Nineteen
A deed of dreadful note.
Macbeth, William Shakespeare
 
 
 
 
“How’s Sasha?” Hunter shut the front door of the veterinary clinic behind him and paused uncertainly in the middle of the waiting room.
“Come and have a seat,” Antonia said. “Bree, the lieutenant’s here.”
Bree looked up. Antonia had scrubbed Sasha’s blood from her face and hands with a damp Kleenex but it hadn’t helped much. Her skin was stiff and grainy. “He lost a lot of blood,” she said. “Too much, they think. But he’s going to make it.” Hunter and Antonia exchanged looks. “He’s alive,” Bree said stubbornly. “And he’s going to make it.”
“They transfused him,” Antonia said in a near whisper. “But he’s got a different blood type than most dogs. They used a whatsit—a universal donor—but we’re waiting to see if his system rejects it.”
“Twenty-four hours,” Bree said. “They’ll know for sure after twenty-four hours.”
Hunter looked at Bree, and then away.
“They’ll let me sit with him as soon as they get the bullet out.” Bree crossed her legs, and then uncrossed them. “They have a recovery room.”
“Just like for people,” Antonia said brightly. “Is that cool, or what?” She put the backs of her hands against her eyes to blot the tears.
Hunter rubbed his chin. His jaw was set tight. His eyes were narrowed. Anger? Frustration? Bree didn’t really care. “We need to talk,” he said.
“It can wait, can’t it?” Other people had followed Hunter into the waiting room, Bree realized. The red-haired sergeant, Markham. And another uniform. Taylor, she thought. His name is Taylor.
“No,” he said evenly. “It can’t wait. We get a call that shots have been fired in a suburban area. We show up to find two terrified teenagers and a roughed-up adult being menaced by those two huge dogs of yours. Not to mention the blood all over the pavement outside this quiet suburban home. Not to mention the fact that you’ve taken off after firing two shots at these people—”
“Me!” Bree said indignantly. “You’re crazy! Hansen shot my dog!”
“He claims you ordered the dogs to attack him.”
“What?!”
“Hansen said if it weren’t for some freak windstorm that swept through the neighborhood you would have shot him dead.” Hunter leaned over her, his voice loaded with an emotion Bree couldn’t identify. “This tornado, he says, kicked up such a windstorm of debris that you lost the gun. He picked it up. Then he claims you set those two monsters on him, took the gun back, and tore off down the street like a bat out of Hell.”
“I don’t own a gun,” Bree said. “It’s Hansen’s gun.” Her briefcase sat by her chair. She shoved it forward with her toe. “I picked it up off the lawn when this . . . windstorm spun it out of his hand.”
Hunter looked into the briefcase. “God damn it.” He jerked his head at Taylor. Taylor came forward, pulled an evidence bag from his hip pocket, and carefully loaded the gun into it.
Bree sighed. “You won’t find my fingerprints on it, Hunter. You’ll find Hansen’s.” She glared up at him. “And as soon as the veterinary surgeon gets the bullet out of Sasha’s chest, you’ll find it’s the same gun that killed Shirley Chavez.”
“Lieutenant!” Markham thrust her cell phone in the air. “I’ve got the captain and he’s royally pissed. Are we going to get this woman downtown, or what?”
“Outside,” Hunter ordered. His tone brooked no argument. Markham cast Bree a look of loathing. Hunter swung around and faced them, his jaw thrust forward. “Both of you.” He waited until she and Taylor had retreated onto the front steps outside, and then turned to Bree. “Spill it.”
“Drugs,” Bree said. “It’s all about drugs, this part of the case, anyway. The Savannah Sweethearts Social Club is a drug ring, with Hansen at the head. The girls acted as mules—that’s the expression, right? Hansen booked the group into high schools, and Madison, Hartley, and Lindsey carried the drugs to contacts Hansen had established there. Pills, mostly. When Hansen’s business was shut down, he lost his laboratory, too. The Marlowe’s robberies were a stopgap until he got up and running again. That’s my guess, at any rate.”
“And the murders?”
