Virals tb-1

by Kathy Reichs

  I wondered why Hi kept poking the powers that be in the eye. Civil disobedience was out of character for him. Factoring in Ruth Stolowitski, his rebellion was downright astonishing.

  When asked, Hi simply claimed to be the “Fresh Prince of Bolton Prep.” To each his own.

  Gripping a half-eaten meatball sub in one hand, Hi flipped through my printouts with the other.

  “Good idea, finding a proper gown.” Typical Hi sarcasm. “The Prom Queen has to look sharp. Vera Wang, perhaps? Or maybe something in a Lauren Conrad?”

  “Thanks,” I responded dryly. “You’ll still be my date, right? Or will you have a playoff game that night? I’ll understand; we need our star quarterback on the field.”

  “I’ll let you know,” Hi replied breezily. “I may be dining with Kristen Stewart. Or Bill Compton. Some vampire, I’m not sure which.”

  Despite the ribbing, I was glad to see Hi. We had identical schedules and spent most lunches together. Joking with someone about being cool was more fun than being unpopular alone. Safer too.

  Hi skimmed a few of my pages. “This doesn’t sound great,” he noted, less jocular than before.

  He was right. Coop faced an uphill battle.

  Hi read a bit more, then put the papers down. “Have you found any good news?”

  “Not much,” I admitted, referring to my notepad. “Canine parvovirus is the most widespread infectious disease in dogs. The worst, too. Puppies are at highest risk. Vaccines exist, but living wild on Loggerhead, the pack was never inoculated.”

  Hi plopped into a chair. “Of course not.” Chomping on his hero, he nodded for me to continue.

  “The most common form of parvovirus is intestinal, known as enteritis.” I skimmed as I spoke. “Coop’s symptoms suggest that’s what he’s got. Loss of appetite, lethargy, vomiting, diarrhea, and fever.”

  “How does the little bugger work?” Garbled through meatballs, cheese, and marinara.

  “The virus invades the lining of a dog’s small intestine, preventing absorption of nutrients into the bloodstream. Also, look here.” I pulled up a veterinary website. “Enteritis lowers a dog’s white blood cell count. As the animal weakens, the virus tears through its digestive system, opening the way for secondary infections.”

  I paused before adding my least favorite part. “Some sites place the mortality rate from untreated parvo as high as 80 percent.”

  Neither of us spoke for a moment. Not much to say, really.

  “How’d Coop get parvo in the first place?” Hi’s tone reflected the anger I felt.

  “My question exactly.”

  I’d gone over it a dozen times. I didn’t want to trust my gut. Karsten wouldn’t have infected Coop intentionally, would he?

  Shelving that thought, I continued. “We need to be careful. The most dangerous thing about parvo is how easily it spreads. The virus can survive on stuff like bedding or cages for up to six months. We need to bleach everything. Our clothes, shoes, anything that contacts Coop.”

  “Does the germ go airborne?” Now Hi sounded anxious.

  “No. Parvo spreads through direct contact with dog feces.”

  “Great. A dog poop bug. Just what we need.” The rest of Hi’s sandwich sailed into the trash. I’d lost my appetite as well.

  “On that note, I’m gone.” Hi pushed to his feet. “I didn’t study for the Spanish quiz.” He sauntered out whistling the South Park theme.

  “Remind Shelton we’re meeting after school.” Bolton Prep had two lunch periods; Shelton and Ben ate later. “We still need to track down our soldier.”

  I hadn’t forgotten about F. Heaton. I hoped an after-school trip to the public library would solve the case. Ben could cover Coop while Hi, Shelton, and I investigated.

  Without turning, Hi gave a thumbs-up. He’d pass the word.

  I ran a mental check of our sick ward setup. We needed to bleach all of Coop’s things and every spot where he vomited or pooped. Pretty much anything he contacted, even our hands, clothes, and shoes.

  After Coop recovered—and he would recover—we’d scrub the whole bunker, top to bottom.

  Nursing Coop wasn’t going to be easy. The experts were unanimous: dogs suspected of contracting parvo should be taken to a veterinary hospital for immediate in-patient treatment. Unfortunately that wasn’t an option. Unless we wanted jail time.

