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

  If he had been better positioned, the geyser of green manure would have sprayed the ground thirty-seven feet behind him. Instead, it instantly drenched him from inches above the eyebrows to inside his socks. He had been drier after his baptism.

  Then things turned nasty.

  Stepping backward, he slipped in the diversity of fluids. His feet slid from beneath him. For a brief moment he levitated parallel to the ground.

  Gravity yanked him to earth at sufficient speed to empty his lungs. Arms fluttered across the ground, creating moist angel wings as he gasped through clogged nostrils. The deluge continued, coating his chest and shoulders, spattering his neck and face.

  After scooting backwards several yards, he sat up.

  The Grims avoided eye contact with him and each other as their broad shoulders and bellies convulsed. Each time they almost recovered, a look at him set them off again.

  The two quarts of water left in the veterinary unit didn't go far in his effort to wash off. The weight of various forms of moisture threatened to pull his scrub pants down. He turned, cinched the ties tighter. With the extra puckers in the waistband, he resembled a man being consumed by a giant clam. He smelled organic.

  After the brothers stepped back to restrain the cow, it took only a few minutes to reposition the other leg.

  He rummaged through the truck and found the calf puller. He hadn't seen one exactly like this. The brothers watched him worry with it several minutes before Ted came over and showed him how it worked.

  "Guess you're used to newer ones than this, right, Doc? Dr. Bill probably bought this one from Noah." Ted's smile was non-accusatory.

  Will nodded, knowing Ted knew. The embarrassing knowledge gap would beat him back to town. He remained silent as he placed obstetrical chains on the calf's legs, attached them to the puller, and began ratcheting the lever.

  The calf gave a wet cough after hitting the ground, then began to kick and roll around in an attempt at standing. He dragged it to a cleaner area just beyond the men. The cow emitted proud moos to the world before falling to the chore of cleaning it with her rough tongue.

  Will grinned at the spectacle as the deep warmth of accomplishment penetrated his being.

  The moment swirled him to the day in Uncle Bill's clinic when he first felt compelled to become a vet. The scene had deposited inspiration sufficient to encourage him through the rigors of veterinary college. A little girl, maybe six years old. Her puppy with a broken leg. His uncle had tended to it without charge, something about them having a hard time.

  A boy's life being composed mainly of upcoming time, Will used those scraps of memory to fill in the future.

  In that moment at age eleven, he declared Uncle Bill's heroic life style would be his also. Serving the dying agrarian lifestyle in an underserved region. Treating livestock owned by small farmers. Making kids happy by saving their pets from disease and injury. Filling an integral niche in the rural community. Like now.

  A disconcerting notion had niggled at him during his drive from Ohio. After that experience, he had prayed to return to practice with his uncle. Until his junior year in veterinary college, when he had abandoned the notion. Then, a flair for surgery steered him another direction. That, plus fears of not measuring up to his uncle. Of being recognized by the hideous nickname from all those years ago in Goolsby's.

  Would God reopen petitions from the spiritual cold case file? Stride into his life like a cosmic interior designer, rearrange well-orchestrated plans like so many pieces of misplaced furniture?

  Seeing exit signs to Nineveh in both Ohio and Kentucky en-route had brought Jonah's career pathway to mind, leaving him less than encouraged. Was Iris Springs his Nineveh?

  For several years, he had felt disconnected from the past and isolated in the future. The present seemed disoriented. The future reached beyond it into the past and pulled him through and towards it. And where did his new dream of becoming a university professor fit in? Surely God had bigger plans for him than practicing in the Springs.

  He blinked several times. It was too cosmic to untangle. Especially with cow secretions bubbling in his ear.

  Since there was no water left in the vet unit's reservoir, he trudged to the adjacent creek and washed off. When he shuffled back to the truck, the brothers stared at him. The dunk in the stream didn't appear that beneficial when he redressed in the mucky clothes.

  "Can we give you a present?"

  "You deserve it."

  "We'd like to, if you'd take it."

  Water sprayed from Will's hair when he shook his head. "No."

  "We want to anyway."

  "Not everyday someone does such a good job and entertains you too."

  Round heads bobbed in enthusiastic agreement.

