There's no catch! I will send you - free - a signed copy of Targets of Affection. All I ask is that after you've read it, you pass it along to someone else who loves mysteries, and loves to talk about their favorite books. Send me an email message with your name and address, and how you heard about the book, and I'll get it right out to you. Now: in case you're still not sure, may I introduce you to Shelby James ... Chapter 1 The metal door clicked shut a moment before I realized that my keys were still in my purse, hanging on the hook inside the clinic. I froze for a second, knuckles poised to knock, then thought better of it. I had my lunch, after all. I had my dog. Lazy late summer warmth strummed the air and I’d worked hard all morning. If they needed me, they knew where to find me. Good food is one of the joys of life, an attitude Spin shared with me whole-heartedly. I’m a veterinary technician, the animal world equivalent of a registered nurse, except rather less well compensated. Those of us who stay in this job for any length of time do it because they love working with animals, not because of the benefits. In fact, there are some definite drawbacks. We see a lot of interesting - some would say disgusting - things in my profession. People who work in animal hospitals have conversations at the dinner table that leave ordinary people pushing food greenly around their plates. Maggots like living rice jigging in an open wound. Swollen abscesses that squirt thick, custardy pus by the yellow cupful. Spaghetti-like roundworms clustered in piles of soft shit, limbs that look like hamburger. I go out for lunch whenever possible. That day I had a turkey sandwich on fresh whole-wheat bread with sliced plum tomatoes, butter lettuce and mayonnaise. I sat in the sunshine at the little table outside the back door of the clinic, tossing the occasional morsel at Spin, sitting hopefully at my feet. On one side, beyond the fence, I could hear the background noises of Poplar Bluff: light street traffic stopping and starting with the lights, now and then distant voices of people meeting on the sidewalk. On the other side, a group of cows grazed in the browning field, looking for all the world like a Robert Duncan painting. Above me stretched the prairie sky, bluer than any ocean, free of big-city smog, wide open with possibilities. I leaned back in my chair with my feet up on an orange crate kept specifically for the purpose, ate my sandwich and looked at the cows. Life was good. “Shelby, get in here!” Ryan’s voice startled the cows outside my lunchroom and a magpie that had been perched on the dumpster, eyeing my disappearing sandwich, screeched and flew away. Spin scrambled to his feet, watching me for direction, the black plume of his tail sweeping the air in anticipation of something exciting. I was done eating, and it wouldn’t have mattered anyway, if I hadn’t been. I heard the urgency in Ryan’s voice. So I brushed the crumbs off my scrubs, threw open the door, sent Spin to his bed in the corner and got back to work. “Hit by car, bystander brought it in.” Ryan Tierney was a good veterinarian and he was particularly good at trauma. Critical care scared a lot of practitioners, because trauma cases were highly stressful, requiring lightening-fast reflexes and the ability to work under pressure, both things that Ryan excelled in. His communication skills, however, usually suffered in the process. “Come on Shelby, what are you waiting for!” He barked at me and shoved an endotracheal tube into my hand, lifting the dog by his scruff as he did so. “Let’s get a tube in this guy before he checks out on us.” His throat was filled with blood and mucous and he was gasping as I searched blindly for the laryngeal rings that were my landmark. Suddenly the tip popped through and I pushed the tube into the trachea, and began bagging. Ryan grabbed his stethoscope, listened briefly to the smashed chest and began drawing up shock drugs. The dog was alive, but just. “Keep bagging him, and listen for changes in his rhythm. He could arrest any second.” “You want me to start an IV?” “Oh, sure, if you can do it with one hand. Shit, Shelby, just keep breathing for him! I’ll get the line in myself. I felt for a pulse with one hand while I pumped the rebreathing bag, and found a weak one in the femoral artery, where his hind legs attached to his body. He was a little dog, maybe thirty pounds, of indeterminate breeding. The longish muzzle and floppy ears suggested poodle or spaniel, but it was too stocky, and his legs were too short. Probably some terrier too, I figured. And not long for the world, by the looks of it. But the pulse still jumped erratically beneath my fingers, and I kept pumping the oxygen into his lungs. Ryan’s face was tense as he finished taping the intravenous catheter snugly to the little dog’s leg. His teeth clenched hard on the needle-caps as he injected syringe after syringe of various drugs to counteract the shock that