by Alex Kava
Creed bent down and petted the black Lab that sat next to his boots watching and waiting for his handler. Scout and Jason made a good team. Both hardheaded and full of energy. Creed often described Scout as a jackass, but he meant it in a good way. Scent dogs needed that over-the-top curiosity and addiction to adventure. The stuff that drove ordinary dog owners crazy or sadly prompted them to give up the dog was exactly what Creed looked for in a search dog.
He saw Jason’s tray piled high and wiped at the smile on his face. That was the other thing the handler and his dog had in common, both of them were eternally hungry. Both loved food, but were lean and muscular—not an ounce of fat on either from working hard.
“Is there anything left?” He asked Jason as the kid unloaded from his tray to the table. There were several plates and saucers overlapping and filled with scrambled eggs, bacon, biscuits and gravy along with a tall glass of orange juice and another of milk.
“Very funny.”
The dogs had already been fed before they’d left their rooms, but Scout was licking his chops, eyes fastened on Jason’s hands, ever hopeful for a dropped morsel.
“Aren’t you getting yours?” Jason asked, sitting down and ready to dig in but, again, but waiting and trying to be polite. It was obvious this was a new habit for the kid.
Creed lifted his mug. “I will. Just having some coffee first.”
When Jason still hesitated, Creed added, “Go ahead. I don’t mind.”
In between bites, Jason said, “You’re worried Brodie.”
A statement, not a question.
“Hannah said she had a nightmare last night. And another panic attack. Found her at the top of stairs like she was getting ready to race down and out of the house again.”
Jason washed down a mouthful before he said, “She hasn’t done that in a long time.”
“Not since the first week. She did it in Omaha pretty often.”
Creed let his eyes wander out the window. Blue skies, not a hint of the storms predicted for later in the day. He realized that was sort of how Brodie was. She nodded and said all the right things. She wasn’t afraid of any of the stuff he expected: bugs, spiders, rats . . . even thunderstorms. Instead, she broke her food into tiny pieces, sometimes in an unconscious frenzy. She chopped at her hair until it uneven, short and spikey. She washed her hands over and over again as if there were invisible stains that only she could see. There seemed to be an internal storm still brewing beneath her surface.
He knew that PTSD worked differently in everyone. He had dealt with his own on his own terms. But he also knew that it could sneak up on you when you least expected it. When you thought you’d put it behind you.
“I was afraid she’d run out of the facility and get hurt.” He glanced over and was surprised to see Jason had stopped eating to listen to him. “They couldn’t lock the doors. That only made things worse. Sort of like Molly. Remember when we tried to put her in a dog crate?”
Jason nodded. “She rammed her head against so many times she made herself bleed.”
Molly was the mixed breed they’d found after a mudslide in North Carolina. The vehicle she was in had been buried by the avalanche of mud and debris. Molly was the only one still alive. Her story was one that Jason had shared with Brodie. Now Creed realized the two had something in common. Both had panic attacks when locked inside small spaces.
“You know,” Jason said while he picked up a piece of bacon and started working on the rest of his breakfast, “I think she’s so much stronger than we all think. She survived for sixteen years. You and me didn’t even finish out our tour of duty.” He paused to take a few bites, but was also measuring Creed’s reaction. Satisfied, he continued, “The first time I met her, do you remember what she said to me?”
Creed had been so worried about how Brodie would respond to all the new surroundings that hadn’t paid any attention to introductions. He shook his head.
Jason held up his prosthetic hand and flexed the fingers. Material that resembled skin was the next step in the process but for now it looked an extension of a robot.
“Most people are fascinated or appalled. Or a combination. Like oh my God and what the hell.”
Creed smiled. The kid had come a long way how he felt about it, too, but Creed wouldn’t remind him right now. Instead, he just listened.
