Nearly four more days of Nolene. I want her gone, but demanding she leave immediately isn’t fair. Ross and Mel will have to live with her presence a little while longer.
She stands to leave, and I stand with her.
“Is it safe to use my passport?” she asks.
“You’re worried about the police finding your prints at the safe house?”
“Yes.”
“I’m told Hutchinson hasn’t contacted the police. You should be okay.”
There’s that niggle again, that sense I’m overlooking something.
Despite Andries reassuring me Hutchinson hasn’t gone to the police, I asked a sympathizer to keep a covert eye on the safe house. So far, the house is quiet, no sign of any police surveillance.
Nolene turns to go but stops. “You never really gave us a chance,” she whispers. “We were good together, but we could’ve been somuch better.”
There’s truth in her words. And because a part of me aches with regret for the countless raids we partnered on, the victories we achieved, the losses we endured, I close the distance between us and pull her close, wrapping my arms around her.
A sob escapes her and she hugs me back fiercely. We stand that way for a long while before Nolene pushes me away and strides out of the room.
I let her go.
49
HEATHER
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Monday, July 19
[EXTRACT FROM HEATHER’S LOG NOTES]
First thing Monday morning, as soon as the staff meeting ends, I suit up and hurry to room 220 to check on Turbo and the other beagles. A scan of the obs book confirms that the weekend staff dosed on Saturday and Sunday. The dogs have now received three doses of the chemopreventive test material.
I walk over to Turbo. He usually hangs around the front of his cage, tail wagging, always so pleased to see me. Today, however, he’s curled up at the back of his cage. I call him and his ears prick, but he doesn’t move.
I continue calling him and finally, he gets to his feet and totters slowly to the front of his cage.
“Hey, boy,” I whisper. “You’re not feeling too good, are you?”
Turbo stretches out so I can stroke his tummy, pressing his body against the bars of the cage. He whimpers with each stroke, whether from pleasure or discomfort I can’t tell, but when I withdraw my hand he whines so I continue to stroke him, even if it hurts, because he seems to prefer contact with pain rather than no contact at all.
I comfort him as best as I can, but I know if I linger too long I’ll arouse Glen’s suspicions.
I check on the low-dose dogs. Apart from some diarrhea, they seem to be coping with the test material okay. The only dogs in good health are the control dogs. The biggest issue they have to contend with is boredom.
I walk over to the cages of the six high-dose dogs. I deliberately left them until last, knowing how difficult it will be to look at them. Their breathingis rapid and shallow, their bodies visibly shaking. Foamy vomit and diarrhea are splattered all over their cages. They look so miserable.
I murmur soothingly to them, but they don’t respond, lost in their misery. As instructed, I record all clinical signs in the obs book and then clean their cages as carefully as I can.
Glen enters the room and joins me in front of the cages of the high-dose dogs. “That stuff is really hitting them.”
“Should I put in a vet request?”
He shakes his head. “The sponsor doesn’t want us treating them.”
I say nothing. What is there to say?
