Big Swiss(87)

“Ma’am?” another guy said. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“Someone shot my dog,” Greta said, her voice shaking with terror. “He’s still out there somewhere.”

The guy nodded as if he got this all the time. “A lot of small-game hunting in those woods behind you. Small and large game. Deer, bears. We saw a bear just yesterday. But somebody may have mistaken your dog for a hare. He was probably drunk.”

A drunk hunter? A bear? A hare? It was Keith, obviously. He was probably hiding in one of the deer stands this very minute, covered in camo and face paint, observing them through the scope of his rifle.

“Are you hurt, ma’am? Do you need to go to the hospital?”

“It’s my dog’s blood,” Greta said, though anyone could see that it wasn’t.

“I’m texting the vet,” Rick, the young one, said. He pulled out his phone and started typing. “He lives just down the road. I’m giving him your address. You live with Sabine, right?”

Greta nodded. Of course, they all knew Sabine. She’d probably thrown darts with them, played pool, shot guns. And then there was that time she’d been burning trash and had accidentally caught the field on fire.

Big Swiss thanked the men, and then she turned to Greta and began talking to her like she was a dog. “Let’s go. Come on. Move.”

While they walked, Greta tried not to look at Pi?on in her arms, lest she start wailing again. She kept her eyes straight ahead and focused on the house. As usual, every single light was on—Sabine never turned off a lamp or lantern, even during the day—and so the house always looked cheerful and welcoming from a distance, and full of people, and like everything worked, and Greta pretended that this was true.

But the house was empty—Sabine wasn’t back yet. Greta placed Pi?on on his dog bed in the foyer and covered him with his favorite blanket. He was breathing hard through his nose. Big Swiss passed her a bottle of water, and Greta wet Pi?on’s lips and winced as she poured a little on the wound. She thought about running a bath for him.

“Go get changed,” Big Swiss said. “I’ll watch him.”

In her room, Greta removed her bloody nightgown. She pushed her underwear down to her ankles and stepped out of them. They resembled a twisted mouth, the pad a swollen, mangled tongue. She wasn’t bleeding anymore and felt only mild cramping, but she was tempted to jump up and down to see what would happen. Instead, she pulled on a pair of jeans and a long sweater.

A small truck turned into the driveway, the vet. She’d been expecting an ambulance, for some reason, with sirens, and a team of EMTs. Where was the stretcher? The IV? But it was just one guy carrying a canvas tool bag and dressed entirely in spandex, like a professional cyclist. It wasn’t a look Greta had ever approved of—she hated it, in fact—but she couldn’t take her eyes off him. She was so distracted by his outfit, his shaved calves, his overdeveloped forearms, she didn’t catch his name. In one swift motion, he lifted the dog bed and Pi?on off the floor and transferred them to the only piece of furniture in the foyer, a large, wooden antique desk, on top of which sat a porcelain lamp and a vase holding a spray of lily of the valley.

“I’ll get him stabilized,” he said. “What’s his name?”

“Pi?on,” Greta said, and blushed.

He gave Pi?on two shots: a painkiller and an antibiotic. He took Pi?on’s temperature and listened to his heartbeat. He examined the wound, said that dogs got shot all the time around here, usually with pellet guns, but that this was likely a .22, then he shaved the area with an electric razor, carefully cleaned and dressed the wound, and gave Greta a bunch of supplies: more painkillers and antibiotics, a tube of ointment, a plastic cone collar.

“After tomorrow, leave the wound open. Clean it once or twice a day like I showed you, and don’t let him lick it. Keep the collar on him.”

“Leave it open,” Greta repeated. “So the bullet can find its way out?”

He blinked at her kindly. He was so calm and patient. That wasn’t how it worked, he said. He kept looking at her bangs as he talked, and Greta wondered what they looked like. Not great, probably.

“The wound needs air,” he said. “It’ll heal faster.”

So I’ve heard.

“Otherwise, he’s in very good shape. His lungs sound clear and he’s not overweight.”

“Well, he’s an athlete,” she said, and adjusted her bangs. “Like you.”

He smiled. “He’ll probably be fine. Just keep an eye on him, and call me if the wound smells bad or doesn’t look like it’s healing.” After a pause he said, “Would you like me to report this to the police?”

God, yes. Thank you, sir. How humiliating for Keith to go back to prison for shooting a dog. He’d probably get shanked on the first day. She wanted to tell the vet about Keith, so that he might mention it to the police, but she didn’t know where to start, how to explain, and anyway, it was too late, he was carrying his bag out the door. He hadn’t seemed to notice Big Swiss, having only spoken to Greta, and so she was surprised to see Big Swiss follow him to his truck. Greta watched them talk briefly. Big Swiss pulled something out of her pocket. A pen, it looked like, and a pad of paper. She wrote something down and passed it to him, waved at him as he drove away, and then she just stood there in the driveway, hugging herself, obviously reluctant to come back inside.