Dancing with Wolves
(Content warning: if you don't like furr/persons mating with animals -- then you're safe. This is tagged "No Yiff", in case you didn't notice. I don't know how many readers that tag combination will get, but it's worth a try.)
(Meta note: as usual, this is based on [actual science](%5C).)
Dancing with Wolves
Roger walked into his office to find his calendar booked solid. Someone had apparently scheduled two dozen appoinments over three weeks, and cleared everything else.
Roger was not known for showing much emotion of any kind, due to his training. This made it even more of a shock when he marched over to his secratary's desk, and barked, "Dianne! What happened to my calandar!?"
"I was about to tell you," she replied calmly, "a bunch of cultists got arrestedby the police, and they wanted them all evaluated quickly to stand trial. Their own psychs were too busy, so they contracted it out, and Jack got it."
"Good grief!" Roger growled, angry that his partner in practice would step over this line. He put his hands over his face, took a deep breath, and literally wiped away his anger. "Okay, I need to hear good news. How much did it net?"
"I don't know, but it was a lot. And I'm afraid your first appointment was one minute ago. You're late."
Putting this on hold, he rushed back to his office, and put his psychologists' face on before he entered the room.
He found a rather calm wolf, laying across the couch, eyes closed. He opened them the moment Roger entered. "I'm Dr. Finn," Roger offered with a quick bow.
"Thomas Boyd," he nodded, voice quite serene, but face nervous -- just like the occasional cult "escapist" Roger had encountered.
"Do you know why you're here?" Roger asked calmly, as he sat down and took a blank pad from the writing desk.
"I think so," Thomas answered, "everyone who gets arrested gets screened by the state, right?"
"That's right," answered Roger, beginning his routine. "Do you think you deserve to be here?"
"Frankly, no," the wolf answered, "I think my arrest is a violation of Free Conscience."
Roger hung the pause long enough to get the wolf to continue.
"I suppose because I was at the wrong place at the wrong time. I was jay-walking with a wolf."
"Why would a wolf make any difference? You're a wolf."
"No no, I mean a wild wolf, the original animal."
This got Roger writing; he was one of the animal cultists, the groups that usually viewed their form in a different light than most sensible individuals. They put the human blueprint consisting of their mind and body, and focused instead on their covering. Somtimes they worshiped nature or human gods, sometimes... worse things.
"I see. Why were you down town with a wolf?"
"Because he needed some exercise. It's like everyone has forgotten they used to be kept as pets by humans."
Roger decided not to point out that a dog is distinctly different from a wolf, even at the genetic level. He finished writing. "So you think you were arrested for owning a wolf in public?"
"That dangerous animal might get away from me, and kill someone," Thomas explained in a mocking quotation. "Don't they know that animals can be trained?"
Roger tried to turn the question around to ellicit more. "Would your really say it's not fair to expect confidence in you from a police officer who has never seen a wild wolf before?"
Thomas didn't answer.
Roger let the silence hang a moment. He had made his conclusion: perhaps a little mixed up with his religious beliefs, but well within the norm, and fit to stand trial -- all he was asked to do. But he thought he would do a very quick study of this cult.
"I suppose there is one more question," Roger added. "Why would you want to keep a feral wolf as a pet?"
Thomas answered with sudden calm, "that is a religious question, Doctor. I would prefer not to answer it."
Roger nodded, and wrote a little more, just to try and provoke him. It didn't work.
After that, Thomas stepped out. The entire thing took only 5 minutes, and Roger was finished. When his office was empty, Roger got on the phone with Jack. "What happened to my calandar, Jack!?" he growled, irritation returning to him.
"It was a really good deal we got from the state, but they set a tough timeline. If you, me, and Shiela can work through them all in two weeks, we can pay all the bills for the entire year!"
"Money, money, money," Roger sighed with a smile, "I'm beginning to wonder if you need your head examined."
Jack laughed, but didn't answer.
"Did they leave a contact?" Roger continued.
"Yes, some forensic psychiatrist at the corrections department."
Roger wrote it down, and gave her a call to get the story.
"It's quite simple," she explained, "we heard the animals were being mistreated in this cult, and they swept up everyone they thought was a member for questioning."
"That explains why they feel persecuted," Roger said caustically, pretending to have worked with more than one, "they have been."
"If that is the case," she responded diplomatically, "I will accept that finding of your report with argument. Just make sure you follow the format."
"Format?"
"I gave it to -- uh, what was his na--"
"I know who, thank you for your time."
When Roger called Jack, at least he was willing to type up all of the reports in the proper format -- probably because of the volume Roger yelled at.
***
The first week's worth was fairly similar to Thomas. They were all wolves, though most were more talkative and less defensive. The primary message he got about their belief system was: they revered the feral wolf, and sought connection to its nature. They learned to reach into themselves and become "wolf like", but when he got one to demonstrate, it was more a form of spiritual channeling than any feral behavior. The senses and mind were used more than the teeth.
Roger was not told of any animal abuse, or any rituals hurting the wolves -- though he did whittle one subject into admitting they were genetically engineered, which might be illegal on a technicality. But if it was, it would have been the furthest thing from what the statute had in mind: they seemed to be creating wolves that would behave like dogs.
