Cutting Edge

“I think maybe you do,” Ricci said. “We can pick and choose our options, or lay them out across the board. I’m curious how it’ll be for you when the heat’s on.”

Thibodeau was silent. He wasn’t sure how to answer, truly wasn’t sure he’d even gotten Ricci’s inference. But his fixed stare and strange tone of voice were unsettling.

Ricci sat watching him a while longer. Thibodeau was almost glad when he finally rose in front of the desk.

“I guess we’re done,” Ricci said.

Thibodeau looked at him. Done sounds fine, he thought. Except they weren’t.

“We never did talk about the personal field equipment,” he said.

“No,” Ricci said. “Maybe we’ll make some time later.”

Thibodeau wasn’t sure why he found himself opening his desk drawer and reaching into it. He supposed that uncertainty was, in its way, a fitting note on which to end their little let’s-get-reacquainted talk, which had left him wondering about a lot of things… foremost among them the point Ricci had been trying to make, and now his own.

“Might want to keep these handy,” he said, and tossed a couple of aluminum squeeze tubes from the drawer onto his desktop. They were about two inches long — the size of toothpaste samplers.

Ricci picked them up.

“What’s inside?” he said.

“Guy from special development got them to me a couple days ago,” Thibodeau said. “It’s wound closure gel. We’re getting ready to deliver a ton of it to the military — they already issue something like it to their forward combat troops, but this’s supposed to seal the skin better’n any other kind of dressing, keep it clean and breathing until an injured soldier get to a MASH unit. The idea’s for all our field personnel to carry the stuff, too. Case somebody gets his hide perforated way I did a few years back.”

“How come you’re giving them to me now?”

“I got to read over the test reports this week, decide whether to approve ’em for issue,” Thibodeau said. It was a truth that felt like a lie. “Thought you might want to have your say.”

Ricci examined the tubes in his palm a moment, then dropped them indifferently into the pocket of his sport jacket.

“Decide whatever you want,” he said. “I’ll stick them inside my shaving kit in case I nick myself.”

Thibodeau shrugged without response, watched Ricci leave the office, then sat looking at its closed door in silence for long minutes afterward, trying to figure out for sure what had passed between them.

In the end, however, he was only positive that it scared the living daylights out of him.

* * *

“Looks like we’re ready to go,” Julia Gordian was saying. “If anyone has questions for me, I’ll be glad to answer them after explaining how this works.”

This being the cat test, which was about to commence in a restrictively small back room at the Peninsula Adoption Center. Besides a couple of plastic chairs and wicker kitty bed in which Leona the Grouch was now curled, it was occupied by Vivian the Grey, the Wurmans, and Julia herself — a close-quarters environment that was no fluke whatsoever, since forcing Viv and Leona to invade each other’s private space would give Julia a very good idea how the dog would behave in a similar, but uncontrolled, household situation.

“There are two parts to the test,” Julia continued, holding Viv close beside her on a short leash. She looked alternately from Mr. Wurman to Mrs. Wurman. “In the first, I’m going to bring Vivian right up to the kitty bed and see whether she displays any aggressive tendencies toward cats, which is pretty rare. Most greys are either curious, indifferent, or, believe it or not, even afraid of them, like my own two babies at home. Occasionally they even get frisky—”

“How come you put that bad thing on Vivian’s mouth so she can’t open it or breathe?” said Junior Wurman… whose name, Julia had learned, was actually Thomas.

Julia glanced over at his accusing face.

“A muzzle isn’t really a bad thing, and Viv can breathe through it just fine,” she said. “Greyhounds are used to wearing them when they race, and I’ve only put it on now to make sure Leona doesn’t get hurt in case she’s snapped at.”

Thomas looked mistrustful. “But you told us that wasn’t gonna happen.”

“I said it probably won’t,” Julia said, and offered a reassuring smile. “We need to be careful, ’kay?”

A halfhearted nod from Thomas. He wedged himself back against his seated parents, still regarding Julia with critical mistrust.

She returned her attention to the adults, feeling a bit like Cruella DeVille. With vampire fangs.

“If all goes well, our next step is to see whether Vivian shows overly possessive traits when one of you holds the cat,” she said. “Some jealousy’s normal between them, and no different, really, from human sibling rivalry. Viv might show it by starting to whimper or getting down in a play position to catch your eye. If that happens, you need to be aware of it, spread around the affection, and everybody’s going to be happy. But it’s important to realize we’re talking about a big, muscular seventy-five-pound dog that can sprint almost as fast as a Thoroughbred horse, compared to an animal that weighs maybe a tenth as much, and is also a whole lot smaller. A cat that gets caught in a dog’s jaws is in serious trouble, and we want to help spare you that kind of unhappy incident—”

“Can I hold Leona when we do it?” Thomas said. Which made it twice now that he’d interrupted.

Julia looked at him. Hadn’t she mentioned she’d take questions after her explanation was finished?

“I think it’s best we leave it to your mom or dad,” she said. “To be on the safe side—”

“But you said that thing’s supposed to be on Vivian’s mouth to stop her from biting anybody!”

“That’s true.” Julia was wishing the kid’s mother or father would chime in and help her out here. “She can jump at Leona, though, and you might get a little startled—”

“What’s startled mean?”

“Ah, a little upset, in other words—”

“Won’t you have her on a leash?”

“Well, yes—”

“Why’d I be upset if Vivian’s on a leash and can’t bite anybody—?”

“It’s okay with us if Thomas wants to hold the cat,” said Papa Wurman, whose first name was Stanley. He put a hand on his son’s shoulder and gave it a doting squeeze. “Desmond, that’s our house cat, belongs to him. And Vivian’s going to be his new best friend. So how about we let him make the choice.”

Julia looked at Stanley. This was not quite the brand of parental mediation she’d had in mind. In fact, the euphonious cosmic vibe Julia had thought she detected in the air earlier was starting to seem more and more like a wild-flying spray of sour notes. She was thinking her emotions might have led her into the very sort of pitfall Rob had warned against — namely getting too enthusiastic about the prospect of finding a home for one of their rescues.

She was quiet a moment. It was Rob who made the final call in a dog’s placement. Standard operating procedure was for Julia to consult with him at the windup of every orientation she supervised and give her positive or negative impressions of how it went. Any doubts she might have about people would measure significantly into his own evaluation, and if need be he’d play the stern heavy, explain why a greyhound wasn’t a suitable pet for them, and send them on their merry ways. But Julia hadn’t completely ixnayed the Wurmans, not yet, and saw no harm in going ahead with the cat test. Nor was there any hard-and-fast rule to prevent the kid from being the cat bearer. Assuming the test got that far, the way he conducted himself might even figure into her recommendation.

“All right,” she said. “Let’s get started.”

Vivian passed step one of the test with flying colors. Her eyes anxious circles, her long tail tucked between haunches still bald and rash-inflamed from crate burn at the track, Vivian stiffened with resistence as Julia led her over to the slumbering Leona’s bed and acquiesced only after some soothing words, a pat on the head, and a couple