X's and O's (Will Kilpatrick, DVM Mystery Series Book 1) Read online

  X's and O's

  Book One in the Will Kilpatrick, DVM Mystery Series

  by

  A. Carlock Maxwell, DVM

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Copyright 2015

  All rights reserved

  This book is a work of fiction. Although places mentioned may be real, the characters, names, and incidents and all other details are products of the author's imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced in any format, by any means, electronic or otherwise, without prior consent from the copyright owner and publisher of this book. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Dedicated to my beautiful bride, Pamela.

  Chapter 1

  Tuesday

  He shouldn't have stopped by. Should have gone straight to the lawyer's office. Signed papers. Met with the sheriff. Confirmed that Uncle Bill's passing had indeed been ruled an accident, not murder.

  But no, he had been polite. Done the right thing. Stopped at the veterinary clinic for a quick visit. Civility resulted in a trout-fishing lawyer and bossy old lady holding his life hostage.

  Miss Effie's CT-scan eyes swept over and around and through Will Kilpatrick, DVM. "Them sprout eaters are saying they killed your uncle."

  "Sprout eaters?"

  "PETTA. Please End Tyranny Towards Animals. Probably militant vegans. Say they did it so he wouldn't be detailing pups or dehorning calves no more."

  He gave a cordial nod while glancing around. The kennel area hadn't changed since his last visit three years ago. Tiers of stainless steel cages. Several inside runs. The conflicting smells of dog food and disinfectants. Spring's afternoon sun sprayed warm shadows across the tiled floor. "Studies prove it's a gateway to a depraved life."

  "No way they did it." Jerky movements twitched her slight, five-foot frame. The off-the-shelf home perm reflected her – kinked knots resembling Brillo pads in tint and texture and tautness. "And don't even ask me about the rest of it."

  What current recipe of herbal supplements kept his uncle's longtime veterinary assistant's mind in a constant state of fizz? "The rest of it?"

  "Like why he did his funeral like he didn't. Beats all I done never seen. Dead and planted in that old cemetery, all within eight hours. No viewing. No hymns. No nothing."

  Twenty-seven years of life, including the long drive to Iris Springs, Tennessee, population fourteen hundred, hadn't equipped him for her conversational swamp. He didn't know which reaction concerned him most about his uncle's death two days ago. His flabby grief or her buff stoicism. "Try not to get too emotional."

  "I'm trying. But it's hard when my sensitive gene rears up. Now come here and give me a hug."

  His stiff arms opened for her uncharacteristic Velcro embrace. His twelve-inch height advantage provided an intimate view of her head. She doesn't know its there. "Miss Effie, there's a tick surfing on your curls. Be still and I'll get it."

  SAS shoes squeaked on the floor when she slid away. "I'll not be falling for your pranks."

  He reached to grab the bug. She swatted his hand. "At least it wasn't the practice truck he sailed off the bluff in. And what a blessing no one else got killed. Get two funerals in this little place at once and there's not a gladiola to be had. Lucky to get a sprig of baby's breath." She paused. Her hands darted into her curls with the precision of a laser scalpel. A crocodile smile elevated her lips. "Gotcha. I'll go flush him to insect glory."

  "I'm glad you can look on the sunny side. And it's not an insect. It's an arachnid. Eight legs. Insects have six legs."

  She eyed the bug, then Will, the bug again. She picked two legs off and gave a slanted smile. "Now it's an insect." Her jaws tortured a plug of Clove gum. The fruity plumes perfumed the air. "From the stories floatin' around, you'd think Miss Marple lived here. But I told you that already."

  She was the Conspiracy Clearing House. Strange lights at the accident scene. Somebody chasing him. His hitting a deer. A love triangle involving his fiancée. An intense argument with a local politician at the clinic. The sheriff had questioned her about the latter. Because they had taken the disagreement outside, she hadn't heard specifics.

