Hour of the Wolf

Hour

of the

Wolf

By Matt L. Holmes

Hour of the Wolf

Copyright © 2015 by Matthew Linton Holmes

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction, and as such, is the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced or re-transmitted without the express written consent of the author.

Mark Wagter created the front cover image, based on a few vague suggestions provided by the author. It is used here with permission from Mr. Wagter, who retains all rights to the image. To see more of his work, please visit his website markmagterphotography.com

The back cover sketch of the author was commissioned by the author from Gene Ha, artist on such comic books as Justice League of America and Top Ten. It is used here with permission from the artist. The author retains all rights to the image.

ISBN – 978-0-9919475-3-9 (softcover),

978-0-9919475-4-6 (electronic).

Print versions of this book and other works by this author are available via Amazon and Lulu. Kindle versions of all works are all available at the Amazon Kindle store. EPub versions can be purchased from the author via email.

Correspondences to the author can be directed, via email, to:

MATT_L_HOLMES@HOTMAIL.COM

For Meena & Rich, for all their help

"Here comes the rain again

Falling on my head like a memory

Falling on my head like a new emotion"

- Here Comes the Rain Again by Annie Lennox & Dave Stewart

Chapter 1: Brief Encounters

I know something's wrong as soon as I walk in the front door and kick off my shoes. Neither Sherman nor Mr. Peabody are there to greet me, and if there's one thing I can count on from my two free-spirited felines, it's a warm welcome after a long workday.

I resist the urge to call out to them, based on my bad feeling. Instead, I move silently along the hallway toward the dim glow coming from the kitchen. I definitely hadn't left any lights on when I went out this morning, that much I'm sure of.

Reaching into my purse, I slide my fingers along the cool, welcome metal of my iPhone. As I slow to a stop several feet short of the doorway to the kitchen, I think about turning around and going back out the way I came in, calling 911 from the front steps or possibly even the safety of my car in the driveway, and then waiting for the cops to arrive.

But what if I simply forgot to turn the kitchen light off this morning, and what if the cats are sound asleep in the basement and didn't hear me come in, for once? Do I really want to be that woman, the one who's always imagining intruders and rapists around every corner?

On the other hand, I realize with a sinking feeling, it beats being that woman who’s found dead in her kitchen because she didn't listen to her own good sense. Backing up slowly, I'm almost at the front door when a man calls out from the direction of the kitchen.

Hello? Miriam, is that you?

I can't place the voice, though I know it from somewhere. Without taking my gaze from the kitchen entranceway, I place my bag on the floor and fumble around in the umbrella stand to my right until I pull out Caleb's baseball bat, untouched for years now. Gripping it tightly, I retrace my original path down the hall and then stop a foot or so short of the doorway, barking out, Who's there?

It's Stephen Bristol, Miriam. I'm... Well, I’m very sorry to intrude on you like this.

I take a few steps forward, my heart pounding, and finally I see him: a man in his mid-50s, round-faced with glasses and a receding hairline, sitting at my kitchen table with Mr. Peabody on his lap and Sherman circling his feet. I notice his hand shake slightly as he strokes my cat’s head. His name is familiar even if I can’t immediately recall why, not exactly a surprise as I'm terrible at remembering names. His face, though, is a sadder, more beaten down Anthony Hopkins type, and that immediately puts him into context for me.

We were in group together, I say coolly, fixing him with my best steely-eyed stare.

That’s... Yes, that’s right, he confirms, casting a nervous glance in the direction of the lumber in my right hand.

What the hell are you doing in my house? I demand, my voice sharp enough to cause Mr. Peabody to prick up his ears in response.

I’m so sorry, Stephen mutters as he gently nudges the cat off his lap. Standing up, he continues, I, uh, thought you might have seen my car parked on the street. I know this is a terrible violation of your privacy, Miriam... He takes a step toward me.

You’re damn right it is! I fire at him, moving away from him for two paces and holding the bat up between us. You can’t just let yourself into my home like this! How did you even get in here?

I tried ringing the doorbell first, he tells me, gesturing weakly past me, toward the entrance I’d come in, and knocking on your front door. I really did. But when you didn’t answer –

Because I wasn’t home! My heart’s still pounding. For Christ’s sake!