  "It's not necessary."

  "Here it is anyway." Ted tossed Will a set of safety goggles.

  Ed brought a small squeegee from behind his back and presented it with a mock bow. "A little something we scraped up for you."

  "Silver and gold, have I none, but this here Ivory, it's worth a ton. Arise, wash, and be clean."

  Will, impassive, caught the bottle of liquid soap Fred tossed.

  At least he had fumbled his way through his first large animal call. Though he had experienced a minor technical difficulty, nothing had died.

  But could he fill his uncle's boots on a daily basis?

  Chapter 10

  The truck phone rang minutes later. Miss Effie. "You've got another call before you get over to the lawyer's." Will's head dropped. Since he resembled a decomposing Blob, he envisioned a shower, fresh clothes, meeting with Kincaid, then leaving. "Jug Marlin needs you. Has some hogs chewed to chunks by wild dogs. You're close to his place. You'd best be careful. If he was less crazy, he'd be a lunatic."

  Perhaps it was providence. Bicycle Pete had advised having a talk with Jug Marlin.

  As he neared the turn off, Spivey's Mercedes pulled onto the road and drove off in the opposite direction.

  The meandering washout posing as a drive slid down a steep hill to an isolated pocket of ground tucked between two ridges. A scroungy shack and a clutch of melting outbuildings, shelved against a sharp bank, peeked through blooming dogwoods and redbuds. Truck windows down, he savored spring's fresh breath.

  Two Redbone hounds lounged on the porch, tails drumming hesitant thumps. They raised, stretched and looked at each other for inspiration before woofing a perfunctory bark as he neared the dwelling. From their looks, they weren't guard dogs. If they had been, they would have been under-employed. There was little to guard.

  The screen door screeched open. A lanky man, paler than skim milk, greasy hair pointing in every direction stumbled out, blinking at the sun. As the door slapped shut behind him, he attempted to force a boot onto a foot, narrow as a trout, fighting for balance as he hopped. With foresight to have the boot facing the proper direction, he might have succeeded.

  Three manic pirouettes later, he flopped from the porch into a mattress-sized pile of empty beer cans. Squadrons of flies and yellow jackets took flight. The clatter roused the hounds. They straddled his chest and licked his face. He bore scant resemblance to the yearbook pictures of him as a star football player.

  "Get away, dawgs." The roar resonated against the cans. He finished with a rumbling burp.

  Will pulled the hounds away and offered him a hand up.

  "Much obliged." The words came wrapped in breath resembling rancid bear bait. Long fingers massaged a shoulder. "War wound."

  Will swatted at several yellow jackets circling his head while introducing himself.

  "Jug Marlin. Named after my momma." Without warning, he bellowed at the top of his lungs. "The government set some wild dogs on my pigs. Chewed 'em up something terrible. You got to sew them up for me." He paused to chew on his floppy lower lip. "They're my best buddies. Let's go tend to 'em before they take the blood poisoning and die."

  Will rubbed his chin. "Why would the government send dogs to chew up
your hogs?"

  "I know things. Important, secret things." Jug spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. A bony finger tapped the side of his head. Spastic eyes narrowed as he scanned the area. "They're trying to get at me through my hogs. It's a mind game to make me go crazy." He whirled, nearly fell, then yelled towards the barn. "But I ain't scairt. You hear me. You can tell the president I ain't breaking. You ain't trifling with no ordinary outfit. You're dealing with the Jug man." He wheeled to face Will. "Let's go. There's lives in the balance."

  Jug athletically zigzagged as though dodging machine gun fire, stopping when he ran into the hog lot fence. He grunted to the ten Durocs weighing fifty pounds each. They ran to him, grunting back. Jug tilted his face toward Will, nodding, eyes squinted. "They say they like you."

  "That's nice."

  "It's more than nice. You might not know it, but these pigs don't take a shine to just anybody." He pulled a Smith and Wesson .38 from his trousers. "But you're not here to jaw with the boys. Just tend to their miseries. I'll cover you." He hunkered behind a feed trough and fired a round at the barn. A flock of innocent pigeons scattered like winged confetti. "I'm warning you in there. I'm taking no prisoners."

