by Betina Krahn
“The puppy thing. I’m sorry, Nick. I don’t understand, but I want to.” She had to shoot straight about this, too. Because of her work, her life, this was going to come up again and again. “Help me understand so we don’t have to tiptoe around this.”
“I really don’t want to talk about it—not when...”
* * *
NICK LOOKED INTO her warm, open expression and realized it might be the best time, the only time for him to talk about it. If they were going to continue seeing each other and getting more involved, it would come out sooner or later. And if she thought it was dumb or as crazy as it sometimes sounded to him—a badass ground pounder’s PTSD focused on dogs and puppies—he should know it now. He held her hands tightly and braced himself.
“It was Iraq. Our camp was just outside the old city walls, and we were running daily patrols through unsecured areas of the city. Relations with the locals were tense, and we were told to keep a low profile—no loud music, no drinking and no fraternizing. We were going stir-crazy until we found a dog and her newborn puppies hiding in a stack of old wooden supply crates at the edge of camp.
“My guys adopted the brood—saw to it they had food and water and a safe place to sleep. Then one day the mother dog disappeared. Dogs don’t have the same place over there as they do in our culture, so who knows what happened to her. Before that, she would sometimes leave the puppies for a while, but this time she didn’t come back, and we figured she’d gotten run over or even shot while running the streets.
“After that, my guys fostered the pups...shared rations with them, leash-trained them and took them on patrols riding in their gear pockets. The pups became a bit of normal in a foreign and hostile environment. They were something personal to care for and protect. Looking back, they came to mean too much to us. It was like we blocked out the hatred, threats and violence around us when they were with us.”
“That makes total sense,” she said with a sympathy that brought a lump to his throat. “Dogs are so connected to us humans. They can touch us in ways even other humans can’t.”
“Yeah, well, I probably should have stopped it before it went so far. But the little things were so cute, and morale improved. They became our mascots, our buddies...watching them chase and growl at tennis balls, and sleep sprawled on their backs or curled into balls was our entertainment. They ate with us, slept with us, went on patrols with us, and in the end, helped us salvage our humanity.”
His gut tightened as he descended into still more potent and disturbing memories. These were things he had never told another living soul—not even the army shrink who debriefed him at the end and diagnosed him with what he called a mild form of PTSD.
“What were their names?” she asked. That simple inquiry helped anchor him more in the present.
“Baby, Mad Max, Einstein, Bono, Slick and Lady Gaga.” He rubbed his eyes as he recounted the names, wishing he could rub what came next from his memory. “Things got tense in the city as the insurgents got reinforced, and one day when we rolled out of our barracks at dawn, we found Max hanging from the rope of the flagpole in the middle of camp—tied up there for us to see. He had been choked to death...but not before he had been...abused.”
He was gripping her hands hard, but she met that pressure with her own hold on his. She was in this with him, that contact said.
“I’m here,” she said softly. “Stay with me.”
He took a deep breath and nodded.
“One of the worst parts was—It had to be somebody we knew, somebody who brought us information or came to our camp to get help from our medics for their children and old people. Somebody knew how much those pups meant to us and sent us a message in a way that would really hurt. It was then we realized we couldn’t trust anybody, not even those we were trying to help. It was a pretty damned hard thing for my guys to accept.”
He wondered if she could feel his hands starting to tremble. She must have, because she squeezed them tightly and resettled herself closer.
“I’ve never seen men so sick and despondent.” His mouth dried and his voice grew husky. “The guy who fostered that pup went a little nuts—grabbed his gun and started for the nearest city street. It took four of us to take him down. We talked the captain into putting him on sick report for a few days to get him out of the area and give him time to come to his senses. After that we kept the remaining pups close. They were never out of our sight, and we watched everyone who came into camp.
“Then word came down that we were pulling out, and the captain emphasized that there would be no room on the trucks for ‘livestock.’ We continued to hope until we were told in no uncertain terms that our dogs would not be going with us. The guys were furious at first, and then frantic. But we had no idea where we were going or what conditions we would find.
“The day we left, I had to make the choice—between my orders and my guys, between the dogs we’d come to love...and my duty. It broke my heart. I had to physically shove several of the guys onto the truck.
