Desperate Creed

by Alex Kava

  Alongside the road pine trees had been snapped in two, a whole forest cut down. He could a horizon normally blocked. This area of southern Alabama was thick with pine, pecan and century-old oaks. Sometimes the kudzu grew so thick it netted the trees together. He’d seen the invasive vine take over and swallow abandoned sheds and rusted old tractors covering them like a blanket of green. But all of that was gone now, sucked up and leaving broken stumps in puddles of muddy water.

  He came around a curve and slammed on the brakes. The asphalt buckled in front of him as if someone had lifted to shake out a rug and put it down but hadn’t smoothed down the bulges. Huge swatches were gone, puzzle pieces chiseled and sucked out. The ditches ran full and in places overflowed across the highway, filling the deep gouges.

  Creed looked up in the rearview mirror. He’d insisted Grace stay in her crate instead of sitting in her regular spot, on the folded bench behind him where she could look over the Jeep’s middle console. He’d position the hardshell so the metal grate of door faced forward. She could get air from the vents and still had a view.

  “What do you think, Grace?”

  She was standing, staring out the windshield. She glanced at him and sniffed the air. She was ready to get to work. She wouldn’t care that the landscape looked like an explosion had ripped through the area. Creed had worked after hurricanes and mudslides, but this...this reminded him of Afghanistan.

  Creed kept the Jeep idling and the A/C blasting. The clouds had disappeared. The rain had washed the sky blue, but now the sun added even more heat and moisture. He kept the radio tuned to a local news station, listening for updates along with weather forecasts, not deceived by the sun and the blue. When he’d gotten out earlier with the chainsaw he could taste the salt and humidity in the air. The storms weren’t over. This was only the calm in between.

  He checked his GPS. A portion of Interstate 65 was still closed, so he’d taken this alternative Highway 31 ran parallel. He was surprised no one else had been through then he remembered that most of the first responders would be coming from the other direction, down from Montgomery.

  He knew this area well enough to know that there were only a few straight routes. The unpaved backroads twisted, curved and looped adding extra miles. Most of them were dirt and gravel surface, sometimes more clay than dirt. If the tornado had chewed up and spit out asphalt, it had probably made a rutted mess of the others.

  “Hang on, girl,” he told Grace as he backed up a short ways and scanned the highway beyond this buckle. There was more debris up ahead, but after this section at least the asphalt looked smooth again. Finally, he decided the Jeep could handle it.

  The next five miles included two more stops to clear sheet metal and to cut more branches. As he got closer to the Interstate 65 junction he started seeing more debris, bigger pieces he could identify. He almost wished he couldn’t. A car door, a twisted bumper, sections of chain-link fence, chunks of roof, scattered bricks.

  Further along, instead of pieces there were piles, shredded metal, a billboard stuck in a tree, a six-story cell tower bent in half. Then he started seeing the vehicles: toppled, smashed and ripped apart.

  Creed had seen traffic accidents. Pile-ups on the interstate. Vehicles rolled and upside down in the ditch. But the scene around him now looked like nothing he’d seen before...except maybe in Afghanistan.

  In the field to his right, a semi trailer had been tossed and now laid on its side, crumpled like tin foil. Cows were being coaxed out of the wreckage. Except for a few stumbles, they looked fine. He checked his rearview mirror and saw Grace watching the cattle.

  “They seem to be okay,” he told the dog. “How is that possible?”

  The cab wasn’t there, and Creed’s eyes scanned the field, the toppled trees, and debris. Pink cotton candy clung to the leafless branches of a giant oak that managed to remain standing, the tree a beacon in the now stripped horizon. A large piece of metal wrapped around the trunk, and Creed felt his stomach twist when he recognized what was once a chrome grille and bumper.

  He shook his head. Mother Nature’s cruel irony—the cattle walked away unscathed, but the driver of the rig? Creed couldn’t imagine anyone inside that cab had survived.