  Before leaving town, he planned to stop by and see the car involved. Discuss the findings with Sheriff Ledbetter one last time. Especially after two phone conversations suggesting it hadn't been an accident made him agree to meet with the caller. He owed Uncle Bill that much.

  She flicked at a spot of dust on the counter. "Everybody knows he drove like a scalded ape. Smacked a deer at the speed of light. Case closed."

  "That's exactly what the sheriff told me." Deer parts splattered over the front of Uncle Bill's car were facts enough. And his exuberant approach to driving was local legend.

  She picked up a day planner. "I made a few appointments. It don't stop life, folks dying."

  Uneasiness spread through his chest. He hoped it wasn't a large animal case. "What? I don't have time-"

  "And don't drag that time persnickety mess in with you neither. We ain't got time for such." She paused two beats, making wave motions with one hand. "My motto is flow."

  He glanced toward the door. The sooner he flowed out of town, the less probable he would be seduced into viewing his decision to not practice in the Springs as defying divine purposes. So what if that had been his childhood dream? What did an eleven-year old understand about plotting his future?

  "I meet with Kincaid in ten minutes. Hear the will. Sign the papers." And since he was the sole beneficiary, begin taking steps to liquidate part of the estate. Especially the practice. "Then tomorrow I'm gone. Need to get back, prepare for my final interview." He held his hand up to forestall her breaking in. "I finished my surgical residency. Two long years of hard work. Now I have a chance to be on staff at Auburn." Knowing she would argue, he gave her a firm look. "I've sacrificed a lot to accomplish my dream." There. He had said it. In this place. My dream. Not someone else's. And especially not his from long ago.

  Her bracelet flashed as she crossed her arms. "All those summers you visited, you rattled on about practicing here. That was your dream. Not what you just said. That dream is what you sacrificed. Besides, Kincaid is never in this time of day after they stock trout in the creek. You'll have to see him in the morning
."

  The front door slamming trembled the clinic, ending discussion. For now.

  "Is anybody here?" A woman's crystalline voice pinged down the hall. "My dog has been run over."

  A lopsided smile tilted Miss Effie's head. "Well, are you leaving? Or are you staying to help this dog?"

  "Of course I'll help the dog." He struck a Superman pose. Like Uncle Bill had time after time. "Let's go leap tall buildings in a single bound."

  An extravagant nod and warped grin preceded her words. "Don't trip on your cape going up the hall."

  Jogging to the front, he collided hard with a young lady who careened around the corner at a high rate of anxiety. He grabbed her shoulders to prevent her falling.

  "Dang." The warning flare shot at his hands flushed them away.

  Had he seen her before? No. That would be like forgetting Sophia Loren nibbling your ear.

  Early-twenties. Elegant cheekbones sloping into a firm chin. Farmer's tan. A tangle of blond curls piled in a loose bun. A nervous smile. Like a wisp of smoke. Fleeting. Wearing an I Eat Local Because I Can T-shirt, complete with a picture of a Presto pressure canner.

  He backed up a step and forced a blink. "Sorry. Didn't see you coming. I'm Dr. Kilpatrick."

  "I'm Liza Hall." In her arms, she cradled a limp, white poodle. Bright red life dripped from its nose and mouth, dappled the floor with eerie Rorschach designs. "Tipper's been hit. On purpose. He's my dad's dog." She gave a slight eye roll before closing them, perhaps trapped in the DMZ between self-control and needing a counseling team. "I keep forgetting. Was my dad's dog. Was my dad's dog." Insistent eyes plunged deep into his, commandeering him into her drama. "Don't let him die. Promise? Promise you won't let him die. Understand? He's all that's left. I can't lose him."

  "Let me take a look." One glance at the dog's acute condition escalated his pulse. "I'll do everything I can." But that might not be enough.

  "Are you a vet?" Skepticism clouded her features as she evaluated him, then his clothes.

