How hard would it be to get Dr. Voss’s home phone number and see what he could do? Problem is, I don’t know anyone who would have that information except…
Molly Butler.
She’s a vet tech and has to be his. There’s a small chance she could work for a different vet in a nearby town, but I doubt it.
And at this hour, she’s my best shot.
Slowing the truck to a stop, I search in my console for my ticket book and flip back until I find the carbon copy of the ticket I wrote her the other day.
“Bingo,” I whisper out loud and make quick work of programming the address into my navigator.
The drive isn’t far, and I soon reach a well-worn dirt drive covered in a light blanket of pine needles. I’d heard about this property before, but I didn’t expect these tall evergreens to open to such a wide expanse of grass or the two-story cabin planted right in the middle. It’s dusk, but I can see how far the land stretches—at least four acres on this lot alone and enclosed with a circle of more pine trees. As much as I’d give my right nut to see this place in full daylight, I don’t have to know it’s one beautiful piece of prime land, rich in beauty and nature and wildlife. I park as close to the house as I can, pulling my pickup in line next to a similar one with a candy apple red paint job.
My boots crunch on the loose gravel as I make my way to the front porch steps. I don’t even have a foot on the first one when the door at the top flies open and Molly Butler steps through it, wielding a .22 shotgun.
She’s a sight to behold in black leggings, a bulky grey sweater that doesn’t quite fall off one shoulder, and damp light brown hair past her shoulders. And the way she’s got that weapon lofted against her shoulder—she’s not some novice trying to scare me off for show. She knows how to use that thing.
I keep my hands visible in the air as the fierce defensiveness in her eyes shifts to vague recognition.
“Oh my god, you’re that ticket-loving fucking park ranger. What the fuck do you want?” She’s still holding the barrel level.
“Look, I know this is out of nowhere, and I’m sorry to catch you off guard. I’ve got a bobcat I found caught in a foot hold over by the Garnet, and I was hoping you knew how to get a hold of Dr. Voss. Do you have his home number?”
Her shoulders relax some, as she points the barrel downward and shakes her head. “He doesn’t pick up his phone after hours.” “I don’t know of anyone else. How bad is it?”
I can tell by her stance and the curiosity in her eyes that I’ve caught her interest. “It’s not a cub but it is pretty young. Caught in a makeshift trap with some sharp metal. It did some damage, but I think he’s got a chance if he gets help soon.” I move to my truck and open the door of the extended cab then carefully pick up the creature, still bundled in my jacket. He’s gotten slightly heavier in the short drive over here. When I make my way back over in her direction, I see an immediate change, starting with her eyes and then outward to the rest of her face. “Is there anything you can do? I’ll waive the ticket I wrote you the other day, and you won’t see me again,” I add, hoping that will sweeten the pot.
Molly tucks the shotgun under her arm and stares at the wounded animal another beat longer before looking back up at me. “There’s a small barn behind the house,” she gestures with her chin over her shoulder, “meet me in there.”
6
WOLF
It’s clear this isn’t Molly’s first rodeo when she unlocks the dark shop, flips on the overhead lights, and waves me over to a towel-covered table. I gently place the animal down and look around the room.
A space heater sits on a table across from us, and Molly turns it on and aims it right at the animal. At the foot of the table is an old, multi-drawer tool chest that serves as a supply cart. She gives the thing a couple shakes before pounding her fist on the top to get it to pop open. When it does, she pulls out several small sheets of gauze and a bandage roll. In another drawer, she grabs a pre-packaged suture kit.
What the fuck? “Okay, I knew you’d be able to help to some degree, but I thought you were a tech, not an actual vet,” I observe.
She sighs, opening the packages and placing them next to the barely conscious animal. “Yeah, well, in some ways I might as well be one. I’ve been doing most of the procedures for Dr. Voss for some time now.” She turns and reaches in another cupboard,pulling out a couple of bottles that look like disinfectant and medicated creams.
“Why is that?” I ask.
She shrugs, like what she does is an everyday thing. “He’s gotten older and a bit lazier. In one way, he’s taking pity on me for not being able to afford the years of college and vet school it would take to become a real vet.” She lines everything up on the table and starts to peel back the flap of my jacket from the bobcat, breathing in with a hiss at the exposed gashes, dried blood, and inflamed skin. “On the other hand, he keeps both the pay and the credit, so it’s a win and lose situation.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
She nods, turning to retrieve a bowl and washcloth from a lower wooden cupboard. One of its doors is sagging due to water erosion along the side. “Yeah,” she answers, taking the bowl over to a utility sink in the corner and twisting the faucet. “I mean, the pay is good for what I do, but it still barely makes ends meet. I save money by fishing.” She shoots me a look as water obnoxiously sprays from the spigot. “Shit,” she mutters, twisting the nozzles on and off again before taming the faucet.
Looks like this place could use a little work.
“And besides, I get to keep a lot of the expired-but-still-perfectly-good supplies we have to get rid of in order to stay aligned with the health codes,” she adds, coming back to the table with water sloshing in the steel bowl.
“And clearly you make use of them,” I gesture in front of me.
“Well, as you probably know, this is one of the few precious parcels of property that hasn’t been ripped up around here. Which means I get a lot of animal visitors that venture here from the ones that have. Some of the animals are hurt,” she explains.
So, Molly breaks a few rules when fishing, but she devotes the rest of her spare time to helping injured wildlife. Maybe I did have her pegged wrong. I try to discreetly examine the shade ofolive in her skin as I think about the birth date on her driver’s license. She’s not much younger than I am, and I’m curious how I’ve never seen her around before.