Page 176 of The Bone Code
The cat didn’t move. Reaching in, I hooked him under his forelimbs and gently slid him out.
The fur on Birdie’s right rear leg was a matted red mess.
“What happened, sweet boy?”
Of course, he didn’t answer.
I glanced at the French doors. One was slightly ajar.
Bolting to the bathroom, I grabbed a towel, wrapped the cat, dug his carrier from the closet, and eased him in. Not an easy ease, given his agitated state. Then I raced for the car.
The Sandy Cove Veterinary Clinic was minutes away on Palm Boulevard. I’d passed it a dozen times when driving to the Harris Teeter. I burned every speed reg getting there. Screw it. If an island cop took issue, I’d outrun him and swallow the fine.
The lobby was packed with owners holding leashes and owners pacifying pets. They all followed my progress from the entrance to the desk, smiling sportingly, secretly hoping my emergency wouldn’t prolong their wait.
The receptionist wore a name badge ID’ing her as Brooke. Brooke whisked Bird into the bowels of the clinic. Returned and presented me with a stack of forms.
I sat down to fill them out. Realized that in my rush, I’d left my bag at Anne’s house. Entering all but my credit-card information, I returned the paperwork to Brooke and joined the waiters.
For almost an hour. Then the vet appeared to report that my cat had deep lacerations on his right rear leg. No shit, Sherlock. Birdie had been anesthetized for suturing and now needed X-rays.
While signing yet another form, I asked if I’d be taking Birdie home with me. That depended on the X-rays. I queried how long that process would take. My pet was the next one up.
I resumed my vigil.
Animals and masters came and went. Mostly dogs and cats. One cockatiel. One pig.
Another wasted hour. I wished I’d brought my purse. And my laptop. And Vislosky’s thumb drive. After another, I wished I’d brought strychnine.
Eventually, word came. No broken bones.
It was past five when Brooke finally delivered my pet. The patient was now totally cool with the carrier.
Back home, I settled Bird on my bed. The cat looked mellow as a toked-out pothead.
Puzzled about how Bird had hurt himself, I returned to the kitchen. Spotted traces of blood and fur low down on one of the deck doors.
Had I left it open a crack? Had Birdie tried to squeeze through and become wedged? Security lapses weren’t my habit, but honestly, I couldn’t be sure.
A quick ham and cheese sandwich, then I dug out Vislosky’sphotocopy and thumb drive, collected my laptop, and clomped back upstairs. Sitting cross-legged on the bed, I decided to start with the folded paper.
I’ve no idea what I was expecting.
It wasn’t what I read.
And, to my horror, it was.
38
Saturday, November 20
Iopened the paper. Intersecting dark lines suggested the original had been folded many times.
A quick scan revealed disturbingly familiar features. On two levels.
First, the script was small and cramped, the language a type of adolescent shorthand.
Like the entries in Harmony Boatwright’s diary.