I know, I’m sorry! I, uh, I really needed to talk to you, Miriam. And you see, I recalled you saying in group once that you never lock your back door.

I stare at him for several seconds, my mouth hanging open slightly. Then I rest the fat end of the bat on the floor in front of me and lean on it lightly. What are you talking about? I haven’t been to group in years, Stephen. Why on earth would you still remember something that I must’ve mentioned in passing four years ago? That’s just... ridiculous.

It made an impression on me, I suppose, he responds slowly, shrugging. Then he clears his throat. You were telling us about the neighbourhood you lived in, and how safe it was. And that you and your husband had never felt the need to lock the back door, or get a security system or any of the other extremes the rest of us had gone to.

There’s no way I would’ve have given out our home address. Jesus, Stephen, we weren’t even supposed to socialize outside of those meetings. Don’t you remember that?

He sits back down again, looking very tired as he does so. You’re in the phone book, Miriam, he tells me with a sigh. Your address wasn’t hard to find.

So you waited four years and then came by to see if I’d been telling the truth about not locking the back door? I ask incredulously, though I can already feel my anger subsiding a tiny bit. From what little I remember of Stephen, he had never seemed like any kind of a threat. Sad, maybe, but certainly not dangerous.

No, no, he assures me, shaking his head emphatically, I never intended to let myself in like this. I’d expected you to be home at this hour, and... His voice trails off for a moment. Then he continues, Well, I guess I hoped you might spare me a few minutes to talk, that’s all. I never intended...

Are you still going to group? I enquire as I squat down to pet Sherman after he finally bothers to come greet me. Mr. Peabody has flopped on his back right where he landed and is displaying his belly for a rub, though my visitor seems oblivious to it.

No, Anne-Marie and I stopped attending not long after you and Sam did. Two, maybe three months later, I think.

We’re not together anymore, I inform him, absently, as I distract myself by peering inside Sherman’s right ear to make sure it’s clean. Sam and I.

I’m sorry, Stephen replies quietly.

But you’re not surprised.

No, with a shake of his head.

Were we that bad? I laugh hollowly, straightening back up and placing the bat against the wall near the kitchen doorway. Despite his unorthodox arrival, it’s becoming clear that Stephen’s visit is harmless enough.

Bad? He looks confused by the question.

You know, arguing in the sessions. Sniping at each other, that sort of thing.

Oh, I don’t know. I don’t think so. No worse than the rest of us, I suppose. You know the statistics as well as I do, I’m sure.

Right. So what exactly did you want to talk to me about so badly that you felt the need to break into my house?

The door wasn’t locked, he reminds me, smiling feebly. It wasn’t so much a break-in as a walk-in, I swear.

Uh huh, I reply in an unimpressed tone. Just tell me why you’re here, Stephen.

He stares at me for a long moment, possibly trying to decide if whatever he has to say is really going to excuse his actions. Finally he clears his throat again, and begins, You said in group one time that you didn’t really believe in free will. You said that the universe made a lot more sense if you understood that everything was pre-determined, right from the Big Bang onward.

Did I? I ask, genuinely surprised. That’s strange. I don’t know that that’s anything I really believe.

Well, it was more complicated than that, he continues slowly. One of the other members was describing her intense feelings of guilt, how she wasn’t able to focus on anything else, it so preoccupied her every waking moment.

I nod. I sort of remember her, I think. She had the little girl who’d gotten into the cupboard under the sink, didn’t she?

That’s right, Stephen responds encouragingly, nodding. Absolutely heartbreaking.

Well, I say dismissively, anything I might’ve said to her was probably just intended to ease her pain, Stephen. That’s all. Anyway, I wouldn’t read too much into anything I said back then. I was completely out of my head in those days. My family doctor had me on Prozac and Ativan, for one thing.

He frowns and chews his lower lip a bit, disappointed at my answer for some reason. But...

I’m serious, Stephen. Those sessions are mostly a blur to me now. And they never really did anything for me, anyway.

He looks down at his feet for several moments and then asks, So you really don’t remember talking about cause and effect, and how every action we take is simply the inevitable outcome of everything that came before it?

On some technical level, I guess that’s true, I reply with a shrug after considering his words briefly. It doesn’t really add up to much, though, does it?

