by Russ Colson
Stan drummed his fingers, chewing on his moustache under his surgical mask. The scalpel had embedded itself in the grout between two tiles on the far wall. A slightly stronger shock could have been deadly.
He grabbed the microchip scanner and charged out into the prep area. Felix, Barbara Martindale’s grey Maine Coon, reached out of his kennel, meowing pathetically. “Hi, Felix,” Stan said, disposing of his gloves. “Can I borrow you for a minute?”
Stan dragged the enormous cat down to the prep table and scanned his spine. Sure enough, the scanner instantly beeped and displayed a chip code.
“Thank you,” Stan said, scratching Felix behind the ears and putting him back in the kennel. Stan pulled off his surgical mask, letting the faint odor of cleanser into his nostrils. Why did Gary Lombardi’s now-dead dog not have a microchip? All cyborg surveillance dogs were required to have a microchip. The code they put out looked just like any other I.D. code to anyone who didn’t know such creatures existed—anyone who wasn’t a licensed D.V.M. or a Federal agent—but warned any veterinarian not to perform surgery. There should have been a microchip, to prevent exactly what just happened from happening.
Stan took the scanner into the lobby. The display out there had examples of chips from all the major manufacturers. One by one, he scanned each of them. Each one registered on his scanner without a problem. Jonathan, working the reception desk, watched curiously through his Bieber-mop. Fred—the big, orange office donor cat—rubbed against Stan’s ankles and purred.
The bell over the front door jingled. Two men in blue suits—one tall with a round face, the other squat with a square jaw—entered, both fishing into their inside jacket pockets.
“The two of you, in my operating room, now!” Stan barked at the newcomers. He pivoted and marched up the short hallway between the exam rooms, swept into the O.R., and pivoted. The two men stopped just inside the door and looked down at the dead dog. The tall one shook his head. “All right,” Stan said, “now show me your badges.”
Both men produced FBI badges. The tall one was Smith, the squat one was Everhardt.
“Now,” Stan said sharply, “which one of you would like to explain to me why that surveillance dog that wasn’t microchipped? She died, and I nearly electrocuted myself.”
Smith and Everhardt looked at each other.
“I could have been killed!” Stan barked. “What if I had been doing thyroid surgery? As it is, I’ve got a tech who saw a lot more than she should have, and by the way, you get to explain this to her. Now, before I pick up the phone and sic my lawyers on you, why the hell wasn’t that dog microchipped?”
“You know whose dog that is?” Everhardt asked.
“Yes!” Stan yelled. The dog had been found at the compound of the Church of Gaiacardia outside of town, and had taken a shine to the leader of the church, Gary Lombardi.
“And you’re a Gaiacardian?” Everhardt asked.
“So?”
The implication suddenly dawned on Stan.
“You had Gary under surveillance? And you figured that if I scanned the dog and saw the microchip...”
Everhardt and Smith just looked at each other again.
“To hell with that,” Stan said. “Do you have any idea how dangerous it is to cut into a surveillance dog? Not to mention that it kills the dog!”
“You wouldn’t have been the first Gaiacardian to put the church ahead of the law,” Everhardt said.
Stan kicked a cabinet. “This is so... typical! The Church of Gaiacardia isn’t dangerous to anyone! But, no! Naturally, any new religion gets treated like it’s a terrorist sleeper cell or something.”
Everhardt folded his arms. “Please calm down, Dr. Majewski.”
Stan rounded on him instead. “So what’s your plan, now? I cut into that dog. It died. I have to tell Gary what happened.”
“We have another dog on the way,” Smith said.
The air went out of Stan’s lungs. “What?”
Everhardt arched an eyebrow.
“I can’t just say, ‘Hi, Gary, sorry that dog you adore so much is dead now, but here’s another one,’” Stan said. “‘Don’t do any surgery on this one, by the way.’”
“It’ll be the same dog,” Everhardt said.
