The air smelled familiarly of antiseptic and the aroma of healing dogs.
“Hi, Rudy,” she crooned to the Jack Russell terrier she had been treating for a leg injury he’d gotten on a mad dash through a neighbor’s yard. “Was that you I heard barking? How are you feeling?” The small, wiry terrier stood on three legs, holding his left front paw up piteously as he wriggled for attention. A soft, flexible recovery collar was fitted over his head to prevent him from chewing at his injury. Melanie opened the front of his cage and extracted the active pup, hugging him tightly as she checked to ensure his dressing was intact.
Putting him back with more soothing words, she looked in on her other patients: a shepherd mix named Wrangler who’d had surgery for a hernia, a Great Dane named Diva from whom Melanie had extracted two tumors that fortunately looked benign—although a lab report would confirm it—and Sherman, a medium-sized dog of unknown heritage who was being boarded for a few days while his owners were out of town. She spoke cheerfully to each and gave them pats and hugs, not wanting anyone to feel slighted.
“Time for me to go home,” she finally said, hanging her lab jacket on a hook near the door. “See you all in the morning.”
She kept the light on low as she headed down the hall to the clinic’s entrance. The reception area’s mini-blinds were closed as usual at this late hour. She checked her purse to ensure she had the keys, then slowly opened the door. Not that she really expected to be shot at, but she still felt a little nervous after the earlier disruption.
The veterinary clinic was at the end of Choptank Lane, the last of several streets perpendicular to Mary Glen Road, the town’s main thoroughfare. Melanie’s house was next door. The two buildings were the only ones on this block, although there were a couple of antique shops on the next one, closer to the town’s business district. Usually, the isolation was comforting to Melanie.
Not tonight.
She made sure the clinic’s door was locked behind her and stood listening for a moment. In the light from the moon and streetlamps, her gaze darted around the quiet dead-end street.
Darn, that noise had spooked her.
Assuring herself that everything seemed fine, she started down the sidewalk toward her house, her footsteps nearly silent in her athletic shoes. The spring air felt brisk on her face.
But…was someone watching her? No, that had to be her imagination, sparked by nervousness. Still, she picked up her pace.
And stopped when she heard a soft sound behind her, like a dog’s whimper.
Nervous or not, she turned back, hunting for the sound’s source. An animal in trouble?
She spotted a furry heap in the opposite gutter, in shadows, not far from where the next block began. She hadn’t noticed the animal at first while concentrating on the direction toward her home.
She hurried toward it as she heard the whimper again. She dropped on her knees beside the barely moving dog.
“What’s wrong, fella?” she asked soothingly. The answer was obvious, thanks to the trail of dark, oozing liquid leading up to animal. Blood. As if he had dragged himself here and collapsed.
The dog lifted its head slightly. He lay on his side, panting.
“You poor thing. Hold on.” Despite the faintness of the light, she scanned the dog with professional eyes.
The loud noise…Had someone shot this dog? This grayish dog that dared to resemble a wolf.
Damn the legends around here! And damn the people who’d come seeking creatures that didn’t exist except in their own perverted imaginations.
Could she lift him? She was strong, but this poor creature would be a deadweight.
“I’ll be right back,” she promised. She extracted keys from her purse as she ran back to the clinic. She fumbled as she opened the door, then sped down the hall to the storeroom where she kept large bags of food for pets with special needs.
She grabbed a metal cart used to transfer sacks from outside delivery points to the storage area and shoved it ahead of her. It rattled and creaked as she hurried back down the hall. The dogs in the infirmary renewed their clamorous barking.
Melanie hurried across the street and maneuvered the injured animal onto the cart’s large lower shelf. Speed was important, but she didn’t want to hurt the poor thing any more than necessary. She carefully pushed the cart around her driveway, rather than over the curb, up the walkway and over the stoop into the clinic.
She hustled the cart toward the operating room.
Once there, she had difficulty lifting the hurt dog onto the table but somehow managed it, even handling him gingerly, knowing that injured canines were apt to bite. She quickly sedated the creature, but not before it looked at her—trustingly, she thought—with unusual amber eyes.
“You’ll be okay,” she promised, hoping it was so.
Soon, the dog was asleep. He had no collar, no identification. No matter. She would help him, even if he had no owner to pay her fees.
Melanie wished this were daytime, when her technicians were available to help prepare the animal for surgery. But at this hour, in this emergency situation, she was on her own.
With an antiseptic wash, she cleansed the area where she thought the injury to be. Yes, there it was—just behind his left shoulder. She used an electric razor to shave the bloody gray-black fur from around the skin to reveal a hole. A bullet hole. And no exit wound.
Quickly, carefully, she performed the required surgery. Not that she had ever removed a bullet before. But she had operated extensively on injured animals.
When she was finished, she sutured the incision and maneuvered the dog onto the sterile bedding she had placed in a stand-alone wire crate with an open top, preparing to watch him until he awakened.
She shook her head. “Lunatic,” she said aloud accusingly, as if the guilty party could hear her. “Credulous, cruel fool.”
Mary Glen was full of tourists these days, those enamored with local legends.
Werewolf legends.
Using tweezers, Melanie held up the piece of metal she had removed from her patient.
She had no doubt what it was: a silver bullet.
He still watched from the woods, wishing he could draw closer, stare inside the lighted building. See what was happening inside.
But being seen, especially now, was a bad idea.
Had he acted in time? He had done his best, under extreme circumstances. Was it good enough?
This was a time he could do no more. And now he would have to wait.
Only in the morning would he learn if he had been successful.
If his friend would live.
Melanie stirred in her chair.
Chair? She must have fallen asleep somehow in the operating room. Slept sitting up, in the vinylupholstered metal seat she had dragged in so she could rest while observing her patient. No wonder she felt so stiff.
She opened her eyes. They felt gritty until they landed on the crate on the floor between the operating table and her. And then they widened easily as she smiled.
The faint light of dawn, creeping in the window across the room, illuminated the dog she had treated last night. He was sitting up on the bleached, sterile towels she had put inside the metal crate for his comfort. As with nearly all animals she operated on, she had attached a large post-surgical recovery collar around his neck, framing his face, so he could not chew on his sutures. If he left the wound alone, she would remove it.
He watched her with bright amber eyes. Intelligent eyes. He seemed to thank her.
She