Night Moves (Doc Ford) - By RandyWayne White Page 0,90
in the water. He skidded around the corner, claws clacking, ignored Dan’s welcoming hand, then sniffed and sneezed as he sat in front of me.
“Blood?” Dan said, wiping the spray off his arm.
I cupped the retriever’s head in my hands and leaned my nose close to his. “Humm . . . looks like you finally met Crunch & Des, huh?” Then said to Dan, “Just a couple of scratch wounds, so it wasn’t much of a fight. But deep. I better tend to this.”
As I got to my feet, the pilot asked, “Crunch and who? What the hell are you talking about?”
“About an hour ago, I got an e-mail from the dog’s owner,” I explained. “Well . . . the family he belongs to. The cat I mentioned—that’s why he’s bleeding. When the family sends someone—this weekend, possibly—I don’t want the dog’s nose to be infected. He’s got scars enough to surprise them.”
Then added as I walked toward the lab, “I’ll call Vargas, too, and see if he can stop by.”
The pilot, getting frustrated, asked, “And who the hell’s Vargas?”
I had slipped. “Alberto Sabino,” I amended. “The Brazilian who owns that big Lamberti yacht. His name throws me sometimes.”
“Hold it a minute, Doc.” Futch’s no-bullshit tone demanded attention. “What exactly did this guy do to help us? Sharing the Avenger wreckage is one thing, but taking him to the Bone Field, my god.”
“I wouldn’t have pushed if I didn’t think it was the safest solution,” I said. “Put it this way: we’d all still be feeling crosshairs on our backs if it wasn’t for what he did.”
“Why is it I’m thinking you two pulled something that could put all our asses in a sling?”
“You’re better off not knowing, if that’s what you’re asking. If you want the truth, though, I’ll tell you.”
“Does Quirko know?”
“Yeah. He wasn’t involved, but there’s a reason he had to know some of it.”
Futch, scratching the dog’s chest, thought about that for a moment. Then said, “What the hell, go call the guy. His boat’s big enough, we could use it as a mother ship instead of camping with the snakes and mosquitoes.”
I smiled and said, “Thanks, skipper.”
—
MY FIRST-AID KIT was below, packed aboard my boat for the trip, so I went into the lab and collected what I needed—gauze, spray to dull the pain, antibacterial salve—then turned and noticed I’d left my computer on, a letter from Dr. Arlis Milton of Atlanta still on the screen. So I stooped to read it for the fifth or sixth time:
Mr. Ford,
My wife and I are still in shock that the photos we sent confirm the lost dog is the same one you advertised in the classifieds of Retriever Magazine. With your permission, we will arrange to have him transported home to Georgia within the week. I understand your eagerness for an explanation as to how my late father-in-law’s dog ended up lost in the Florida Everglades, and we much appreciate your generous refusal to accept a reward, or payments, for your trouble. However, I spoke with our attorney this morning and she advised me that precautions must be taken to protect our interests and yours and the dog’s as well, especially since his microchip is no longer functioning and ownership might be in question.
I trust your motives 100%, but as a search on the Internet will prove, what my attorney calls “the dognapping industry” has made it necessary to follow what for me is an embarrassingly strict legal protocol. Please don’t be offended, here is what my attorney suggests:
1. You must accept a reward and sign the attached agreement.
2. You must sign a waiver (attached) that holds our family free of any liability.
3. You must sign a release form (attached) that confirms you have no past or future claims on the dog.
These days, nothing is simple, is it? Once you have returned these documents, I will be happy to answer all questions, and look forward to buying you dinner if you ever visit Atlanta. As a reward, I am also pleased to offer you $500—it’s great to know my late father-in-law’s dog is alive and well, so I really must insist.
Arlis Milton, M.D.
That dog’s valuable, I had told Tomlinson, and the letter proved it. No mention of the father-in-law’s name, or the dog’s name, his breed, his age, nothing—which indicated the information could be linked together on the Internet. And also suggested the animal was worth a lot more than five hundred.