From what Stan had learned about surveillance dogs, they all began as normal dogs. Instead of being put down in animal shelters, the NSA took a certain number of them and surgically implanted electronics into them, and sometimes shared them with other agencies. Classified technology allowed them to be used as walking camcorders. But no two dogs were exactly alike.
“Even if you have one that looks exactly like this one, it won’t be the same dog. An owner can tell.”
“I think you give Mr. Lombardi too much credit,” Everhardt said.
Stan stormed past the two special agents. They both trotted after him.
Terri had closed the door to exam room 2. She jumped as Stan barged in, almost falling out of the plastic chair. “Terri,” he said, “these two gentlemen are going to explain what happened in the O.R.”
Smith and Everhardt skidded to a stop on either side of Stan. Smith stammered briefly.
Everhardt finally spoke up. “There was a freak discharge of static electricity,” Everhardt said. “It’s unusual for a charge that substantial to build up, but everything’s fine now.”
“How did static electricity kill a dog?” Terri asked.
“Who said the dog died?” Everhardt said, as Smith looked at him with doe eyes.
“That dog was dead when I left the room,” Terri said.
“How do you know that?” Everhardt pressed.
“I’m the surgical tech. I can tell the difference between a living dog and a dead dog.”
Stan suppressed a smile.
“Did you see Dr. Majewski attempt to resuscitate it?” Everhardt asked.
“No,” Terri said. “He was doubled over in pain.”
“Well, after you left the room, he was able to resuscitate it,” Everhardt said.
Smith’s expression grew even more incredulous. Stan rubbed his hand on his face.
“I’m sorry,” Terri said, “but who exactly are you?”
Everhardt snapped his fingers twice and waved his hand at Smith. “We’d like you to sign this paperwork,” Everhardt said.
Smith fished a folded bunch of legal-size papers out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Terri. Stan recognized it as the non-disclosure agreement they’d forced on him just after his license to practice veterinary medicine was approved.
“What is it?” Terri asked.
“Basic N.D.A.,” Everhardt said. “We just need you to sign at the bottom here.”
“Of course,” Terri said. “As soon as my lawyer’s gone over it with me.”
“Your what?” Everhardt said.
Stan laughed. “You may not give us Gaiacardians much credit, but we do know when to consult a lawyer.”
Everhardt harumphed.
“Is there anyone who works here who isn’t a Gaiacardian?” Smith asked.
“The cleaning crew,” Stan answered.
Out in the reception area, the front door jingled. A faint, female voice said, “I’m sorry it took me so long. Is Special Agent Everhardt here?”
“We’re in Room 2!” Stan yelled. Jonathan directed the newcomer to the room.
The door opened and a round, middle-aged woman with overly teased blond hair stood there. She struggled to show her NSA badge as she wrestled with the grey-and-brown terrier in her arms. Its brown was at least two shades darker than the tan of Gary’s dog. The markings didn’t match at all. And it was a good five pounds heavier than Gary’s.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Stan said.
“No, it’ll work,” Everhardt said. “We’ll shave it down, and you’ll tell Lombardi that its fur was matted. Then, as it grows back, you’ll mention that bitches’ coloring can change as they reach full adulthood.”
“And their entire personality changes af
ter they’ve been spayed, I assume,” Stan said.
“That is not Gary’s dog,” Terri said.
“You sign that,” Everhardt told her, pointing to the N.D.A.
“I’m not signing anything,” Terri said.
“You’ve got to sign it,” Everhardt said.
“Let my lawyer tell me that,” Terri said, grabbing the telephone extension. Smith dove for the wall unit and held down the hook switch.
Jonathan appeared behind the woman in the doorway. “Problem?”
“No!” Everhardt and Smith barked simultaneously.
Jonathan looked directly at Stan. “Don’t worry,” Stan said.
Everhardt turned to Stan. “Your other option, Dr. Majewski, is to tell Lombardi that you’re not smart enough to spay a dog without killing it.”
