To Sketch a Thief

by Sharon Pape

  Although the basic elements of the story were true, Rory could tell by the furrow working between Zeke’s eyes that he wasn’t buying the total package she was selling. She decided that as long as he understood how courageously Hobo had acted, she’d accomplished what she’d set out to do. Zeke’s issues with the way she lived or conducted her business were academic. She had zero intention of changing them. At some point he would learn that he couldn’t whittle her into a shape that fit his idea of a proper woman. Of course, that might take a while, since he’d proven that change wasn’t easy for him. He’d been wrestling with death for over a century, yet here he was still managing to have a life of sorts from beyond the grave.

  He looked like he was about to start lecturing her, when Rory preempted him with an enthusiastic “Hey, guess who called less than ten minutes ago? Debbie from Dog’s World.” She steamrolled on before he could respond. “They have our puppy. We did it. I mean you did it. You found the right ad. Dog’s World is the one stealing the dogs.”

  She watched the conflict play out across Zeke’s face. He didn’t want to let go of the events at the Sugarman residence before he’d had his say, but neither could he ignore the excitement of their plan finally moving ahead.

  “Okay,” he said somewhat grudgingly, “when’s the delivery set for?”

  “Tomorrow at two. I’m going to get there early, though. I don’t want to take a chance on missing them.” Rory gave herself a quick pat on the back. Zeke had hooked into the Dog’s World news as she’d hoped he would.

  “Okay, so someone will deliver the dog to you,” he said, thinking out loud. “With any luck it’ll just be one guy.”

  “One guy who has no reason to expect trouble.”

  “Right. But he will be expectin’ payment, and I’m assumin’ you don’t have twelve hundred bucks in cash just sittin’ around.”

  “Not a problem,” Rory said. “As soon as he comes in with the dog I’m going to detain him and hold him until the police arrive.”

  Zeke ran his hand over the stubble on his chin, a gesture Rory had come to be wary of, since it was often the preamble to an argument. “I think you need a plan B,” he said. “You know, just in case the delivery guy takes exception to plan A.”

  “I’ve got my plan B loaded and ready for action.” She smiled. “It’s a good thing you suggested the upgrade when you did. The .45 will be perfect for the job.” She might have ducked the Larry issue, but there was already another debate staring her down. She was going to need every ounce of the marshal’s goodwill to win the coming battle with him over the sting. And this time it wouldn’t be as easy, since it involved his actions as well as hers.

  “Have you given any more thought to lettin’ me tag along?” Zeke asked, effectively firing the first shot across her bow.

  Rory had not only given it more thought, she’d weighed it down with an anchor and thrown it overboard to a deep, watery grave. Wondering if and when the marshal, or various parts of him, might make an appearance would only distract her and put her in more jeopardy.

  “I could stay out of sight unless you need me,” Zeke pressed on, anticipating her objection.

  “You don’t have enough control of the process yet,” she said. If she’d had any hatches, this would have been the time to batten them down.

  “Maybe not.” Zeke’s tone had grown testy. “But I’ll bet it’s good enough to save your neck again.”

  “Let’s not be so dramatic. I’m perfectly capable of saving my own neck if it comes to that.”

  “Is that how Hobo sees it?”

  Rory had known that by expounding on the dog’s help, she would leave herself open to that sort of remark. It was a trade-off she’d been willing to make. She didn’t even bother with a reply, since she didn’t have a good one. She’d let him have this round.

  Zeke vanished from his seat, muttering something unintelligible under his breath. He popped up a moment later near the door to the backyard. Rory had taken to leaving it open, with just the storm door closed to keep out the cold, whenever Hobo was outside. That way she could easily check on him. She’d become a lot more vigilant in the wake of the last threatening letter.

  She waited to see what Zeke’s next move would be. Since he hadn’t disappeared, she assumed he had more to say on the subject. But she wasn’t expecting what came next.

  “Rory, you need to get out there,” he shouted. “Right now!”