was siphoning the life out of this creature. Finally he stood back. “Okay, you got him for a minute?” I nodded and he went to the sink to wash his hands. “I better go talk to the owner, find out if we can take some x-rays, see what’s going on inside this guy.” I adjusted the fluid rate to maximum and crossed my fingers as he left the room. This dog was critically injured. At the very least he had a smashed hind leg. He might have a head injury and we had no idea yet about internal damage. There was a chance he wouldn’t survive no matter what we did, but if we couldn’t get consent from the owner to determine the extent of the injuries, there was little more we could do. Except humane euthanasia. Which, though I hated to admit it, looked like a good idea at this point. The pulse under my fingers was thready, so I grabbed my stethoscope to auscultate the chest. The whoosh of air made it hard to hear, but between breaths it was clear the heartbeat was weak but regular. I grabbed a penlight from my pocket and shone it over his face. Both eyes looked dully past me, but the pupils shrank in response to the point of light and his eyelids twitched. The drugs were taking effect. “Hang in there little guy,” I murmured. I took the stethoscope from my ears and that’s when I heard the voices in the front. “Do whatever you can! Please, don’t let him die!” I walked around to work from the other side of the table so I’d be able to see the reception area without leaving the dog. We’ve got one-way mirrors in the wall so that we can keep an eye on the front area even when we’re working alone in the back. Ryan’s back was to me and facing him was the client. Young, thin and disheveled, she stood against the front desk, clutching it as if it was the only thing keeping her upright. The cords in her neck stood out and she pressed a handful of tissues to her mouth. “He’s been badly hurt. We’re doing everything we can, but it doesn’t look good. And until we find an owner, we can only provide emergency first aid. We’ll let the SPCA know first thing tomorrow and they’ll do everything they can to track down the owner.” “You mean you won’t do more for him because he might be a stray?” “I mean that without consent, anything beyond emergency first aid and pain relief might be against the owner’s wishes.” “It’s money, isn’t it?” She shook her head as if she couldn’t believe it. “What if I pay?” “What?” Ryan looked helplessly towards Moe. She shrugged. The woman planted herself next to the treatment room door and crossed her arms. “I’ll pay for whatever it takes. If an owner turns up and wants to pay me back, great. If he turns up and doesn’t want to pay me back, fine. Whatever. And,” she paused and looked Ryan hard in the eye, “if no owner turns up, I’ll pay for everything and keep him myself. How about that?” Ryan looked at her silently for a moment, then snapped back to action. “We’ll need your signature on the consent form and Moe will take care of that. I’ll let you know what the costs so far are, and give you a full estimate of probable procedures. Can you stay for a bit? I’ll get some x-rays and come right back.” He jogged back to the treatment room in time to see me pull the endotracheal tube and replace it with an oxygen mask. I smiled triumphantly at him. “He’s starting to fight the tube and his pulse is weak but stable. That leg is a mess though.” Ryan took a quick look for himself, then straightened up and ran his fingers through his hair. I wished he’d washed his hands again first. The woman followed him hesitantly into the treatment room; when she saw the full triage scene, she sucked in her breath, her arms clutched to her sides. “Oh!” she gasped. “Is he… is it too late?” It was only then that I noticed a little girl standing behind her, eyes huge in her pale face. The child wasn’t crying, but her thin chest rose and fell visibly with each breath. “We’re doing everything we can,” Ryan assured her. “He’s in pretty rough shape but he’s hanging in there for the moment at least. Can you tell me about the accident?” “I didn’t really see it,” she answered. “I heard a bang while I was in the kitchen. I looked out the window and saw a car tear around the corner. I didn’t realize they’d hit a dog until I saw him. The impact threw him about ten feet, up onto my lawn. As soon as I realized what happened I grabbed him and brought him here. How could anyone do that? Hit something and just leave them there to die?” “It’s hard to imagine, isn’t it? I know, believe me.” Ryan took her by the elbow and led her to a chair. Spin immediately stood up and padded over to her, gently nudging her forearm until she lifted it. “Please,” she said then, one hand over her eyes, the other stroking Spin’s throat. “I don’t care about the money. No matter what it takes, do everything you can. He deserves it. Please.” copyright c 2006 by Roxanne Willems Snopek All Rights Reserved |
Targets of Affection - Excerpt
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