He still watched from the woods, wishing he could draw closer, stare inside the lighted building. See what was happening inside.
But being seen, especially now, was a bad idea.
Had he acted in time? He had done his best, under extreme circumstances. Was it good enough?
This was a time he could do no more. And now he would have to wait.
Only in the morning would he learn if he had been successful.
If his friend would live.
Melanie stirred in her chair.
Chair? She must have fallen asleep somehow in the operating room. Slept sitting up, in the vinylupholstered metal seat she had dragged in so she could rest while observing her patient. No wonder she felt so stiff.
She opened her eyes. They felt gritty until they landed on the crate on the floor between the operating table and her. And then they widened easily as she smiled.
The faint light of dawn, creeping in the window across the room, illuminated the dog she had treated last night. He was sitting up on the bleached, sterile towels she had put inside the metal crate for his comfort. As with nearly all animals she operated on, she had attached a large post-surgical recovery collar around his neck, framing his face, so he could not chew on his sutures. If he left the wound alone, she would remove it.
He watched her with bright amber eyes. Intelligent eyes. He seemed to thank her.
She gave a quick shake of her head. No way was she going to buy into the absurd legends around here. The dog might be smart—heck, she’d guess him to be a mix between a malamute and a German shepherd, both bright breeds. He was moderate sized. His multi-hued coat was mostly gray tipped in black, but was all white in some areas, others all black. He had a long, strong muzzle and erect ears. Did he resemble a wolf? Sure. But he wasn’t one.
And even if he was a conglomeration of the smartest breeds of dogs, that didn’t give him human intelligence—like a werewolf would supposedly have.
“Good morning, guy,” she said to him. He immediately stood in the cage-like enclosure, his long, fluffy tail wagging. “How do you feel?” She didn’t expect an answer, but she knelt on the clean, sunshine-yellow linoleum floor and examined the bandaged area near his left shoulder. Good thing the gun used to shoot him apparently hadn’t been very powerful. Although he’d lost a lot of blood, not much damage had been done. The bullet had barely nicked his scapula without ricocheting, then lodged there.
Not enough to kill a strong, healthy dog, thank heavens. Was even a minor wound with a silver bullet supposed to be enough to slaughter a werewolf?
Maybe she’d need to read up on the lore, to maximize her effectiveness as a vet around here. Only so she’d be prepared for situations like this, of course.
In the meantime, she had to make a phone call. Probably should have made it last night.
“No such thing as werewolves, are there, boy?” she said, giving her patient a gentle hug without putting pressure on his wound. “But I wish you were able to talk, or at least communicate your name and where you came from. You appear well taken care of—not starving, and though you look a little straggly now, I’d guess someone brushes your coat pretty often.”
He made a small whining noise, as if trying to hold up his end of the conversation. Melanie grinned as she stood. “Even if I don’t believe in werewolves, I sure do a lot of anthropomorphizing.” The dog’s head was cocked as if he tried to understand her. “Anthropomorphizing? That’s ascribing human characteristics to animals. Like now. Understand?” The dog barked, and Melanie laughed. “Maybe you do understand.” She glanced at her watch. “Know what? It’s nearly six-thirty. Some of my staff will arrive soon, which is a good thing. Patients, too, and that’s not so good when I haven’t slept much. But I’ll manage. Just need a cup of coffee to get me going.”
Her patient stood up and wriggled in the crate.
“You’re surely not suggesting you need coffee. Water, though—I’ll get you some. And you seem to be doing well enough to try a little food, too. I’ll have one of the techs bring you some as soon as they arrive—it’ll help them get some antibiotics and painkiller down you. They can take the collar off for a while and see if you lick.”
She left the operating room and went down the hall to look in on the patients in the infirmary. They all stood at eager attention at her arrival. “Good morning,” she said. “You all look chipper.” She made sure they each had water available and got a plastic bowlful for her surgery patient.
Her next stop was her office, where she called the Mary Glen Police Department. “Chief Ellenbogen, please. This is Dr. Melanie Harding.”
It took nearly five minutes before the chief got on the line. Her fingers thrumming in irritation on her desk, Melanie alternated between listening to public interest announcements blaring in her ear and speaking with underlings who apologized when she said she had something important to tell the chief. No, it wasn’t an emergency—now. She considered hanging up.
But this was important. Or at least it might be.
Eventually…“Ellenbogen here.”
“Chief, this is—”
“Yes, I was told the vet was waiting. How ya doing, Melanie?”
She had met the chief when he had brought in his own pet, a sweet, aging bloodhound named Jasper that supported the adage that people adopted dogs that resembled them. Chief Ellenbogen was as wrinkled and laid back as his pet. “I’m okay, Chief, but I found a dog late last night outside the clinic who’d been shot with a silver bullet. He’s going to be okay, but since I was told that my predecessor vet here, Dr. Worley, and his wife were killed that way, I thought you’d want to know.”
“I’ll be right there, Melanie. I want to see that dog.” He paused, then said, “Er…have you checked on him this morning?”
It was all Melanie could do to keep from chuckling. “If what you’re asking is whether he’s still a dog, or if he morphed into a human in daylight, the answer is ‘arf.’”
The chief cleared his throat. “Just jokin’.” But he sounded more embarrassed than humorous. “See you in a few.”
Melanie’s head was shaking as she hung up. Werewolves. People here obviously believed in them, as ridiculous as it sounded. Even, apparently, the chief of police.
Well, she’d kind of known that before she bought this practice from Lt. Patrick Worley, son of Dr. Martin Worley, who’d been shot and killed by a silver bullet only a few months ago. His wife was killed the same way, a year earlier. The shooter—or shooters—hadn’t been caught. And Melanie hadn’t known before how widespread the legend was of werewolves—and how widely accepted.
Ridiculous. No doubt about that. But she promised herself yet again to take a crash course in werewolf lore, so she would be better prepared to deal with this silliness.
No. More than silliness, she reminded herself as she headed for her office door. Viciousness. A man was killed because of it—even though she’d heard no rumors that anyone considered her predecessor vet, Dr. Worley,