The only thing he could even hypothesize was "cult-like" a willingness to give large amounts of money to maintaining their sancutary -- a building they did not describe. The only significant people were the treasurer and a scientis, neither of whom seemed particularly revered by the members. It was a far strech to call him a cult leader, unless they were completely hiding something.
Roger was writing, on report after report, that every individual was harmless. And as he did so, the cause of their arrest became increasingly of his interest. If everything was going on that they said, what would cause a complaint?
His first clue was one patient in the second week who was quite different. She seemed to be not just reserved, but quite depressed. When he pointed this out, her response was typical of depression. "I'm sorry, I've just lost someone recently."
"Someone close to you?"
"Very."
He nodded compassionately. "Would you like to tell me about it?"
"I don't know if you would understand."
"Loss always hurts, no matter who it is. Perhaps I can help," offered Roger.
She took a shaky, deep breath, and seemed to get more nervous. "But what if -- what if the love of your life was a wolf?"
"You mean, a feral wolf?" he asked, not breaking his soothing voice.
"Yes. I loved him, and -- he loved me." She silently started to cry.
Roger leaned over and gave her his hankerchief, and over the next 20 minutes, came to understand this relationship. She described this male wolf as her soulmate, a mirror image of some imaginary self that she had within. She said this wolf was aware of this self, and described him in very sentient terms. This was a religion, of a very deep, genuine kind, if feelings were any judge.
After advising her to speak to a psychiatrist about anti-depressant medication, which he did not have the power to prescribe, Roger was more puzzled, not less. The views he was getting were of a spiritualism that was palpable, yet so etherially focused that it couldn't be a cult. He felt adrift in the minds of those who saw and believed in something quite extraordinary.
Every "just fine" report bothered him more than the last. Here he was, helping the state do its work, perhaps something illegitimate. The only way to know for sure was to determine, for himself, whether this was really a cult -- which required narrow and destructive social activities -- or a fledgling religion worthy of recognition by the world government.
He decided to call up an old friend who worked in zoology to ask some questions. Friend, Roger thought a moment later, was stretching it; one-night date two months ago would be more accurate. But it was the only zoologist he knew without cold calling at the university.
"Hello?" answered the voice on the other end.
"Harry? This is Roger Finn, I dated you once?"
"Ha ha, yeah, I remeber. And you're calling to try again?" he teased.
"No, actually, I'd like to ask a professional favor."
"Hmm," he replied with a smile, "that would be expensive... but I suppose I did owe you one, didn't I?"
Roger didn't remember it that way, but didn't contradict him. "I'd like to just pick your brain about social behavior in wolves. How about dinner downtown?"
"Same spot as last time?"
"Sure, why not."
"Okay, I'll be there at 7."
But Roger left as soon as his last appointment would let him, another run of normal, confused, and ambivolent individuals. It was 5:44, and he decided to stop by the Hall of Justice and see what had happened to the pet wolves that had been siezed. This perhaps would tell him if the distrust of the animals the cultists asserted was correct.
By bluffing and using the name of Dr. Harry Usher, struggling zoologist, he got shown to the giant cage -- whose smell got down the hall before he did. It was really just a 5-wise holding cell that had beed fitted with a ramp on the slot for a tray. Apparently, the guards dared not feed them any other way.
There were about two dozen creatures about the same size, but several of them were far thinner than others. Most seemed full grown, but there were one or two adolescents in the group. Each one looked at Roger differently, but the three Roger focused on were the ones that growled at him and the guard threateningly with their teeth bared.
"Are you sure you want to look?" asked the rather nervous tabby cat, his keys shaking slightly in his hand.
"Later," Roger lied, and went to his meeting early -- with a sense of empathy with the cop who had arrested his first patient.
That "same spot" was a diner he used to frequent when he was still working on his masters, before he had to move to the other side of town. While same-sex affections were not frowned upon, it was still one of the few places where one could get a buffet of choices with reasonable certainty -- and also had decent food.
He picked a table, and ate nothing but soup for half an hour until Harry arrived. They started talking, but the moment Roger said "wolf cult", Harry interrupted him.
"Oh yes, I know it, they tried to get me to do some genetic work for them. All crazy."
"You?" Roger asked in surprise. Harry happened to be a wolf, but he still never suspected he was associated with that.
"Yeah. Get this: they seem to think that wolves are just as smart as you or I, but lack language. So they wanted me to find some kind of 'language gene', and turn it on."
He obviously thought this idea was ridiculous, so Roger presumed he had the authority to make this determination. "There is no 'language gene,' I take it?" he verified.
"Well, there are one or two that are necessary, that were isolated some time ago, but they are not sufficient. Besides, I don't even think they are necessary for what those fools want. You can do a lot with just social behavior and training."
"Did you see any animal abuse while you were there?"
Harry got a lot more nervous. "Well, it's probably not illegal, but I saw something -- really weird. I don't think it would go with dinner, though."
"Then tell me now, our food hasn't arrived yet."
Harry leaned closer. "Apparently, since they thought these wolves were intelligent, they -- married them. And that included..." He never finished.