  The marshal knew better than to bark orders at her, so it was immediately clear that there was a serious problem outside, a problem that most likely involved Hobo. She flew past Zeke and out the door without bothering to grab a coat. Hobo was near the gate that opened to the side yard. His whole torso was chugging back and forth as if it were in the grips of an alien being. As she ran to him, he started vomiting violently, spewing up chunks of undigested raw beef along with mucus and blood. Rory didn’t know what to do for him. She tried to soothe him, to rub his back. He didn’t even seem to realize she was there.

  When there was nothing left in his belly, he kept on retching, bloody spittle hanging from his jowls. Then he staggered a few steps before collapsing onto his side. His breathing was noisy and labored, each respiration an enormous effort. She had to get him to a vet and fast. As she was trying to work out the logistics of lifting a ninety-pound dog off the ground and carrying him to her car, Zeke appeared beside her, looking a whole lot more solid than she felt.

  “Get the car goin’,” he said.

  Rory ran into the house to get the keys. Ten seconds later she was opening the rear door of the car. She looked toward the side gate and what she saw wasn’t possible. Hobo was still lying on his side, but he was floating toward her, hovering several inches above Zeke’s outstretched arms. She could see the strain on Zeke in his tightly clenched jaw and in the blood vessels standing out along his neck. By the time he’d reached the car, his lower body had vanished. Hobo lay perfectly still, a sculpture of a dog. His eyes were barely open, the thin inner lid all that was visible. If he knew how close he was to the marshal or how he was being transported, he was too ill to care.

  Rory jumped into the car and started the engine while Zeke maneuvered Hobo onto the backseat. A moment later the marshal disappeared. Rory knew the effort had cost him dearly. She had no idea how long it would take him to recuperate, how long it would be before she’d be able to thank him properly. Then Hobo moaned pitifully from the backseat, wiping every other thought from her mind.

  She drove through the winding side streets as fast as she dared. When she reached Jericho Turnpike she tramped down on the accelerator, praying she wouldn’t attract the attention of the police. Right then she decided that if that should happen she wouldn’t stop. They could chase her all the way to the vet and arrest her there if that suited them.

  “Oh my God,” she cried aloud. “What am I doing?” She’d automatically headed for Stanley Holbrook’s office, because he was the only vet she knew in the area. But what if he was the person who’d sent the threatening letters? The person who’d arranged for Hobo to be poisoned? Well, she had no choice. There was no time to call around and get another recommendation, no time even to look in a phone book and locate another vet. It would be okay, she told herself. After all, Holbrook had a reputation to maintain. She’d insist on staying with Hobo, and she’d watch every move Holbrook made. It was one thing to pay someone to poison a dog miles away, quite another to fail to help an animal brought to his office. If his aim had been to scare her into dropping the investigation, she’d convince him that he’d succeeded. Of course, she could be getting ahead of herself. Holbrook might not even be the guilty party.

  She pulled into the parking lot and took the last open spot. Promising Hobo she’d be right back, she ran into the office. There was a woman already speaking to the receptionist, but this wasn’t the time for waiting her turn or other social amenities.

  “I need help—my dog is dying,” she blurted out. “I think he was poisoned. He’s in the c
ar, but I need help to get him in here. Please.”

  The receptionist pressed a button and called for the veterinary aide, stat. A man in the waiting room asked the woman sitting next to him to hold his dog’s leash. He hurried to offer Rory his help as the aide came running from the back. Together they raced out the door to Rory’s car.

  Even before they opened the back door, they could hear Hobo’s tortured breathing. He’s still alive, Rory told herself. At least he’s still alive. She was close to tears as she watched them struggle to get the dog’s limp body out of the car. She hated feeling so helpless, but there was no room for another person in such tight quarters.

  Hobo looked like a big, furry rag doll when they finally pulled him out. As they rushed him inside, the aide told Rory to stay in the waiting room, but she made it clear she was going wherever Hobo went. She followed them into an empty exam room, where they laid him gently on the steel table. Holbrook walked in a moment later.

