Something Deadly

But tonight his pacing disturbed her. There was something about the way he was doing it, the way he was pausing at each window and sniffing, that wouldn’t let her go on reading.

Finally she put her book down and asked, “Walk, Kato?”

With a huge leap and a skitter of claws on the wood floor, he headed for the leash. No mistaking that message.

Smiling, she clipped the leash to his collar, grabbed her keys and stepped out into the balmy tropical night.

The nightly breeze was blowing, a gentle, moist kiss filled with the scents and sounds of the Caribbean Sea that surrounded the island of Santz Martina. It was a tropical paradise, where the wealthy could hide away from the rest of the world in geographic privacy, with all the advantages of being a U.S. territory.

At this end of the island lay Martina Town, home to over half the island’s population. All but the very old and the young had jobs. The schools were excellent, the shopping ample. The best of everything provided by the best at everything.

The houses here in old town, and the businesses, retained the flavor of the old Caribbean, with doors that were open all day, Bahamian storm shutters and courtyards rich with tropical blooms. The narrow streets created breezeways that kept the town surprisingly cool even on hot days. Life was slow. Life was good.

At the north end of the island, on the shoulder of Mount Cortez, the expansive estates of the island’s elite looked out over the teal glitter of the sea, rivaling the best the Monterey Coast had to offer.

Tonight, though, Markie and Kato strolled west along Second Avenue. Normally she would have turned left at her office, at the corner of La Puerta, and ambled down to the waterfront park. Tonight, however, Kato was having none of that. He practically dragged her past the businesses and shops and on westward, past rows of houses, narrow alleys and tiny yards occupied by unnaturally quiet dogs.

When she had come here, Markie had realized that she had stepped into a sort of adult Disneyland, where everything was, and was expected to remain, perfect. On the other hand, the people were warm and friendly, the climate wonderful, and the pay too much to refuse. She was on salary, had the most modern equipment known to veterinary medicine and was able to perform everything from surgery to dental cleanings. How could she possibly complain? She didn’t even have to charge her patients.

And so far, being beholden to the elite power structure had proved to be no burden whatever.

Kato tugged firmly on his leash, saying in no uncertain terms that they had not yet reached his chosen destination. Markie shrugged and decided to let him lead. It was rare that he ever did such a thing, and she was disinclined to argue with eighty pounds of stubborn wolf. She had no agenda, and she’d long since learned the wisdom of picking her battles when it came to dealing with this particular canine.

They strolled down another block, Kato’s head up in the air as if he were scenting something above him. How far up it might be she had no idea. Dogs could smell faint odors in the air three hundred feet above their heads. Kato, with his heritage, might be able to do even better.

But he was definitely following something. A bird, probably. Or a person.

Her thoughts had started to drift again, and then they reached the end of Second Avenue and Kato yanked her left onto Harbor Street. Fifty years ago, before developers had added subdivisions and suburban sprawl, this street had marked the western edge of town. Beyond this point, Caribbean charm gave way to planned perfection.

But not tonight.

An ambulance and a couple of police cars stood out in front of a house, lights swirling. Something bad had happened. She meant to walk right by as quickly as she could, but Kato once again had other plans.

When they reached the edge of the yard, Kato sat. He planted himself firmly, his entire posture saying that he wasn’t going another step, no matter what. Markie felt embarrassed. She didn’t want to stand here like a ghoul, but even tugging sharply on Kato’s collar didn’t persuade him to move.

A police officer walked her way. Tom Little, she realized, owner of one of her more frequent patients, a toy poodle with digestive problems. Tom was a Jamaican who spoke with an accent at once British and lilting, and whose skin was the most beautiful shade of coffee. “Hi, Tom,” she said.

He nodded. “Hello, Doctor. Is Kato giving you problems?”

“He seems determined to stay right here.”

Tom chuckled. “Well, let him. You won’t see anything gruesome. He probably smells it, though.”

“Smells what?”

Tom jerked a thumb toward the house. “Carter Shippey passed on a little while ago. His wife came home and found him gone. Looks like a heart attack.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s sad. Cart wasn’t but sixty-three.”

Prime age for a heart attack, Markie thought sadly. “Is someone taking care of Mrs. Shippey?”

Tom nodded. “A group of the neighbors carried her away to one of their houses. She won’t be alone tonight.”

“Good.”

She looked down at Kato, but he still wouldn’t budge. Every fiber of his being seemed to be pointing toward the house.

“Don’t worry about him, Doctor,” Tom said, giving Kato a quick scratch behind one ear. Kato flicked the touch away with an impatient twitch of his ear. “He’ll go when the body’s removed.”

“I hope so. I don’t want to be stuck here all night.”

Just then a car pulled up, a BMW that Markie recognized. Declan Quinn, one of the island’s dozen or so full-time physicians. She hadn’t had cause to need any of them yet, but she knew them by sight, the way she was getting to know most everyone, little by little.

Dr. Quinn climbed out of his car, dressed in khaki chinos and a blue polo shirt that somehow emphasized his dark Irish good looks: black hair, brilliant blue eyes. But he didn’t just walk past the police cordon. He flipped out a badge.

So he was here as the medical examiner. Something inside Markie twisted a little. Somebody didn’t think this was an ordinary heart attack.

Declan signed in at the door, another indicator that this was being treated as a crime scene, then disappeared inside.

Maybe, she thought, this was standard procedure. Maybe all sudden deaths were treated this way initially. That would make sense.

She looked down at Kato again and realized his ears were not only at high alert, but they were twitching, twisting this way and that as if scanning the entire area for something. He sniffed at the air again.

Then he did something she’d never before seen him do: he curled back his lips, baring his teeth. Just a little. But even that little was unnerving. She shivered in the steamy, still night air.

Part of her wanted to scoop him up, right then and there, and stagger down the street with him in her arms. Another part of her was afraid to walk off down the darkened streets right now. He sensed a threat of some kind, and Tom Little’s presence nearby was comforting. A block away, she and Kato would be on their own.

“Kato.”

He looked up at her, his golden eyes dilated so wide they appeared nearly black. And somehow she felt a warning from him.

“Home?” she asked.

Apparently not. He returned his attention to the house, and she wound up standing there like the obedient owner she was. Under other circumstances, she would have found this funny. But not tonight.

Well, she told herself, indulging in a silent lecture in order to avoid thinking about what was really happening, what did you expect from a mix of the two most independent breeds in the world? Not a lapdog, certainly. Wolves were wild animals that could be tamed just so far, and Siberian huskies were only one step removed on the genetic chain, bred to think for themselves, sense dangers a musher couldn’t see, and protect the sled and their teammates, even to the point of disregarding the musher’s commands.

The result: Markie Cross was stuck standing on a street in the middle of the night, like a ghoul waiting to pick over the bones, because her damn dog wouldn’t budge.

She tried again. “Kato. Bedtime.”

He huffed at her, that unmistakable sound of disgust. Not yet.

A gurney appeared in the doorway, bearing its load in a black rubber bag. Instinctively Markie crossed herself and said a quick prayer for Carter Shippey. Kato watched the gurney’s journey to the back of the ambulance, his gaze intent and unwavering. Then the ambulance door slammed, and the vehicle pulled away. No lights, no sirens, the silence speaking volumes.

Declan Quinn appeared at the door. He spoke to a couple of officers, his words too quiet to hear.