David Morrell - The Totem

"I don't know yet," Owens said. "I'll need to get the dog to the clinic and run some tests." He pointed toward the bowls of food and water by the back door. "This dog's chain is too short. She couldn't reach her water. She could just be vicious from the heat. What the hell is wrong with you?"

No one spoke then, only stared at where the owner looked around, then glanced down at the grass. "I thought the bowls were close enough. I guess I wasn't thinking. I've had problems."

"Sure, his wife moved out last week," the neighbor said. "She couldn't stand him."

The owner suddenly began to sob. When the medical examiner avoided looking at him, he saw Owens fumbling with his thick gloves to release the chain hooked to the collar. Owens tugged to free the chain from where the dog was tangled in it. Twisting, pushing at the dog, he had the chain at last unhooked. Then he peered down at the mangled back leg, shook his head, and stooped to pick the dog up.

Still the medical examiner could hear the owner sobbing. "Let's get you inside. You've had a lot of things go wrong today."

He tried to ease the owner along the fence. The owner shoved his hand away and stared as Owens straightened with the dog.

The dog was large and heavy. Owens stumbled with the weight. The owner hurried along the fence and opened the gate to let him through.

The medical examiner frowned at the neighbor.

"Well, I didn't mean to make him cry," the neighbor said. "How was I to know?"

The medical examiner gestured with contempt, walking away.

"At least, the dog quit barking," the neighbor said.

Furious, the medical examiner kept walking. He joined Owens and the dog's owner at the van, where the owner obeyed instructions and stepped inside to spread a plastic sheet on the floor of a cage. Then he got out, and Owens set the dog in, making sure to lock the cage.

The owner wiped at his tears.

"I'll handle it from here. You'd better go back in the house," Owens said.

"I'm coming with you."

"No, I've got a lot of tests to run. I'll phone you," Owens said. 'You'd be in the way."

"I promise."

"Sorry." Owens glanced at the medical examiner, then started walking toward the backyard. "I left my bag behind the house."

As Owens disappeared, the medical examiner told the owner, "Well, you heard him."

"This is my dog. I'm responsible."

"You should have thought of that before." And then, "I'm sorry. I didn't have to say that. Even so, he's right. There's nothing you can do. Just go back in the house. We'll call you."

"Hell, it's Saturday."

The medical examiner was puzzled.

"I'm all alone."

There was nothing the medical examiner could think to say. He turned as Owens came across the lawn, carrying his bag.

Owens peered in the van toward the dog and shook his head. "Even with that plastic sheet, I'm going to have to disinfect the van. I'm going to have to burn these clothes and get a new bag. What a mess."

"Well, maybe you won't have to. It could be this is something else."

"You wouldn't care to bet on that."

The medical examiner just shook his head.

"I thought not. Let's get moving. Do you need a ride?"

"My car is through those trees in back."

"I'll see you at the office then." Owens shut the rear doors.

Walking with him, looking in the front, the medical examiner was not surprised to see the plastic sheet that Owens had spread out where he was sitting.

"Hey, I think we ought to bring this man along." The medical examiner gestured toward the owner who was staring at the back doors of the van.

"Oh, that's just fine. That's really fine." Owens tried to keep his voice low. "Look, I did my best to play it down. I have to kill the dog to do the final tests. You want this man along to see that?"

There wasn't any need to answer.

"Fine then. I'll be at the clinic." Owens turned the key and got the engine going. Then he sighed and shook his head in disgust before he put the van in gear and drove away.

Dunlap stared down at his trembling hands. Everything considered, he was doing very well, he guessed. Oh, sure, he'd started shaking, and his stomach felt like he was going to throw up, but he hadn't thrown up, and although he was sweating, that was maybe from the heat as much as anything. Who's kidding who? The sun is almost down. The air is cooling off. You're sweating for a drink, and buddy, do you need one. There were times when he suspected he would scream. That's just dramatics, he told himself. You were looking for a story. Now you've got it. He was not yet certain what was going on here. Rabies, maybe. Could be something more. Whatever, it was getting out of hand, and if he screwed this story up the way he'd screwed up many others, simply out of weakness, there was no one he could blame except himself. You'll get your drink. Just keep control.

This thing tonight is almost finished.

Is it? Maybe it's just getting started. And he shook his head and gripped the dashboard as the cruiser swerved sharply around the corner, skidding past the swimming pool and up the tree-lined gravel driveway.

He watched as Slaughter grabbed the microphone. "It's Slaughter, Marge. I'm almost there. Make sure you send those other units. What about the ambulance?"

"It's on its way."

"I hope so."

Dunlap focused his gaze down past the trees and toward the park spread out below him-the lake, a stream that twisted toward it, swings and slides, and cages that looked like a zoo, and people down there staring toward the siren. When he glanced ahead, the road curved, and abruptly he could see beyond the trees up to the hilltop, a wide three-story mansion up there, the last rays of the sunset glinting off the windows. The place was old, expensive, of a size that nobody could afford to build these days, the driveway curving past the front porch, columns with a roof above the driveway, like a Southern mansion, showing signs of age though, dark and rough and grainy, somehow very western all the same. He saw the cruiser that had hurried here before them, and another car, civilian, and two officers who stood at the front door, talking to somebody in there.

Slaughter skidded to a stop. Dust cloud settling, Dunlap got quickly out, Slaughter putting on his hat and hurrying before him through the dusk. They reached the front steps. These were stone, and both men rushed up, their footsteps scratching on the stone. The two policemen had already turned to them.

"He's up there on the second level," one of them said.

"Or the third. You're sure he's even up there?" Slaughter asked.

"Talk to these people."

A man was slumped inside the doorway, his shirt and suit a mass of blood, his throat ripped open, his hands clutched at his wound.

"The ambulance," a woman blurted.

"On its way. You're sure he's up there?" Slaughter asked.

"Mr. Cody-this is Mr. Cody-said the boy ran up the stairs as I stopped in the driveway."

"That's your car?"

She nodded.

"Better move it. There'll be a lot of traffic coming up here."

Even as he said that, they turned toward a cruiser speeding up the driveway. Just behind it, siren wailing, came the ambulance.

"Can you walk?"

The man nodded, struggling weakly to get off the floor.

"Here, let me help you. I don't want you in the way if something happens." Slaughter turned to face the two policemen. "Watch those stairs. Make sure the boy doesn't get away." Slaughter held the man and worked with him across the stone porch, then down the steps. Two attendants ran from the ambulance, policemen from the other cruiser running with them.

"Is there any place to get down from the second story?" Slaughter asked the woman who was helping him to move the man out of danger.