49

Heather pulled the brush through the thick hair of the mastiff. “Good dog.”

She’d been working steadily for twenty minutes when the doorbell interrupted her attention.

She scratched the dog behind the ears. “Stay, Bo.”

She walked down the hall, through the kitchen, and out to the entrance foyer. She looked through the window. Ryan Meadows.

She put her hand in the pocket of her shorts to check for her cell before opening the door. “Mr. Meadows.”

“May I come in?”

She shook her head. “What is your business?”

“I hear that your husband decided to change his plans and delay his return.”

She put her hands on her hips. “So?”

“How convenient,” he said. “Did you tip him off that the police would be waiting for him?”

“No,” she said, “I’ve not spoken to Jace. I hear he’s recovering from an assault. He should be home soon.” She paused. “I would hope the police would rethink the decision to arrest him.”

“Mrs. Rawlings, I’m sure Jace wants you to be convinced of his innocence. Perhaps you’d like to look at some other evidence that will help you see things more clearly.”

She stepped back. “Perhaps.”

He put his hand against the door behind her, pushing it open. “Shall I follow you?”

She sighed. “Sure.”

Inside, Ryan Meadows sat on the couch and opened his briefcase. “You’re going to want to look at this with me,” he said, patting the couch cushion next to him.

Irritated, she complied.

As she did, he shifted his open briefcase to hide its contents. His demeanor changed, darkening. “You just had to start snooping, didn’t you?” Before she could react, he pulled out a syringe and plunged it into Heather’s left thigh just below her shorts. She screamed and stumbled to her feet. “What are you doing?”

“Ketamine,” he said, smiling. “Nice to have a brother in the veterinarian business. You may want to sit before you fall. Don’t worry,” he said, loosening his belt. “You won’t feel a thing.”

She stumbled into the kitchen, leaving Ryan on the couch. She pulled out her cell and, turning her body so that he couldn’t see, punched 911. Feeling her head begin to swim, she placed the open phone behind the toaster before collapsing onto the floor.

“Bo,” she gasped. “Help! Bo!”

She heard footsteps and then saw Ryan leaning over her. He whispered, “When you wake up, you can call Jace for help, just like Anita did.” He laughed. “Except you’re not going to wake up.”

The last thing she felt was Ryan ripping open her blouse. “Too bad you won’t be around to see your husband go to jail.”

 

The 911 operator frowned. She usually received a dozen mistake calls a day, many of them from elderly patients who dialed emergency services by accident. But this was different. The line was still alive. There were sounds, but they were faint.

She listened as a woman called for help. A man’s voice was next, too quiet for her to hear.

Unfortunately, the location wasn’t easy to trace. She heard a dog barking, then a man screaming, “Hey, get off me! Ow!”

The line was still open when a second call came in. She left the first line alive and answered the second call. “911. Can you state the nature of your emergency?”

A man’s voice. “I’ve been attacked by a dog. He won’t let me get up. I’m bleeding.”

“Can you give me your location?”

“124 Dogwood Lane.”

“Help is on the way.”

 

Six minutes later, Nathan Gilson and Ginny Tannous knocked on the door at 124 Dogwood Lane. Hearing a weak, “Come in,” they entered.

A man was leaning against a kitchen island, holding his right hand over his left forearm. A large dog lay at his feet.

“Careful,” the man said. “The dog is protecting the woman.”

They looked to the man’s left. A woman lay sprawled on the floor, eyes open, snoring. Her blouse was ripped open.

The man looked desperate. “She collapsed, fainted or something. I went to help and thought she didn’t have a pulse. I ripped open her shirt to start CPR when the dog attacked. He won’t let me touch her.”

Ginny approached the dog, holding out her hand and handing him a doggy treat she kept on hand for unruly dogs they encountered on the job. “Good boy,” she said calmly. “Good dog.”

“I’m okay,” the man said. “Please attend to her.”

“How’s your arm?”

“Bleeding, but I think it will be okay. I called because he wouldn’t let me up.”

The dog stood and emitted a deep growl.

Ginny tugged on his collar. “Easy, boy.”

“What’s her name?” Nathan asked.

“Heather Rawlings,” the man said.

“Is she diabetic? Does she have a known seizure disorder?”

“Not that I know of. She came out to the kitchen to prepare drinks. The next thing I heard was a thud. I came out to find her right here.”

The duo turned their attention to the woman. Nathan knelt over her assessing her airway, breathing, and pulse. He noted a small drop of blood on her thigh.

Ginny tilted her head. “Do you hear that?”

“What?”

“Someone is talking. Like a radio,” she said, standing, “or a phone.” She leaned over the island counter, listening. There, behind the toaster, she saw a small cell phone, the source of the voice.

She lifted it to hear, “Hello! Hello!”

Ginny said, “Hello?”

“This is the 911 operator. Is there an emergency there?”

“This is EMS. We are on scene.”

“How did you know where to go? I’ve been monitoring this call, but haven’t had communication to know where to send a crew.”

“Wait a minute,” Ginny said. “You directed us here, said a man had been attacked by a dog.”

“That wasn’t this call,” she said. “That was a second call. This call was a woman screaming for help. Then I heard a man and a dog. Then the second call came in.”

“Well, don’t worry,” Ginny said. “We’re here now. The man came to help her.”

“Okay, carry on.”

Ginny closed the phone. “Where is that guy?”

Nathan looked around. “Sir?” He walked into the front room, returning a moment later. He shrugged. “He’s gone.” He looked at their patient on the floor. “Let’s move her. I’ll bet she’s a druggie. Just look at those eyes.”