Stan exhaled sharply. “They didn’t exactly send their first-stringers, did they? I have an ethical obligation to give my client an accurate cause of death for his companion animal,” Stan said.
“Come on,” Everhardt siad, “Not even a Gaiacardian would believe that.”
“Can we refrain from taking shots at my religion?” Stan asked.
“Why?” Everhardt asked. “How many Gaiacardians does it take to change a light bulb?”
Stan ignored him. “How about I just show my client his dog’s body?”
“We’ll be taking possession of that,” Everhardt said.
“You can’t do that if he wants the body returned to him, unless you’re going to serve a warrant on him. The dog is his property. He can choose how to dispose of her remains.”
“Wait,” Smith said. “How many Gaiacardians does it take to change a light bulb?”
Everhardt smirked. “Why would we change it when we just spent two weeks shooting it out?”
Smith laughed. “See, I thought you were going to say, ‘Eighteen, all humming in unison with the heartbeat of the Earth.’”
“Actually, it’s just one,” Terri said, her voice dripping with acid, “but you have to wait for the government to let him out of jail first.”
“Enough!” Stan barked. “Terri, bag up the body of Gary’s dog to return to him.”
Everhardt pointed Terri to stay in the chair. “That dog is property of the U.S. government.”
“Which the U.S. government gave up when it abandoned its property in our church’s compound,” Stan said.
“That’ll never hold up in court,” Everhardt said.
“Oh, should I call our lawyers and try?” Stan said.
Everhardt glared, his face reddening, his nostrils flaring.
Stan stared him down.
“Um,” the blond woman in the door said, “so, should I go get this one shaved down?”
¤
Five hours later the little veterinary clinic had turned into a mobile FBI field office. Black sedans and blue vans filled the parking lot with no regard for the painted lines. Terri and Jonathan were in custody in the back room, both refusing to speak or to sign anything without talking to their lawyers first. Stan sat in his own waiting room, absentmindedly scratching Fred the cat’s ears. Fred kept shoving his oversized rear-end into Stan’s face. Everhardt and Smith commanded the pandemonium from behind the reception desk. Every so often Smith answered a phone call, and then looked flummoxed when the person on the other end inquired about their pet’s health.
Both Smith and Everhardt looked surprised when Gary Lombardi’s assistant pulled into the parking lot at precisely 4:15 PM, the scheduled pickup time for Gary’s dead dog. Stan hadn’t bothered to warn them that clients normally just show up to pick up their pets following routine procedures.
The red roadster had to back up a few times before finding a way to maneuver into a space. Everhardt appeared to parse what was happening first. “What’s the name of Lombardi’s assistant?” he demanded of Stan.
“Leroy,” Stan answered.
“Leroy what?”
“McGraw.”
Out in the parking lot, Leroy unfolded his lanky form from behind the wheel. He gawked at all the strange cars for a moment before meandering toward the door. Gary Lombardi had become head of the Church of Gaiacardia because he was the original Grand Guru’s assistant and had kept things running smoothly during the Grand Guru’s imprisonment on bogus embezzlement charges. Every time Stan looked at Leroy, he wondered if he was looking at the next leader of the church. Leroy seemed an unlikely choice, but so had Gary.
The door jingled open. Leroy hadn’t even entered when he started speaking. “What in the name of—”
“Mr. MrGraw,” Everhardt interrupted, flashing his badge, “please come in and have a seat. Everything is fine here, but it will be a few minutes before your dog is ready to be picked up.”
Leroy looked at Stan.
“And Dr. Majewski isn’t at liberty to say anything,” Everhardt said.
Leroy’s eyes narrowed. “Can I ask what the problem is?”
“That’s between us and Dr. Majewski,” Everhardt said.
Leroy turned to Stan. “Have you called your lawyer?”
Stan just smiled a thin-lipped smile, obeying the tacit order not to speak to Leroy.
“He doesn’t need a lawyer,” Everhardt said. “He’s not in any trouble. We’re just gathering some information.”
