Silent Creed, Page 3

  During the drive to the site, Creed and Bolo sat in the backseat. He’d connected the safety belt through the dog’s harness but kept a hand on Bolo’s back. The downpour made it impossible for Creed to get a sense of the local terrain. When he glanced at Bolo, the dog’s nose was pressed against the opposite window, as if he were trying to do the same thing.

  The two of them had worked together in similar weather. The rumble and occasional crash of thunder didn’t alarm the dog. Like most of their dogs, Bolo had come to Creed and Hannah as a rescue. He hadn’t been a year old, still had his puppy teeth, but they could only guess his pedigree. Hannah was convinced Bolo had to have some Labrador retriever mixed in him. Ridgebacks weren’t natural swimmers, but Bolo’s webbed toes—similar to those of a Lab—contributed to the dog’s love of water. He wouldn’t mind the rain, but Creed would need to keep him from bounding into flooded areas. In his mind he was already calculating all the obstacles and risks. That’s when he thought about the one that might be the biggest obstacle.

  “Is Logan meeting us at the site?”

  At first he wasn’t sure if she heard him over the battering of the rain on the roof of the vehicle and the accelerated swish-swish of the windshield wipers. Then he saw Isabel exchange a look with the driver before she answered. “No, I think he’s stuck in D.C. until tomorrow.”

  Creed pretended it was no big deal. He certainly didn’t need Peter Logan there in order to do his job. As a matter of fact, it would probably make his job easier. What didn’t sit right with Creed was that the urgency somehow didn’t warrant Logan’s presence.

  “Who’s in charge of clearing the area we need to search?” he asked.

  Again, the pair exchanged a glance. He wanted to tell them he didn’t need to know their classified bullshit. He just needed some basic information. When Isabel took too much time to answer, Creed realized that it might not be a reluctance to share but rather that she didn’t know.

  As if reading his thoughts, she shrugged and finally said, “Of this particular area, I guess we are.”

  He waited for a laugh that never came. She wasn’t joking. And in that short response she had just told him volumes. Isabel Klein had never been involved in a search and rescue of a disaster site, or any other site, for that matter.

  Creed stroked Bolo’s neck, more in an effort to keep himself calm rather than Bolo. Both of them had worked with amateurs before. Didn’t mean he had to like it. Creed wasn’t necessarily a rules kind of guy, but protocol in dangerous circumstances helped protect his dogs.

  Bolo turned to look over at Creed, eyes searching out his. He knew that look. Bolo was anxious to get to work—actually, to get to play. If only it were all that simple.

  6.

  Pensacola, Florida

  Hannah Washington couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe she should have turned down this assignment despite Creed insisting everything was fine. He sure hadn’t looked fine. During the entire forty-five minutes it had taken her to drive him and Bolo to the airfield, Creed had remained tight-lipped and sullen, like some dark cloud had descended over him at just the mention of this Peter Logan. All he’d said was that he’d known the man in Afghanistan and something about a favor.

  She glanced in the rearview mirror to see Grace staring at her. The Jack Russell terrier was disappointed that she couldn’t go along with Creed and Bolo. Not only was Grace one of their best air-scent dogs, she was a multitask dog. She could sniff out cadavers as well as survivors and had also learned to detect a variety of things from viruses and cancer to cocaine, meth, and heroin.

  Grace and Creed had spent most of the summer together working with airport customs and the Coast Guard. They’d even become celebrities. But Creed insisted Grace was too small to work disaster sites. As compensation, Hannah brought her along to run errands with her.

  Grace still looked disappointed, staring at Hannah as if that would make her turn around and go get Creed.

  “I don’t need you judging me,” she told the dog with a glance over her shoulder.

  She already regretted sending him. It was Hannah’s job to vet the assignments and requests that came their way. Her job to make sure their dogs would be okay and not in undue danger. Same went for the handlers. But she couldn’t protect Rye from things she didn’t have knowledge about.

  They had come a long way as business partners, as friends, as family, but Hannah always knew there were things that had happened to him in his life before she met him that she might never hear about.

  Nothing wrong with that.

  Most of the time a person’s past belonged right back there, stuffed away in the past. It certainly wasn’t hers to judge. She knew too well that there were some things—whether they be mistakes, regrets, or just plain ole memories—that deserved to be kept all to yourself. As soon as you shared them, they were no longer yours.

  But she also knew that Ryder Creed had a whole lot of hurt in his past. The dangerous kind that could drive a mind over the edge if left to fester. And although he was getting better about handling it, sometimes it seeped into his everyday life, and when it seeped into her life and that of her two little boys—then it became her business.

  Still, he had come a long way from that angry marine she’d met seven years ago. She’d been tending bar at Walter’s Canteen on Pensacola Beach. Closing time. She remembered being tired and her feet ached. She just wanted to clean up and get on home when the marine to whom she had served one too many drinks decided to pick a fight. Not just a fight but with three men, bruisers who would have certainly left plenty of damage if Hannah hadn’t thrown them out. She’d made the troublemaker stay and clean up the spilled beer and broken glass.