This got raised eyebrows from Roger, but no greater response. "I see," was all he said.
"Typical shrink," smirked Harry, "a subject like that, and you say 'I see'."
"It's just sex," replied Roger with a shrug, "it's all the same, in the mind."
"Yeah, but --" Harry lowered his voice reflexively, "animals?"
"I have heard for an entire week about 'returning to nature' and 'the wolf form', and on, and on, and on. I've heard affection, endearment, envy, intrigue, and much more ascribed to these creatures. They are obsessed with their pet wolves. Sexual arousal seems almost logical."
"Well get this," Harry laughed, eyes wide in astonishment, "the shrink has it all figured out."
"I didn't say that," snapped Roger, as Harry hit a nerve, "and that tone of voice is why we had only one date."
That, at least, got Harry to back down. "Sorry," he growled, slightly defensively.
"It's alright," answered Roger with his calm voice, "may we continue?"
"Continue what?"
"About the wolf cult. They're obsessed, but I am really interested in whether they have any basis in fact at all for what they see."
"Some. They breed wolves quite well, and do have them as docile as humans ever got. But the wolves look at the cultists as other wolves. They see a resemblance."
Roger nodded with growing interest.
"So they can train them," he concluded, "but that's all it is. Where they see 'spritual whatever', a zoologist sees social behavior and conditioning. The effects are real, but they do not have the supernatural causes that the cultists claim."
Their food arrived soon after that. As they ate, the conversation began to move more and more to their first date. In addition to their memories being jogged by their environment, Roger could swear that his legs were being teased by a tail under the table. Though Roger was only luke-warm to the idea of another actual date -- and the ending it would entail -- he did undeniably enjoy it.
But he soon figured out there was a reason. About 8:30, when the subject turned to leaving, Harry made a bold suggestion.
"Now that I have done you two favors in return for your one, --"
"Two?"
"Talking, and spending the evening with you," he insisted jovially, "two favors. I would like one in return."
Roger did feel like granting one, so listened.
"Take a walk with me. Then, you can choose whether to go home with me or not."
Roger chuckled. "This must be an important walk," he replied.
"Oh, it is. I'll tell you what you really need to know about those cultists."
"That is pretty hard to resist," he admitted, "okay, I'll bite."
"Good. And I'll pay the check."
"No," insisted Roger with a playful growl, "because I don't want to owe you another one!"
They split it -- and Roger suddenly realized again that Harry had remembered that one forgettable favor, months ago. This sort of obsessive book keeping, Roger decided, would make him answer 'no' to Harry's final invitation.
Roger watched the last bit of sunset fade as they walked, paying more attention to the words than where they went.
"I'll tell you a little," Harry began, walking out into the hot summer air, tempered by a continuing breeze. "I got drafted when I was a grad student. It wasn't clear to me it was a cult, then, more like a 'we like animals' type of thing. And what biologist wouldn't like that? So I joined.
"I thought it was a little weird when they were all about wolves, but I found the wolves they kept adorable. The pupplies needed constant attention, but once they grew up, they would repay all of it for life. I could definitely see why the humans kept them as pets."
He smiled almost magnetically, which Roger's training told him was similar to the spiritual feeling described by his subjects. But he dared not break this narrative to ask.
"Anyway," Harry continued, "everything was going well, until about 6 months in: they wanted me to start genetics work for them, using genetic analysis equipment they just -- got somewhere. They didn't know how to use it, and neither did I, but talking to some of my old genetics professors helped. I did an analysis, and told them what pups to breed with each other. Splicing was too complicated."
"Um, when was breeding?" interrupted Roger.
"Only when the old ones died off. Anyway, I bet you want to hear why I'm so sure it's a cult."
Roger dared not break the spell, so just nodded. Since Harry was walking just ahead, at a slightly faster pace, Roger didn't know if Harry even saw him.
"There was this one guy, name was Darrin. He managed the books. I only met him twice, and I didn't think much of him, until I saw how all the pet wolves reacted to him. They thought he had steak juice all over his hands, just about! And when the wolves liked him, he could get to the members through their 'soul mates.' He could say that their wolves wanted so and so. And that he would not do a marriage unless they did this or that. I found it too weird, and quit."
"But you seemed to like the ideas," Roger pointed out.
Harry finally stopped walking, and stood at the front door of a large house. "Some, yeah. But technically, I never quit. So why don't we have a look?"
He drew out a keycard with a mischevious smile, and inserted it into a slot hidden in the wooden doorframe. A latch clicked open loudly.
"Uh, I don't think we should be here," suggested Roger, looking at the steel plaque announcing that the house was now POLICE EVIDENCE, NO TRESPASSING.
"All I want is a couple of files," he insisted, as he drew the card out and pulled open the heavy wooden door, "just to see what they've been up to in my absence."
"I don't want to get caught in there!" demanded Roger in a stage whisper.
"You won't," insited Harry calmly, "and it's your only chance to see it. C'mon." Without another word, he walked inside.
Out of a desire to argue with Harry about entering, Roger followed the wolf inside -- an irony lost on his brain in the heat of the moment.