  He glanced back at Grace, again. Her nose bobbed, sniffing and watching. There would be too much scent. Blood and death dragged, scattered and flung. He’d worked a couple hurricanes and a mudslide. It was difficult in natural disasters like this where rescues quickly turned into recoveries. As a multi-scent dog she’d been trained to find the lost as well as the dead. She could also sniff out cocaine and meth, C. diff and the bird flu. Creed and Grace had made national headlines two years ago. During a search for drugs on a commercial fishing boat, Grace had discovered a drug cartel’s illegal cargo under a hullful of mahi-mahi. But it wasn’t cocaine. Five children the cartel had kidnapped and were trafficking had been stashed and hidden under the floorboards.

  Even Creed had been amazed with his dog and the fact that she could smell the children under the big fish, stacked three-feet-deep. And especially when he had directed her to find “fish.” Ironically, “fish” was the search word he and Grace used for drugs. Asking her fish in a crowded airport drew less attention and panic.

  But now, as Creed pulled to a stop, overwhelmed by the devastation in front of him, he realized how difficult the task would be. Grace would need his help. He’d need to give direction without hampering her.

  Survival time after a disaster like this would be a narrow window. Yet, he wouldn’t be able to ask Grace to ignore the dead for the sake of finding the living. In a case like this, blood was still blood. And it may have been dragged or flung far away from where the body ended up. More than ever, Creed would need to follow the number one piece of advice he gave all of his handler. He needed to trust his dog.

  First, if he’d check if he had cell phone reception. He promised to text Hannah when he arrived. But more than that, he needed to ask her to send Jason and Scout. In the distance he could see the glint off metal and glass. Vehicles were flung in every direction. It looked like a giant had tossed his entire collection of matchbox cars. There was no way Creed and Grace would be able to do this alone.

  19

  MONTGOMERY, ALABAMA

  Willis Dean

  20

  SOUTHERN ALABAMA

  (50 miles south of Montgomery)

  The sheriff took a look at Grace then took a step back as if to get a better view of the handler and dog.

  “Search dogs I’ve worked with before are usually bigger—Labs, shepherds. What the hell is this?”

  “Jack Russell terrier. Her name’s Grace.”

  “Where you from, son?”

  Creed was used to this. He didn’t take offense. Instead, he simply said, “Florida Panhandle. Just outside of Pensacola.”

  “Look son, I don’t mean no disrespect...”

  Creed relaxed his stance even as he braced himself for the insult, because usually when people preference a remark with, “I don’t mean any disrespect,” it was right before they said something disrespectful.

  “This is only the beginning,” the sheriff said as he waved his arm in a wide circle as if to emphasize the enormity of the disaster. “We have more storms coming. That means we don’t have much time to find survivors. They’re saying this weekend could be as bad as 2011. Now, again, no disrespect, son, but you probably were off surfing at Pensacola Beach in 2011 and don’t even remember that massive outbreak.”

  “You’re right I don’t remember. I was in Afghanistan.”

  The man blinked several times, and Creed could see his jawline tighten like he’d just bitten down on something bitter.

  “Army?” he asked.

  “Marines.” Creed waited a beat and added, “I was a K9 handler.”

  Now the sheriff shook his head, “First out. First to die.”

  Creed raised his eyebrows.

  “Desert Storm,” the man tapped his own chest. “I remember a K9
handler we had in our unit for short time. He saved all our asses a couple of times.”

  Marine K9 units moved from one platoon to another for weeks at a time. For that reason Creed and Rufus were always the outsiders. And yes, everyone knew they were the first out, first to die. The platoon knew not to get attached to them, even though they depended on the pair to get them through a field of IEDs or booby-trapped buildings. What Creed and Rufus did—especially the dog’s ability to warn them—it seemed little bit like magic to the others. They were never sure whether K9 team would end up saving them or getting them all killed. But one thing they knew for sure was that Creed and Rufus would be the first out, first to die.