  She still remembered the look in his eyes—anger gone and replaced with a bit of alarm and a whole lot of dread. Years later he’d confessed that he’d never had someone get that mad at him in such a quiet, solemn manner. Okay, “quiet” and “solemn” were Hannah’s words. If she tried to remember, Rye’s words were probably closer to “sermonizing” and “pissed-off.” Said he’d never had a black woman put him in his place before with a scolding lecture that admonished and shamed him like some evangelical preacher.

  Now as she marched down the hallway of Segway House with both hands toting bags of groceries, that idea made her smile—that anyone would even think to compare her to a preacher. She smiled down at Grace as the dog pranced alongside her.

  “Hannah, let me help you with those.” A voice came from behind her.

  “Frankie Sadowski, what in heaven’s name are you doing here? I thought you’d be headed up to D.C.”

  She waited and let him take one of the bags with his crooked, arthritic fingers. When he grabbed for the other one, she knew better than to argue and surrendered it, too. Despite his gnarled hands and thick silver hair, Frankie Sadowski was tall and lean. If she didn’t already know that he was close to seventy years old she would have guessed he was fifteen years younger. Even his weathered face softened with laugh lines used often and blue eyes that seemed to spark with life.

  “I’m waiting for Susan to finish her shift. She’s going with me. Said she could use a change of scenery. She’s been working some long hours at the hospital.”

  Hannah knew Frankie’s daughter worked at Sacred Heart in the trauma center.

  Frankie pointed his chin down at Grace. “So who’s your friend?”

  “This is Grace.”

  “I hope you aren’t expecting her to find any dead bodies here.” He laughed, pleased with the joke, but Hannah just smiled.

  “I’m trying to start a program with therapy dogs. Grace is a good sport.”

  Hannah glanced at the dog and noticed Grace was sitting in front of Frankie’s feet, but she was staring directly into Hannah’s eyes. An intent stare was usually Grace’s alert that she had found what she was supposed to be looking for, but Hannah hadn’t directed the dog t
o find anything.

  “While I was over waiting on Susan, I spent some time with Gus Seaver,” Frankie said. “He asked me to stop in and check on his grandson, Jason.”

  She knew that Gus and Frankie had served together during the Vietnam War. There was a band of them that had reunited and watched out for each other ever since three of them had gotten sick—too sick to care for themselves.

  In the beginning they believed it was mere coincidence that they shared the same debilitating symptoms. Only recently had they learned that their military unit had been exposed to some kind of toxic chemicals. Frankie didn’t show any of the symptoms, but he had taken on the crusade. That’s why he was headed to D.C. to testify before a congressional hearing.

  Now loaded down with the grocery bags, he waited for several residents to pass, then motioned for Hannah to go ahead of him, always the gentleman. She patted the side of her leg for Grace to follow.

  “Actually, I was hoping I’d catch you here,” Frankie said, “so I could talk to you about him.”

  “About Gus?”

  “No, Jason.”

  She nodded, not wanting to say anything more there in the hallway.

  “Let me put a few things in the refrigerator.”

  Once inside the kitchen she showed him where to place the bags. She started unpacking them while she checked to make certain no one else was around.

  “Jason moved out of Segway House about a month ago,” she told him.

  Frankie raised his eyebrows but didn’t say anything. Hannah wasn’t surprised that Jason had not told his grandfather. Like so many returning wounded, he wouldn’t have wanted to be a burden on his family.

  Segway House was a halfway home for soldiers who had nowhere else to go after returning from Iraq or Afghanistan. Over the last several years it had morphed into a temporary haven for other lost souls—drug addicts, runaway teenagers, and abused women.

  In addition to the housing facility, they also provided mentoring, education programs, and a handful of other services. Hannah was one of the founders and Frankie had been one of the early volunteers.

  But Hannah wondered why Jason had not told his grandfather about his new job. That should have been good news to share.

  “Is he okay?” Frankie asked.

  “He’s working for Ryder and me.”

  “No kidding?”

  “He moved into one of the trailers we have on the property.”

  That should have been a relief to Frankie, but Hannah noticed his brow was still furrowed with worry.

  “He’s living out there all by himself?”

  “He’s hardly by himself.” But now she understood. At Segway House, Jason had been surrounded by other veterans he’d been able to talk to and get support from. “He’s got Rye and me, the other handlers. We even have a veterinarian out there in our clinic two days a week. Not to mention a kennel full of dogs.”

  He nodded but offered only a flicker of a smile.

  “He didn’t tell Gus,” Frankie said.

  Hannah heard his concern and tried to ignore the hint of accusation.

  “He likes what he’s doing. Seems to be on the right track,” she said, tamping down her growing irritation.

  “That what he told you?”

  She caught something in his eyes, and now she understood why Jason hadn’t told his grandfather. There was a thin line that separated concern and pity. The boy had lost half his arm. It didn’t mean he had to lose half his life.

  “What exactly is it that has Gus so worried?”

  Frankie shrugged and glanced around the kitchen. The tough war veteran, the warrior who had taken on his fellow soldiers’ crusade, suddenly looked uncomfortable and at a loss for words.

  “I think Gus is worried that Jason might . . . you know.”