  He nodded briefly at Rory, no flashy fluorescent smile this time. He put his stethoscope to his ears and frowned as he listened to Hobo’s heart and lungs. He palpated the dog’s abdomen and looked in his mouth. Rory watched him as if he were a jewel thief browsing in Tiffany’s. Holbrook sent the aide for oxygen, and after he’d fitted the mask to Hobo’s snout, he asked her what symptoms the dog had exhibited before falling unconscious.

  Rory recited everything she could remember, which wasn’t difficult. The horrible scene was indelibly etched into her brain.

  “Could be a number of things,” Holbrook said, shaking his head, “but if I had to pick one, I’d pick cyanide—his trouble breathing, the way he collapsed. For that matter it could have been a poison cocktail.”

  “What are his odds?” Rory asked, afraid to hear the answer, but unwilling to hide from it.

  “I’m not going to sugarcoat this,” he said. “You have a very sick dog here. The good news is that he seems to have vomited up most of the poisoned meat. The bad news is that some of the poison clearly made it into his bloodstream. I’m going to get an IV started to hydrate him. We have a doctor who’s on the premises overnight, so we’ll be able to monitor him closely and deal with any complications that might arise. If Hobo makes it to the morning, I’d say he’s got a pretty good shot.”

  “I’m going to stay with him,” Rory said in a tone that dared anyone to argue with her.

  Holbrook started to do just that until he caught the look in her eyes. “We don’t permit that as a general rule, but given the circumstances we’ll try to accommodate you. I’m afraid the most we can offer you is a chair.”

  “That’s fine,” Rory said, thinking that would be far more comfortable than walking the floors back home.

  They transported Hobo by gurney to a critical care room with Rory one step behind. The aide shaved the lower part of his left front leg, after which Holbrook ran an IV. Rory kept watch, trying to stay out of their way and willing Hobo to open his eyes and wag his tail as if this were all some strange misunderstanding. But the dog remained chillingly still.

  “Any idea who might be to blame for this?” the vet asked, stepping back from Hobo once he’d adjusted the rate the IV fluid was flowing into him.

  “Someone who wants me to stop investigating the dognappings,” Rory said bluntly.

  Holbrook wagged his head. “It’s one hell of a convincing argument. Personally, I wouldn’t be able to pursue the case if something like this happened to one of my animals.”

  And that’s exactly what the thieves are hoping for, she thought. Still, it was hard to tell if Holbrook was speaking from honest sentiment or just trying to protect his sideline. Too bad life wasn’t more like TV, where the guilty party breaks down and confesses and all the loose ends are tied up by the end of a sixty-minute episode.

  “Believe me, I’m done with this case,” she said, going for the Emmy. “Tina can have her retainer back. Nothing’s worth causing Hobo to suffer like this, or worse, losing him altogether.” The tears that sprang into her eyes were as real as they come.

  Holbrook pulled a tissue from a box on the counter and held it out to her. She’d won his vote. “There’s coffee in the small kitchen we have in the back,” he said. “And the deli down the block delivers until eight p.m. I’ll be in to check on Hobo between my other patients, and I’ll introduce you to Dr. Rosen when she gets here for the night shift. Meanwhile I’ll get a chair in here for you.”

  Rory nodded and thanked him. Without proof that he was involved in the poisoning, she had no choice but to keep up the pretense of civility.

  “Now, we’re going to have to put Hobo into a crate for his own safety,” Holbrook said, with a “here’s where I draw the line” firmness. “And it doesn’t matter that you’re going to be right by his side,” he added as Rory started to object. “We can’t take the chance that he might move suddenly and fall off the gurney.” He motioned to the aide, who wheeled over a large steel cage that had been standing in a back corner of the room. The cage was on high legs that brought it up to waist height.

  The two men maneuvered Hobo off the gurney and onto the soft palette in the crate and then closed the door. Hobo was still unconscious, but his breathing had become more peaceful.