  “Hell,” the sheriff was shaking his head, “I owe you an apology, son.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “No, no, I am truly sorry.” The man’s entire demeanor changed. His arms went slack as his sides. “My wife keeps telling me I’ve gotten too damned cynical in my advanced age. Says I’m too quick to judge people on account of all the assholes I’ve dealt with over the years.”

  “Hey, I see you two met,” a woman said as she came up from behind him.

  “Norwich, I just made a damn ass of myself. You should have told me Mr. Creed was a Marine.”

  Sheriff Norwich shook Creed’s hand then leaned down and gave her fingertips to Grace to sniff. She didn’t attempt to pet Grace. The scent offering was her greeting, and Creed appreciated it.

  “He has a young Army Ranger who works for him. Smart as a whip.”

  “I’m having him join me,” Creed told both sheriffs. “Grace and I may need some help. This heat and humidity can wear a dog out pretty quickly.”

  “Does your Army Ranger have a little bitty thing like this, too?” Apparently the sheriff still wasn’t satisfied with Grace’s stature.

  Before Creed could answer, Norwich said, “Mr. Creed takes in shelter dogs and trains them for all kinds of scents. This little bit of thing found that young woman in the river last year. Down in the forest. Come to think of it,” and she glanced up at Creed, “She found Sheriff Wylie, too. Didn’t she?”

  Creed nodded. Both deaths had looked like suicides. It wasn’t until later they were ruled homicides. When Grace found nineteen year old Izzy Donner, she was floating in the Blackwater River. Creed still could still see the image of her dead body. Her jacket billowed around her. Her pockets had been filled with rocks and anchored her to the bottom of the shallow river. Her eyes stared up at the sky. He could still see Sheriff Wylie, too. He and Grace found him days later, the river behind Wylie’s cabin. His retreat, his haven and yet, it looked like the man had taken his boat out only to climb ashore and hang himself from a huge oak tree.

  Now Creed scanned the horizon as more first responders and volunteers arrived. He had a feeling his catalog of images was about to get updated with a whole new category of gruesome.

  “From what we know so far, it missed Smith Crossings,” the sheriff was telling Creed. Hit a couple of farms and homes on the outskirts. This here,” the sheriff pointed with his chin, his hands now on his wide hips, “took the brunt of the storm. On one hand, it’s fortunate it missed those more populated places. On the other hand, we have no idea how many people were here when it hit. Or how far it may have taken them.

  “We just pulled out a bunch of travelers that were trapped in the restrooms of that convenient store.”

  Where the sheriff pointed, about thirty feet away, looked more like discarded rubble from a construction site—a pile ten feet high of cinder blocks, broken glass, dismantled shelves, shingles and two-by-fours. Three of the walls were sheered away. A section to the back remained. It must have been where the restrooms were. In front of it, an end cap display stood. It looked untouched.

  Sheriff Norwich noticed where Creed’s eyes had stayed and said, “Bags of potato chips. Still on the shelves. And that’s not even the craziest thing you’ll see today.”

  “This interstate exit has that convenient store, a gas station and a fast food place. You can see they all took a massive hit. Four fatalities. Nine sent off to area hospitals.” He shook his head. “A couple of them...they didn’t look too good. That’s just what we’ve found so far. We have no idea what’s waiting for us out in the fields.”

  “I saw the stock trailer on my way here,” Creed mentioned.

  “Unfortunately, he’ll most likely be added to the fatality list. That is, if and when we find him. The response team’s already pulled out a few. They’re trying their best to check for signs of life.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “We’re five hours into this. You know as well as I do, time is not on our side. I’m hoping that’s where your dog comes in. Maybe speed this up a bit. Hopefully...Grace, is it?”

  Creed nodded.

  “Hopefully, Grace can tell us whether or not there are any survivors in some of these vehicles.” Then he turned, put his hand up to block out the sun and added, “Or anywhere in those fields.”

  21

  QUANTICO, VIRGINIA

  After Maggie left her friend, Gwen, she headed back to her office at Quantico. Not much larger than a utility closet with bookcases and a desk, the space had always brought her a sense of comfort. It was her sanctuary despite all the horrific crime scene photos and files she had viewed over the years.

