“Sam?” Dalton calls into the crowd. “Jen? Nicki? Round up the militia. Those who aren’t on patrol, I want them keeping a wide berth around the clinic. No one comes in or out until I say so. That includes you guys. Last thing Kenny needs is someone slamming a door when Will’s got a scalpel next to his spinal cord.”
Nicole is closest to the front. “Understood. We’ll maintain a twenty-foot barrier and clear the houses on either side.”
“Thank you,” I say, and then we head to the clinic.
* * *
April is already in the clinic when we arrive. She’s assessed Kenny. Now, as he talks to her, she looks like she’s wondering how soon she can anesthetize him. Of everything she’s done, that pisses me off the most. While I’ll be the first to admit that Kenny can be a bit puppy-dog eager, what she’s doing feels like kicking that puppy, especially given his situation.
“Ignore my sister,” I say as I walk in. “She’s a scientist these days, and I think she’s forgotten her bedside manner.”
She shoots me a look of mingled annoyance and bafflement.
“Or,” Anders murmurs beside me, “that’s why she’s a scientist.”
Kenny gives a strained chuckle. “So it’s been a while since you put someone under the kn
ife, huh?”
“No,” April says, with a glare for me now. “I have a medical license with a specialization in neurosurgery. I practiced full time for five years before deciding my talents were better utilized in research, so I earned my Ph.D. on weekends.”
“Oh, wow. That’s…” Kenny shakes his head. “You and Casey are living proof that pretty girls can be smart, too.”
I cringe, but this is typical Kenny.
“Of course they can,” April says as she assesses our equipment. “The genetics required for both intelligence and attractiveness are independent. Which doesn’t mean that one can achieve a medical license and Ph.D. effortlessly, regardless of IQ. I worked hard. My sister could have done the same, despite her lower intellectual starting point.”
“Wow,” Anders whispers. “Just … wow.”
“I’m a slacker,” I say.
That makes Anders chuckle, but he still shoots me a concerned look, as if I might not be taking this so lightly. I am. Mostly. I grew up with this. My parents had my IQ tested as soon as possible. It’s 135. My sister’s—as theirs was—is above 140. To them, my “inferior” intellectual ability only meant I’d need to work harder. When I became a homicide detective, it proved I didn’t have the fortitude to do that extra work, to their everlasting disappointment. The fact that I’d dreamed of being a detective since I was a kid, running around with my fingerprint kit? Irrelevant.
Before anyone can speak, the door opens. In walks a slender man in his forties, carrying a wolf-dog cub.
“Uh, Mathias?” I say, pointing at the cub. “No spectators allowed.”
“He will be quiet. He is very sleepy.”
April blinks at the cub. “You can’t bring—”
“You must be the sister. It is a pleasure to meet you. Parlez-vous français?”
She stares at him.
“Non?” He looks at me and sighs. “Why did you not teach your sister French? This is most inconvenient.”
“Your English is fine, Mathias, but if you’re having trouble comprehending: Dépose le foutu chien.”
“Loup chien. And his name is Raoul.”
“Did he say … wolf-dog?” April says.
“Ah, she does speak French. Excellent.”
“She understands it,” I say. “She won’t speak it. Now take that damn—”
He covers the cub’s ears and lays him on a blanket. “I have not yet decided upon a suitable sitter.”