“But Brodie,” Jason said while his eyes flitted to somewhere over Creed’s shoulders. But Creed had gotten a glimpse and was surprised at the emotion he saw there before Jason tucked it back away and continued. “She asked me if it hurt really bad. She senses things, you know. She stuff that we don’t even notice anymore because we’re so used to seeing it.” He rubbed his good hand over his jaw.
Creed knew what he meant. A couple of weeks ago, one of the first warm evenings they’d had since she arrived in Florida, Brodie convinced him to pull out sleeping bags so they could look up at the stars all night. It was something they’d done as kids in their backyard. She made him point different constellations, stuff he hadn’t thought about in years.
Creed’s phone started ringing, and he grabbed it out of his pocket. It was a number he didn’t recognize.
“This is Creed.”
“Mr. Creed, it’s Sheriff Krenshaw. Sorry for the early call, but I wanted to catch you before you headed back out. We found Mrs. Garner.”
Creed felt his jaw clench. He hoped his silence would coax the answer. Creed could feel Grace staring up at him, already sensing his tension.
“Turns out you were right about them up there putting gas in. She’d gone in to pay and was trying to get back out to the car when it hit. Knocked her clean off her feet.”
At least her body wasn’t still out in that field tangled in some mess of debris. That’s what Creed was thinking about when the sheriff continued. Creed almost missed the part he said about her being unconscious.
“Wait a minute,” Creed said. “She’s alive?”
“She was asking about her baby even as she was in and out of it. They had to take her in for surgery. Internal injuries. She’s still in critical condition, but they’re telling me she’s expected to recover. Prospects of that look much better now that she knows her little boy is still alive.”
“That’s great.”
“It’s supposed to get wicked again this afternoon. I wouldn’t blame you if you took off for home, but I’d sure appreciate it if you two stuck around. I have your rooms booked through the weekend. I hear the free breakfast isn’t half bad.”
Jason was finishing the biscuits and gravy, and Creed realized that maybe he had an appetite now.
“We’ll stick around and head on home tomorrow.”
He didn’t want to stay away any longer. He knew Jason was right about Brodie. She was strong, but he also knew she was still terribly vulnerable. And it probably wasn’t a coincidence that her nightmare happened the first night he was gone.
31
MONTGOMERY, ALABAMA
Willis Dean had slept on the sofa in his office. It wasn’t the first time he’d spent the night at the television studio, but it was the first time he felt like he had to. It wasn’t a problem. He kept a change of clothes and a toiletry kit. Shaving was tricky, and he had nicked himself good. He’d need to get makeup to cover it for him. And of course, his back was yelling at him that he wasn’t a young man anymore.
As soon as he woke up he’d checked his email and text messages. It wasn’t the ones from the National Weather Service that he was anxious to see. There were half a dozen of those already. Instead, it was the text message that wasn’t there.
What did he expect? Did he really believe his son could be right? That Beth would change her mind.
For the first time in his marriage he hadn’t called or alerted his wife that he wouldn’t be home for all night. He always called. It was instinctive after all these years. So much so, that twice he’d caught himself tapping out a message, only to stop himself and delete it.
He didn’t know how this w
orked now? He had no idea.
When there was no text message or voice mail from Beth, Willis regretted his decision to not send something, anything. He couldn’t blame her for not extending those common courtesies if he didn’t do the same.
But then a little voice in the back of his mind told him, But you weren’t the one who asked for a divorce.
Clearly, he had a lot to learn about this world he was about to enter.
By the time he made it down to the weather desk in the studio, his mind was back to where it needed to be.
On the television monitor in the corner he could see Mia was on the air. They’d be taking turns all afternoon and probably into the evening. What they called their weather desk was really a small room. The separation gave them enough privacy and quiet to talk with each other, communicate on-line with storm chasers and make phone calls.
A large glass window allowed them to look in at the studio. He could watch Mia in front of the green screen if he wanted, but the television monitor allowed him a view of what she was actually pointing to on the weather map.
