keeping busy?"

"With this job, you don't have a lot of choice."

I certainly knew about that.

"Uh, Joanna," I blurted out, "what did Jack talk about that night you went out to dinner?"

More silence. Then, "You're not still worrying about that, are you?"

"Sort of." I didn't feel like mentioning that I hadn't done a whole lot of good so far; my chief contribution had been an attempt to implicate Tara, a woman I had no real reason to suspect other than pure dislike. "Did Jack say anything that night, anything about his life and what he was doing-anything about anything?" I added lamely.

"He talked a lot about himself," Joanna said, "but I didn't really listen."

"Did he say anything about any of his ex-wives?" I asked, grasping at straws.

"No
."
Very brusque. "He just talked a lot about some big land deal he was working on that would make him all this money. I mean, I'm sorry he's dead and all that, but he sure went on and on about himself and his deals. He bored me, pretty much. That's all I know." Joanna's tone had grown decidedly curt.

"If you think of anything else," I asked her, "call me, okay?"

"Okay." I barely heard her hasty good-bye as she hung up the phone.

The clock on the wall said quarter after seven. I got up and ran a comb through the damp tangle of my hair, then pulled my boots on. Calling for Blue, I headed out the door.

When I reached the office; Jim's pickup was in the parking lot, though it was only seven-thirty, and we were all due in at eight. No one else was there.

Going in the back door, I greeted my boss, who was sitting
at his desk, compiling the day's schedule. I sat down next to him.

"Gail. Good to see you back at work." There was the faintest sarcastic edge to his voice. In theory, Jim had agreed that it was a good idea for me to attend the Winter Equine Seminar and work the endurance ride, and he'd been willing for me to take Monday morning off to attend the trial. But in practice I knew he'd rather I spent twenty-four hours a day down at the clinic, working my butt off. To be fair, this was the schedule he more or less followed himself; Jim was a working fool.

In the three years he'd employed me, I'd had no vacation time other than the seminar, and I worked an average of six days a week, ten hours a day. Nothing in my veterinary training had prepared me for this sort of schedule, nor for the fact that Jim was as tight with money as he was generous with hours. Still, whenever I grew frustrated it always came down to the same bottom line: I couldn't afford to set up a practice of my own, I was committed to living in Santa Cruz County, and Jim was the only decent horse vet in the area. On the plus side, he was more than a decent diagnostician, he was a great one. I'd learned more from him in three years than I had the whole time I was at vet school, and I continued to learn all the time. That in itself was worth a lot of grief.