for hours, not until the plow had passed. The machine near the airport belonged to the city; a separate provider took care of Edgewater Road and might not arrive until morning. She touched the cellular phone. What good would that do? The police wouldn’t put an injured pet at the top of the priority list with serious accidents all over town. Oh, she would be safe. Every Northerner carried an emergency kit: blanket, matches, chocolate and candles. But that wouldn’t help Freya. Belle crawled back to stroke the dog, noticing that her eyes were closed and her breathing fast and noisy.
She struggled out of the vehicle and squinted painfully into the whitelash, tears freezing on her cheeks, her fists pounding the top of the van. Then, even over the rush of the storm, the shrill cry of the wind through the dry reeds, the purr of a motor met her ears. Standing in the middle of the road, waving her arms, she hoped it was travelling slow enough to stop. A green Jimmy materialized out of snow and skidded to the side. The door slammed, and a man in a huge sheepskin coat approached her, shielding his face against the gusts. His voice was calm and familiar. “You look like you can use some help. How long have you been here?”
Belle peered in astonishment. “Franz, is it?” she said. “Whatever angel brought you?” She pulled him over to the van.
What a miracle to have the strength of a man, Belle thought as she watched him pat the dog, whisper to Freya to gain her confidence and then effortlessly lift her into the back of the Jimmy, covering her gently with a red Trapper point blanket. The four-wheeler, with its high clearance, made an effortless path through the snow, cruising up the final killer hill as if it were a parking lot. Franz turned up the heater and glanced back at the dog. “You’ll soon warm up. What happened?”
“Jesus. I don’t have any idea. I got home and found her bleeding. Somebody had been in the yard. Maybe a break-in. Then I took the hills too fast.” She shivered in damp clothes in spite of the heater’s blasts. “I’m surprised to see you out. Doesn’t Shield ever cancel classes?”
“Wednesday is my big lab day in physical anthropology. I’m usually there from nine to six. When I saw the weather, I gave my last group a take-home assignment.” He paused. “I forgot to ask where you were taking her.”
“Petville on Garfield Road. Do you know it?”
“Shana, of course. She’s been treating my dog Blondi for years for a serious eye problem. Don’t worry, Belle. She’ll know what to do.”
The plows had just begun cleaning the main routes in town, so a few brave or foolish cars were already plying the slippery streets against radio advice. At the clinic, Shana answered the door in a sweat suit, dark circles under her eyes, and her raven hair, usually neatly arranged in a chignon, spilling over her face. Thin but incredibly strong for her fifty-five years, she touched Franz’s burden with a sympathetic murmur. “Took a bad hit, did you, girl? Hoist her up. But careful, careful,” she cautioned as she directed them to the examining room. “First I have to treat for shock.” She set up an IV quickly, rolling it into place, then reached for a muzzle. Belle tried to move it away. “For God’s sake, she wouldn’t hurt—”
Shana grabbed her arm firmly. “No, Belle. It’s just a precaution. You can see that she’s conscious, so I can’t inject pain killers until I rule out swelling of the brain. Freya might lash out in confusion, hurt herself or us.”
She slipped on the muzzle, and Freya’s eyes followed her, raising Belle’s hopes. “Now to debride the wound.” Shana flushed the injury with warm water, cut away the nearby hair, then dabbed on some peroxide. After taking the dog’s blood pressure, she flashed a light into Freya’s eyes and smiled broadly. All Belle could hear was the pounding of her own pulse as she waited for the vet’s opinion. “So far so good. You two wait in my suite and relax. Put the kettle on. I shouldn’t be long.”
An hour later, the x-ray indicated no broken bones, perhaps a slight concussion. “Lucky old hardhead. Just some bad bruises, maybe kicks. Of course we’ll keep her for a few days to make sure there’s no internal bleeding or other surprises. This mild sedative,” she explained as she gave the dog a shot, “should let her sleep for awhile.”
In Shana’s living area, mugs of strong tea, well-laced with honey, were passed around. “Drink it, Belle. You’ve had a shock, too. It’s herbal. Ginseng. I had a terrific sinus headache with the storm and went to bed early. Didn’t figure anyone would be in,” the vet said. Six cats of six colours and sizes prowled around, and a Jack Russell terrier showed interest in Franz’s crotch. Shana called the little fellow into her lap. “They’re not all mine. Just some patients who benefit more from being free in the house rather than in a cage. Frisco’s getting picked up tomorrow,” she added as she petted a miniature Doberman twining around her knees. “Love that short hair.”
“I’ll vacuum ten times a day to get Freya back,” Belle said, limp after the trauma. “I’m just glad you were here. When can she come home?”
“Give you a call,” Shana promised. “She’ll be running around depositing pounds of hair by tomorrow night. Oh, and Franz, how is Blondi? Is the Neocortif doing its job?”
“Seems to be. We keep her out of bright sun as much as possible, but the snow reflection is cruel. You know, I’m inventing a pair of dog sunglasses!”
“Now that’s an idea,” Shana responded with obvious interest. “Those Shepherds in avalanche rescue training need eye drops every two hours against the glare. Maybe you could patent your discovery.”
Franz dropped Belle off at Bruno’s Towing, where she was beginning to feel at home. Perhaps they were listed on the Toronto Stock Exchange; she might as well buy shares. “Sure you can make it alone? It’s stopped snowing, and they’ll get you out, but the road will still be bad. I could follow you back.” She gave him a thumbs-up sign, making a mental note to thank him with something more substantial. The driver, a friendly, red-faced man with a shredded cigar dangling from his lips and “Irv” painted on his door said, “Fasten your seat belt. We’re in for a bumpy night.” He didn’t look anything like Bette Davis. As they made their way out the road, plowed at last, Belle knew that the spot where she had bogged would join other sites of fabled blunders, pointed out to children as warnings against speed and carelessness.
How ignominious, she thought drowsily, to be cocooned in a perfectly gigantic truck that could haul anything out of anywhere. She was headed for a warm bath with a warm Scotch and warm food and Freya was fine and . . . She barely heard Irv attach a tow rope to the van at the swamp.
ELEVEN
Belle should have had enough sleep since she’d had fallen into bed directly after three whopping drinks and a can of tasty, never-fail Chef Boy-ar-Dee ravioli, her comfort food since the age of six. But when the phone rang, she answered with a tempered testiness.
“It’s Steve. I got your message. Against my better judgment, I trumped up some reasons to question Brooks. Seems he has an alibi, a poor one, but his wife and one of his sleazy friends will testify that he was home preparing his tax returns the night of Jim’s death. Feeble, but you can’t fight it.”
“Taxes, right. What a concept. Why don’t you take him in and grill him?” Belle rubbed at her eyes, gritty from sleep.
“You’ve been watching too many old movies. Anyway, we’ve had our eyes on him in our ongoing drug investigations, so leave him to us. Go sell some houses; I could use another lunch.”
“So he could have had a henchman.”
He snorted. “At least bring your crime slang up to speed. And
