Chapter 5 Rhys
Chapter five
Rhys
The hardest part of my evening is over, and the fun part looms ahead of me. Except tonight hasn't gone exactly as I planned. I don’t like deviations. They introduce variables. Variables introduce mistakes.
I've got Frank and Derek unconscious and ready to pack into my trunk, but there is another body lying on the floor beside me with a very pregnant dog licking his face.
My first task is to get the dog back to bed before the stress brings on her imminent labor and I end up stuck with a whelping bitch instead of playing with my favorite instruments. Animals are simple. Predictable. They respond to tone, touch, and consistency.
People are where things become… complicated.
Luckily, she's cooperative when I scoop her up, and after a short walk into the kennel block, I find an empty kennel with the door open, and she waddles in like it's familiar enough to be hers. She circles once before settling, instinct overriding everything else.
I watch just long enough to be certain.
“What a good girl,” I can't help giving the top of her head a deep scratch. “You keep those puppies in until the morning staff get in, alright?”
Her tail gives a lazy wag against the floor. She's not showing any signs of distress or early labor, so I close her door and withdraw from the depressing row of pregnant dogs. With the dog settled, I return to my actual problem.
The unexpected man.
What am I going to do with an extra body?
I could leave him behind, let him wake up confused on the floor, but he is technically evidence.
Not in the fingerprint style, my thick gloves eliminate that, but in exposing my methods.
Rather than opening a missing person case for the brothers, they'd open an investigation.
The cops will know my choice of agriculture-grade needles from the size of the puncture wound in his neck, my use of animal-specific sedatives not licensed for humans from his blood toxicity report.
All of it would point them to the veterinary world, and I'm currently the shining face of that world.
Not enough for an arrest. But enough for interest.
And interest is dangerous.
I have to bring him with me.
Damn it. Too sloppy.
I know I'm stalling when I leave him lying there, but I'm hoping another brilliant alternative pops up while I'm dragging Frank to join his brother in the trunk of my car.
He's a dead weight to lift, but once his shoulders are in, the rest sort of follows.
His shoes scrape against the ground, catching on the threshold before I adjust my grip.
It's a mess of limbs, but a little shoving and a couple of bends in the wrong places and the boot lid closes. Not neatly. But securely.
The other guy is small, but there isn't a hope in hell of fitting him in with them. Which means driving back with his body visible in the car. A complication I hadn’t planned for.
I don’t enjoy improvisation.
Well, I'm all done except for leaving, and I've had no epiphany solution, so my dog-napping friend is coming with us.
He hasn't moved a muscle since I laid him down, except for the soft rise and fall of his chest. Despite making that clear observation about his breathing, I lean forward and touch his throat. I can’t feel a pulse through my thick gloves, but I feel strangely better for having checked.
Irrational. I know exactly how much I administered. And yet…
Rather than grabbing his wrists and dragging him, which is my preferred method of moving bodies, I lift him over my shoulder. He's light enough, but deep down I know that isn’t the reason. Pulling wrists is how I move bodies.
He isn’t a body.
Not yet.
He is a person.
A strange, mysterious person who wouldn't release a pregnant dog to fight off an attacker. She meant something to him, because he wouldn't let her fall even as he passed out. Enough to override instinct.
Enough to ignore self-preservation.
That’s… unusual.
I entered the medical profession because I enjoy solving mysteries about the body. I became a vet to add to that. Not relying on my patient to tell me how they feel. Now I wish this patient could speak to me. I would know within seconds what he is.
Fearful. Loyal. Stupid. Brave. The body always tells the truth, eventually.
The answers I want from him are in his mind, closed down like a computer doing a massive reboot.
I need patience, not patients for this one.
I chuckle at my internal joke and slide Sleeping Beauty into my passenger seat.
Once he's strapped in and tucked up in a blanket, he looks like he's sleeping peacefully. That should be enough to get him home without suspicion. I adjust the blanket once more before pulling away, tucking it higher around his shoulder than strictly necessary. There’s no practical reason for it.
I do it anyway. His head tilts slightly towards the window, loose and unguarded.
His head rolls slightly with the motion of the car, but he doesn't stir. Most people react to the sedative eventually. A twitch. A groan. Something. He remains perfectly still. Too still.
Driving home, he is surprisingly distracting, for an unconscious man. He hasn’t groaned or sighed. No flicker of his eyelids or fingers. And yet, he has more of my attention than the road itself. I keep my eyes dead ahead, mostly, but it's my mind that can't focus on anything else.
There were no other cars at the puppy farm, besides the monsters driven by Frank and Derek.
So how did he get there? The farm sits at the bottom of a dirt track road, and he’s not dressed for a long walk in the dark to the main road carrying a dog mere days from whelping.
At the next set of lights, my hand casually flips the blanket off his legs for a moment, confirming what I already knew.
His clothes are old and worn, but clear of mud.
He hadn't walked down the lane today. Which means Frank and Derek wanted him there.
Or at least allowed him to be. Staff? Caretaker? Something else entirely?
But then why carry a dog around in the dark.
“You are a complete mystery, my young friend.” And I’ve always had a weakness for a good mystery.