If you don't shoot that monster by midnight, Arthur, I'll clear out your pension and fire you on the spot, my boss, Richard Callahan, barked across the estate desk.
The humiliation in the staff quarters had only strengthened my resolve. They wanted to make me look like I was losing my mind, but my mind was clearer than it had been in years.
I knew my next step. The animal. Barnaby. Richard’s entire story hinged on him being a “vicious beast” running rampant.
I got into my old pickup truck, the rain still coming down, and drove six miles outside the estate boundary to the local rural veterinary clinic. It was a small, unassuming building, tucked behind a feed store.
Dr. Eleanor Vance, a kind woman who had treated many of the estate’s working dogs over the years, greeted me with a sympathetic nod. She’d heard rumors of the “wolf” on the estate.
“Arthur, what can I do for you?” she asked, her voice gentle.
“I need to see Barnaby’s records, Eleanor,” I said directly. “The wolfdog. The one with the leg injury.”
She paused, her brow furrowing slightly. “Barnaby? The Kincaids’ rescue? He was just released yesterday morning.”
“Released?” My eyes widened. “He was here during the incident?”
“Oh yes,” she confirmed, pulling up his file on her computer. “Admitted four days ago, after Martha brought him in. Shattered fibula. Needed surgery and a very strong sedative. He was under heavy anesthesia until yesterday morning. We kept him in a locked medical cage here the entire time.”
A wave of relief and vindication washed over me. This was it. Concrete evidence.
She printed out the official treatment records. I scanned the dates and times. “Admitted: [Date of sabotage – 4 days]. Surgery performed: [Date of sabotage – 3 days]. Continuous sedation and cage rest until: [Yesterday morning].”
The dates lined up perfectly. The first machine destruction, the alleged “beast attack,” had occurred three nights prior. Barnaby, the supposed culprit, had been trapped in a clinic, immobile and heavily sedated, during the exact hours Richard claimed he was rampaging through the timber yard.
“He couldn’t have been anywhere near the equipment yard,” I stated, holding up the paper. “He was here. Under lock and key.”
Dr. Vance looked at the records, then at me, her expression shifting from sympathy to concern. “Arthur, are you saying…?”
“I’m saying Richard Callahan is lying,” I finished for her. “He’s orchestrating something much bigger than a simple animal problem.”
I folded the records carefully. This wasn’t just proof of Barnaby’s innocence. It was proof of Richard’s deliberate deception. It chipped away at his entire false narrative.
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