Sandy Steen - Meet Me In Texas

The dog’s soft brown eyes blinked once, then he sighed, as if to say, “Thanks. I trust you.”

“Okay, boy, I’m gonna help you, but you’ve gotta stay calm. Don’t try to get out. I need to find something—” Del probed the surrounding darkness with the spotlight “—to use for leverage. Something…” The circle of light fell on a stack of metal bars lying near the back fence. “Bingo.”

The square metal fence posts were tightly wired into bundles of ten. They were so heavily rusted, it took some effort to remove two of them. Del hurried back to the dog, hoping the posts weren’t rusted through. Squatting beside the pile, he set the light on the ground so he could use both hands.

“See,” he told the dog, whose tail had started thumping the instant he saw Del again. “Don’t worry, fella.” He gave the animal another reassuring stroke. “This is gonna work. Now, I have to touch your hip—” The dog winced, tried to lift his head. “Easy. I wouldn’t hurt you for the world, but I gotta get this pile stabilized so I can get you out, okay?”

The dog stared at him for a moment, then laid his head back down.

“Good boy. Okay now, hold real still, Lucky.”

As Del carefully worked the two bars under the telephone pole, an unexpected thought popped into his head. “You know what my friends at the bureau would say if they could see me now?” he said out loud. “Me, the guy that never owned a dog, a cat or even a plant, and here I am, my hands full of splinters and worried over the fate of a mutt that will probably bite me when I finally get him free, or run like hell without so much as a backward glance.”

Satisfied he had the metal bars wedged under the pole as securely as possible, Del rocked back on his heels. Despite the fact that the air was now cold enough to frost his breath, the exertion had him sweating. “They’d say I’m an idiot for talking to a dog. They’d say I was asking for trouble and a big vet bill for an animal I don’t even own. And they’d be right.”

The dog lifted his head again and Del had the strangest feeling the animal understood every word he was saying. “Now—” he rested his hand on Lucky’s head “—be very still.” Carefully, he eased the animal out from beneath the levered pole and lowered him onto the ground, away from the junk pile. The dog lifted his head, but didn’t try to stand. He was thin for his size, and probably dehydrated, Del suspected. “Well, Lucky, you’re out. Now we gotta get you to a doctor.”

And just where would he find a vet at—he checked his watch—eight o’clock on a Saturday night. Austin was bound to have an emergency animal clinic, but it was forty miles away. He pulled out his cell phone to call the police, but thought better of it. The last thing he needed was to announce his arrival and new business by way of a police report. The gossips would burn up the wires spreading that news. The only person in Crystal Creek he knew well enough to call was Sam Russell. Sam was a dentist, but he’d know where to go for help. Del called information for the phone number then dialed.

“It’s your quarter, start talking,” answered a youthful male voice.

“Excuse me?” Del heard a muffled command in the background.

“Russell residence,” the boy stated.

“Could I speak with Dr. Russell, please?”

“Yeah—” More muffled sounds. “Yes, sir, just a moment.”

The boy must be young Hank Russell, born the day his sister Allie had been safely returned to the family. Del grinned remembering his own teenage years when slang was the bane of his parents’ existence.

“This is Dr. Russell,” a more mature male voice announced. “Can I help you?”

The response was so automatic for Del that the words were out before he realized it. “This is Agent Rickman of the FBI—”

“Del Rickman! What a surprise. How are you?”

“Fine, thanks.”

“This is such a coincidence. Lynn and I were just talking about you one day last week, wondering how you were and where you were.”

“Actually, I’m in Crystal Creek, and—”

“You’re kidding! Well, great, we’d love to see you.”

“Yeah, I’d like that, too, but the main reason I’m calling is that I need your help. I found a dog under a pile of lumber and I need the name of a local vet right away.”

“I see,” Sam replied, all business now. “He’s hurt bad, then?”

“I think so. There’s a lot of blood.” Del stroked Lucky’s head while he talked.

“Okay. Hill Country Veterinary Clinic. Have you got a pencil for directions?”

“Just tell me. I’ll remember.”

Seconds later Sam ended his directions. “It’s a two-story redbrick building. You can’t miss it.”

“Thanks, Sam. I appreciate it.”

“No problem. Oh, by the way—”

Del didn’t hear the rest. He’d cut Sam off, but it couldn’t be helped. He had no idea how serious the dog’s injuries were. It might already be too late to save him, but Del had to try.

In less than fifteen minutes he’d wrapped the dog in an old moving blanket he kept in the metal tool-box mounted in the bed of his truck, carefully placed him on the front seat, and headed out of town following Sam’s directions.

It would have been hard to miss the spanking new, two-story redbrick building in most landscapes, but in an unusually scrubby patch of Texas Hill Country it stood out like a ruby among pebbles, even at night. Del wheeled into the almost empty parking lot and came to a halt. After picking up the now-listless dog, he headed for the clinic. The front door was locked, but he could see a woman in a white medical smock, possibly a receptionist or technician, behind the front desk some twenty or so feet from the entrance. He banged on the glass door and she motioned for him to press the “After Hours” button.

“Can I help you?” came a voice through the speaker.

“I’ve got an injured dog here, and I think he’s hurt pretty bad.”

“Just a moment, please.” The intercom went dead while he watched her punch another button and speak into that unit. A second later the lock clicked open.

Del shouldered his way through the glass door and headed straight for the reception desk and the young woman behind it.

“What seems to be the—” Abruptly, the receptionist stood up, her eyes wide.

“I found him under a pile of old wood,” Del said, gazing down at the almost unconscious animal. “He’s got a bad gash and I think he must have lost a lot of blood.”

When the woman didn’t respond, he glanced up to find her staring at him. And the bizarre thing was that for a split second he thought there was something vaguely familiar about her. He quickly dismissed the notion. In his line of work at the bureau, he was always examining facial features of people he just met, mentally comparing them to mug shots—a habit he would need to break. “Miss? Miss, did you hear me?”

“What? Oh, I’m sorry. Yes.” She pointed to the intercom. “I just called the doctor. He’ll be here in a second.”

Del frowned, nodded. Strange, the way the woman was staring at him, he thought. The rescued stray whimpered and he focused on the animal in his arms. Del nodded toward the counter. “Okay if I put him—”

“Oh, oh.” She blinked. “Of course.” She shoved a stack of pamphlets to one side. “You said you found him in a woodpile.” She reached for a clipboard holding a printed form. “How long had he been missing?”

“Don’t know. He’s not mine.”

At that moment, one side of a set of metal doors swung open and a man Del estimated to be in his mid to late thirties stepped through. He was wearing jeans and cowboy boots and sported a handlebar mustache. Although a white doctor’s coat covered his western-cut shirt, as he struggled to put on a pair of surgical gloves, he looked more like an old-time cowboy than a veterinarian. He walked straight to Del and the dog.