The Night Stalker_ A Novel of Suspense - James Swain [90]
“Yes, he does.”
Burrell’s cell phone rang. She answered it, then looked at me.
“Buster’s going to live,” she said.
I pulled out my keys. My job was done here.
“Let me know how it goes,” I said.
I drove to the Hollywood Animal Clinic in the pouring rain. A receptionist with silver thunderbolts painted on her fingernails greeted me from behind a Plexiglas panel.
“Can I help you?” the receptionist asked.
“I own a dog that was brought in earlier,” I said.
“The Australian Shepherd that was involved in the manhunt?”
“That’s right.”
She led me to an examination room, and told me the vet would be in shortly. While I waited, I looked at the horse photographs hanging on the walls. They showed a pretty woman with short spiked hair sitting on a chestnut stallion with ribbons hanging around its neck. The horse’s name was Charley Horse, which brought a smile to my face.
The vet came in wearing a white lab coat. It was the same woman from the photos. Her name tag said Dr. Chris Owens.
“The police tell me your dog’s a hero,” Dr. Owens said.
No one had ever called Buster that before, much less anything nice.
“How’s he doing?” I asked.
“He regained consciousness a short while ago, but is still groggy,” Dr. Owens said. “He seems to be all right, but I’m concerned about his skull. I don’t think it’s cracked, but I won’t know for certain until I run a series of X-rays.”
I’d been to enough emergency clinics to know how they operated.
“How much are we talking about?” I asked.
Dr. Owens worked up the cost on a pocket calculator, and showed me the figure. Three hundred and twenty bucks for a lousy pound mutt.
“Run the X-rays,” I said.
“I’ll need you to sign a form agreeing to the procedure,” Dr. Owens said.
I removed the money from my wallet, and stuffed it into her hand.
“Right now,” I said.
“He’s a special dog, isn’t he?” she asked.
No one had ever called Buster that before, either.
Dr. Owens returned to the examination room holding a handful of X-rays, which she held up to the overhead light for me to see. “Your dog has suffered a mild concussion. It could have been worse, but he’s got a thick skull.”
“Can I take him home?” I asked.
“I don’t see why not.”
I followed her down the hall to the X-ray room, where Buster lay on a table. His eyes were at half-mast, and I saw his tiny tail wag.
“You need to keep him quiet for a few days,” Dr. Owens said. “I know that’s hard with an Aussie, but you don’t want him running around. I’m giving you some pain pills. Give him two every four hours until they run out.”
I carried out Buster with his cold nose pressed against my neck. The waiting area was filled with people with ailing pets, and a woman stroking a Siamese cat spoke to me.
“Is it true what the receptionist said about your dog?” the woman asked.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“That he helped the police catch that horrible serial killer Jed Grimes?”
I hadn’t mentioned Jed’s name to the receptionist, and I wondered how the woman had made the connection. Then I spied a TV in the corner of the room. Whitley was on, and was wearing fresh clothes, and had slicked back his hair. He was holding a press conference for the local media, and talking about Jed’s apprehension. People accused of crimes were supposed to be innocent until proven guilty, only Whitley was calling Jed a killer, and giving himself and his agents the credit for apprehending him.
I walked out of the clinic without replying.
CHAPTER FIFTY
I found Burrell standing in the clinic parking lot. She asked after my heroic dog.
“He’s going to be okay.”
“I’m glad. We need to talk,” she said.
Burrell offered to drive me home in my pickup, with a police cruiser following us. I agreed, and climbed into the passenger seat with Buster in my arms. He was coming around, and seemed to be enjoying all the attention I was giving him.
It was still raining like it was the end of the world. Burrell crawled through a tricky roundabout in the center of town, then turned her head to look at me. “You told me something the first day I came to work for you,” she