"Let's see," Harry mumbled, as he walked carefully into the pitch dark entryway away from the front door. Roger tried to follow Harry, keeping his hands on the wall of a long hallway to make sure he knew where he was going.
"Can't you turn on a light?" he whispered.
"Shh! Soon," replied Harry much more quietly, as he took a turn that Roger nearly missed.
The result was a small room, dimly lit by a computer on stand-by, with only one chair and two tables squeezed into it. When Harry sat down at the keyboard, there was barely room for Roger to stand.
"I wonder if they changed their password," he mused as he slowly typed. "Nope!" he gleefully whispered, a sadistic smile lit up by the screen, as it gave him access to the security system.
As Harry did all the typing, however, Roger heard something. "What's that?" he whispered, putting his hand on Harry's shoulder to get his attention.
He stopped clacking the keyboard, allowing Roger to listen better. What he made out was scratch, scratch, scratch, -- and a faint whine.
"A wolf?" whispered Roger.
"I'll get him later," answered Harry quietly, as he resumed typing.
"A wolf?" Roger repeated, "and just what are you doing?"
"Erasing our trail, you'll be happy to know," he growled. "The police just use the security system built into the house to log anyone who comes in and out."
And, Roger thought immediately, they didn't change the log management password. His heart, only now, started beating faster. Not only was he breaking in, but he was there when evidence was altered!
"Are you almost done?" he snarled anxiously.
"Just finished," replied Harry, stading up at last, and speaking in a normal tone of voice.
"Now let's go see about that wolf, and get out of here."
"Fine," answered Harry, with an unusually calm air, "see if you can find him."
Only now did he flip a switch to turn on an overhead light. It blinded Roger temporarily but when he stepped back into the hall, it was enough to let him see. He could see that the hall split in half, presumably to either two would-be bedrooms, or perhaps a kitchen -- which if so, would make the placement of the front door very odd.
"Would you prefer left or right?" asked Harry sharply.
"I don't know," grumbled Roger, "you pick."
"I'll take left," he answered, and started down the hall. Roger followed him, until he heard the whimper again -- coming from the right. This made Harry start following him instead. The first room Roger saw was a broom closet, but he moved on. As he was about to go into the second doorway, however, the whimpering got louder.
"Hello there," cooed Harry, reaching into the darkness and picking up something. Sure enough, in his arms when he stood up was a large ball of grey fur, that looked astonishigly similar to him. It took Harry a moment to get the creature situated comfortably in his arms -- as comfortably as he could hold 25 pounds of dirty wolf, that was trying to lick his face.
But as Roger was about to remark on the creature, a deafening beeping started emminating from the computer room.
Roger didn't need to know what it was to demand, "get out of here!"
Harry dropped the wolf from a foot off the ground, and started running. It got up, and galloped after him, as did Roger.
They went quickly to the opposite hall, though a dusty kitchen, into a living room, and then into a side door which took them down into the basement. The result was astonishing, could Roger take it in. Unlike many houses which were built on slabs, the basement was tremendous, possibly larger than the house.
Harry ran over to a large cabinet, which he unlocked to reveal hundreds of tiny medical vials.
"Alright, Roj, you've got one chance: are you going to help me get rid of that blue uniform?"
"No!" snapped the hyena.
"Alright then," he snapped loading a syringe, "lay down!"
"What!?"
***
Roger knew exactly what happened to him -- but couldn't remeber it very well. He woke up the next day in the emergency room, feeling horribly lethargic. The Doctor, a rather tall fox in a white coat, explained to him that he had been injected with Midazolam, and they had detoxified him. Roger nodded, and struggled to remember -- until the Doctor explained that Midazolam produces anterograde amnesia. After the injection, he was a blank.
Roger remembered no experiences, but his feelings, and from this he tried to remember what the things he felt them about were. The feeling he remembered was a strange sense that his short-term memory was just throwing everything away. It did not seem important, like anything one forgets, but putting everything in that category felt a little strange. He could not even remember how he got to the emergency room very well.
He knew he had been strapped to a table, he forgot how, and injected against his will. Harry's voice sounded like he were playing psychiatrist. Then, a long argument with another wolf; he didn't remember anything but their anger. And then -- nothing. He woke up here.
The real problem was, what was he going to tell the Doctor, and the police. He just could not believe that Harry would turn on him like that. He seemed a little odd, maybe a bit manipulative, but this seemed well over the top. Breaking a police perimiter, for that matter, seemed far over the top for Harry, and yet Roger had gone along with it. Why did he do that?
Roger went over it all again: he remembered Harry typing on the computer, then that young wolf -- what happened to him, anyway? He decided that he would not tell anyone what happened, and demand answers from Harry first. Then, Roger would tell the police everything -- including his own involvement in the break-in. It would mean house arrest at worst, he told himself; perhaps he and Jack could work something out for his patients.
When he was released the next day, he headed straight to Harry's office at the University. He wasn't sure where it was, but asked the information desk to look him up. She volunteered to call him, and saved Roger the time of walking: there was no answer on the phone. It did save him time.