  So, contrary to web advice, I hunted for home-care tips. Initial treatment seemed to be geared toward keeping the dog hydrated and preventing secondary infections. I was thankful for our pilfered medical supplies. With the IV bags and antibiotics, we were nearly as capable as a vet.

  Every site recommended encouraging the dog to eat, though most advised against solids at first. Some suggested a cooked hamburger-rice mixture once the patient could keep food down. I decided to try the recipe that night.

  Our game plan had to work. It was the best we could do.

  Tears threatened as I thought of Coop’s chances.

  Stop. You won’t be that girl crying in the library.

  I gathered my printouts and shoved them in my backpack.

  While closing the web browser, a thought struck: Coop was half-wolf. How would parvo affect a wolfdog? Would being partly feral change his diagnosis?

  My fingers flew over the keys. Five minutes of searching killed any optimism I might have felt. Parvo was equally deadly for wolves and wolfdogs. Coop’s mixed heritage changed zilch.

  Disheartened, I pulled up images of wolfdog puppies. The playful little rascals put a smile on my face in no time.

  Which is how they snuck up on me.

  CHAPTER 17

  “What’s with the doggy show?” The voice was inches from my ear. “Is this why you skipped the party?”

  Twice! Never sit with your back to the door!

  I remained eyes-forward until my voice-recognition software identified the speaker. A huge pit opened for business in my stomach.

  I turned.

  Jason Taylor crouched behind me, examining the web page I’d been viewing. He wore the standard Bolton male regalia: griffin-crested navy sport coat, striped “power” tie, blue button-down shirt, tan slacks, loafers. Everything neatly ironed, tucked, knotted, creased, and polished. And right side out.

  Fast as a synapse, I closed Firefox. Too late.

  “Seriously, Tory, you should spend less time ogling pooches and more time rocking the boat. In this case, literally.”

  My mouth opened but nothing came out. What was he talking about?

  “The yacht party, Victoria.” The corners of Jason’s eyes crinkled. “Saturday? Text message? Ring any bells?”

  Of course.

  One day, I won’t be so dense. Please?

  “Sorry, I’m a bit spacey right now. Thanks for the invite.” I tried for witty. “Did you manage to stay afloat?”

  “I guess. It wasn’t that sweet, actually. You didn’t miss much.” Then, mock-stern, waggling a finger. “But you still should’ve come.”

  “The marina’s a bit of a hike for me.”

  “I know. How’s Gilligan’s Isle these days?” Jason dropped into the seat recently vacated by Hi.

  Jason’s style tended toward flippant. I reminded myself he was one of the nice guys.

  “A nonstop thrill ride,” I said. “How’s Mount Pleasant?”

  “Same old.”

  The Taylor clan inhabited a house in Old Village, one of the classiest neighborhoods in the pricey burb. The estate had a private dock directly accessing Charleston Harbor. Not too shabby.

  Pointing at the screen, Jason changed the subject. “Why the wolfdog photo album? Wait. First, what’s a wolfdog?”

  Nice job, genius. Not a “criminal mastermind” move.

  Had reporters already broken the story of an island wolfdognapping? I had no idea. Yet, there I was, browsing wolfdog images on a public computer.

  Dumb. Unlike Jason, who could put two and two together.

  “Oh, nothing.” I sounded way too casual.
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  Get it together!

  “Honestly, I don’t know what that was,” I lied. “I’m looking for information on wolves. For an English paper.”

  Pure babble. My improv sucks.

  Jason lost interest. “Too bad it’s not for bio. We could’ve worked together.” A mischievous grin.

  Uh-oh.

  Though Jason was a sophomore, we had AP biology together. I’d been assigned to his workgroup my first day. Being a freshman in an upper level course was no picnic. Lucky for me, Hi and Ben were also in the class.

  In some ways, Jason was my most important ally at Bolton Prep. He seemed to like me, and that kept some of the other jerks off my back. At least in his presence.

  But lately he’d taken a more direct interest. I wasn’t sure why, but the attention made me nervous. Jason was great, but he just didn’t do it for me.

  Now, his buddy Chance . . .

  Jason interrupted my thoughts. “What will you write about your four-legged friends? Growl poetry?”

  My search for a comeback was cut off by new arrivals.

  Ugh. Frying pan to fire.

