When the Wind Blows - James Patterson [5]
Then I clamped off the cord, filled a syringe, and euthanatized the doe. It was fast. She never knew the moment she passed from life into death.
There was one can of goat’s milk in the fridge. I filled a bottle and popped it into the microwave for a few seconds to warm.
I removed the oxygen mask and slipped the nipple into the baby deer’s mouth, and it began to suck. The fawn was really beautiful, with the gentlest brown eyes. God, I love what I do sometimes.
Father and daughter were huddled close together on my antique daybed when I came out into the waiting room.
I handed the fawn to Angie.
“Congratulations,” I said, “it’s a girl.”
I walked the family of three out to their creased and dented 4x4. I gave them the can of goat’s milk, my phone number, and waved good-bye. I briefly considered the irony that the fawn was riding home in the same vehicle that had killed its mother.
Then I was thinking of a steaming hot bath, a cool glass of Chardonnay, maybe a baked potato with Wisconsin Cheddar—life’s little rewards. I was feeling kind of proud of myself. I hadn’t felt that way for a long time, not since David’s death changed just about everything in my life.
I was about to go inside when I realized that there was a car in the lot, a shiny black Jeep Cherokee.
The door opened and a man slowly got out. Headlights hit him from behind and for a moment he was haloed in light.
He was tall, slender, but muscular, with lots of blond hair. His eyes quickly took in the place. The big porch deck festooned with hummingbird feeders and a couple of wind socks. My trusty-dusty mountain bike. Wildflowers everywhere—mountain lupine, daisies, Indian paintbrush.
Now this part is more than a little weird. I’d never seen him before. But my limbic brain, a dumb little organ so primitive it bypasses logical thought, locked on to his image and stayed there. I stared at him, and I felt a rush of something akin to recognition. And my heart, which has been stone-dead for the past few years, sputtered, caught, and jumped into life for at least a couple of seconds. That kind of ticked me off, actually.
I figured that whoever he was, the mystery man was lost.
“We’re closed for the night,” I said.
He stared at me, unapologetic about the intrusion into my front yard.
Then he called me by name.
“Dr. O’Neill?”
“Does she owe you money?” I said. It was an old Comedy Store line, but I liked it. Besides, I needed a passable joke after the euthanasia of the doe.
He smiled, and his light blue eyes brightened, and I found that I couldn’t look away from them. “Are you Frances O’Neill?”
“Yeah. It’s Frannie, though.”
I took in a face that was cool yet had a touch of warmth. The directness of his eyes sort of nailed me to the spot. He had a fine nose, a strong chin. His features held together too damned well. A dash of Tom Cruise, maybe even a little Harrison Ford. Something like that, or so it seemed that night in the bloom of the Jeep’s headlights.
He brushed off his slouchy hat, and a lot of sandy-blond hair shifted and gleamed. Then he was standing in front of me, all six two of him, like a glossy photo from an L. L. Bean catalog, or maybe Eddie Bauer’s. Very serious-looking, though.
“I’ve come from Hollander and Cowell.”
“You’re a real estate broker?” I croaked.
“Did I catch you at a bad time?” he asked. “Sorry.” At least he was polite.
“What makes you think that?” I asked. I was all too aware that my jeans were soaked in blood. My sweatshirt looked like a Jackson Pollock painting.
“I’d hate to see the guy who lost the fight,” he said, surveying my appearance. “Or do you dabble in witchcraft?”
“Some people call it veterinary medicine,” I said. “So, what’s this about? Why did Hollander and Cowell send you at this time of night?”
He hooked a thumb toward Bear Bluff