Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Lexi
The emergency clinic was tucked between a neon-lit pawn shop and a sex toy store, which felt both very Atlantic City and very weird at the same time. The moment Gray pulled into the parking lot, Ginger sat up straight in the back seat, foil wrap crinkling.
“Park in the back,” I suggested. “Easy exit if we need it.”
Gray nodded and parked the car at the back of the clinic. “You sound more like Slash every day.”
“What can I say? He’s rubbing off on me,” I said, shrugging. I smoothed the foil on Ginger’s back before we all climbed out of the car. “Okay, everyone, stay calm, don’t freak out the staff, and if anyone asks why Ginger is wrapped like yesterday’s leftovers, let me handle it.”
Everyone agreed while Ginger blinked at me, serene and unbothered.
Inside, the waiting room smelled like antiseptic and stale coffee. A young vet tech who looked like he should be surfing instead of sitting behind a desk raised an eyebrow as we approached.
“Hey. Welcome. You’ve got an emergency?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “The dog…she’s acting really strange. Definitely an emergency neurological issue.”
He looked at Ginger and then at the four of us, a frown on his face. “What’s the foil for?”
I could almost hear him thinking aloud that it was the four of us who had the neurological issue. “It calms her. Strange, I know, but whatever works to get her here.”
The tech considered for a moment. “Ooookay. Wait here a moment, please.”
He disappeared into the back and came out a few minutes later. “As soon as we get this paperwork filled out, Dr. Partridge will see you in Room Three.”
I reached into my purse and unwound bills, placing a stack that totaled a thousand dollars on the counter.
“We just want to see the vet quickly, get some information, and then we’re gone.
The dog is a stray and we’re tourists, so we just want to make sure the dog is okay and move on.
No paperwork needed. We’ll pay in full up front. ”
The tech’s eyes widened, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he picked up the money and headed toward the back again. “I’ll be right back.”
“Was that a good idea?” Basia hissed at me.
“Do you want to spend twenty minutes we don’t have on paperwork?” I countered.
Dr. Partridge arrived two minutes later, a short brunette in a white coat with a brisk, kind face. She stopped in her tracks when she saw Ginger. “Is that dog wrapped in aluminum foil?”
I cleared my throat. “Yes. Yes, she is. It’s a calming technique.”
She stared at me for a moment and then the other girls. “No collar? No leash?”
“No,” I said.
Dr. Partridge went behind the desk and grabbed a leash and a collar, gently putting them on Ginger. She waved a hand. “Follow me to Room Three, please.”
I nodded at Gray and she discreetly set a timer on her watch. I figured ten to twenty minutes before we had company, but it would be tight. We all followed Dr. Partridge, except for Gray, who would act as our lookout in the lobby.
Dr. Partridge quietly closed the exam room door behind her and looked between us.
“Okay. Let’s start over. What’s going on with this dog?
You hand my tech a wad of cash. The dog has no collar, no leash, and is wrapped in foil.
Not to mention, all of you have decided to jam into my small examining room to be with her. She’s a stray. Why all the attention?”
I let out a breath. “Okay, I know this looks strange, but we found her running around loose and we want to return her to her proper owners. But we’re worried about her condition, and we’re willing to pay in full, up front, for a health check. Can you check if she’s chipped and who she belongs to?”
Dr. Partridge crossed her arms against her chest and stared at me for a long time. I wasn’t sure she bought our story, but we were only asking for her to confirm Ginger’s owners and do a health check. Nothing too untoward.
“All right. Take the foil off,” she said.
We carefully peeled the foil from Ginger. Once it was off, she shook herself, fur fluffing out like she was preparing for a shampoo commercial. I couldn’t help but smile.
“She’s a pretty dog. Nice coat,” Dr. Partridge said, petting her gently while checking her eyes and mouth. “She’s young. Possibly no more than two years old.” She waved a scanner over Ginger’s neck and the device beeped immediately.
“And you’re right,” she said. “She’s chipped. Let me pull up the registry.”
We gathered around the computer.
The vet’s expression shifted from mild confusion to discomfort to deep, uneasy frowning. “Well,” she said, “According to the registration, Ginger belongs to…Tango Bio Research Solutions of New Jersey. Have you heard of them before?”
“No, but I’m betting they are a research lab,” I murmured.
Basia swore under her breath. “I knew it.”
I rubbed my temples. “Thank you, Dr. Partridge. Can you do a quick examination of her for us?”
“You just paid my tech a thousand dollars in cash and all you want is a cursory examination?” she asked. “No blood workup, no X-rays?”
“No, I’m sorry, but we don’t have time.”
Dr. Partridge stared at us, holding her stethoscope with both hands. “Do you ladies want to tell me what exactly is happening? Clearly, this dog belongs to a research lab, and they will come looking for her. Are you trying to protect her?”
I exchanged glances with the others. Okay, it was truth-ish time.
“We found her in the woods,” I began. “She ran up to us, but she wasn’t acting like a normal stray. She sought us out, and she’s proven to be extremely intelligent.”
“How intelligent?” the vet asked warily.
“Very,” I said, deciding that some discretion was still advised.
“We tried to find an open shelter to take her to, but there wasn’t anything available to us until the morning.
We decided not to leave her roaming, so we snuck her into our hotel room at the casino until we could take her to the shelter in the morning.
Shortly thereafter, some weird guy shows up at our hotel, banging on our door and claiming she belongs to him. ”
“She didn’t have a collar?” Dr. Partridge asked.
