3 a.m. (Henry Bins 1) by Nick Pirog Read Free Book Online Page A

shall we?”
    Lassie looks at me over his shoulder as the
doctor begins his examination and I reassure him, “It's okay
buddy.”
    The doctor flips him over and looks at the
cut on his belly. “Somebody really got you there didn't they?” He
gazes up at me and says, “Looks like he got pretty lucky actually,
the skin on the belly is pretty soft, a little deeper and he could
have done some real damage.”
    He presses on Lassie's belly and I expect
him to wince, but he doesn't. But when the doctor touches a little
higher on his ribs, he lets out a painful wail.
    My stomach tightens. I wait for the doctor
to tell me that he is bleeding internally and will surely die. But,
after another minute of prodding, the doctor diagnoses some bruised
ribs—nothing major. He prescribes some pain meds and gives me a
couple ointments to put on his cuts.
    I blow a sigh of relief.
    “ Hear that buddy. Just
some bruised ribs.”
    Meow.
    “ He should be back in
action in a couple days.”
    “ Thanks, Doc.” I remember
something from a week earlier when I'd been petting Lassie and ask,
“Actually, while we're here . . . did you happen to feel that lump
on his shoulder?”
    He shakes his head and I guide his hand to a
little lump behind Lassie's right shoulder.
    I wait for the doctor to tell me it is
obviously cancer.
    “ Microchip.”
    “ What?”
    “ That's his microchip.
Sometimes they put it in behind the shoulder.”
    He saw my confusion and asked, “You didn't
have the microchip put in?”
    “ No. I found him on the
street about a month ago. No tags.”
    “ Well, whoever owned the
cat, had a microchip put in. Costs like fifty bucks, some places do
it for free.”
    My mind is racing.
    “ Could you find out who he
belongs to?” I ask. “I mean, I should at least try and track them
down, right?”
    “ Sure thing.”
    He opens a drawer, unwinds a little scanner,
and plugs it into his computer. A moment later, he runs the scanner
over Lassie's shoulder, like he is produce at the grocery store. He
writes the name, phone number, and address on the back of one of
his business cards and hands it to me.
    I read the name and try to keep a straight
face.
     
    …
     
    It is 3:46 when we get back.
    I put two of the tiny little pain pills
inside a blueberry and feed it to Lassie. Then I spread ointment on
all his cuts and then carry him and my laptop to bed.
    I pull out the card the vet gave me.
    Jessica Renoix.
    A Richmond address.
    I Google, “Jessica Renoix and
Connor Sullivan.”
    There are several hits. I click on
images.
    Bingo.
    There is a picture of
Jessica Renoix and the then governor of Virginia, Connor
Sullivan. 
    Jessica Renoix is
Callie Freig.

 
     
     
~Ten~
     
    It'd been a double homicide. Twelve nights
ago, Callie Freig had been murdered. But so had
Jessica Renoix.
    It is 3:07 a.m.
    Lassie and I are back in my bed. I'd given
him another round of pain medicine and he is on his back snoring.
The cut on his belly has improved dramatically and he'd told me in
face licks that he was feeling a little better.
    I've been staring at the picture of Connor
Sullivan and Jessica Renoix for the past couple minutes.
Under the picture of the two, a caption reads, “Campaign volunteer
Jessica Renoix gets an arm-full of incumbent candidate,
Governor Connor Sullivan.”
    The photo must have been taken six years
earlier during his final reelection campaign as Governor of
Virginia.
    In the photo, there are fifteen people clad
in white T-shirts with the slogan, “The Man With the
Plan.” Sullivan had been quoted ad nauseum on
television saying, “I've got a plan . . .” During his bid for
governor it had always been, “I have a plan for this great state,”
which quickly became, “I have a plan for this great nation,” during
his bid for president. To his credit, he'd had a plan, and he was
delivering on all fronts. The economy was the strongest it'd been
in eight years, employment the lowest in a decade, and