“The gun, of course. I told you. The bullet that hit Sasha.” Bree’s cheeks were wet, and she blotted them with the back of her hand. “It’s the same as the bullet that killed Shirley Chavez.”
“This is bullshit. There’s no evidence. None. This is all supposition.” He shook his head in disgust. “If, and it’s a very big if, your wild-assed guess turns out to be right and that is the same gun that fired the bullet that killed Shirley Chavez, what have we got?”
“We’ve got Hansen!” Bree said indignantly. “This is the only thing that makes any sense. I’ve just delivered the members of his little gang to you on a silver platter. Not to mention the fact that you now have a way to link the distribution of the drugs in the high schools. I’ll bet your week’s paycheck that there’s a clear pattern between the Savannah Sweethearts concerts and drug activity in the schools where they sang.”
“And if there isn’t?”
“There’s got to be. It’s the only thing that makes any sense.” She smiled, faintly. “You’re one heck of an investigator, Hunter. I’ll bet you a second week’s paycheck that if you put Markham, there, on the computer for a couple of hours, you’ll make those connections by tomorrow morning.” She ran her hands over her hair. “Not to mention the confessions. Madison’s going to be a tough nut to crack, but Hartley will talk as soon as you get her into one of those foul little rooms and threaten to cut off her supply of herbal shampoo.”
“All three of them have lawyered up.”
Bree dismissed this with a wave of her hand.
“Not only have all three of them lawyered up, but Hansen wants you and your license to practice law. He wants you arrested for assault, menacing, and intent to commit grievous bodily harm. Not to mention the charges we want to throw at you. Leaving the scene of a felony assault . . .”
“Just shut up,” Bree said tiredly. “Please. And I’ll come down to the station as soon as I see to Sasha. Please.”
He shook his head. “No way, Bree. Sorry. I’ve got to take you in.”
“You don’t have to take me in right now. You have to wait for the bullet.”
“The bullet?”
Bree looked at him. At her right, Antonia shifted uneasily in her seat. “Go ahead,” Bree said. “Arrest me. I don’t care. Just let me stay here until I see Sasha through this. Please.”
Hunter rubbed his face with both hands and swore. He pointed his finger at her, his face grim. “Don’t you leave this clinic. You understand me? You stay right here. I’ll be back in five minutes.”
He slammed out the front door. Bree let her breath out in a slow sag of relief. There was only one other client in the waiting room—a small, elderly lady with a cat in a blue plastic carrying case. She cast a scared look at Bree and scuttled after Hunter. The door closed gently behind her.
Bree leaned back in her chair. Antonia took her hand and patted it.
The Chatham County Small Animal Clinic was like most others of its kind; doors off the reception area led to the examination room and the operating theater. The door farthest from Bree opened, and a woman in green scrubs with a surgical mask hanging around her neck beckoned. Bree got to her feet. “I can go sit with him now.”
“Breenie.” Antonia stood up with her. “You want me to come with you?”
“Don’t call me Breenie. I’ll be fine. To tell you the truth, I’d sooner you were out of this and back at the show.” Bree was moving toward the open door, and Sasha.
“Are you serious?”
“Deadly.”
Antonia hesitated. “You want me to call Daddy?”
“You do that, I’ll shave you bald, first chance I get. I can take care of myself, Tonia.”
A brief giggle escaped her sister, then she said, rather fearfully, “Those dogs you set on Hansen and the girl . . .”
Bree did stop at that. She turned halfway round. “They kept it up until the police got there, didn’t they?”
“That’s part of the trouble, isn’t it?” Antonia said with spirit. “Bella and Millis . . . ?”
“Belli and Miles,” Bree said, giving the latter the correct pronunciation. “What about them?”
“They took off, God knows where, and I can’t say I’m all that comfortable with the idea of those two roaming the streets of Savannah.”
“They’ll turn up,” Bree said as Antonia left the clinic.
And of course, there they were, waiting for her, sitting outside the little recovery area where Sasha lay, perfectly whole and hearty. Belli greeted her with a snuffle. Miles raised his head, regarded her briefly, and got to his feet with a grunt. Bree sank to her knees and put her arms around their necks.
