Rachel Goddard 01 - The Heat of the Moon

fastened irrationally on Luke Campbell. I can still see the hatred working under her rigidly calm expression when our conversation shifts toward him.
    But it didn’t start with Luke. It started with a basset hound named Maude who chased a squirrel into the path of a car.
    ***
    Late on a raw April afternoon, I stood at the front desk of the McLean Animal Health Clinic, adding a note to my last patient’s chart. Gray rain streamed past the windows. The red mat inside the front door was sodden, and a confusion of muddy footprints, human and canine, covered the white tile floor.
    The whoosh of the glass door swinging open made me look up. Young Mrs. Coleman stood there panting, her jeans and sweatshirt wet through, her short blond hair plastered to her scalp. “Dr. Goddard,” she gasped. Her hands flailed. “Maude—she got hit by a car—Her leg—the bone’s sticking out—”
    I bolted for the door, calling back to the desk clerks, “Get Carl out front, and tell Dr. Bonelli we’ve got one for him.”
    I clambered into the rear of the Colemans’ Jeep Cherokee and leaned over the basset hound. Maude’s left hind leg was cocked at a crazy angle, jagged bone ripping the skin. She was conscious, her sad eyes staring up at me. Thick blood coated half her face and one of her soft floppy ears. The sweet-rank smell filled my nostrils and brought a flood of saliva to my mouth.
    Gently but firmly, I pulled open her mouth to check her gum color, but I couldn’t see much in the gloomy interior of the vehicle.
    Behind me, out in the rain, Mrs. Coleman cried and babbled. “She saw a squirrel—not on the leash—just getting in the car—It’s my fault, God, it’s my fault.”
    Carl leaned in, handed me a soft nylon muzzle. I snapped it over Maude’s jaws to keep her from biting when we moved her, then scooted to one side so Carl could position the small stretcher he’d brought. Together we slid Maude onto it, and Carl covered her with a blanket.
    Grasping one end of the stretcher, I backed out of the vehicle. Carl, a young aide built like a football player, took the other end. Maude was a silent, limp weight between us.
    Mrs. Coleman, sobbing loudly, followed us to the clinic’s side door, then we were all under the bright lights of the treatment room. Carl took away the wet blanket. Two young female techs set to work quickly and smoothly, positioned Maude on the steel table, found a front leg vein for an IV, swabbed the surprisingly minor facial laceration.
    I was listening to Maude’s heart and lungs when Tony Bonelli walked in, pulling on latex gloves. “Okay,” he said, peering at the fractured leg, “what have we got here? Want me to take over?”
    I stepped back, rattling off what I’d found in my quick check.
    Mrs. Coleman sagged against a wall and squeezed her eyes shut. I gave her a second to calm down and catch her breath.
    “Maude’s probably going to be all right,” I told her. “I didn’t see any sign of internal bleeding. Dr. Bonelli’s a bone specialist, a surgeon, and he’s the best one to take care of her right now. Try not to worry, okay?”
    “All right,” she whispered. “Okay.” Then her hands flew to her face. “Oh my God! Kristin!” She wheeled in a circle, searching. “Where’s my daughter?”
    I clutched her arm to make her stand still. “I’ll find her, don’t worry. Just answer a couple of questions for Dr. Bonelli, and I’ll have Kristin waiting for you out front.”
    She swiped tears and rain from her cheeks with the flat of her hand, then bobbed her head. As I pushed open the door I heard Tony’s calm, unhurried voice asking whether Maude had been able to stand up after she was struck.
    I ran to the Cherokee. The child wasn’t there. She must have gone in the front door when her mother did, although I didn’t remember seeing her.
    I found Mrs. Coleman’s three-year-old daughter in the reception area, pressed against the front of the big desk with her tiny hands clenched at her sides, her face puckered. She was invisible to the four young women answering phones and working on computers behind the desk.
    “Hi, Kristin,” I said, leaning down. Rain dripped from my hair. “Your mom’s in the other room with Maude. She’ll be out in a minute.”
    Wet blond curls hugged her head. Her jeans and blue sweatshirt, miniature versions of her mother’s, were soaked, and one sleeve had a smear of blood across it. “Mommy,” she whimpered.
    I knelt before her.