Willis sat down and immediately started accessing the latest information. On a day like today it would be changing and streaming in constantly. He couldn’t remember the atmosphere being like this in early March. All that moist air coming up from the Gulf of Mexico was unseasonably warm—downright hot—and the trough coming from the Rockies was unusually cold. Yesterday those two systems started to clash. All the ingredients had been brewing and simmering, drifting into place. Now they were starting to come to a boil.
The entire Tennessee Valley was under weather alerts for a weekend filled with dangerous thunderstorms capable of producing tornadoes. But the added threat was that this system would stall right over Mississippi, Alabama and Georgia. And Willis knew that meant that they were in for several consecutive days of violent storms.
All maps and computer models confirmed the potential for significant and widespread tornado outbreaks. He glanced at the monitors. Just to the west, across the border in Mississippi the radar was already blooming. Green patches with bits of red and yellow splashes were popping as storms started lining up.
A news anchor replaced Mia. Willis glanced up and saw her grab two bottles of water then she came in and took the seat next to him.
“Are these numbers correct?” he asked her.
“Yeah, there’re crazy, aren’t they? Wind shear is off the charts.” She handed him a bottle of water. “I’m glad it’s the weekend. I hate when we have to worry about school kids.”
“Except people don’t pay attention to us on the weekends. As long as the sky’s blue, no worries.”
“Willis, you’re starting to sound jaded.” She smiled but didn’t look over at him as she added, “Besides, they hardly ever pay attention to us.”
He shot her a look and saw her smile widen. Her eyes were tracking across the monitors. It was difficult to explain to others the camaraderie true weather nerds shared. Only they understood that surge of adrenaline and the electric-charged energy that supercells triggered inside them. Willis had felt it since he was a boy, and most true weather nerds—Mia admittedly so—had felt it, too. But it was almost embarrassing to try to explain it to a layperson. How could someone be so excited about a phenomenon that caused so much death destruction?
“NWS is saying yesterday morning’s storm was an EF4,” she told him.
“Thank God, it didn’t stay on the ground for long. Smith Crossings would have been smack-dab in its path.”
“Did you hear about the baby they found alive?”
“What? No.” Willis said. He hated to admit he hadn’t been home. He hadn’t even had his regular commute last night or this morning to listen to the radio.
“A ten-month old boy was thrown from his parents’ vehicle. A scent dog found him clear out under some fallen pine trees.”
“Really?”
“We’ve been running the video a motorist took from the highway. It’s a bit a grainy but makes me tear up every time I see it.”
An alert dinged on the monitor dedicated to the National Weather Service. Both of them turned.
“A tornado warning,” Willis said. “Here we go.”
32
ATLANTA, GEORGIA
Maggie had taken an early morning flight to give herself plenty of time for the two-and-a-half hour drive from Atlanta to Montgomery. She could have waited for and caught a connecting flight, but the March day was gorgeous. That was only a part of the reason for her choosing to drive. The other reason—Maggie hated flying.
Originally, she had hoped to meet Frankie Russo at the Atlanta airport, but the woman got spooked when she thought she’d been followed to the airport. Hannah told her Frankie rented a car and had gotten to Nashville last night without anyone trailing her.
Maggie didn’t ask how she was sure she hadn’t been followed. She knew Hannah was already worried sick about her friend. Yesterday when she’d told Hannah what she’d learned about Tyler Gates and Deacon Kayes, Hannah had gone quiet on the other end of the line for so long Maggie finally had to prompt a reply, “Hannah, are you okay?”
“Those poor young men. They definitely stumbled onto something, didn’t they?”
After a couple of back and forth phone calls, Maggie had Frankie’s email address and password to give to Alonzo. And Hannah had arranged for her to meet Frankie just outside of Montgomery, Alabama. It’d cut two or three hours of drive time for Maggie. She knew Hannah was being practical, but she couldn’t help being disappointed. If she’d driven all the way to the Florida Panhandle to K9 CrimeScents she would have been able to see Ryder.