Roger decided he had no idea where Harry would be. He was on the run from the law, most likely, meaning Roger couldn't find him either. Deciding on the next best thing, he thought of all those wolves in that cage, and decided to go see them.
He walked up to the guard, who was not the same one, and began to say, "Dr. Harry Usher, --"
"Right this way," grumbled the rather large bear, and moved slowly down the hall with his keyring. But he didn't go to the wolves; instead, went to a cell on the opposite side designed for one.
"Harry, you've got a visitor!" he bellowed, just as Roger caught sight of the wolf.
Harry was just sitting up, from an afternoon nap, in a small cell with nothing but a cot, a toilet, and the feral wolf for warmth. "Harry," noddd Roger, non showing the least respect with a bow. Roger just looked up, eyes saying what apparently his mouth refused to: I'm sorry.
"The least you can do is say it," Roger stated, feeling that it was the least he deserved.
Harry took a deep breath, looked him in the eye -- and then looked back down at the floor when his wolf barked. Changing his view made a warm smile brush the edge of his face. It was the wolf, apparently, that was worth his time.
"I'm sorry," he sighed, the happiness apparently making him able to say anything.
"Thank you," answered Roger.
He turned his back, and was about to walk away, when Harry added, "wait, please."
Roger stopped, but did not turn around.
"I have one last request. Just one. Even if your don't believe in Shakallah, I do."
Roger slowly turned back around, and glatially walked back toward the cell door. He looked with a calm distance at Harry, no longer believing he could trust him for anything.
"All I ask," he said, losing his smile, "is that, when they insist on cruely euthanizing this poor creature, ... take him to the hospital for me."
"Can't you do tha--?"
"No, I can't," he growled. Roger was about to push him, when Harry blurted, "And bring his body back," he added.
"Why?" asked Roger, studying his eyes carefully.
"I want to -- look at him."
Roger watched every detail of Harry's face: the tension under the white fur around his muzzle, up to the sad, blue eyes, even to the slightly folded ears. Harry had a habit, it seemed, of never moving his ears, no matter what else his face said. It was either the only clue this was a fake, or just a motor habit. Roger wished he had studied Harry's face in more detail before.
Still staring intently, Roger repeated, "why?"
"Because I won't believe he's dead until I see him dead," Harry answered, almost choking on the words.
Roger finally decided that Harry was genuinely upset -- that if he were lying, it was about the subject. Why he wanted the wolf was still probably a matter of Personal Conscience. He might mutilate the body, or something, but couldn't do it any harm once it was dead.
In Roger's mind, there was only one risk: it was the last chance for Harry to trick him in some way. He spent a moment thinking, and waiting, to see if Harry would put any sort of social pressure on him. But he didn't. He just stared, almost unblinkingly -- perhaps playing exactly the same game Roger was, though Roger wasn't sure.
"Why not someone else?"
"Because they wouldn't understand," answered Harry, seeming to relax a little bit. "You understand -- what is in the minds of those cultists, that we talked about at dinner. They wouldn't. I know you would treat the dead body with respect, and bring it to me in good condition."
Roger was about to say yes, when Harry added, "this isn't a trick, Roj. I really am sorry about -- what happened. I am willing to serve my time."
Roger nearly winced: too convenient! It's a trick!
"I'm sorry, Harry," he said. He waited until real tears came to Harry's eyes before he added, "but I will make a deal. This is about understanding, right?"
Harry nodded without looking up.
"This is about Free Conscience, right?"
Another nod.
"Then I will just talk to your defense attorney, after you make a plea bargain, and explain to him your concerns. He will then send someone to fetch the body for you."
Harry thought a moment -- far too long for having his immediate concerns addressed. But he said yes, and to Roger, that was good enough.
***
In the end, Roger did confess to the police, and paid a rather hefty fine for his accessory in the violation. He was relieved to not be put under house arrest, as was customary, but the fine -- 9 months salary, requiring quite a loan -- was definitely a "real punishment", no matter what the humans would have said.
Roger was sitting in the back of the court room when Harry was charged. Between the assault on Roger, the break-in, and apparently an assault on both a police officer and the cult's would-be leader -- who Roger did not remember -- got him put under house arrest for his remaining life, parole contingent on a sych evaluation.
It was a moment of relief, but also made him slap himself on the forehead. The verdict was based on the finding of the forensic psychologist in the case: Harry was declared a sociopath. He would never be left unsupervised by the state again.
In spite of the diagnosis, Roger did as promised. He explained he was a psychologist, and that Harry wanted the body under Free Conscience, in pristine condition, immediately after the injection. It took some persuading, but he got the lawyer to do it.
A week later, however, the defense attorney called him up. "Listen," explained the rottweiler, "the injection will happen this afternoon. After he's dead, would you take him to your friend? I apparently let slip 'sociopath', and they won't go near him."
Roger sighed. "Alright, I'll pick him up. But I want him certified dead before I take him."
"No problem," replied the attorney, "show up about noon."
Carrying a large gym bag with him, Roger went down to the hospital beside the hall of justice, and asked -- quite quietly -- where the dog being euthanized was. The receptionist made a call, and then took Roger up an elevator. A tall cat in a white lab coat met him, wolf in him arms, paper between the fingers on his left hand.
