Chapter 1
Come daylight, Dale Kinsall still expected to open his eyes
to lush Ohio fields--summer humidity closing in around him,
song birds trilling him awake to rolling corn rows. And
each morning, the dry bite of high desert air still somehow
came as a faint and welcome surprise. The scent of hot
Ponderosa pine, the acrid bite of ancient volcanic cinder
dust, the dry sting of single-digit humidity--they were all
reminders of a new home, new job, new friends...new life.
Dale sighed, wiggling his toes at the end of a bed not
quite long enough as he admired the bright splash of late
summer sunshine against the adobe textured bedroom wall.
Bare bedroom wall. Pretty much past time to hang his
pictures. But not there. He hadn't even realized the sun
hit that spot, because he was always up and gone before it
had the chance.
Up and gone...
Dale snatched up the alarm clock, scattering change, three
battered paperbacks, and his cell phone. Way past time to
get up, it informed him. Dale made a strangled noise. Any
day but a clinic surgery day, oh please! "Why didn't you
wake me?" he demanded of the tightly curled bundle of
Beagle in the corner dog bed.
One eye cracked open to regard Dale without concern.
sleeping.
"Up," Dale said, mercilessly brusque as he rolled out of
bed, groping for yesterday's jeans along the way. New
jeans, worn once...they'd do. "Up," he repeated, snagging
a short-sleeve button-down from the closet without even
looking to see which.
Sully Beagle gave a languid yawn, stood up, shook off, and
trotted to the recently installed dog door in the corner,
right through the wall to the buffered outdoor storage
closet on the porch and into the yard. He returned as Dale
emerged from the bathroom, toothbrush in mouth, to scoop up
his wallet, paw through the sock drawer, and hunt the
errant cell phone.
food.
"Later," Dale muttered, dashing toothpaste from his chin
before it caused a change of shirt.
Wrinkles of woe appeared, most effective over black-lined
chocolate brown eyes and a white-blazed face, long ears set
to Flying Nun mode. staaaarving.
"Busy," Dale told him, stretching beneath the bed and
hoping the black widows hadn't found this space
yet. "C'mon, phone..."
It rang. Right beside his ear, it rang. Dale jerked in
surprise, smacked his head on the bedside table, lost the
toothbrush, and snatched up the phone from behind a stuffed
fuzzy smiley face, not bothering to check caller ID. "I'm
coming!"
"Doggy neuterectomy in forty-five," Sheri said, undeterred
by his brusque tone. "Snap, snap, snap!"
"Be there!" he said around the toothpaste, as if
neuterectomy was really even a word anyway. He hung up on
her, tossing the phone on the bed and tossing the smiley
face to Sully. His wrist and hand, freed from the cast of
this spring, gave its usual single morning twinge and then
gave it up for the day.
Dog hair now coated the toothbrush. Dale dropped it in the
bathroom trash, spat out the remaining paste, ran wet
fingers through his dark hair, and at the last moment
remembered to snap up his jeans.
From the bedroom came a half-hearted smiley face squeak.
food.
"Later." Dale emerged from the master bath at a near
trot. "Time for work."
Sully froze in an instant of quivering glee and then shot
past Dale to reach the back door first. No dancing in
excitement for Sully Beagle, oh no. He crouched
motionless, every fiber of his twenty-two pounds focused on
the door knob. Waiting...waiting...
Late or not, Dale couldn't resist. He could never resist.
He let his hand hover over the knob, not...quite...touching.
Sully glanced away from the door in disbelief, pinning Dale
with a reality check. His astonishment burst out in an
explosive "Bawhh!" of demand. His eyes bugged out only a
little.
Dale grinned and pushed the door open into the warm morning
heat, listening to claws scrabble across garage concrete to
the back of the Forester, where he dropped the tailgate so
Sully could leap up and crate himself for the short drive
to work.
Foothills Clinic. Dale Kinsall, DVM. Soon enough, Dale
hoped, Laura Nakai, DVM would be on that sign, next to Brad
Stanfill's name. What with the clinic expansion and
remodeling under way, they'd have room for a third vet.
They'd need a third vet to pay off that loan...
Dale pulled into the parking lot with the careless speed of
familiarity, leaving the rest of traffic to commute into
Flagstaff. The clinic itself sat in West Winona, the not-
really-a-town outside the eastern edge of Flagstaff,
Arizona. Seven thousand feet high, one volcanic range, and
more Ponderosa pines than a man could shake a stick at,
whatever that meant. For Dale it meant escaping Ohio,
where a fiery past had damaged his lungs into asthma. Of
course, it had also meant immersing himself in the most
bizarre series of murders to hit this area since...
Well, since ever.
Didn't matter. That was over, life had settled--as much as
it ever did--and he'd met Laura in the process.
Yeah.
Dale glanced longingly at the neighboring RoundUp Café as
he slipped a martingale collar and lead on Sully. Not
today. He'd grab office coffee and hope for something
stale in the new upstairs break room fridge.
But after negotiating the construction detritus in the
parking lot, the painter's truck and the ladder leaning
askew against the truck, he stopped short--coffee
notwithstanding. With Sheri gesturing impatiently at him
through the recently installed storefront-type window--get
in here!--and his hand on the knob of the outer door, Dale
instead squinted suspiciously at the note jammed into the
tight space between door and jamb.
Notes. Never a good thing. Never said you've won the
lottery, only sorry I lost that winning lottery ticket.
bored. Sully abandoned his obedient dog guise and tugged
at the lead, sniffing around the doorway to find the very
best place to lift his leg.
"You'd better not." Dale plucked the note free. "You're a
year and a half now. You should be setting a good example
for Beaglekind everywhere." In the background, Sheri had
subsided to angry hands-on-hips mode, her brightly flowered
and tightly tailored slacks largely--and mercifully--
obscured by the tunic-length scrub smock she'd taken to
wearing lately. More professional, she said, though how
she thought it could offset the slacks or even the bright
pink streaks currently slashing through her highly coiffed
hair, he wasn't sure.
Sully, too, subsided. poop.
And Dale opened the note to read a neat little handwritten
verse.
Due to your expertise,
This should be a breeze.
Say what?
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