“No, and that’s the thing,” I said. “She also had no vest and no way to carry a battery pack to establish a GPS satellite link. Most dog microchips that I’ve ever heard of aren’t embedded with a GPS, and certainly not without some kind of power source.”
Dr. Partridge nodded thoughtfully. “They’re not.”
“And yet this guy somehow traced her to our hotel room and was very pushy about getting her back,” I continued.
“Ginger—we call her that because of the copper tint to her fur—clearly didn’t like him, even though we never even opened the door.
She growled, hissed, teeth bared. She was not going to go with him without a fight.
” I left out the whole spelling thing since I figured we didn’t have time and Dr. Partridge already had enough information on her plate to process.
The vet’s face went through several emotions at once—concern, disbelief, and finally professional alarm. “The foil,” she finally said. “You were blocking the GPS signal.”
I nodded. “Yes, and now that’s it off, they may be tracking us here right now. They may try to snatch her back.”
“If they own her, we can’t stop them,” the vet said logically. “She legally belongs to them. And if they’re licensed and permitted to experiment on dogs—which is not illegal in the US if you are properly registered—you will have no recourse.”
“We know,” I said. “But we just want to make sure she’ll be safe before we return her.”
“Fair enough.” Dr. Partridge put the stethoscope in her ears. She listened to Ginger’s heart and lungs and then gently parted the fur to examine her skin, first on her head and then her neck. After a moment, she inhaled sharply.
“There’s evidence that she may have been exposed to some kind EEG-monitoring activity.
There are indentations where neurological nodes would have been placed to monitor her brain waves.
The fact that these indents in her skin look almost permanent means she likely would have been exposed to consistent and long-term neurological studies. ”
“So not necessarily damaging?” I asked.
“Not necessarily,” the vet said and then shined her flashlight in Ginger’s eyes. “She seems neurologically intact. But the brain can survive and deal with trauma in many different ways. She seems like a good, calm girl, but I can’t say she hasn’t been harmed, either.”
She continued her search along Ginger’s skin. “There’s a subdermal incision here near where the chip was implanted. It’s recent and…” She palpated the area, her face turning grim. “Something metallic that isn’t part of a normal microchip.”
“What is it?” Basia asked.
“I don’t know without extracting it,” the vet said. “It might be your fancy GPS tracker.”
Gwen’s phone buzzed and she glanced down. “I told Gray about Tango Bio Research Solutions in New Jersey. She looked it up online. All she could find is that it’s a private—not a government—research facility. No public records. No mission statement. No website. Zero transparency.”
“Sure,” Basia said. “Because that just screams ‘ethical science.’”
The vet took a step back. “I’m going to be honest, ladies, if this dog escaped from a lab like this, you need to take her to Animal Control or a shelter first thing in the morning.
That’s my advice. There is nothing else I can do for her.
” Dr. Partridge’s gaze softened, but her tone was firm.
“If you don’t turn her in, you could get in a lot of trouble.
And if she’s been part of unauthorized experimentation, then the proper authorities need to handle it. ”
“We’re fully aware of that,” I said. “We intend to alert the proper authorities to handle this.”
“You mean the AWA?” Dr. Partridge asked.
“What’s the AWA?” Basia asked, looking confused.
“The Animal Welfare Act,” Gwen responded.
“It requires research institutions in the US to register with the government and follow minimum standards for care, housing, and veterinary treatment, including minimizing pain and stress and implementing as many alternatives to painful procedures as necessary.”
When we looked at her in surprise, she shrugged. “I’m a microbiologist. I took biology classes in college and graduate school, and I’ve worked in labs, duh.”
She had a point, so I nodded and continued speaking to the vet. “Anyway, we’ll be asking the authorities to investigate and ensure this lab is fully registered and compliant with the requirements of the law. We’re not giving her back until we are sure Ginger is being treated properly.”
I picked up a piece of the foil and wrapped it around the dog again. As I finished, Dr. Partridge leaned over Ginger and quickly wrapped some bandage tape around the foil and the dog, securing it.
Before anyone could say anything, Gray abruptly swung open the door with a loud thump. “Sorry to break up the party, but we’ve got company.”
My blood ran cold. “They found us already?”
“They did.”
“Are you sure?” I asked, stepping into the corridor. Through the dark-tinted glass, I saw two black SUVs parking. Their engine lights were still on, and the headlights glowed like predatory eyes.
Ginger stood, fur rising, a low growl vibrating through her chest.
Dr. Partridge looked alarmed, surprised by Ginger’s sudden change in behavior.
“You’re right, she is clearly afraid of whoever is coming for her.
Whatever is happening…you need to go. Now.
You can keep the leash and collar, just use the back door.
It’s through here.” She opened the examination room and pointed deeper into the clinic.
She then yelled at the vet tech, “Dusty, if someone comes in, keep them there for a few minutes.”
“On it, boss,” Dusty called back.
“Thank you,” Gray said to the vet, patting her on the shoulder and heading to the back door with her car keys in hand. Basia and Gwen quickly followed.
“Yes, thank you so much,” I said, grabbing the rest of Ginger’s foil and shoving it in my pocket.
Dr. Partridge handed me the spare leash.
I thanked her as I clipped the leash on.
I hightailed it after Gray with Ginger on my heels.
In the dim light, the foil clung to Ginger’s fur as if she wore battle armor.
When we stepped outside, the dog pressed closer to me, her body tense and vibrating. She was ready and so was I.
For exactly what, we had no idea.