"I'm sorry," he said, "but there was no pain.
"It's not my pet," Roger replied, "but so am I."
He took the body -- which was still warm -- and put it in the bag. Somehow, as he left the building and headed to Harry's office, it was a struggle to keep the tears back. Every time he sat down at a light, something drove him to just peek inside of it. The poor wolf looked like he was just taking a nap: eyes closed, mouth closed, ears two different ways, and legs limp.
But maybe that was it: he was too relaxed; too relaxed to be breathing. Here he was, carrying a victim of the worst possible disease -- death -- to the one who would least like to see it.
Roger's shoulder was tired, and his eyes were wet, by the time he had carried the lifeless body to the front door of the building. Harry was waiting, his face in a similar state as Roger, the only two feeling sorrow in the entryway of the large building. Harry accepted the corpse, but let Roger keep the piece of paper and the bag. Though many gave him strange looks, Harry slowly started walking away, staring at the lifeloss body in him arms.
But when he got across the foyer, he started running.
He shoved someone out of the way, and went up the stairwell in a hurry. It seemed to be genuine emotion at last: fear. Fear of what? Roger told himself he didn't want to know -- but started walking toward the stairs anyway. He felt certain that, somehow, he had been tricked.
He went much more slowly up the stairs, skipping the card reader by looking important and catching the door from someone exiting. He saw Harry leave the stairwell at the third floor, after quite a sprint, and waited until the door closed before dashing up the stairs after Harry.
But when Roger got to the third floor, it was just a deserted hallway, with a dozen doors. Offices were along the outside wall with nameplates, the inside walls were rooms without them. When Roger nervously looked into a small, round window on an inner door, he saw a laboratory. Harry could be in his office, or any one of those.
When he went all the way around, and saw no nameplate for Harry, he started again, looking into the small rooms full of equipment. At the third one, there was the dead wolf, laying on a table, being furiously worked on by the sentient wolf. He was connecting a mask, and pressing on his chest furiously.
To Roger, this was denial of the first order: he thought he was still alive. Roger watched with pity, as he saw the hyena dashing shave the wolf, and stick electrodes on his belly. But just as Roger was about to leave, Harry ran to get something, and Roger saw the screen of the stat machine was not blank!
Slow, steady sine waves were now registering on the second of three flat lines, and the second hovered irregularly above zero. Roger continued to stare in awe, as Harry returned with an injection for the wolf, and more electrodes. He pressed them on the wolf's skull, and the top line began to show jumpy, intermittent static.
The wolf was alive! Just barely, but Harry seemed convinced it was enough. He got in the way of the screen when he started pumping the wolf's heart, and Roger decided it was time to leave.
He walked back down the hall, staring at the death certificate still in his hand. This was the trick. And what a trick it was!
Not sure what to do, Roger dashed back to the hospital, and asked for the Doctor who signed the certificate. They could only get him on the receptionist's phone.
"Dr. Coxx," answered a voice, "I hope it's fast."
"So do I," replied Roger, "I picked up a dead wolf from you about 10 minutes ago, and he's now alive."
Rather than the loud exclamation Roger was expecting, the reply was much more calm. "Meet me an hour from now, and we will discuss it." The words sounded chosen for someone standing behind him.
Roger thanked him, hung up the phone, that hour sitting in the waiting room of the hospital. He suddenly got the sense that he was in jeopardy again.
***
Roger met Dr. Coxx in an examining room. The hyena presumed that he was sitting in the place of a cancelled appointment, an indication that this was, indeed, serious. Making it even more serious was the fact a rather thin tiger in a suit was also with him.
"This is the hospital attorney," Dr. Coxx introduced, "she's here because she is worried about such important paperwork." "If you would explain what happened, this can all be cleared up quickly, I expect," was the statement made by the fairly deep female voice, attached to a white tigress.
Roger explained, quite boringly, the facts: he took the wolf out of the hospital, over to Harry, Harry dashed upstairs, Roger followed -- which got the lawyer looking a little suspicious. But it was wiped off her face when Roger explained how Harry then resuscitated him like a victim of severe drowning.
The tigress was the first to speak. "Doctor, how did you determine he was dead?"
"The usual way!" the baffled Dr. Coxx answered defensively, a little louder than his hospital voice, "I injected him, waited for him to sleep, and when he stopped breathing, checked that his pulse had stopped."
"Was the brain dead at that point?"
"Without oxygen, it would be within minutes. He wasn't breathing, and there was no pulse."
"I know what I saw," insisted Roger, "the machine was showing waves."
"What kind of waves?"
"Draw them, please," said the doctor, grabbing a pen from a drawer, and tearing off a piece of the sterile paper normally separating the examining table from the patient.
"Let's see," thought Roger aloud, "the machine had three waves on it. The top one was like this," he said, drawing random, bunched up scribbles. Dr. Coxx watched and said nothing.
"The second one was like this," he said, drawing the consistent smooth curves that took up most of the space on the sheet.
"A heart pump," interrupted Coxx.
"What?" asked Roger.
