Watcher in the Woods (Rockton #4)(7)

Nicole is closest to the front. “Understood. We’ll maintain a twenty-foot barrier and clear the houses on either side.”

“Thank you,” I say, and then we head to the clinic.

*

April is already in the clinic when we arrive. She’s assessed Kenny. Now, as he talks to her, she looks like she’s wondering how soon she can anesthetize him. Of everything she’s done, that pisses me off the most. While I’ll be the first to admit that Kenny can be a bit puppy-dog eager, what she’s doing feels like kicking that puppy, especially given his situation.

“Ignore my sister,” I say as I walk in. “She’s a scientist these days, and I think she’s forgotten her bedside manner.”

She shoots me a look of mingled annoyance and bafflement.

“Or,” Anders murmurs beside me, “that’s why she’s a scientist.”

Kenny gives a strained chuckle. ‘So it’s been a while since you put someone under the knife, huh?”

“No,” April says, with a glare for me now. “I have a medical license with a specialization in neurosurgery. I practiced full-time for five years before deciding my talents were better utilized in research, so I earned my PhD on weekends.”

“Oh, wow. That’s . . .” Kenny shakes his head. “You and Casey are living proof that pretty girls can be smart, too.”

I cringe, but this is typical Kenny.

“Of course they can,” April says as she assesses our equipment. “The genetics required for both intelligence and attractiveness are not co-dependent. Which doesn’t mean that one can achieve a medical license and PhD effortlessly, regardless of IQ. I worked hard. My sister could have done the same, despite her lower intellectual starting point.”

“Wow,” Anders whispers. “Just . . . wow.”

“I’m a slacker,” I say.

That makes Anders chuckle, but he still shoots me a concerned look, as if I might not be taking this so lightly. I am. Mostly. I grew up with this. My parents had my IQ tested as soon as possible. It’s 135. My sister’s—like theirs—is above 140. To them my “inferior” intellectual ability only meant I’d need to work harder. When I became a homicide detective, it proved I didn’t have the fortitude to do that extra work, to their everlasting disappointment. The fact that I’d dreamed of being a detective since I was a kid, running around with my finger print kit? Irrelevant.

Before anyone can speak, the door opens. In walks a slender man in his late fifties, carrying a wolf-dog cub.

“Uh, Mathias?” I say, pointing at the cub. “No spectators allowed.”

“He will be quiet. He is very sleepy.”

April blinks at the cub. “You can’t bring—”

“You must be the sister. It is a pleasure to meet you. Parlez vous francais?”

She stares at him.

“Non?” He looks at me and sighs. “Why did you not teach your sister French? This is most inconvenient.”

“Your English is fine, Mathias, but if you’re having trouble comprehending. +Put down the damned dog en francais+”

“Loup chien. And his name is Raoul.”

“Did he say . . wolf-dog?” April says.

“Ah, she does speak French. Excellent.”

“She understands it,” I say. “She won’t speak it. Now take that damn—”

He covers the cub’s ears and lays him on a blanket. “I have not yet decided upon a suitable sitter.”

“I can hold him for you,” Kenny says with a smile. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Sadly, that would, I fear be unhygienic. He will stay in his corner and sleep. But when we are finished here, I would like the doctor to take a look at his leg.” Mathias moves to the operating table. “It was caught in a snare. Casey did an excellent nursing job, but I would appreciate your opinion, Casey’ssister. When surgery is over, of course.”

“I’m not a veterinarian,” April says.

“The cub will not mind.”

“Mathias?” I point to the operating table.

The cub pitches to his feet and toddles after Mathias.

Dalton scoops up the canine. “I’ll take him on my rounds.”

“Excellent idea,” Mathias says. “He requires socialization to enhance his dog nature. Not too much, though. It would not befit my carefully crafted personae to have a friendly wolf-dog.”

Dalton shakes his head and leaves.

“Can we start now?” I ask.

“I will scrub in,” Mathias says.

April nods at Mathias as he crosses the room. “I take it he’s your psychiatrist.”

“Non,” Mathias says. “Casey does not require a psychiatrist. An occasional therapist perhaps, but we all do at times. My specialty is psychopathy and sociopathy, with the occasional borderline personality thrown in for good measure, but only if he has committed the requisite number of atrocities. I have very exacting standards.”

“Mathias?” I say. “Scrub.”

“Have you ever conducted surgery?” April asks him.

“Not medically. However, I am the town butcher.”

“Yeah,” Kenny says. “No offense, doc, but I think we’ll let Casey’s sister do the cutting.”