Rachel Lee - Something Deadly

Well, she told herself, indulging in a silent lecture in order to avoid thinking about what was really happening, what did you expect from a mix of the two most independent breeds in the world? Not a lapdog, certainly. Wolves were wild animals that could be tamed just so far, and Siberian huskies were only one step removed on the genetic chain, bred to think for themselves, sense dangers a musher couldn’t see, and protect the sled and their teammates, even to the point of disregarding the musher’s commands.

The result: Markie Cross was stuck standing on a street in the middle of the night, like a ghoul waiting to pick over the bones, because her damn dog wouldn’t budge.

She tried again. “Kato. Bedtime.”

He huffed at her, that unmistakable sound of disgust. Not yet.

A gurney appeared in the doorway, bearing its load in a black rubber bag. Instinctively Markie crossed herself and said a quick prayer for Carter Shippey. Kato watched the gurney’s journey to the back of the ambulance, his gaze intent and unwavering. Then the ambulance door slammed, and the vehicle pulled away. No lights, no sirens, the silence speaking volumes.

Declan Quinn appeared at the door. He spoke to a couple of officers, his words too quiet to hear.

Then he spied Markie. For some reason, she didn’t like the way he walked toward her. It wasn’t the way he moved—with a supple, graceful ease—but rather the look on his face. He bore down on her as if…as if she were guilty of something.

Kato, however, chose this moment to assume his best “I’m a cute doggie” pose, lying down with his head between his paws and looking upward soulfully. She almost huffed back at him.

“Dr. Cross,” Declan said, extending a hand.

“Yes. And you’re Dr. Quinn.”

“That’s me. Not the medicine woman.” His mouth twisted into a roguish smile.

“I never would have made that mistake.” Impossibly, she felt herself smile back.

His smile evaporated as quickly as it had appeared. “Is there a reason you’re waiting out here? Did you have something you wanted to tell someone?”

This could get embarrassing, she thought. “Uh, no. I’m here because my dog dragged me here and won’t let me leave. He’s stubborn.”

Declan squatted and looked at Kato. “What’s his name?”

“Kato.”

“Hi, Kato.” Declan held his hand out, palm up. Kato lifted his head, sniffing the hand at a distance. His ears flattened back against his head.

“He’s part wolf,” Markie said. “He doesn’t make friends easily.”

“I can see that,” Declan said. “Should I be worried?”

“No. Putting his ears back is a submissive posture. It means he’s wary of your strength.”

He looked up. “Well, he has no need to be.”

He reached out and brushed his fingertips over Kato’s head. The dog accepted the touch, but Markie could see the tension in his haunches.

“Better to let him come to you,” she said quietly. “When he’s ready.”

Declan stood, and Kato rose to his feet, sniffed the air again, and made a low, mournful sound. Markie felt the hair on the back of her neck rise.

Declan seemed to sense something, too, and took a half step back. “Does he do that often?”

“Only when he’s trying to tell me something.”

Those brilliant blue eyes fixed on her. “What’s he trying to tell you?”

“I haven’t a clue. Did you hear the dogs barking earlier?”

“Sort of. I wasn’t really paying attention.”

“It was like every dog on the island was sounding off. After that, he got nervous, so I decided to bring him for a walk.”

“And you wound up here?”

“He dragged me here. And once we got here, he wouldn’t let me leave.”

Declan gave her a long look, as if measuring her truthfulness. Apparently satisfied, he squatted again. Kato sat and met the man stare for stare.

“What do you know, boy?” the doctor asked quietly. “Do you know something?”

The question chilled Markie. “It wasn’t a heart attack?”

Declan looked up at her. “I won’t know for sure until the autopsy.” The apparently straightforward statement seemed to Markie to be withholding something. As if there were more, but he wouldn’t discuss it.

Once again, he straightened. “Can I give the two of you a ride home?”

“That’s up to Kato.”

Declan took a step in the direction of his car. “Come on, Kato, time to go home.”

To Markie’s surprise, the dog followed.

“Make a liar of me,” Markie said under her breath.

Kato looked up at her and yawned.

Across town, a telephone rang. Tim Roth hit the pause button for the DVD player and picked up the cordless receiver at his elbow. “Yes?”

“Carter Shippey’s dead,” Steve Chase said.

“And?”

“There are cops all over the place.”

“So?”

“If they find the hole…”

“If they find the hole, it’ll mean nothing at all. It’s under his house.” Tim paused, his fingers drumming on the arm of his chair. “How did he die?”

“I’m told they think it’s a heart attack.”

“Those happen.”

“What if it wasn’t? What if she’s back?”

Tim sighed heavily. “That’s myth and local legend. Carter was aging, and not well. He’d been sedentary ever since he sold his fishing boat. Not a good recipe for longevity.”

“What about his wife?”

“Nothing’s changed. She thinks we’re looking for a leak in the water main.”

“All right. All right.”

“Relax,” said Tim. “We’re not doing anything illegal.”

“I know, but…”

Tim sighed again. “No buts. Send flowers to the widow Shippey, from the Senate. Express your deepest, most heartfelt condolences. Then get back to work.”

He hung up, shaking his head, and returned to his movie. Some people would panic over anything. They had no taste for life.

Or death.

At six the next morning, Declan stood outside the hospital morgue and waited for his assistant to show up.

Over the door was a beautifully scripted sign in black on red that said Rue Morgue. Beneath it was another sign, this one carved in natural wood: Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here.

He’d put the signs there eight months ago when he had first arrived on the island. He’d left his job as chief trauma surgeon at a large inner-city hospital to take a surgical post on an island paradise. By dint of his prior experience, he had also been appointed to the post of territorial Medical Examiner. He had one-and-a-half jobs, which, together, were a million times less stressful than his previous position. And nobody had ever complained about the mordant humor of the signs.

Nor should they, he thought. Hell, in addition to his surgical-cum-general practice, he was the only qualified pathologist on the island. The latter job was something he needed to grin and bear.

His assistant, a nurse named Hal Devlin, showed up at last, carrying two takeout coffees.

“Latte for you,” Hal said. “Cappuccino for me.”

Even in the middle of nowhere, Santz Martina boasted not one but two Starbucks. “Thanks, Hal.”

They stepped into the small anteroom together; then Declan unlocked his office. Hal followed him in.

The office was just big enough to hold a desk and bookshelves fully loaded with every imaginable up-to-date reference on pathology, autopsy and homicide investigation. Declan was the only one who ever opened most of them. The unsparing, graphic photographs were worse than Hollywood’s most vivid imaginings.

“What’s on the agenda today?” Hal wanted to know, flopping into the chair across from Declan’s desk.

“Male in his early sixties, sudden death. No obvious signs of foul play.”