  Will cringed. "Be careful with that gun."

  "Don't you worry about me. You're the one that's a sitting duck. I'd not light in one spot if I was you. Keep moving." Jug fired on the barn again. "Keep low. I can't hold them off all day. Looks like some of those animal crazies have thrown in with them. Ain't goin' to be easy, fighting that ignorance."

  He felt foolish, bobbing and weaving to satisfy Jug. "Animal crazies? What's that?"

  "Some delinquents letting everybody's stock loose. Even claim they killed your uncle." Jug's eyebrows pinched together. He dug a thumb into his lower lip. "What would you do if you found out a vegetarian did it?"

  Good question. One he'd been mulling since Bicycle Pete mentioned forgiveness. "I'd like to be willing to forgive them."

  "That would be harder than I could do." The pistol roared as he fired at the barn. "You'd better tend to the boys."

  Will climbed over the weathered boards to inspect the pigs, now huddled in the far corner. From Miss Effie's description, he had expected intestines dragging in the dirt. But the worst had only minor lacerations. A wound spray would suffice for treatment. Perhaps large animal practice wasn't so hard.

  At the house, Jug pulled a wad of slimy bills from the bib pocket of his overalls and counted out payment. He pulled two Pabst Blue Ribbons from a cooler and offered one to Will. "From that forgiveness stuff you yakked about, I'm guessing you're religious. So I won't be offended if you don't take it."

  "I don't drink during my work day. But you go ahead."

  He pulled the tab. White foam sprouted from the can. Flappy lips sucked it off. "I'm an equal opportunity drinker. Stop by here some night. I'll save you one."

  "I might do that." After taking two steps towards the truck, he stopped. "I was looking through Uncle Bill's yearbooks last night. There were lots of pictures of you. You were a star football player."

  His smile resembled an embarrassed Barney Fife. "There were better."

  For ten minutes they talked about that championship season. Will learned that he had worked for his cousin Otis many years, did odd jobs for others in the community. Including Liza Hall.

  "Too bad what's happening to her."

  "Such as?"

  "Lost her dad. Stands to lose her farm. Ain't right." Jug stared off in the distance while opening another Pabst and taking a long pull. "Works hard. Bank ought to leave her alone. She'll make a crop and pay off."

  Maybe that explained her harsh behavior when she had been in the clinic with Tipper. "I noticed in the pictures that some of you wore an O sweater and others an Xs & Os. What was the difference?"

  Jug seemed surprised at the question. He rubbed his pants with his hands and shook his head. "Just a practical joke on picture day. To annoy the club advisor."

  Will spoke again when Jug didn't elaborate. "I don't get it."

  "Nobody else did either. Not even sure we did." He wiped his forehead and laughed. "Going to take over the practice?"

  "I don't think so. Someone mentioned you might know something about my uncle's accident."

  Jug's head ducked as he picked at a bare toe. "I'm sorry for your loss. We were friends a long time. Best I know, he smacked a deer." He looked up, eyes squinted. "Though I wouldn't put anything past them animal folks. Odd things happening that night."

  Will shifted his weight to the other foot. "Like what?"

  "Lots of traffic racing about. Lights. Road sign moved around. Things like that."

  The same things anyone could have heard. "Were you there? Did you tell the sheriff what you saw?"

  Jug shook his head, returned to examining his toe. It would be an excellent way to contract a fatal fungus. "No, no. Mostly heard about it. Hard to know the truth sometimes." He held up the spray can Will had given him. "If you'll pardon me, I've about forgot the boys need tending to. Don't want them to rot away." He lurched away, then looked back. "That offer for a beer stays open."

  Will started the truck. If that was the extent of Jug's information, Pete had underestimated things.

  Chapter 11

  There hadn't been time for a shower and a change of clothes. Now Will faced his uncle's attorney, Virgil Kincaid. Well-fed, bushy eye-brows, pug-nosed, pin-stripe suit pants, suspenders. A 33 1/3 rpm person in a 78 rpm profession.

  One look at and one sniff of Will's clothing turned him into Mr. Clean potty-training a new pup. "Do not sit on any of the leather furniture. Do not stand on the carpet. Do not lean against the wall. Stay on the paper. Since you're the sole heir, this won't take long."