  She had decorated with a smattering of personal items—here and there. Several file cabinets were stuffed full from an era before digital storage was possible. Maggie had occupied this same office ever since she came to Quantico as a forensic fellow. Had she pushed, she probably could have moved to a bigger one after she became an agent. But this place suited her. For some reason it didn’t feed or prick at her claustrophobia. Most days, anyway. Besides, she knew exactly where everything was. Even now, she went immediately to a file drawer and pulled out the folder she needed.

  Hannah Washington had asked Maggie a favor. She knew Hannah well enough to know the woman didn’t ask for favors. She was the type of person others went to for help and advice. So Maggie knew it wasn’t easy for Hannah to call her.

  “I’ve never heard Frankie so scared,” Hannah had told her about her friend.

  Maggie listened, taking mental notes and even writing down names on the back of a brochure that Gwen had quickly found in her handbag and handed to Maggie back at the restaurant.

  Now Maggie found the Chicago detective’s business card in the folder she’d pulled. A personal cell phone number was scrawled on the flipside. Maggie had met Detective Lexington “Lexi” Jacks last year. If she remembered correctly it was also in March. An unexpected snowstorm had greeted her at O’Hare International. Jacks picked her up. It was the first time the two women had met, and yet, Jacks had been concerned that Maggie didn’t have a coat. Actually, Maggie didn’t believe it was concern as much as impatience. But the two had bonded over the fact that both of them had even less patience for bureaucracy. She was hoping Jacks still harbored that particular impatience.

  Chicago was an hour behind Virginia, but Maggie was still surprised when Jacks answered on the third ring.

  “This is Jacks.”

  “Detective, it’s Agent Maggie O’Dell.”

  There was only a slight pause.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, O’Dell, but it’s a gorgeous spring day here. I hope you’re not about to screw that up and tell me the FBI is interested in another of my cases.”

  “It’s good to talk to you again, too.” Maggie smiled.

  “Sorry, I guess I should ask how you are. The last I heard you were in an isolation ward.”

  “It was just a precaution.” There had been a possibility that Ryder, Grace and Maggie had been exposed to the bird flu. That case of Jacks’ that had gotten the FBI’s attention had also garnered the CDC cordoning off an entire floor of a luxury hotel on Michigan Avenue. Jacks had not been happy that her team of detectives and officers had been reduced to security guards while the federal agency figured out if Chicago had been exposed to a deadly vi
rus. Truthfully, Ryder, Grace and Maggie had been lucky. Very lucky.

  “Actually,” she told Jacks, “I am calling about a couple of homicides that may have happened in Chicago this morning.”

  “Really? A couple? You’re gonna need to narrow it down for me, because as I understand it we’ve had four and the sun hasn’t gone down yet.”

  “These would have been early this morning,” Maggie said, not wasting the detective’s time. “Two young men. One looked like a home invasion.”

  “Wicker Park.”

  “Your department called it a home invasion, but I’m betting there’s something about it that isn’t that simple.”

  “What’s the FBI’s interest?” Jacks wanted to know. She was making this more difficult than Maggie liked. Maybe they hadn’t bonded quite as much as Maggie thought they had.

  “The computer was stolen,” she told Jacks. “I’m guessing his cell phone and any other electronic devices are gone, too.”

  “Okay, how do you know that? Or is it is a lucky guess?”

  “Lucky guess. What do you know about the victim?”

  “Computer analyst for ParkHouse Labs. Mid-level entry position, from what I can tell. Lived alone. His sister lives a few blocks away. She IDed him. Said he was mostly a computer geek. Not into drugs. Doesn’t even drink.”

  “I need to know if you had a second homicide. On the street. Not far from the home invasion. Might have looked like an armed robbery gone bad.”

  “Another lucky guess?”

  Maggie could hear in Jacks’ voice that she was growing impatient, but the detective’s lack of denial meant Maggie was right, and Hannah’s friend wasn’t just paranoid.