He sighs, his frown deepening. So does that mean you...? His voice trails off.

Just ask your question, Stephen. It’s obviously important to you, or you wouldn’t be here. It has something to do with free will, I take it?

Yes, yes, he stammers, I mean, well, that is, do you think we’re ultimately responsible for everything that happens to us?

Hmm, I don’t know if I’d go that far. Sometimes life simply sucks, you know that as well as I do. Things happen that you can’t control. C’est la vie. I wouldn’t say we necessarily deserve all the crap that comes our way, but so what?

Once again, he appears deflated by my answer. That much is plain to see, though I still have no idea what he came here looking for. I wish I knew what to say.

What’s happened, Stephen? I blurt out. What’s upset you so much?

Anne-Marie and I have gone through a rough patch, he informs me, slowly. Not all together surprising, given the statistics, he adds with a wry smile.

Have you been seeing anyone?

Seeing anyone? he repeats with a quizzical expression.

You know, getting marriage counselling. Professional help.

Oh, yes, of course, he replies, nodding.

No good? I ask.

Oh, no, it was fine. She was very qualified. Lots of talking things through, active listening, getting down to root causes, all very well thought out and constructive. It just...

What? I say into the silence after it lingers for several seconds. Look, you’re clearly distraught. I haven’t seen or spoken to you in years and then you show up in my kitchen, out of the blue. What’s going on?

He doesn’t respond right away, seeming at a loss. Then he tells me, measuring each word out carefully, I would like to believe that all of this, our lives, our fates, everything that’s happened to us...

Means something? I finish for him in the silence that follows, my impatience getting the better of me and so it comes out sarcastically, I’m afraid.

No! he replies somewhat angrily, showing strong emotion for the first time since I walked in. No, I suppose I don’t. I suppose I want it to be just the opposite. That none of it means anything. That there’s no reason behind our actions whatsoever, that it’s all pre-determined and we’re nothing but puppets, doing exactly what we’re programmed to do. That free will is an illusion. I suppose that’s what I want to believe, Miriam.

You’d prefer that to being in control of your own life?

At the moment, yes, very much, he exhales, his body sagging as the air goes out of it. He’s slumped in the kitchen chair now, looking down.

Well, if that works for you, then I guess there’s no harm in feeling that way, I reply after a few seconds, wondering if that’s the right thing to say under the circumstances but mostly at a loss where this whole conversation’s concerned.

He stares up at me for a long moment before looking away to the side, nodding slowly.

Stephen, I’m afraid I’ve had a long day. Is that all you wanted to ask me? I enquire finally, hoping I’m not being too rude but unsure of the proper etiquette where uninvited guests are concerned.

Yes, of course, he responds, standing up and straightening the creases in his slacks with both hands. I’m so sorry about barging into your home like this, Miriam. I don’t know what I was thinking. It was inexcusable behaviour, I know that now.

Don’t worry about it, I assure him. But call first next time, OK?

He nods distractedly, and then moves toward the back door and is gone without another word.

I stride past the cats who are now circling the food bowl and make my way to the door, quickly turning the lock that so rarely gets used.

_________________

After feeding the cats and putting Caleb’s bat back where I found it, I head to the bedroom so I can change out of my scrubs. As I give my face and neck a quick wipe down with a washcloth, I catch an odd expression looking back at me in the mirror. Wow, exactly how spooked was I by Stephen Bristol’s presence here?

Back in the kitchen a few minutes later, I pour myself a glass of wine and warm up some leftover pasta noodles in the microwave. Dinner after eight seems to be my routine, these days.

While I’m waiting for the food to warm up, I push the chair Stephen was sitting in back to the table. As I do so, I notice a small piece of paper lying on the floor, near where my visitor had waited for me.

Picking it up, I see that it’s a business card, and looking closer, that it’s Stephen’s card. It must’ve fallen out of his pocket at some point. It seems he’s a general manager. Hmm, that’s a pretty respectable-sounding title for someone who lets himself into other people’s houses.

The microwave beeps, so I place the card down on the counter, grab the ketchup out of the fridge and take my meal to the dining room.

I put the Discovery channel on the small TV there, clicking the volume down to almost nothing. I used to love their programs before they hit upon the idea of focusing so much attention on bad drivers and crazy outdoorsmen. Still, they do occasionally have some good animal shows.