Leroy nodded. He put his hands in his pockets and sank down onto one of the hard plastic chairs. For a long time he stared at Stan. Stan maintained his thin-lipped smile.
After several minutes, the NSA agent appeared from the back in a pair of Terri’s scrubs—which were at least two sizes too small—holding the freshly-shaved replacement dog. “Here you go,” she said to Leroy.
Leroy did a double-take. “Oh my God!” He stood up and stared at the replacement dog. “I would never have recognized you all shaved-down like that.”
The dog growled.
The NSA agent ran through a set of post-operative care instructions. Leroy nodded through all of them, including the ludicrous part about potential behavioral changes and changes in coloration as a result of the surgery. Then the agent handed the dog over.
“Oh my God, I swear you’re heavier, too,” Leroy said as he shifted to control the wriggling animal. “Are you sure this is the right dog?”
The agent laughed a little too heartily.
Leroy signed the papers.
Stan watched helplessly as Leroy left with the wrong dog.
“See?” Everhardt said. “Easy.”
Smith answered a phone call, and looked flummoxed. “Your dog ate a what?”
“Give me that! Are you trying to kill two dogs today?” Stan set Fred the cat aside and grabbed the phone. “This is Doctor Majewski. Can I help you?”
“Stan, it’s Leroy,” came a cell-phone-garbled voice from the other end of the line. “Do you think this line is clear?”
Stan struggled not to smile, turning away from Smith and Everhardt. Leroy had just shot up several points in his estimation. “It’s hard to say. Tell me what he got into.”
“Have you talked to the lawyers yet?” Leroy asked.
“No.”
“Do you want me to call them for you?”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell me what’s going on?”
“No.”
“What is it this time? Guns? Taxes? Not signing the right form in triplicate?”
“I’m really not sure.”
“How urgent is this?”
“Yes, I’d say it’s an emergency. Those are definitely toxic.” Stan glanced back at Smith. “But don’t bring your dog here, we’re short-staffed at the moment, go straight to the nearest emergency room. It’s definitely an emergency.”
Leroy hung up.
¤
The Department of Justice lawyers, based on Smith’s half of the telephone conversation, were still at least an hour away. But the church’s lawyers—three of them—had arrived and stood by the reception desk, briefcases in hand. Stan only knew one of them, Martin. Another, with silver hair
and an aquiline nose, had locked horns with Everhardt.
“Nobody is under arrest,” Everhardt said.
“Well, then, since they’re free to go, we’d like you to produce them,” the lawyer said.
“They can’t be seen yet,” Everhardt said.
“Then they’re being detained, and if they’re being detained, they have a right to counsel,” the lawyer said for the fifth time.
Fred the cat had long since fallen asleep in Stan’s lap. The sun had just begun to vanish over the roof of the grocery store across the parking lot. Stan’s rear-end was sore from sitting, and his face had begun to ache from keeping the stupid smile pinned to his cheeks all this time.
Martin broke from the rest of the lawyers and came over to sit beside Stan. He looked like he had been on the golf course before the call came in, dressed in casual slacks and a polo shirt. “So, what can you tell me, Stan?”
“Absolutely nothing,” Stan answered. “You have to ask the folks from the government over there.”
“Attorney-client privilege applies here,” Martin said.
“Actually, it doesn’t,” Stan said.
Martin cocked his head to the side. Everhardt seemed to be trying to eavesdrop. His responses to the head lawyer had developed a delay.
“You know that line in my veterinarian’s license agreement that says I will comply with all Department of Justice instructions or I will lose my license and face stiff criminal penalties?” Stan looked directly at Everhardt. “I know nothing about anything that’s going on here, even when talking to my lawyer.”
Martin’s eyes grew wide and he turned slightly red. He turned and spoke directly to Everhardt. “Do you mean to tell me that you’ve given instructions to my client that he can’t even speak to a lawyer without facing loss-of-license and criminal prosecution for doing so?”
Everhardt threw up both hands. “Once the lawyers arrive, we can sort this whole thing out.”
