David Morrell - The Totem

The medical examiner soaped his hands and scrubbed his face, scrubbed it until it hurt, and still he continued scrubbing. He peered at the blood that mingled with the soap upon his hands and dripped down toward the swirling water in the sink. He continued scrubbing. Then he grabbed a towel and scoured his face until the porous cloth was bloody.

"Rubbing alcohol!" he ordered, fumbling in the cabinet behind the mirror, but he couldn't find it. "Alcohol!" he shouted, and the man jerked open the door below the sink. They saw the bottle at the same time, and the medical examiner grabbed it, twisting off the cap, and splashing his nose, his lips. But he needed more. He leaned his face down sideways toward the sink. He poured. The hot sweet alcohol was flooding, burning. He snorted. Then the effort took its toll, and he sank onto his knees.

"My God, you're just as crazy as that dog out there," the man said.

"You don't know the half of it. Just wash your hands and face and gargle like I told you."

He slowly came to his feet. The man was at the sink, swabbing soap around his hands. The medical examiner cringed. Lord, I might need shots. Then he stumbled from the bathroom, down the hallway toward the kitchen. Out there, through the window, he saw the dog stretched out, the blood and foam around her mouth, slack-jawed, staring off at nothing.

That was all he needed. He groped from the kitchen toward the phone.

He had to concentrate to dial. The phone kept ringing on the other end. At last, an answering machine told him to leave a message. What's the matter with them? Saturday. He peered down at his watch. Of course. They're only open in the morning. They won't be there this late. He was flipping through the phone book. Vets. Vets. And then he had it, dialing.

This time someone answered. A woman.

"Dr. Owens," he blurted.

"Who's calling, please?"

"The medical examiner."

"I'm sorry. He's not in right now. Give me your number. He'll call you back."

The medical examiner felt his heartbeat stop.

"No, wait a second," she said. "He's just coming in the door."

Muffled voices. Bumps and echoes as the phone was being transferred.

"Dr. Owens here."

The medical examiner identified himself. "There's a dog I think has rabies."

The vet didn't speak for a moment. "Rabies? You're certain."

"No. I told you I just think that's what it is. The dog has got some kind of collar that sends shocks to stop her from barking. Hell, this could be heat exhaustion or distemper. I don't know. You'd better get over here."

"Don't touch her."

"Hey, don't worry."

"Slaughter called and said this might turn up. I hope it hasn't."

"Well, we'll know damn sure in a little while." The medical examiner saw the man come down the hallway. He asked for the address. Then he quickly told Owens, and he hung up, and the two men tried to keep their eyes away from one another. "Turn that television off."

"- Fifteen other steers have been discovered, disemboweled the same way. Local ranchers still are baffled, " the announcer finished saying.

"No. I changed my mind. I want to hear this." " Weatherwise, the weekend has been -"

"Turn it off."

The man went over, pressed a button, and the screen became blank, mercifully silent. The man shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "I don't know how to make this up to you. You want a beer?"

"I'd like a couple, but I can't right now." The medical examiner stared at his trembling hands.

"I didn't mean to hit you that hard. Hey, I'm really sorry."

"Just forget it."

They waited.

Thirteen minutes later, the van pulled up in front. It was white and dusty. animal associates, the red words said along the side. A young man got out, tall and trim. As the medical examiner hurried from the house toward the sunset-tinted street, the man yanked at the back doors of the van and leaned in to get something.

"You're the medical examiner?" the man asked, puzzled by the blood on his shirt.

"That's right."

"I'm sorry I took so long. I had to go down to the clinic for this van. I don't like taking chances."

He pulled out padded overalls, stepping into the legs, then tugging on the arms and drawing up the zipper. "Has it bitten anyone?"

"It licked its owner."

"I don't like that. What about your face?"

"The owner hit me."

"Broke your lip there?"

The medical examiner nodded.

"I don't like that either. Help me with this gear."

The vet brought out a padded helmet, its leather edges coming down around his shoulders. In the front, a wire grill kept the face protected, and the medical examiner helped the vet put on padded gloves.

"Tour name's Owens?"

"That's right. Help me with these shoe protectors. Where's the dog?"

"In the back."

"Well, let's get to it."

Owens grabbed his satchel, almost like a doctor's. As they turned, the medical examiner looked up to see the shirtless man on the porch.

"That's the owner?" Owens kept walking.

"If you want to call him that."

The man stepped off the porch. "Look, I had no way of understanding."

"Never mind that. Show me where the dog is." They reached a gate along the side, and Owens told them, "On second thought, you'd better not go in there." He shut the gate behind him, walking down along the side of the house.

"It's on a chain," the medical examiner said.

Owens peered around the corner. Then he straightened, walking slowly out of sight.

The medical examiner and the dog's owner frowned at one another. Without speaking, they crossed to the next yard and walked along the fence.

The medical examiner kept staring toward the corner of the house. He saw the backyard getting bigger as his line of sight improved, and then he saw a shadow. Then he stopped as he saw Owens standing by the dog. But he couldn't see the dog too well, and so he walked a few more feet, and he was gazing at the slack-jawed, bloody, froth-edged mouth, the blinking eyes, the heaving withers. 'Jesus."

"What are you guys doing?"

The gruff voice came from behind them, and the medical examiner turned to see a man in tennis clothes come out the back door, staring at them.

"Get your face back in the house," the owner of the dog said. "You're the cause of this."

"I beg your pardon?"

"This man's dog is sick," the medical examiner explained.

"Yes, I know it is. The damned thing won't stop barking."

The owner of the dog started toward his neighbor.

The medical examiner hurried to stop him. "Don't be foolish. You've got trouble as it is."

Behind them, he heard Owens saying, "What a mess," and they turned. "Whose idea was this collar anyhow?"

"The neighbors kept complaining."

"Hell, I ought to see you jailed for this." Owens set his bag down, reaching in to get a hypodermic, leaning close, preparing to slip the needle into the dog.

The dog bit his padded wrist, and Owens squirmed. "Take it easy, girl. What's the dog's name?"

"Irish."

"Take it easy, Irish."

But the dog kept its teeth clamped onto the padded wrist, and Owens had to slip the needle in with one hand while he squirmed to free the other.

Still, the dog would not release the wrist. Owens had to crouch there, waiting. In a minute, though, he tugged his wrist free, standing, watching as the dog's head settled onto the ground, its eyes closed, motionless.

"Christ, you killed her."

"Just as well as far as I'm concerned," the neighbor said on the steps behind them.

The owner of the dog again started toward him.

"I didn't kill her," Owens said, "although I'll likely have to."

The owner didn't know which man to turn to. "Is it rabies?"

"Rabies? What the hell?" the neighbor said on the steps behind them.