"Some heart bypass patients have emergency pumps to supplement their heart. When they have trouble, the blood will keep circulating because of the pump. But they're conscious and breathing voluntarily. Otherwise, the oxygen in their blood wouldn't be enough to sustain the brain but for --"
"-- about 10 minutes?" injected Roger.
Dr. Coxx nodded -- for his own satisfaction mostly, since it was completely un-necessary.
"You checked the pulse, why didn't you feel that?" asked the lawyer.
"It's a pump. It runs continuously. There is no pulse, and the blood pressure is so low, you can't feel it."
"I suppose that settles it," sighed the lawyer, "that was completely unforseeable. That's all I need to know. Good day."
After she stepped out, Roger sighed, and slumped down in the chair. "I know how you feel," added Coxx, "but I'm afraid you'll have to slump in the waiting room." Roger slowly got up, bowed weakly, and stepped quickly out.
***
Over the following week, Roger finished the last of the cultists. The last of the bunch was the leader, who Roger knew only from what Harry had told him. It turned out to be complete nonsense.
Their hour together in this greying wolf's head was one of the patients that Roger felt sympathy for, behind his professional detachment. He had an affinity for animals since he was 7 years old, and read about them in story books. He decide to study them soon after. He liked girls, but liked ones who, in his words, "behaved like the wolves from which they seemed descended."
When he first worked with canines, he found them to be his best friends. He called the experience spiritual. He told this to colleagues, who thought he was crazy. He told his girlfriend, who thought he was right. He snuck one home from the lab to keep as a pet, and she fell in love just like he did.
Two degrees, three permits, and one property later, he had ten believers and five wolves. He failed to mention to his girlfriend that three of the believers, all female, were now sleeping with him on occasion. When she found out, she dumped him -- not for infidelity, but lying about it. He didn't blame her.
It was when he had his own wolf pack that things began to go off the rails. And so, he did what any good leader would do: he lied. He blew the spirituality out of proportion. He said that paying for his research would let them get more, even though he did nothing to produce tame wolves but Belyaev artificial selection -- breed the tame with the tame every generation.
He brought in a zoologist -- his name was Harry -- to support his nonsense efforts. Instead of paying him, he allowed this zoologist to satisfy his sexual fetish for animals. Harry never hurt them -- in fact, the wolves became quite fond of him -- so it was allowed to continue. Until, that is, they were raided by the police for no reason at all.
Roger managed to keep his feelings aside until he finished the report, deciding that the only crime here was petty fraud, and sent it off with a key press. From this perspective, it was now clear that Harry had a plan, a plan that stretched back before the police broke in. It was a plan so grand, that having a mammal cheat death was but one piece.
Roger re-read the reports, looking for clues to Harry -- a ward of the state he knew too well to interview legally. He wished he had known what was coming; the reports were all hastily dashed off, several of the copy-and-paste with different names on days that were too frustrating. He missed all of the details he now needed to give a verdict of "can stand trial" in a hundred ways.
He gave up, and reviewed his notes instead, re-reading the emotional connections to animals, re-reading the innocence and shock, re-reading the us-versus-them mentality that had developed. He tried very hard to imagine what Roger would think of this; how all of this information, the environment, the personalities, the animals, and his passions built a grand chessboard with a thousand pieces. What would give him an advantage? What did he need? What enemy was there to be destroyed?
As the sun set on Friday, he walked the switchboards of the Department of Justice, hunting for the only one who could possibly help him. He was the only one who saw what Roger missed in Harry. The one who declared he was a psychopath at trial, getting him a lifetime of house arrest. The one, Roger hoped, now also would know him still better with some new facts.
Dr. Schtol turned out to be an aging otter, whose whiskers were unkempt, and whose fur was starting to thin out. He wore a rather heavy leather jacket, despite it being summer time, and had what seemed a permamently clenched jaw, based on an oddity in the way his muzzle sat on his face.
He didn't say a word, barely acknowledging Roger with stone cold eyes and a stiff bow before he sat down at the table in the cafe near the Hall of Justice.
"How did you recognize me?" asked Roger, trying to read the otter out of habit.
"I wasn't sure, until you stood up," he replied. His voice was crisp, even though his tone did not indicate any particular emotion.
"I see. I'm glad you're here."
"So am I," he replied without a hint of humor, "you wanted to speak about one of my patients?"
"Well, at least one you examined, yes. Harry Usser."
"Perhaps I should ask whether it is for your personal or professional opinion."
"I am torn," Roger admitted, sinking to a level tone matching the otter, "my personal opinion is that he is about to do something. My professional opinion is that he has an elaborate plan, which may be incomplete."
The otter got his black tea, a rarity, and Roger got some orange juice, a commonality.
"Most sociopaths are always planning something," Dr. Schtol answered coldly, sipping his tea, "so I am sure it is true. But his plans are deeper and narrower than most. He seems to have channeled his impulses very well, which puts him in the most dangerous category. In fact, his only odd weakness is for animals."
Roger raised his eyebrows at the percptive skills of the otter; if he had interviewed him for trial, he would have had an hour or two at most. "Yes," he said, "in fact, it seems to be a sexual fetish."