As I chew my food carefully, I realize that I honestly haven’t thought about group in ages. Maybe a couple of years. It was something Sam had wanted, after all, not me. He talked a lot about closure in those days, of ‘getting on with our lives,’ as he put it. And he certainly did, didn’t he? New wife, new life, and now they’re expecting a child. Jesus, he’ll be in his mid-60s by the time that poor kid’s out of high school. Of course, she’ll only be about my age by then. So yeah, I guess group was good for him.

Caleb, on the other hand, I think about every day. Mostly, I remember the good years, before the leukemia. Or else I’ll see a teenage boy at the clinic, so concerned about his ailing pet, and I can’t help imagining Caleb in that situation. Would he tough it out while Sherman or Mr. Peabody had to be put down, or would he be one of those clients who cries the whole time? Not that I’ll ever know.

So what was Stephen’s story, anyway? He and Anne-Marie were a few years older than we were, so their child must’ve been... Oh, now it’s all coming back to me.

It was a daughter of theirs, Ashley or Amber, something like that. And she’d killed herself, slit her wrists in the bath, I think. No sleeping pills for her. She went straight for the razor. Sixteen years old, with her whole life in front of her.

And all I could think about was, how dare she throw it all away like that. Caleb had fought for every breath he could take at the end, and here was this ridiculous story of an adolescent girl tossing it all aside like it was nothing. I knew it wasn’t a very charitable way to look at it, and that I was bringing a lot of my own personal baggage to bear on my feelings about what she’d done, and yet I couldn’t help myself. Maybe that’s why my experience with group was such a bust: I couldn’t stop making it all about me.

If Caleb had killed himself, though, how much worse would that have been? How does a parent live with that kind of guilt, on top of all the grief that Sam and I went through? Wouldn’t you beat yourself up daily over the signs you should’ve seen but didn’t? Wondering what the cries for help were that you missed, the ones you’d have to live with for the rest of your life?

Is that what made Stephen come here to see me tonight, out of the blue like that? All that talk about free will. Does he still feel responsible for his daughter’s suicide, after all these years, and so he’s looking to shift the blame onto a pre-determined universe, instead? He said he wanted to believe we’re all puppets, for heaven’s sake.

Well, whatever was going on in his head, it doesn’t justify barging into my house the way he did, that’s for sure. And all because of something I said off the top of my head four years ago! Why didn’t he simply pick up the phone and call?

Still... It was pretty clear that I let him down, even if I have no idea why. What kind of existential crap must I have been spouting in those sessions back then? I honestly don’t remember many details about that period, almost like it was something I read in a book or dreamed once, rather than actual experiences I took part in. Between the drugs and the constant feeling that everything was slipping away, it’s all a haze to me now.

Shaking my head, I turn the TV off and take my dirty dishes back to the kitchen. I see Stephen’s card where I left it, and I absent-mindedly move it to the card holder with all of the others I’ve collected over the years. Plumbers, electricians, accountants, car dealers, lots of other vets... and now a general manager, whatever that may be.

The cats are finished eating, too, and so the three of us move in a pack to the front room. I’ve got a little work to do before I turn in and hopefully that’ll take my mind off these dark thoughts.

_________________

About half an hour later I’ve finished reviewing the day’s cases online and doing the bit of research I needed, and am about to close my laptop when I remember a random thought from earlier in the day.

I treated a shepherd cross almost a week ago after what seemed like a completely straightforward diagnosis. His owner said that he’d been coughing for days but was happy as a clam with no vomiting or diarrhea. He’d been to the dog park several times recently, always a great place to pick something up, and it’d been well over a year since his last vaccination for Bordetella. It was a textbook kennel cough case, and so I’d given him doxycycline, suggested the owner pick up some Benylin from the drug store, and sent him home.

Then this morning, as I was in the middle of de-worming a Golden, I’d suddenly realized that there had been something about that other dog’s hack that didn’t sit right with me. It just wasn’t goose-honky enough for kennel cough, somehow. I’d meant to make a note to follow up, but hadn’t.

After looking up the dog owner’s contact information in the clinic’s online records, I grab my phone from the kitchen. Glancing at the clock, I see that it’s almost nine already. Should I wait and call in the morning? No, I’ve let this go too long as it is. I begin tapping the numbers out on my phone.