The veterinarian looked up as Bree came into the room, the dogs at her heels. Sasha lay flat out on a gurney. Someone had placed one of the hard plastic chairs from the waiting room next to it.
A shaved patch bisected Sasha’s chest. The bullet wound itself was a small clean hole just over his heart. Bree sat down in the chair.
“I’m so glad your secretary thought to bring your other dogs by,” Dr. Steiner said. “The female, Bella?” She nodded in Belli’s direction.
Bree didn’t correct her. She sank into the chair next to her comatose dog.
“She’s a universal donor.” Dr. Steiner was young, thin, and the kind of woman who would have looked totally unnatural in any kind of makeup. She pushed her spectacles up with one finger. “And we’re equally lucky Bella’s so big. Sasha lost at least thirty percent of his whole blood volume. He needed all the help that Bella could give.” She fondled Bella’s ears. The huge dog regarded her with a grave, unwinking stare.
“You saved the bullet?” Bree asked. She sat up and put her hand lightly on Sasha’s flank. He felt cold. “It’s evidence in a homicide.”
“My assistant bagged it up. He’s probably handed it over to the police out front already.” Her glasses had slid partway down her nose again, and she pushed them up. “You’re sure you want to stay?”
“I’m sure.”
“We’ll check on him from time to time. There’s a bathroom right down the hall, if you need it. And the coffee machine out front. Is there anything I can get you?”
“My sister will bring a sandwich by in a bit,” Bree said.
“If you notice any change at all, let one of us know, okay? The anesthesia’s going to wear off in another hour or so. If he starts to thrash, give us a holler.”
“That soon?” Bree said. Her heart beat faster. “You’ll know that soon?”
“We don’t expect him to regain consciousness for quite a while,” the vet said kindly. “But yes, if the rejection is going to occur, the symptoms should start in a few hours. I’ll be on call, if you need me. And, of course, we’ve got an all-night attendant on duty.” She waited, awkwardly. Bree looked at her helplessly.
“We’ll just have to see,” she said, and then walked briskly out of the room.
“Well, Sasha.” Bree put her cheek briefly against his furry face. He breathed in and out, in and out, with the sound of ocean waves.
There was a soft stirring of the air behind her.
“Hey, boss.”
Bree turned around. Ron shimmered quietly in the corner, encased in a sphere of spinning light.
“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” Bree said in a fierce undertone. “How could it? How could it?!”
Lavinia stepped out from the other side of the gurney, her violet aura draped around her like a cocoon. She shook her head sadly. “Poor old boy,” she said. “Poor old Sasha.”
“I don’t understand,” Bree said. “Is Sasha going to die? He can’t die, can he? He’s one of you. He’s a member of the Company!”
Lavinia reached across Sasha’s body and brushed the tears from Bree’s face. Her hands smelled of lavender. “It comes to all of us in the end, honey. One way or the other.”
“There must be something we can do. Something you can do.”
Sasha sighed, in his drugged sleep.
“Passing from one room to another,” Ron said. “It’s something like that. We have all the tools the temporal world can give us to save him, Bree. We’ll just hope that it’s enough.”
Bree looked at them, her teeth clenched. She shook with helpless anger. “No. You didn’t hear me. There has to be something else. Something . . .” She stopped, half afraid to ask—not even knowing the kind of question she could ask. She wasn’t afraid to beg, if begging would save Sasha’s life. “Can you? Can you help me? Can you help him? With . . .”
“Something extra?” Ron’s voice was gentle. “No. No. I’m so sorry, dear Bree.”
“I don’t care what it costs,” Bree began, recklessly, but they were gone, the two of them, and Miles and Belli, too, leaving her alone with Sasha’s body, and the breath that barely stirred it. Bree bit back a shout. It wasn’t fair! It wasn’t fair!
It may have been hours later—it may have been minutes. Bree wasn’t sure. Waiting, Bree had time to think. The motive for Probert’s murder stuck out like a neon sign.
Suddenly, Sasha’s golden body quivered. He began to pant, heavily, and tiny bubbles of foam appeared at the corners of his mouth. His right foreleg jerked in a spasm, then his left.