  Ten minutes later, Will faced an uncomplicated complex decision. Stay and run the practice three years, then inherit the remainder of his uncle's sizable estate. Leave and allow everything to fall into anonymous hands.

  How many times while spending summers in the Springs had he voiced his intent to take over the practice someday? Hundreds? Thousands? Who would have thought Uncle Bill would take the ravings of a teenager battling hormones and acne seriously?

  Will's face wrinkled in argument while his weight shifted from foot to foot. "It's blackmail."

  "I'm willing to be blackmailed like that twice a day. Especially in a peaceful place like the Springs." He extended a Bic pen. "Ready to sign?"

  How could he tell Kincaid he needed a month to select a toothbrush color? "I've got three weeks, right?"

  Kincaid's eyebrows crashed together. "If you need that long."

  He clasped his hands. "But I've talked to someone who wants to buy all the property."

  "Only way that happens is if you don't stay." Kincaid voice was drill instructor terse. His eyes darted to his watch. "Even then, he'd have to convince the party who would get it to sell."

  Will mulled that information over. "Do you think they would?"

  "Everybody has a price." Kincaid stacked the papers in a neat pile. Glanced at his watch again. "If you don't want it, what does it matter who gets it?"

  "He seemed motivated to buy." Will searched for compromise in Kincaid's attitude. Jane Fonda would serve on the Joint Chiefs of Staff first.

  Kincaid stood. "I can't help that."

  "Was Uncle Bill planning on selling any property to Otis Spivey?"

  Kincaid took a step back, looking puzzled. "Not that I was aware of. I hate to run, but I'm nearly late for court. Then the trout are calling. The papers are here to sign anytime."

  Will turned around at the door. "What do you think about the rumors that it wasn't an accident? Are they worth looking into?"

  "Rumors are rumors until they're facts. And right now there aren't any facts besides he swerved to miss a deer. You know how he drove. He would have made a great astronaut."

  ***

  Will stepped onto the village square.

  New York City sprinted. Chicago strode. Iris Springs shuffled.

&nbs
p; He squinted against the brazen glare. The sky's blue lid held the liquid heat in. Funnel cakes and barbecue flavored the air.

  Booths for the annual Poke Sallet Festival, the local equivalent of Mardi Gras, surrounded the courthouse. It consisted of an unruly amalgam of beauty contests, bluegrass music, and arts and crafts, crowned with cooking competitions featuring the semi-succulent, locally prodigious perennial, pokeweed, as the main ingredient. Poke pudding, poke quiche, poke burritos.

  On one corner, 4-H kids tended pens of chickens to be auctioned off later in the morning. Will smiled as he remembered his 4-H projects. They were his inaugural lesson that farming costs often exceeded income.

  He stretched. He needed to honor the ritual initiated upon his first visit twenty-odd years ago.

  Measured strides conveyed him down the sloping street. Ignoring the looks elicited by his besmeared clothes, he studied the Springs as though he had never seen it before, might never again.

  Twenty-three doors going in to the businesses on the restored square. A mixture of restaurants, coffee shops, antique stores, real estate and insurance agencies, a dental office, a Ben Franklin's, Kincaid's, a NAPA auto parts store, beauty shops, a used book store, the Sentinel office, and a bank.

  The clock remained stuck at ten until two on the yellow brick courthouse. Ten parking spaces on each of its sides, eleven spaces on each of the market sides.

  No stop signs, making the traffic flow dependent upon the rural South's ingrained politeness and tendency to defer to others.

  He continued down the hill, cornered thrice, and headed back up, counting under his breath. Same as always. Three hundred and sixty-seven paces.

  Though his steps still fit, would the rest of him? Could he distinguish between God's leading and his own? His sheep know His voice. Did sheep talk to themselves like he did? Or, like him sometimes, did it all sound like baah-baah-baah, eat more chocolate?

  A volley of explosions a block away, a mixture of reverberating booms and high-pitched pops coughing black clouds of smoke two stories up, hammered the air and drew the crowd, kids in the lead, away from the square. Sharp trails of gray from Roman Candles deteriorated to fuzzy skeins of yarn against the blue sky.