  “Jason, are you coming?” Courtney Holt was blonde, skinny, and impossibly dumb. I was amazed she could even find the library. Courtney wore her cheerleading uniform, though no game was scheduled that day. Classic.

  Courtney wasn’t alone.

  “We’re going to scope out Madison’s new Beamer.” Ashley Bodford had a Prada bag draped over one tan arm. With her free hand she fussed her perfect black hair. “Her dad finally stopped being a jerk about grades.”

  Beside Ashley was Madison Dunkle, blonde only by diligent and expensive effort. I guessed Madison’s earrings cost more than my townhouse.

  The three formed an ongoing tableau of carefully manufactured perfection. I’d nicknamed them the Tripod of Skank.

  The Tripod smiled at Jason, my presence not registering on their limited gray cells.

  “Sure,” Jason said. “Madison hasn’t gotten a new car in, what, a semester?” Turning to me, he did the unthinkable. “Tory, want to come check out MD’s new ride?”

  The Tripod froze, expressions equal parts shock, distaste, and annoyance. Jason may as well have farted as invite me.

  Fighting the urge to crawl under the desk, I repeated my vow to keep my back protected at all times.

  Think quick.

  “Oh, no thanks. See . . .” I floundered. “I need to finish. Wolf stuff. I have to figure out where they sleep. And what they eat.”

  Silence.

  “For food,” I clarified.

  I closed my mouth. Rarely have I failed so spectacularly.

  The Tripod stared.

  “Wolves?” Courtney snickered. “Are you, like, one of those hippy chicks who lives in the woods and doesn’t shave?”

  “No, no, she lives on an island,” Ashley snorted. “Your dad’s a shrimp boat captain or something, right?”

  “Marine biologist,” I corrected, face red with embarrassment. “He works for CU.”

  Ignoring their scornful looks, I spoke directly to Jason. “Thanks, but I really need to finish up here.”

  “If you say so.” Jason leaned toward me and spoke behind one hand. “I don’t want go either.”

  “Come along, Jason.” Madison smiled sweetly. Mannequin fake. “The freshman has a project. We should give her space.”

  “Thanks,” I responded dumbly. “I like your shoes.”

  “Of course you do. They’re Ferragamo.”

  Ouch.

  Another unwelcome voice piped in.

  “It seems we’re all in the library.” Chance Claybourne’s amused Southern drawl was unmistakable. “Can someone please explain? I thought Maddy had a new auto to parade?”

  My heart pole-vaulted. With Chance present, I stood in the eye of Bolton’s social hurricane. With no storm doors.

  Chance wore the same uniform as the others. Most looked like little boys wearing daddy’s lame tie and jacket. Not Chance. Not even close.

  Darkly handsome, Chance Claybourne was night to Jason’s day. Black hair, expertly tussled. Deep brown eyes under curving brows. Captain of the lacrosse team, young Mr. Claybourne was built like a racehorse.

  In a word, Chance smoldered.

  The son of state senator and pharmaceutical magnate Hollis Claybourne, Chance was Bolton’s most connected student. Old-money Charleston aristocracy, the Claybournes had owned a Meeting Street mansion for over two centuries. Their ancestors numbered among the region’s mayors, governors, even a vice presidential candidate. Oh, yeah. The Claybournes were blue bloods squared.

  Chance’s own story was legendary. His mother, Sally Claybourne, died in childbirth, leaving her husband to raise their son alone. The term stern was too soft for Hollis. Rumor had it the old man rode Chance mercilessly.

  Most girls at Bolton heard only two words: sole heir. At his next birthday Chance would inherit the Claybourne family fortune. Almost eighteen, Chance was a rocket ship set to blast off.

  “Jason’s talking to the brainiac girl from the boats.” Courtney sounded way too eager to please. “Something about werewolves.”

  Sweet Lord.

  I was grateful for the arrival of Chance’s girlfriend, Hannah Wythe. Long auburn hair. Bright green eyes. A real stunner. Oddly, Hannah seemed unaware of her beauty. I liked that about her.

  Chance arm-wrapped Hannah’s waist, pulled her close, and kissed her cheek. All the while he eyed me, like a jogger sizing up a stray.

  Hannah was the most popular girl at Bolton. And, for once, the award was deserved. Southern sweet, she never bad-mouthed anyone. In class Hannah tended to stay on task, so we didn’t chat much, but she was always friendly.