  He hesitated, as though she might help him out and finish the sentence, but instead Hannah stood in front of him with her hands on her hips, getting more impatient.

  “I obviously don’t know,” she said. Grace was sitting at Frankie’s feet again and staring at Hannah.

  “Gus is worried the kid might try to off himself.”

  7.

  Haywood County, North Carolina

  Creed breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the yellow hard hats of rescue workers and at least one Caterpillar excavator. A staging tent flapped in the wind, secured with concrete blocks. A mobile medical van was parked on the only paved road into the area, nose pointed out and ready to leave.

  The thirty miles from the airport had taken them an hour and a half. Even the detours included roads with monster-sized gashes in the pavement, as if a Godzilla-like creature had chomped and stomped a path before them.

  Barricades blocked their entrance and a sheriff’s deputy dressed in a rain slicker with plastic stretched over his hat signaled for the SUV to stop. Isabel leaned across the driver with her ID wallet to the window. The deputy motioned for the window to be rolled down for a better look, which drew a sigh of aggravation from Isabel. The rain had eased to a pitter-patter, so Creed could clearly hear her mumble under her breath, “Don’t these people have a clue who we are?”

  “Good afternoon,” the driver said as the deputy reached in and took the ID to examine.

  He pulled a piece of paper out of his jacket and squinted as if looking for Isabel’s name on a list. Creed could see Isabel’s jaw go tight, holding back her impatience.

  “You’re not on the list,” he told her as he handed back her wallet.

  “What? That’s impossible. We’re with the Department of Defense.”

  “Sorry, you could be with the White House, and unless you’re on this list, I can’t let you through.”

  The deputy glanced into the backseat, and when he saw Bolo his expression changed. “Is this the search-and-rescue dog?”

  “Yes, and we need—”

  “Why didn’t you say so?” he interrupted her. “Big guy with the gray mustache is Oliver Vance. He’s the emergency management director for the state of North Carolina. I think he might be under the tent right now. He’ll check you in and get you up-to-date. There’s some solid ground to your left. Go ahead and park up there.”

  As soon as the SUV slid to a stop, Creed gathered his gear and Bolo. He could hear Isabel and her driver still arguing about why she wasn’t on the list even as he slogged his way to the staging tent, leaving them behind. Oliver Vance met him before he reached the tent.

  “Welcome.” Vance stuck out a gloved hand that was as big as a catcher’s mitt. “I’m Oliver Vance. Everybody around here calls me Ollie.”

  “Ryder Creed. And this is Bolo.”

  “Bolo?” He chuckled at the name. “We’re sure glad to see you two. Somebody mentioned you were a marine and a dog handler in Afghanistan?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Conditions on the slide field are still unstable, but knowing what you probably dealt with in Afghanistan, you’re used to unstable territory.”

  Creed remembered what they had said about dog handlers every time he led a unit beyond the wire. “First out. First to die.” Their job was to accompany the platoon and clear a path through hostile territory, making themselves the first targets—not just first targets of hidden Taliban fighters, but also first to trip over buried IEDs.

  “At least here nobody will be shooting at my dog,” he told Vance.

  “Bastards,” the man said, shaking his head. “I was in Desert Storm. Still think we should have taken care of them back then. Saved us a heap of trouble. Hated that son-of-a-bitching place. Some days I feel like I still have sand up my ass.”

  That made Creed smile. Vance showed him to a dry bench in the middle of the tent. He petted Bolo while Creed pulled out gear from his duffel. Around them, men called to each other and worked the area.

  “How many do you have still missing?” Creed
asked.

  “Unaccounted is at forty-five.”

  “He’s here to search an area for Lieutenant Colonel Logan,” Isabel told Oliver Vance as she slogged her way under the tent.

  She stood in front of him, a foot shorter, arms crossed over her chest as if that might give her the needed authority. Before they’d left the Gulfstream she had changed into jeans and added hiking boots that looked brand-new. Her rain slicker looked like she had never worked a disaster site.

  “Who’s this?” Vance pointed a thumb at her and asked Creed.

  Before Creed could respond, Isabel continued, “Mr. Creed was hired by the Department of Defense to search a particular area.”

  “Bolo and I can only search what’s been cleared to search.” Creed moved between the two, but he stared down Isabel. “That’s why I asked who was in charge. I have to follow protocol.”

  “Protocol?”

  “Your boss should have told you that.”

  “We have instructions—”

  “When Logan gets here,” Creed interrupted, “he can see about changing the protocol. Until then, Bolo and I search wherever Mr. Vance tells me he and his people have cleared.”

  “We’ll see about that.” She pulled out her cell phone and wagged it at him, as if the threat would change his mind.

  Creed turned to Vance. “I need to see a map of the area we’re talking about.”

  Vance watched Isabel stomp back to the SUV as he pulled a tin of tobacco from a pocket. He opened the lid and offered some to Creed. When Creed shook his head, Vance pinched a wad and tucked it under his lower lip, adding to the lump already there.

  “Hard thing to get over,” he said, “when the one you brought to the dance won’t dance with you. She won’t likely forget this.”

  Creed tamped down his impatience. With the thick cloud coverage and intermittent rain, they’d be losing daylight soon.