He reached for her hand, the first time he’d ever shook it. Her grip was firmer than that of most men.
“I trust,” she said, “that you’ll keep our little talk confidential?”
“Of course. But one thing you should know. Jack and I will handle it. You can count on it.”
THIRTY-NINE
Dieter sat in the living room after the kids had gone to bed. He’d heard the news about the death of a hiker in the Park, but the coverage was confusing. It appeared to have been a Grizzly attack and was under investigation. He’d told the kids nothing about the plane incident, hoping that Michael would not connect with it at school either. The mishap had been a close call. If Amy had flown a few feet lower, it could’ve been all over for both of them. That thought made him aware once again: there were no godparents for his kids.
Molly and the Judge came to mind, but so did their age. He had a good friend back in Bucks County, Dale McGregor. He’d graduated from high school with Dale, even roomed with him at Penn State when they were freshmen. They’d remained friends over the years. He was an investment banker, but the last time they’d talked he was on his second marriage and gave the impression that one wasn’t a thrill ride either. He’d put off thinking about the kids for too long. Tomorrow he needed to talk with Molly. See where she stood on the matter.
A copy of Veterinary Quarterly lay opened in his lap and Rusty was sleeping on the throw rug by his side. He looked down at Rusty and called to him. Abruptly awakened, the dog plunked his paws on his master’s leg to get a head rub. Dieter stood and flipped on a Phil Collins CD. While mouthing the words to One More Night, he picked up the TV remote and clicked through the channels. He searched for anything—an old M*A*S*H re-run, a decent movie. Finally he hit the off button and walked into the kitchen. He stopped to stare into the sink at the pile of dirty glassware and dishes.
How many days had those been there? He rinsed a plate and bent down to place it in the dishwasher when something through the window over the sink caught his eye— a fleeting shadow in the distance. He pressed his midriff against the edge of the sink and leaned closer to the window. A three-quarter moon lit up the night.
Perhaps he was too jumpy lately. He opened the cabinet under the sink and grabbed a flashlight, then rushed to the closet and rummaged behind the coats until he found the baseball bat. When he slid open the glass door onto the deck, the only sound was a symphony of tree frogs. Rusty rushed into the backyard clearing while Dieter squeezed the handle of the bat and scanned the woods. Something darted among the trees. Rusty barked and ran toward it.
“Come back, Rusty!” he called out as he followed the dog. Bat in hand, he came upon the path he’d taken many times when walking Rusty and taking the kids on a hike. The dog had disappeared; he had never taken off like that before.
Rusty’s unmistakable barking arose again, fifty yards or so ahead. Dieter jogged deeper into the woods, moving off the path toward the bark. He pushed aside tree branches and ran through knee-high grass as tree limbs and thorn bushes scratched his face and arms. He paused to catch his breath.
Rusty was gone. He knew the dog would likely make his way back home, but he couldn’t be sure. How would he ever explain this to the kids? It was stupid to let the dog out when something strange was around.
A bark came from the distance, followed by a yelp. Then another bark… growling… a shriek. Bellowing Rusty’s name, he sprinted in the direction of the gut-wrenching sounds as briars tore at his shirt and neck.
His flashlight caught two glowing eyes that grew brighter when he approached. Rusty lay half-buried in a deep thicket by a scrub oak—blood covered his shoulders and belly. Dieter rubbed his hands through the soft coat until he located puncture wounds and abrasions near the throat and upper back. He stripped off his shirt and wrapped it around Rusty’s neck and shoulder, tying it firmly to stop the bleeding.
The dog’s eyes were open, but his breathing had stopped. Dieter placed his fingertips against the chest near the sternum and picked up a feint heartbeat. He quickly opened Rusty’s mouth and pulled his tongue and jaw forward. Closing the dog’s mouth again, he cupped his hands over the nose and gently blew into it, twisting his head to watch Rusty’s chest rise and fall.
An eternity passed until Rusty began to breathe on his own. Dieter then cuddled all sixty pounds of fur and muscle in his arms and headed for what was his best guess as the direction of the cabin. Everything from that moment on was a blur. He acted only on instinct as he ran, occasionally stopping to lay Rusty down in the weeds and stretch his aching arms. When he finally found the familiar path, he jogged without stopping until he reached the cabin. He carefully placed Rusty upon the woven throw rug on the living room floor and grabbed a clean shirt from the bedroom closet.
After he awakened Michael and Megan, they gathered around their pet. Tears filled Michael’s eyes while Megan bawled as Dieter explained that Rusty was attacked by some kind of wild animal, but he would make Rusty okay again. That was a promise. They’d have to come along with him in their pajamas to the clinic. No time to change.
Thank God Amy was at her bungalow in town. After receiving the startling call, she was waiting for them when they arrived at Dieter’s clinic. Michael and Megan huddled with her in the reception area as Dieter prepared Rusty for surgery. He hung a bag of Ringer’s on a stand beside the table and adjusted the drip, then injected a morphine epidural followed by a brachial plexus nerve block. Palpable hematomas had formed beneath the skin, so he stuck a catheter into a vein then carefully shoved the intubation tube down the trachea and connected the dog to the anesthesia circuit.
After Rusty went under, he cut away the blood-soaked shirt he’d wrapped around him. Puncture wounds on the scalp penetrated into the skull and throat—possibly only the tip of an iceberg of damage. He clipped the fur from around the neck and flushed the wound with sterile saline and surgical scrub. As he sewed up the deep lacerations, he kept palpitating the area. With a sigh of relief, he could find no severed muscles or tendons. Someone on High had to have been looking out for Rusty.
The surgery lasted thirty-five minutes. Afterwards, all stood watching Rusty as he lay sleeping on the table. Packed red cells hung from a clear plastic bag above him and flowed into a vein. A clean bandage was around his neck; his breathing, rapid and shallow. Dieter had no idea how much blood the dog had lost, but it would take at least twenty-four hours to see if he had a fighting chance.
Dieter placed both arms around Michael and Megan and reassured them again that their dog was going to be okay. If it turned out he was wrong, he’d deal with it then, but he couldn’t bring himself to leaving any doubts in their minds. Right or wrong, there was no way he was going there.
After the kids reluctantly agreed to return home, Dieter gave them another extended hug while Amy gently squeezed his shoulder. When they were gone, he pulled up two chairs beside the table for a makeshift bed and lay down, trying to remember how long it had been since he’d prayed.
FORTY
The next morning Amy had to knock twice before Dieter made it to the back door of the clinic. She thrust in his face a large coffee and fast-food bag with the aroma of breakfast as she made her way to Rusty’s cage. An antibiotic dripped from an IV into a vein in the dog’s front leg. She leaned down and stuck two fingers through the wire and wiggled them as she whispered to the dog. Rusty didn’t move, but his eyes lit up as he quietly whined. She straightened up and wiped at her eyes.
“Did you get any sleep last night?” she asked.