So Sam found a work-around. A month after I moved into the cabin, I had just gotten home from my night shift at the Depot when someone knocked on the cabin’s front door. I opened it to find my older cousin Jake, with a scruffy black-and-white bulldog mix in his arms. Its head drooped wearily against his red polo shirt, and a long neon-green cast dangled from the dog’s right foreleg. “I need a favor,” Jake said. He was a veterinarian in nearby Lafayette, and someone had dropped the bulldog mix off at his office after a hit-and-run. “The shelter we usually work with is full,” he explained, “and this guy can’t stay at the clinic forever. Can you take care of him while I try to find him a home?”
I pulled my robe around my T-shirt and pajama pants and looked doubtfully at the dog. “I’m not really set up for pets,” I said lamely. “And I don’t know that I’d be any good to him. Can’t you take him home?”
“Dani’s cat would attack him,” Jake said regretfully. Dani was his nine-year-old daughter. “He doesn’t need much, just food and someone to help him outside to pee.”
I eyed him suspiciously. “Sam put you up to this, didn’t she?”
Jake hefted the dog in his arms. “Look, can I just come in and put him down for a second?” he pleaded. “He’s getting really heavy.”
Of course, I ended up keeping the dog, whom I named Pongo after the father Dalmatian in the Disney movie. Two weeks later, Jake was back with a cat, Raja, and then a cranky, three-legged iguana that I named Mushu, followed by an exceedingly stupid Yorkshire terrier runt I’d had no choice but to call Dopey. Jake brought me all the homeless pets that crossed his path, and within a matter of months my parents’ formerly nice cabin had been transformed into a makeshift animal shelter.
To their credit, my parents never said a word about the animal invasion, even when they stopped by to find torn curtains and suspicious stains on the carpets of their former home. Sometimes Jake found the pets’ original owners, and sometimes, especially when he brought over cute puppies or kittens, the animals were eventually adopted. Finally I settled on a more or less stable roster of three cats, four dogs, and Mushu, who lived in a cage in his own bedroom so he and the dogs wouldn’t try to eat each other. I spent a lot of time taking care of the animals’ various ailments, and even more time building a fence around the cabin’s backyard so the dogs could run around off-leash. One evening I woke up with Dopey and Pongo sleeping on either side of me and realized that I hadn’t had a nightmare in months.
Well played, Sam.
Chapter 4
The next time I opened my eyes, there was a strange man in my hospital room. He had moved the visitor’s chair to the foot of the bed, where he was sitting with my chart, reading it intently. He was wearing a dark blue department store suit, not a lab coat. The room was dark, and the clock on the wall read nine-thirty.
“Who’re you?” I croaked.
Looking up, the man raised his eyebrows at me. He calmly replaced the chart at the foot of the bed and rose, dragging the visitor’s chair back to its place near the head of the bed. He was in his late thirties maybe, tall and slim with pale blond hair, ruddy cheeks, and the kind of translucent Scandinavian skin that would burn instantly in the sun. His face was all interesting angles and cleft chin, creating the overall impression that he should be modeling parkas in an L.L.Bean catalog. The suit was neither particularly nice nor particularly shabby, but I recognized a familiar lump near his armpit—a shoulder holster. I was immediately wary. “Good evening, Miss Luther,” the man said, pleasantly enough. “I’m Detective Quinn with Boulder PD.”
His hazel eyes pierced mine as he held out his hand, very close to mine so I wouldn’t have to work hard to reach it. His handshake was extremely gentle—not weak, exactly, but more like he feared my fingers might crumple to dust. “I’d like to speak to you about the incident at your work.”
“Now?” I asked, a little incredulous. I had expected the cops to turn up with questions, particularly since Mom had warned me, but it seemed awfully late. Visiting hours had been over for a while.
Quinn nodded. “As you might imagine, we’re very anxious to pursue the couple who kidnapped your niece.”
I swallowed, working to get the saliva past my sore throat. “Yes, sir.”
“I’ve seen the security tape, but I’d appreciate it if you would run me through your memories of that night in as much detail as possible,” Quinn suggested. Without being asked, he rose and picked up a mug of ice water with a straw from the counter, setting it on the tray table in front of me. “Take your time,” he added.
I took him at his word, spending a couple of minutes sipping the water and gathering my thoughts. Then I told him everything, starting from the conversation I’d overheard and ending with the way the man’s eyes had seemed to heal even after I’d gouged them. I told him that I thought the couple’s names were Victor and Darcy and that they both looked and talked like they were from out of town. I asked him once or twice if the security tape confirmed my story—I really wanted to know if the couples’ odd movements had been all in my imagination—but each time Quinn merely waved at me to continue, indicating that he didn’t want to taint my memories. He didn’t take notes or record the conversation, which seemed a little strange. He just sat and listened, his gaze very solemn and intense. No one came in to interrupt us, not even the nurses.