“Help!” Bree shouted. She put both hands on the now warm fur and pressed down, trying to keep his body still. “Hey! I need some help in here!”
“Help,” said a smooth voice behind her. “We thought you’d never ask.”
Bree whirled.
They looked like accountants. Or a Sinclair Lewis version of accountants, anyway. Medium height. Neat. Dressed in sober blue suits, white shirts, and nondescript ties. The taller one had a prim mouth; the shorter one was bald; both wore dark glasses.
The taller one took his glasses off and his eyes were a dark, dried-blood red with yellow pupils. He extended his hand. His nails were thick and manicured to blunt points. “Henry Beazley, at your service, Counselor. And this is Caldecott.”
Caldecott smiled. His teeth seemed to be all canines, sharp and not quite clean.
“We represent the prosecution,” Beazley said cordially.
Bree’s chest got very tight.
“In the matter of Chandler v. The Celestial Courts,” Caldecott added. The words “Celestial Courts” had a pronounced hiss—like the sound made by a fire doused with water. Or a large snake.
Sasha choked, gasped, and quivered. Beazley raised his hand, in a “now, now” kind of gesture, and Sasha’s breathing slowed to a peaceful tempo.
“T’cha,” Beazley said, with patent insincerity. “Such a shame. Such an”—he paused, thoughtfully—“ardent soul, Sasha. Quite an asset to Beaufort & Company, I believe.”
Bree bit her lip. She waited for the rise of the wind. She waited for the silvery shadow that was Striker. She felt nothing but fear for her dog and a gagging disgust for the burned-match smell that suffused the little room.
Beazley sat down in midair and crossed one leg over the other. Bree took a breath and gasped a little. “We thought it was time for a prehearing discussion,” he said. “You’ve got a court date in . . . when is it, Caldecott?” He tipped his head in Caldecott’s direction, but kept his red-yellow gaze on Bree.
“Fourteen hours,” Caldecott said primly. “Two o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”
“Petru filed the appeal yesterday!” Bree said indignantly. “I haven’t had time to prepare my case!”
“Time,” Caldecott mused, “is a mutable thing.”
Beazley nodded. “Yesssss.” The sibilance died away. He looked smug. “Our case looks good.”
“Very strong,” Caldecott said.
“But anytime prehearing negotiations can keep costs down . . .”
“The whole system benefits . . .”
“And we like to avoid cost overruns wherever possible . . .”
Bree folded her arms. “You’re willing to withdraw your objections to a retrial for my client?”
“Not exactly, but we are willing to make some small concessions,” Beazley said.
“Small,” Caldecott echoed.
“We could reduce the eternal sentence to three or four millennia?” Beazley said.
“And perhaps move from the ninth circle—so cold, that lake! And Probert hates the cold—to perhaps the eighth?”
“Windy,” Beazley said. “And quite warm, on occasion, but on the whole, much less discomfort.”
“Thank you, gentlemen,” Bree said. “But I’m becoming quite convinced there’s been a true miscarriage of justice here. I’d like the evidence to be weighed again.”
“We would be quite disappointed if you insisted on that.” Caldecott held both his hands in the air in apparent dismay. Sasha stiffened, as if seized by the throat. Bree blinked back tears and held him. Caldecott dropped his hands, and the dog dropped back into his drugged sleep.
“Tricky thing, blood transfusions,” Beazley observed coldly.
“It’ll work,” Bree said frantically. “It has to.”
“Trusting in man, like your mother?” Caldecott sneered. “She trusted in the temporal, and look what happened to her.”
Bree stopped herself from leaping forward and grabbing the opposing counsel by the neck. “Just what did . . .”
They were gone. Just like that.
Bree bit her lip hard, to keep the tears away, and forced herself to trust in God and man. And while she waited, she thought. About the paperweight she found that day by the scene of the crash. About the murder weapon. About the tracking system at Marlowe’s, where every piece of merchandise sold in the store could be located at the press of a button.
And very soon after, when Sasha woke and yawned widely at her, her trust in man, at least, proved to be enough.