Carolyn McSparren - The Money Man

A broad, gray-haired woman, in a pair of disreputable shorts and a shirt that said Kiss the Gardener, sat on her knees on the floor just inside the door cradling the body of a dog wrapped in a blanket. She sobbed, the dog whined pitiably. The blanket in which it was wrapped was bloodstained.

“George is still in the car, I couldn’t carry him. Please, please, they’re badly hurt.” She grabbed Sarah’s hand. “Don’t let them die!”

Sarah dropped to her knees and pulled the dog’s lips back. The dog made no attempt to bite at her, which in itself showed how close to shock she was. The gums were too pale. “Nancy! Ringer’s stat—push. And get out a couple of surgery packs and some Ketamine, in case we have to immobilize fast. Call Jack. Tell him to bring a couple of gurneys.”

The dog whined again. Mark said over her shoulder, “I can carry him to OR.”

Sarah shook her head. “Could do more harm than good. Go help get the other one in.” She began to touch the dog gently, expecting the terrier to turn on her. “What happened?”

“They’re never out of the yard! Never!” the woman sobbed. “This morning we had a new meter reader. He must have left the gate ajar.” She caressed the white fur beneath her hand. “I was planting azaleas, and then I heard these brakes screech and…” She broke down completely.

“Here you go, Doc,” Jack Renfro said.

Half an hour later, both dogs lay on surgical tables on either side of the small-animal operating theater. Mac Thorn worked on the large male dog, while Sarah worked on the female.

“She got a crack on the head,” Sarah said to Jack. “But the X rays say she doesn’t have any broken bones or skull fracture. Both her eyes look normal—pupils are the same size and responding. Not sure about internal bleeding, but if there was any, it seems to have stopped. We need to clean her up, stitch her up and watch her.” She worked steadily, confidently, and in silence except for an occasional instruction to Jack.

Mac Thorn, on the other hand, kept up a running stream of curses, demands and snarls, which didn’t seem to bother Nancy Mayfield a bit, but which occasionally made Sarah lift her head in astonishment. Sarah finished with her dog, left it to Jack to bed down in the ICU, and moved over to Mac while she pulled off her gloves. “Need a hand?”

“No, dammit! Blasted idiots! Let dogs run loose! Broken pelvis—have to pin it, blast it. People!”

Sarah was certain Nancy was grinning, but that was impossible to tell with her mask on. Sarah grinned back and got out of the way. She went to find the dogs’ owner.

Not in the waiting room. Odd. She walked back down the hall, and heard voices from Mark’s office. She pushed open the door. The owner of the dogs pushed herself out of the chair across from Mark’s desk.

“Are they going to be all right?” She clutched a cup of what appeared to be coffee.

“Mrs. Jepson needed someplace quiet to sit,” Mark said. “And something hot to drink.”

Sarah looked at him with new eyes. So he wasn’t a total dolt.

“Mrs. Jepson,” she said, “I’m Sarah Marsdon. What are the dogs’ names?”

“George and Marian.” Mrs. Jepson began to cry again.

“They’re beautiful bull terriers. And they’re tough little critters, you know.”

“Otherwise, General George Patton would never have kept one with him,” Mark said.

“Oh, you know that? That’s why my husband insisted we get one. George and Marian are our fourth and fifth.” She sniffed. “They’re the last pups my husband and I bought before he died.”

“Marian may have some internal trauma that hasn’t shown up yet, Mrs. Jepson, so we’ll be watching her very carefully. But I cleaned her cuts and stitched her up. I doubt she’ll even have scars, once the hair grows back.”

“And George? She’s never been without him. They were litter mates.”

“Dr. Thorn is the best surgeon there is,” Sarah said, although she had no way of knowing whether that was true. “He’ll talk to you himself…”

She stopped. That would not be a good idea. Dr. Mac Thorn’s bedside manner would probably involve blasting Mrs. Jepson for something that was only marginally her fault. “Tell you what, Mrs. Jepson. When I left, Dr. Thorn was saying that he could pin George’s hip and that there was every reason to believe he’d be all right.”

“Oh!” Mrs. Jepson began to cry again.

Mark stared at her helplessly, then handed her a pristine handkerchief.

“It’s going to be a long haul, probably physical therapy. You’re going to have your work cut out for you.”

“I don’t care! As long as I have George and Marian back safe and sound.”

She raised her head as a knock sounded on the door, and Nancy Mayfield stuck her head in. “Mrs. Jepson? Didn’t know where you were. We’re taking the male dog to Recovery now. If you’d like to see them for just a moment—”

“Oh, please!” Mrs. Jepson followed Nancy out, and Sarah sank into the chair that was still warm from her body.

“Hell of an introduction,” Mark said. “You want a cup of coffee, too?”

“In a minute. At the moment I simply want to sit.”

“Are they really going to be all right?”

“I have no idea. Looks good, but there’s always something that can go wrong.” She glared at Mark. “Now, about my equipment…”

“Whoa! Can we put this off until later? I’m late for a meeting downtown at Buchanan.”

“Are you avoiding me?”

“No. I’ll be here this evening after work. I promise we’ll talk then.” He went out the door before she could call him back.

“Fine,” Sarah said. “Tonight it is, Mr. Mark Scott. You can’t avoid me forever.”

MARK SPENT THE AFTERNOON at Buchanan Enterprises, putting out more fires. When he walked into the clinic late that afternoon he found the waiting room filled with sick pets whose owners had obviously held off until after work to bring them in for treatment. Despite the heavy-duty sound-deadening tiles on the ceiling and the upper third of the walls, Mark felt an instant kinship with Noah, who must have wished constantly for earplugs during that forty days and forty nights in the ark.

Alva Jean motioned to him while continuing to make ‘uh-huh’ noises to whoever was on the phone, which seemed to grow out of her ear. He pulled his electronic notebook from his breast pocket, keyed in “headset fr desk” and slid the device back into his pocket. That was the sort of simple change that wouldn’t cost more than a little petty cash and should make the receptionist’s job both easier and more efficient.

Alva Jean covered the mouthpiece and hissed, “Dr. Marsdon is looking for you.” She rolled her eyes to leave Mark in no doubt that Dr. Marsdon was not a happy camper.

He hadn’t expected her to be. Apparently, Mark was going to be dealing with Margot and Dr. Marsdon. He sighed. At least the good doctor was single, beautiful and sexy. He rather enjoyed the thought of mixing it up with her again.

He looked into the room next to his and found that the walls had been finished and painted. The paint odor still lingered, but otherwise the place was ready for storage shelving and file cabinets. Tomorrow morning he’d call and have the stuff delivered. He sighed with satisfaction.

Maybe things were coming together, after all. Lately he’d about given up hope.

He ducked into his office and shut the door. Then he shucked his jacket and hung it on the nail somebody had driven into the woodwork. An accident waiting to happen. He made another note: “hammer nails into walls.” And prayed that when he got around to checking his notes at midnight he’d have some inkling of what he’d meant.

He kneaded the muscles along the tops of his shoulders and slumped into the ratty desk chair. A normal day at Buchanan. Endless conference calls, endless meetings, a Chamber of Commerce luncheon with Coy, more meetings, work with engineers on HVAC bids for a bank headquarters in Charlotte that had come in high, a surprise visit from the INS about forged green cards on a job they were subcontracting in Little Rock. More telephone calls chasing down the general contractor in Little Rock. Protestations of innocence followed by arguments that the only decent drywall workers in the entire southeast were illegal Mexican laborers.