  After Holbrook left, the aide brought in a padded desk chair for Rory. She pushed the chair up against Hobo’s crate and sat down. She was weary to the bone, but wired with adrenaline. She reached through the bars to put her hand over Hobo’s paw and settled in for a long night’s vigil.

  Chapter 28

  Rory awoke with a start. It took her a moment to remember where she was. Her neck was stiff and her lower back ached like a bad molar, but her spirits soared when she realized it was Hobo pushing against her hand with his oxygen-clad muzzle that had roused her.

  He was still lying on his side, but his eyes were open and when she smiled at him he rewarded her with a thump of his tail. The tears she’d managed to control until then flooded her eyes and spilled down her cheeks from sheer relief. As she scratched behind his ears, one of the spots he loved best, she told him how happy she was to see him awake and how sorry she was to have been the cause of so much misery. After a few minutes, she tore herself away to find Dr. Rosen and give her the good news.

  When Rory opened the door and peered into the corridor, she found it empty. The building was eerily quiet. She glanced at her watch and saw that it was barely dawn. Too early for appointments or for the regular staff to be in yet. Before she could start searching for Dr. Rosen, she saw the vet turn into the corridor from the direction of the kitchen, a steaming mug in her hand. She picked up her pace when she saw Rory standing there.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, trying to keep the hot liquid from slopping out of the mug as she hurried toward her.

  “He’s awake.” Rory practically sang the words. “He even wagged his tail.”

  The vet’s expression changed from concern to guarded happiness. When she reached Rory, she handed her the mug.

  “Untouched,” she said, as she went straight to Hobo’s crate. “You’re welcome to it if you don’t mind milk and sugar. I’ll get more later.” She opened the door to the crate and smiled when Hobo wagged his tail for her. Rory was aglow with pride, like a proud parent whose child has shown signs of genius.

  The vet listened to his lungs and gently explored his abdomen with her fingers. Then she took the oxygen mask off his snout and turned to Rory. “I think we’re out of the woods,” she said.

  “Thank goodness. When can I take him home?”

  “We should watch him for another couple of days. With a possible cyanide poisoning we need to check his blood regularly so we can monitor his organs. If he has no setbacks, we can talk about discharging him.”

  Rory was running through her options as she listened to the vet. She could ask her aunt and her parents to take turns staying there to guard Hobo during the day so that she’d be able to keep her appointment for the delivery of the puppy. And if she got in a nap and filled her tan
k with some industrial-strength coffee, she should be able to make it through another night shift.

  After a couple of phone calls, Helene and her folks were on board. She had to be discreet when explaining why Hobo needed to be watched around the clock in a place that was supposedly doing just that. Helene was twice as happy with the assignment once she heard the undercover aspects of it.

  “I won’t even leave his side to go to the bathroom. I’ll stop taking fluids right now.”

  Rory tried to convince her that dehydration wasn’t a good idea and that it might land her in an adjoining crate.

  An hour later her mother arrived for the first shift. When Dr. Holbrook balked at the idea of a continuing presence by the McCain clan, Rory had an explanation ready. She told him that since Hobo had saved her life, she and her family felt this was the least they could do in his time of need. Holbrook’s expression told her that he thought they were all crazy, but he didn’t say so. He just shook his head and reminded her they’d have to stay in the room with Hobo and out of the way.

  Rory left for home, hoping more than ever that Holbrook wasn’t involved in the dognappings. Finding another vet who’d accommodate an emotional, possibly irrational owner might not be easy.

  The first thing Rory did when she arrived home from the vet was to take a long, hot shower. Then she crawled into bed for a nap. The puppy wasn’t going to be delivered until two in the afternoon, but she set her alarm, afraid that she might oversleep. She couldn’t remember having ever been quite so tired before. Zeke didn’t put in an appearance, which was fine with her. No doubt he was still recharging from providing Hobo’s transportation to the car. She owed him a huge thank-you, but that would have to wait until they were both in better shape.