Free The Doctor Makes a Dollhouse Call by Robin Hathaway Page B

the ladies had said their good-byes and were safely packed in the van. Fenimore was about to get in when he remembered Horatio. The last time he had seen him, the boy was tying the mats to the luggage rack. Now there was no sign of him. Fenimore asked everyone, and finally Amelia Dunwoody said she thought she had seen him heading toward the beach.
    Fenimore hurried that way. The beach was about a hundred
yards below the back of the Pancoast house and he had to climb through prickly underbrush and over heavy sand dunes to reach it. His oxfords were not made for that kind of excursion. He slipped and slid and the sand poured into his shoes. “Darn that kid,” he muttered as he came out onto the beach. It was deserted except for a small figure standing by the water’s edge.
    Fenimore began hallooing and waving his arms.
    Horatio looked up. Slowly he started toward him.
    â€œWe’re leaving. I couldn’t find you,” Fenimore complained as the boy drew near.
    â€œI never saw it before,” Horatio said.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThe ocean.”
    â€œOh.” Fenimore was thoughtful as he followed the boy back to the van.
    It wasn’t until Fenimore was turning into Spruce Street that he remembered the programmer. In all the excitement he had left it behind.

CHAPTER 15
    F enimore had been asleep no more than an hour when he was awakened by the doorbell. He entered the vestibule cautiously and peered through the frosted glass of the front door. (One night he had opened the door too quickly and been attacked by two thugs.) Horatio peered back. Hadn’t he just said good night to that kid?
    â€œIt’s my mom. She’s sick.”
    He let him in. “I’ll get my instruments.”
    â€œNo briefcase.”
    Fenimore went to the kitchen and reached behind the refrigerator, where he kept a supply of grocery sacks. While transferring his things from his briefcase to the sack he questioned Horatio.
    â€œWhat’s wrong with her?”
    â€œThis morning she just had a bad cold. But tonight, when I got home, she could hardly breathe.”
    â€œWhy didn’t you call nine-one-one?” He was alarmed.

    â€œNo way. They won’t come to our neighborhood.” Horatio danced from one foot to the other. “I shouldn’t of left her for so long.”
    With a twinge, Fenimore realized he was to blame. If he hadn’t dragged Horatio to Seacrest, the boy would have been home much earlier. Into the paper bag, Fenimore dumped stethoscope, blood pressure cuff, sterile cotton balls, syringes, a vial of penicillin, tongue blades, a bottle of alcohol, a thermometer, and a collection of samples of pills. “Let’s go.”
    Horatio glanced at Fenimore’s bare feet.
    â€œWait a minute.” The doctor pattered up the stairs and returned in a few minutes, fully dressed.
    Horatio ran out ahead of him. As he locked the front door, Fenimore said, “My car’s over there.”
    â€œNo car,” Horatio said. “You want it stripped?”
    â€œBut we’re in a hurry … .”
    â€œFollow me.” Swiftly Horatio led the way through the dark streets. Philadelphia streets form a grid pattern. They are perfectly straight and intersect at ninety-degree angles. William Penn laid them out that way in 1682, and nobody had seen fit to change them. It was a boring plan, but easy to follow. The blocks were long, and after midnight, during the week, except for an occasional siren, they were country quiet. But not country safe. Street lamps sprayed light on every corner, turning the spaces in between a deeper dark. Horatio stayed close to the curb, away from alleys and cul-de-sacs. Sometimes he even walked in the middle of the street. Fenimore followed.
    Gradually the trees and row houses petered out and were replaced by vacant lots. Fenimore wondered why Horatio
hadn’t buried his cat somewhere here. (That was how he had first met the boy, when he