  Hannah and Chance had been together for three years and were unmistakably Bolton’s royal couple. Their future was the subject of much gossip, with people laying bets on engagement dates.

  “My fault, Chance.” Jason, always the diplomat. “I was just saying hello. Tory has bio with Hannah and me. We’re in the same study group.”

  “Not to worry. I recall you invited Miss Tory last weekend, yes?”

  Jason nodded.

  Chance dipped into a bow, typical of his mock-formal style. “A pleasure, Tory. Sorry you couldn’t attend. Will you be joining us this afternoon?”

  The Tripod went rigidly silent. Nobody argued with Chance Claybourne. But their unfriendly eyes drilled lasers at me.

  “Thanks,” I replied. “But I’m swamped. Maybe next time?”

  “Next time?” Ashley sniped. “How late do the barges run?” Madison and Courtney snarked viciously.

  “That’s enough,” snapped Jason. “Quit being rude.”

  The spiteful smiles vanished. I knew later they’d cut me to pieces amongst themselves. Bitches.

  Chance frowned, but otherwise seemed indifferent. He glanced at his watch, clearly ready to leave. Hannah looked sympathetic, but remained silent.

  “Sorry about that, Tory.” Jason sounded sincere; I think he felt responsible. “See you in class tomorrow.”

  “Sure thing.” I flicked a wave. Lame. “Bye guys! Have fun.”

  Madison and her sidekicks moved off, not deigning to acknowledge an inferior. Chance and Hannah smiled as they left. In seconds I was alone.

  I put my head on the desk.

  The final bell couldn’t ring quickly enough.

  CHAPTER 18

  Three o’clock found me sitting on Bolton’s front steps, impatiently waiting for Hi and Shelton. As usual, they were late. Two granite lions kept me company, guarding the gothic stone building with hulking menace.

  I hummed, aimless. And tuneless. I’m tone deaf.

  The weather was pleasant, with clear skies and temperatures in the low eighties. The courtyard was abuzz with the song of sparrows and cardinals.

  Bolton’s landscapers toil year-round seeding, pruning, and sculpting the grounds into postcard-pretty settings. Paths meander through tree-speckled commons, rock gardens set with stone be
nches, and around a small pond. The place is visually stunning. Tuition-paying parents expect nothing less.

  The campus occupies a full block of Charleston’s southwestern waterfront, near the peninsula’s tip. Pricey turf. A ten-foot brick wall surrounds the school, complete with ornate cast-iron gates adorned with copper griffins.

  Broad Street cuts straight east behind campus, through the heart of old Charleston. It’s a short stroll to the Battery where decommissioned guns provide climbing opportunities for resident schoolchildren. The city’s grandest estates are right around the corner.

  Just north lie the city marinas. Yacht central. Moultrie Park and Colonial Lake are mere blocks away. Tucked in its corner, gazing across the bay toward James Island and Charleston Country Club, Bolton’s address can only be described as “premier.”

  The boys finally appeared, Hi pleading that he’d misplaced his iPhone. Whatever. Truth be told, I’d enjoyed my brief sojourn with the marble kitties.

  Given weather conditions, we decided on the scenic route. Broad Street.

  Charleston is one giant garden in spring, each block striving to outdo the next. Live oaks and oleanders overhang shady streets, their perfumes mixing with the scents of azaleas, begonias, and yellow jessamine. Flowering dogwoods and redbuds shade lawns and parkways. Colors and scents bombard from every angle.

  “I can’t get over these goofy houses,” I wisecracked as we walked.

  “Darlin’, don’t knock my city’s sense of style. ” Hi mimicked a deep drawl. “She has her own special flavor.”

  “Special flavor?” I exclaimed. “Who puts a house sideways?”

  Old Charleston homes are built long and narrow, with the short end parallel to the sidewalk. Street-facing doors open onto the side of long porches, called piazzas. Usually two to three stories high, most houses have multilayered balconies facing inward, overlooking a courtyard or garden.

  Locals say the architectural style emerged to save money, since property taxes were calculated based on street frontage. The more likely truth? The Lowcountry is hot. Southwest-facing houses capture harbor breezes, and piazzas protect windows from the scorching sun.

  Personally, I prefer the tax story.