Peter Decker 3-Book Thriller Collection: False Prophet, Grievous Sin, Sanctuary

Decker smiled. Vera’s eyes had become slits. She claimed she was part Aztec and her features backed her up. But she never did bother to explain her Southern drawl.

“Last time I checked.”

Vera returned her eyes to the scope.

“Here’s number two. And here? Oh my, oh my, we downright have a housing project. How y’all doing, little guys? Making life miserable for Pogo’s gut?”

“Do you always talk to your slides, Vera?”

“Worms are animals, too.” She sat back in her chair. “You ever get around to trimming the hooves of the little one, Pete?”

Decker smiled. “Now you’re checking up on me?”

“Checking up on my patient.” Vera stood, unbuttoned her lab coat, and fanned the sides to cool herself off. “You’re going to cripple the poor thing if you don’t.”

“Yes, I trimmed her hooves. Ornery little sucker. When she realized I wasn’t going to let her kick me, she rolled me. Just stiffened and fell on me. Took me over an hour and I was sweating like a pig by the time I was done.”

Vera’s laugh was deep. “You could have brought her in, Pete. Saved yourself some work.”

“Macho guys like me don’t do sensible things like that.”

“One would have thought Rina might have sweet-talked some sense into you.”

“One would have thought.” Decker stuck his hands in his pockets.

Vera swung her glasses onto her chest. “Would you like some mint iced tea?”

“Very much, thanks.”

“My, but it’s a hot one.” She opened the refrigerator, swinging the door several times, providing herself with a breeze of chilled air. Taking out a pitcher of iced tea, she poured it into a two-half-liter beaker and handed Decker some calibrated glassware. She held her container aloft, then gulped down her tea. Decker could just imagine her tossing down some brews with the good ole boys. She had to be close to sixty, but he’d lay money that she could drink a barroom of truck drivers under the table. He finished his tea and Vera took the beaker from his hands.

“Thanks for doing a rush job for me,” Decker said. “Are we in luck?”

“Yes, we are.” Vera perched horn-rimmed glasses on her nose. The chain that connected to her spectacles fell down her temples like gypsy earrings. “Come on over to my desk, I’ll show you my printout.”

The lab wasn’t Parker Center Forensics, but it seemed well equipped—a centrifuge for blood work and a half dozen microscopes. There were racks of Pyrex glassware, shelves of reagents and solvents. A waist-high table of clean white Formica provided the working area. Vera’s desk was a wooden table topped with an IBM PC, a phone, and a salad bowl filled with floral potpourri. The computer’s printer was spewing out data, screeching as the daisy wheel inked numbers on paper. Decker pulled a stool next to the table and sat. Vera took a folder and read its contents.

“It was an easy analysis. Your poisoner didn’t go in for exotics. Does the name phencyclidine mean anything to you?”

“PCP.” Decker took out a pencil and a notebook. “But that’s used as an animal tranquilizer, isn’t it?”

“Not that much anymore. We have much better drugs that don’t have the side effects.”

“What are the side effects in a horse?”

“Well, human and equine brain chemistries are very different as you can well imagine. A horse’s brain is less likely to self-destruct, I can tell you that.”

“No argument from me.”

“Yeah, we humans do the most ungodly things to ourselves.” Vera scratched her head. “Anyway, most of the time, you shoot a horse with PCP, the drug’ll just knock the poor thing out. But I’ve read more than one study where PCP can cause a paradoxical reaction even in large animals. Instead of being tranquilized, the horse metabolizes the drug as a hallucinogen. In that case, you’ll get reactions similar to those observed in humans—agitation, muscle rigidity, hyperreflexia, tachycardia …”

“Things that would make a horse bolt.”

“Things that would make a horse bolt.” She put the folder down and let her glasses fall onto her bosom. “Mr. Ed notwithstanding, nobody I know has ever heard of a talking horse.” She thought a moment. “Nobody who’s actually lucid, that is. Once I knew a fellah who claimed to be married to his horse … that’s another story. Since we regulars can’t communicate with our equine friends, it’s hard to know exactly what had transpired. But I’d be willing to bet that your suicidal palomino was seeing things that weren’t there. Poor thing was probably flying while he was bolting.”

Decker made a few chicken scratches on paper. “Let me ask you this. How long would it take for the drug to take effect?”

“That’s an ‘it depends’ question. How much is given, the body weight of the horse, the stomach contents, any other potentiating drug in the bloodstream—I didn’t find anything else out of the ordinary. It also depends if the drug is given intravenously, intramuscularly, or orally. Most of the time, it isn’t given orally, but if someone was out to sabotage, it’s conceivable that they could have mixed the powder into the horse’s feed. That being the case, it might take anywhere from fifteen minutes to an hour for the drug to take effect.”

Fifteen minutes to an hour, Decker thought. From ten to eleven, Mike Ness was doing aerobics. Where was Jeffers?

“That’s a long-winded answer to a straightforward question.” Vera played with her glasses. “I hope it helps you out.”

“It sure does. Thanks a lot, Vera.” Decker tapped his pencil against his pad. “PCP. Person could pick up Dust anywhere.”

“Anywhere and everywhere. You’d be stunned at how many dogs and cats come in here freakin’ out because they took their owner’s dope.” Vera looked at him. “Are you on to something?”

“Just thinking.” Decker folded his notebook. “Even though PCP is everywhere … for a person to administer it IM to a horse … that person would have to be someone at ease with large animals. Most greeners find horses pretty intimidating because of their size.”

“That’s true. Horses are dumb but they are strong … and obstinate if you don’t know how to handle them.”

Decker folded his pad and nodded, thinking horses could get real obstinate. Took a firm, experienced hand to give them an injection.

An experienced hand … like Carl Totes.

16

Black coffee and corned beef with mustard on rye. Decker stared at the sandwich, enjoying the feel of his mouth watering. Leaning back in his desk chair, he took a bite, chewing with near-orgasmic pleasure. His spine and neck were sore from this morning’s ordeal, his arms sunburned from exposure. But he was able to forget everything as soon as his teeth sank into the bread.

Treasure the simple things.

He took another bite and saw Marge enter the squad room, her hands shuffling little pink message slips. He whistled, she looked up, and he motioned her over. She pulled up a chair and Decker noticed his partner’s longing eyes. He handed her the other half of his sandwich.

“Are you sure?” Marge said.

“My mother raised me with manners.”

Marge bit into the bread before he could change his mind. “You know what I need?”

“You’re talking with your mouth full, Detective Dunn.”

“I need a wife.”

“I’ll tell Rina to make extra next time.”

“I don’t understand why her sandwiches are consistently better than mine. Why do I have such an adversarial relationship with food?”

“Lie on ze couch und vee can discuss it.” Decker sipped coffee. “How’s Lilah?”