  Linen slacks. Floral, silk shirt. Cole Haan loafers. His upscale wardrobe fell several notches above the Iris Springs style that he labeled Amish sheik. "Yes, ma'am. Dr. Bill's nephew."

  She nodded, a frown dropping a dark curtain across her pale face. "Okay."

  Will guided her with a hand into a well-equipped exam room. Her shoulder, unyielding as a tombstone, flinched away from his light touch. Delicate lavender fragrance seeped from her, softened the myriad of clinical smells.

  "Here, let me put him on the table." He hoped his smile comforted her as he reached his hands out.

  She hesitated, her eyes locked with his. Upper teeth pressed her lower lip, driving color out. "I can do it." She laid him on the table, an offering on the altar, although one hand remained on his head.

  He grabbed a stethoscope. "When did it happen?" Gentle fingers pulled each eyelid down. The blanched membranes and unequally dilated pupils pinched his mouth into a frown.

  "Twenty minutes ago. Will he live?"

  "Don't know yet. You'll have to give me a minute." Tipper's entire body strained to inhale. Each exhalation propelled frothy pink bubbles from the pointed nose. While listening to the thorax, he ran a hand over the rib cage. Several fractures. Muffled gurgles testified to significant lung hemorrhage. Erratic heartbeats leapt up and down, pleading to be heard. A quick exam of Tipper's extremities revealed bilateral femoral fractures. Bad.

  "I can't believe this is happening." Her serrated voice lacerated the air. Rigid as marble, she exuded waves of jagged pressure. One foot began tapping.

  He prayed silently. It would take divine intervention for Tipper to survive. "I'll do everything I can."

  "Then please do it." The terse words matched her expression. Her eyes, green as a gardenia leaf, snatched at his, belligerent beggars tugging his shirtsleeve.

  "Ma'am, please give-"

  "My dog could be dying and you're just poking and prodding. At least give him a shot of something. Don't let him suffer."

  Will continued his exam. "I'm sorry. I know this is very difficult for you. I'll do all I can. But he may not make it."

  "Which means you need to do something besides talk." The back of a hand wiped across her forehead, pushing a stray curl into place. "I'm sorry if I sound pushy. I just want Tipper to live. And you don't seem to be doing anything."

  He passed an endotracheal tube, inflated its cuff and connected it to the oxygen supply. Silky curls fell before the clipper's assault, left the scalped top of the leg with a vulnerable appearance.

  Couldn't she tell he was trying? Didn't she know his passion to become a vet had begun in this very room? That his dream had been to practice in Iris Springs. To be available for random acts of heroism. How did a hero tell someone her dog would probably die? He lacked the words. And despite the earlier Superman posing, he was slower than a speeding bullet.

  God, help this poor dog. Help this poor girl.

  "Ma'am, Tipper has multiple fractures plus internal bleeding." He attempted to insert an indwelling catheter in the small cephalic vein. Tipper's vital signs had deteriorated from precarious to a dark shade of horrible. With blood pressure lower than his expectations, the collapsed vessel wouldn't stand. He glanced up.

  Her facial color had fled, leaving her paler than a Norwegian in February.

  He was sweating enough for guppies to spawn in his armpits. "I'm going to make an incision to find a vein. You don't have to watch. Might be some blood."

  She nodded, clutched the table's edge as if it kept her from drifting away. Her hands were shapely, rough from work and stubbed with short, dirty, uneven nails. Rabbit nervous eyes tracked his every move. "Whatever it takes. And I'm used to blood."

  "If you believe in God, this would be a good time to pray."

  "I'll do that." He couldn't decipher her half-smile. "But you keep your eyes open."

  The scalpel blade opened a small hole in the skin, exposing the transparent vein. Her muffled squeal jerked his head up. A blood-smeared hand rushed to her mouth and pressed an index finger between her lips. One leg half-buckled as if suddenly fluid-filled. She braced against the wall for support.

  He couldn't blame her for feeling faint. The smells. The blood. Tipper's life ebbing away. The swirling emotions. "You can wait up front if you like."