Hello, is this Dorothy Millar? I ask, after a female voice answers.

Yeah? she replies uncertainly.

Dorothy, this is Dr. Goda calling, from Oakwood clinic. How are you this evening?

Oh, Dr. Goda, of course, she replies slowly. From the clinic last week. How are you?

I’m fine thank you. I’m just calling to see how Stanley’s doing. How has he responded to the antibiotics so far?

Well, to be honest we haven’t really seen much change in him yet. He’s still coughin’ like an old man, don’t you know. It’s only been a few days, though. I wasn’t sure if it was sposed to work that fast.

He definitely should be showing some improvement by now, I tell her, suppressing a sigh. Don’t worry the client, Miriam. Keep it positive. Is he still eating and drinking like normal?

Yeah, he’s doin’ fine with all that, it’s only the coughin’.

That’s good. However, we should probably see him again soon for a re-check. I’m glad he’s not any worse, but he’s not any better, either. We should do a little more testing just to make sure we’re not missing anything else. Would you be able to call the clinic in the morning and book an appointment?

Oh my, Dorothy responds, softly. What do you think it is?

It’s hard to say. The fact that he’s doing well otherwise is good. Let’s have another look at him and go from there.

She assures me that she’ll book an appointment, and I wish her a good night.

I try to recall what I thought of Dorothy Millar when she brought her German shepherd Lab cross in last week. The sad fact is I always pay more attention to my patients than my clients. Stanley was a lovely neutered male, eager to please and not the least bit bothered by having his gums checked or a thermometer stuck up his butt. He paid close attention to me the whole time I examined him, despite the barking and other noises coming from the dog ward.

His owner, on the other hand, didn’t really make much of an impression on me. A little older than me, I’d say, and not much of a talker. She seemed nice enough, I guess.

For the thousandth time, I can’t help but think how different things were when I owned my own clinic. Going locum after Caleb’s death was the right decision for me, and I certainly don’t miss all the headaches I had to deal with when I called the shots. It’s just the lack of continuity that drives me crazy now. Moving around, backfilling vacations and maternity leaves, I don’t get to build up a history with the patients like I used to. Which means I go into most situations having to trust whatever notes are on file for the animal, and it’s no big secret how unreliable those can be sometimes.

In the week and a half I’ve been at Oakwood this time around, it’s every bit as chaotic as it was the last time I filled in there, nearly a year ago. People tend to think of vet clinics as happy places full of kittens and puppies, when the reality is they’re pretty much like any other workplace. They’ve got their own set of internal politics and personality clashes, there’s usually too many appointments and never enough time to be as thorough as you’d like to be. There must be something about the human condition that makes us work that way, no matter what kind of career we choose.

I watch a bit of TV to unwind after my crazy day, and then the cats and I get ready for bed together, with me doing all the work and them providing the supervision, as usual. Hey, stick with what works, right?

Hours later I dream of Caleb, and it’s a good night.

Chapter 2: Family Business

The alarm goes off at 7:45, although the cats had started noisily prowling 15 minutes earlier. I get up and feed them before hitting the shower.

It’s Wednesday and my shift doesn’t start until noon. Which would’ve been the perfect excuse to sleep in if I didn’t have a nine o’clock dentist appointment.

My cousin Donny and I more or less grew up together and by the time I was 9 years old we’d both decided we were going to be doctors. Our moms were sisters and lived two small blocks apart, a distance I could cover on foot in right around three minutes and thirty-five seconds, if I really pushed it. I was an only child while Donny had two much older sisters, so it was no surprise that he and I ended up spending so much time together.

When I used to tell people that Donny and I had played doctor when we were kids, they’d always give me a funny look and I’d have to quickly add, Not that kind of playing doctor! What I meant was, we had spent countless hours pretending to be actual doctors trying to diagnose illnesses from made-up symptoms.

Donny’s father had picked up a dog-eared copy of Harrison’s Principles of Internal Medicine somewhere, and Donny and I stumbled upon it on the family bookshelf one afternoon during summer vacation. To this day I have no idea why it captured our imagination like it did, but boy, were we hooked. We’d hunker down in the