Hannah obviously sensed this, because without any encouragement she told Maggie that Ryder and Jason were working a site devastated by a tornado.
“It’s just south of Montgomery,” Hannah told her. “I’m sure he’d love to see you.”
She wondered if that were true or if it was Hannah simply wishing it to be true. Maggie knew she had pushed Creed away. The closer they got, the harder she pushed. And yet, just the idea of seeing him made her palms sweat and her pulse race. She was thinking about all that while Hannah was trying to give her directions to where she was to meet Frankie Russo.
“It’s a meat-and-three called Southern Blessings. Big parking lot right across from a truck stop. On the south side of Montgomery. Just off the interstate. You are going to love the biscuits,” Hannah told her as though this were a simple lunch date.
Maggie had jotted down all the directions and instructions before it occurred to her to ask, “I know it’s a diner or restaurant, but what’s a meat-and-three?”
“Oh sweetie, I’m sorry. You choose your meat and three sides. It’s a little slice of heaven. And speaking of slices, make sure you try the butterscotch or pecan pie.”
It made Maggie smile even this morning as she remembered the conversation from last night. Hannah, herself, was a fantastic cook who sincerely hoped and believed she could soothe the soul and solve most problems with her food.
Maggie’s mouth watered thinking about Hannah’s smothered fried chicken and black-eyed peas. She’d have to settle for airport food or road trip food. Before she headed out to pick up her rental car, she found a corner table in one of the terminal’s small café’s. She ordered a bagel, cream cheese, fresh berries and a Diet Pepsi. She needed to check her messages. She had left Agent Alonzo with a long wish list, and she was anxious to see his progress.
One of the many televisions mounted all over the airport terminal hung ten feet in front of her. She thought about moving to another table, but liked this corner. She could see the entrance and her back was to the wall. All were important ingredients for a seasoned FBI agent. After ten years she figured she was allowed to call it seasoned instead of jaded or paranoid.
But then her eyes caught the closed caption crawling across the bottom of the television screen. It read: MAJOR FOOD COMPANY CEO AND SENATORS SIGN GLOBAL INITIATIVE.
She turned her phone f
rom airplane mode to ON and immediately noticed she had a text message from Alonzo. It was short and simple:
Call me as soon as you land.
Maggie dug out her wireless earbuds as the waitress brought her plate.
“Those berries look wonderful,” she told the woman.
“We aim to please. But I’m afraid you’ll need to settle for Diet Coca Cola instead of Pepsi. You’re in Atlanta, you know.”
“That’s fine. Thanks.”
And as she tapped Alonzo’s phone number, she also dug a bottle of water out of her travel bag. Her eyes darted back to the television screen.
“Hey, Maggie.” He answered on the second ring.
“You know I never even realized I was asking you to do this on a Saturday.”
“And this is probably why neither of us are in relationships.”
She knew he meant it as a joke. So why did it sting a little?
“Listen,” he said, “I worked some magic last night. Don’t ask any questions as to how or what, okay?”
“Okay.”
“I can track Tyler Gates’ phone.”
“We already know where he was before he got shot. Frankie said he was at Deacon Kaye’s apartment.”
“No, no. Not where he’s been. I’m able to track the phone since it got taken.”
It took her a few seconds to realize what he was saying.
“Okay,” she said, waiting for more.
“Remember I told you the killers may have stolen the phone because it would be a treasure trove of information? They’d have access to Gates’ emails, his texts, contacts, all of his accounts especially social media, subscription services, any apps he has downloaded.”
“Okay, but would they keep the phone turned on? It’s harder to track it if they’ve shut it off.”
“True. But they didn’t shut it down, and why would they? If they shut it down they’d need to figure out what his passcode was to turn it back on. Why go to that extra trouble when they could just keep it on? Charge the battery every now and then.”