  Her eyes widened. Curls sprung in all direction as she shook her head. "I wasn't there for my dad, so I'm not leaving Tipper."

  Will dipped his head, unsure how to respond beyond feeling sympathy for her. Saving Tipper took on a greater dimension.

  What a small vein. Steady hands dissected it free from the underlying fascia. He slid the thin catheter into the tiny vessel and taped it in place. After two embarrassing fumbles in connecting the tube from the bag of Lactated Ringer's solution, he managed to open the roller valve and watched the flow begin.

  Maybe he had been too pessimistic. What a horrible habit, one he had no hope of escaping. But maybe Tipper wouldn't die. Maybe prayers were sometimes answered.

  As he prepared to constitute a vial of Solu-Delta Cortef, a corticosteroid, rattling yelps shredded the air.

  "Is he having a reaction? Did you give him the right stuff?" Her voice resembled fine crystal shattering on a marble floor.

  Tipper's body tensed, head arching back, legs jack-knifing. Another sharp yelp, then he relaxed. Urine dribbled onto the table. Irreverent quiet, noisier than a tomb, spilled into the room, darkening the atmosphere.

  With one hand, Will felt beneath the chest for a pulse. With the other he moved the stethoscope over the ribcage. Not a sound.

  "What's happening?" She took small, frantic steps sideways from right to left, as if forcibly tethered to the scene. One hand reached toward Tipper, drew back.

  Will gently rubbed Tipper's curly head before removing the IV. A dry swallow echoed through his ears. He spoke with the economy death demanded. "Tipper's gone."

  The words squeezed the tenacious smudges of color from her cheeks. She flung hers
elf across the still body. Primal sobs convulsed her shoulders before escalating into wrinkled screams. When she looked up, makeup and mascara and mucous streaked her face, creating a distraught abstract canvas.

  "You killed him!" She wiped her nose with the back of a hand, smearing slick secretions across her cheeks in a reverse makeover.

  Arguing would be pointless. Better to let her vent, begin the grieving process.

  Miss Effie entered, questions squinting her eyes. "What is all the commotion?"

  "I'll tell you." Liza trembled a finger at Will. "He killed Tipper. Look, his little leg is mutilated." One hand wobbled forward but stopped short of touching the gaping, although minor, incision. Shiny blebs of clotted blood gleamed under the light of the room.

  "Now, child, calm down a tad." Miss Effie spoke in a patronizing lilt people employ with the mentally incompetent. "Dr. Will didn't kill Tipper. His job is to save animals." She gave the words time to sink in, like Perry Mason ending a summation for the jury, confident his client would be acquitted. "Go ahead, Dr. Will, tell Liza you didn't kill her dog."

  Will stared at Miss Effie. Her help would be using gas as a fire retardant.

  She continued to regard Liza as if she were a balky child unwilling to share her crayons. Ominous quiet commanded the room. "Go ahead, Dr. W., tell her you didn't kill Tipper. Tell-"

  "I'm sorry, but you weren't here so you don't know diddly dumpling what he did." Head shakes vibrated Liza's body down to her narrow waist. Steam vented through her eyes. Her breathing hissed.

  "Liza Hall, that's no way to talk." Miss Effie inflated to full height. "Your daddy surely taught you better."

  Liza's hands exploded skyward. Eyes became death beams. Words were verbal shrapnel. "And don't be saying things about my daddy neither! Think that'll take my mind off Tipper? Or stop a malpractice suit? Hardly."

  Miss Effie plunged ahead. The irresistible farce versus the immoveable abject. She tapped her fingers together several times. "I know what. We'll go to the office, where it's private. We'll sit down. We'll take a few cleansing breaths. OK? It's always good to get rid of that stale air hiding down in the bronchioles." To sell her point, Miss Effie demonstrated. "Out with the old, in with the new. Try it. You won't believe how it'll make you feel."