Dr. Schtol didn't even flinch. "Seems logical," he replied, "which makes them the target of his plans. We all want sex."
"He went to quite a length to prevent the death of one," Roger mulled out loud, "but let dozens die. Why would he save just one?"
"I beg your pardon?" asked the otter with barely an inflection in his voice, as he drained his glass of tea.
Roger had barely touched his orange juice. "That's the puzzle. Based on his behavior with the animals, they are pawns. But based on his behavior toward -- other culists, they are the pawns. Which does he want?" Roger barely avoided saying that it was he who was played like a pawn.
"The goals are deeper than they appear. Why don't you tell me what happened."
Roger swallowed a large gulp of his juice to get a pause to think hard. He was still torn when he put the glass down. "I don't know if I can trust you with my -- version of events."
"Then you won't mind if I try?" he asked.
Roger nodded, but clenched his jaw nervously; he knew not what he was about to hear.
"I'll tell you what I know, you fill in the gaps. First, that you and he broke into the cultists' house. I presume that you are a law abiding citizen, and were manipulated into doing it."
Roger nodded. That was a matter of public record now.
"Next, you requested that he was brought the wolf after his death. Based on a flinch right there, he manipulated you again." "That wolf," Roger sighed, trying to keep his feelings inside, "is now alive, as far as we know. That was his second trick."
"Then, you continued to hear from cult members, based on the schedule and contracts I've read. After the day the leader was booked, you called me. He said something to you, didn't he?"
"He said something, I cannot repeat as usual, that told me Harry hated him, and that Harry seemed to have a plan."
"A plan to get rid of him?"
"Not exactly, --"
It clicked for Roger: Harry was getting rid of the leader.
"Yes!" he gasped, "exactly! Harry wants what he has: dogs and followers! He talked to me, before I knew about his connections, about how several members fawned over him! He wants at least one dog, can clone others, and wants people to do what he wants!"
"Hmm, that makes sense," murmured the otter, "so what else does it mean?"
"It means," answered Roger, "that Harry set thee whole thing up. He reported animal abuse to the police two weeks ago. He got them thrown in jail. He got the animals he could and escaped, getting the leader jailed for fraud."
"And he thinks the followers will follow any leader," finished the otter. For the first time, he made an emotion: a small smile around the corners of his mouth. "Congratulations, Dr. Finn. I'd be glad to help you with the paperwork."
***
The next day, Roger was staring across the glass of a hospital room, looking at the barely conscious Harry. It was tinted so Harry couldn't see him; he stared at the cieling. This, Roger decided, is what utter misery looks like. He wasn't faking his desire to have the pet returned to him after all.
"Good afternoon."
Roger turned, and bowed to the familiar otter, but said nothing.
"I didn't expect him to take it this hard," was all he said.
"They took his pet away from him," Roger said solemnly, "and told him he couldn't have one."
"Oh. So this wasn't about the letter?"
"Maybe having every sigle cultist tell him off in a petition was the trigger, but having his pet taken gave him nothing to live for."
Dr. Stohl nodded, as they watched a tall male lion change the large bandage on his chest, hiding a knife wound just below the heart. This is why the house arrest tracking gadgets monitor heartbeat, Roger reflected; that engineer was quite forward looking.
When the nurse stepped out, the otter asked if he was awake. He nodded, and the otter bowed, and got to his present duty: convincing a suicidal sociopath that he had something left to live for.
Roger sighed, and shook his head. The judge did the right thing, but it must be horrible. Depending on the extent of his preference, he was being denied sex. But there were surely worse things in life -- as Roger's patients often told him every week.
On his way out, he bumped -- almost literally, in the busy doorframe, into one of the female cultists carrying a very familiar wolf.
"Doctor Finn?" she asked when their eyes met.
"Yes," he said with a smile and a bow.
She returned it. "I just wanted to -- admit that, well, I guess, I lied to you."
"Let's go somewhere we can talk," Roger offered.
"No this will be short," she said quickly.
He at least led her out of the foot traffic over to a hard metal bench by the door.
"There was something I never told you, Doctor," she said, "Dippy, here, and I -- well, actually --"
"I know," Roger answered, "I understand."
She seemed skeptical.
"It's a natural outgrowth of love," he continued, "and since you really seem to love him, and will take wonderful care of him, I have no reason to judge."
She smiled, and sighed in relief. The wolf looked up at her happily, and licked her face, making her giggle. "Stop, silly!" she chastised with too much of a smile to have an effect. "So, you don't think we're all like Harry?"
"Everyone is different, and I can tell you that Harry was -- very different from most of us. Until I see evidence of abuse, I have nothing to indict you with just for sex. Besides, depending on what zoologist you ask, he might even enjoy it."
She smiled, and rolled her eyes. "Of course he enjoys it."
Roger smiled, and didn't argue.
She thanked him, and departed quickly when enough of those walking by started giving her nervous looks -- perhaps more specifically, Dippy got those nervous looks.
Roger took a deep breath, stood up, and calmly walked out. He could call the entire thing over, at last -- as soon as he could get his calandar put back together.
The End.