“The dogs were trying to jump up onto the truck to be with us. When the convoy started to move, the dogs grew frantic and came running after us. It was chaos. Some of the men tried to jump off the truck, others tried to hold the guys on. They were shouting at each other and cursing—then we heard a shot and one of the dogs fell. Then another. And another. The bastards were waiting on rooftops and in alleys, watching us go and taking the chance to hurt us one last time. We could hear the dogs yelp as they got hit and see them struggle to get up before they took more bullets.”
Tears welled in his eyes, and Kate released his hands to put both arms around him.
“My men pulled out guns and tried to spot the shooters.” He halted between sentences...reliving every moment...every revelation costing a payment in pain. “In the end, Baby was the only one left running—she just wouldn’t give up. And Jimmy Nicks, who had fostered Baby, picked up his rifle and sighted Baby’s heart...and put a bullet in her.” Tears slid down his face and he looked away, barely able to hold back a sob. “He loved her too much to let her suffer or be shot to a bloody pulp.”
“Oh, Nick.” She pulled his face around to hers, and she had tears running down her cheeks, too. “My God, Nick. I’m sorry. So very sorry.”
He wrapped his arms around her, pulled her onto his lap and buried his face in her shoulder. The weight that had lain on his heart for five years seemed lighter as he held her against him. The pain wasn’t gone—it might never be—but it was not as sharp or as crippling as before.
He held Kate close as the emotion began to drain away. People usually saw him as big and strong and even impervious. But Kate looked deeper, saw the pain he suffered from things he had experienced half a world away. He hadn’t been blown up or lost a limb or an eye, but he carried internal damage...like a lot of vets from a lot of wars.
She stroked his hair and kissed the side of his face.
“‘Give sorrow words,’ the Bard said,” she murmured into his ear. “Each time you talk about it, you peel back another layer of hurt and loss and your burden gets a little lighter. Anytime you want to talk, Nick, I’ll be here to listen. I know how being military separates you from ordinary life and can make you feel like an outsider in your own home, among your own people.”
They sank back on the cushions holding each other, sometimes talking, sometimes just savoring the closeness and deepening connection between them. He spoke about cashing out and about his decision to join the FHP. She told him about her life with her parents before their breakup, and about living in other countries...events and experiences that meant she could understand how he felt.
It was late when they went to the kitchen to get something to drink. He put his arms around her waist as she poured soda into glasses of ice.
“You are an amazing woman, Kate Everly,” he murmured into her hair. She melted back against him
, loving the feel of him against her and around her and sensing that he felt the same pleasure.
“Hasn’t anybody ever told you that ‘amazing’ is in the eye of the beholder?” She laughed quietly and turned in his arms. “I think you’re pretty amazing yourself.”
“After all I said?”
“After that and a whole lot more.” She ran her hands up his chest to circle his neck.
“I promise you, I’ll try my best to be good to you and good for you. I want you in my life.” He took a deep breath. “And I don’t want to screw it up. I want to take it slow and easy. I want you to trust me and feel like it’s right...every step of the way.”
“I get it,” she said, placing her hands on the sides of his face.
He looked up.
“That’s what I want, too, Nick. I want what is between us to grow and become something—no, not just good, I want it to be spectacular. And it will be.” She tilted her head, her lips parting to meet his. “Because it already is.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE STATION WAS busy Friday evening when Nick arrived for a late shift, feeling like he was seeing everything fresh. The previous night with Kate had cleared some of the haze of guilt and uncertainty he’d been living in for the past five years. He had a direction now, and a connection that could form a life-giving bond with a woman he both wanted and respected. There was an ease in his gait because he felt more comfortable in his own skin.
Fellow troopers Perez and Harlow looked up when he strolled into the briefing room. They were doing their coffee thing and studying the dailies, so he grabbed a cup of brew and slid into a seat beside them. The rest of the shift filed in behind him.
“What’s new?” Nick asked.
“Dogfighting. North and east, around the Hardee County line. Combs found a couple of dogs on the side of County 42,” Perez said.
“Carcasses, really,” Harlow added. “Slashed up pretty bad. Just tossed out—dumped by the road like a heap of trash.”
“Bastards,” Nick growled. Why was it always dogs? “I’d love to get those jerks in my sights.”
“You might get your chance, Stanton.” Watch Commander Garrity strode into the room with a clipboard to begin the briefing. “Hardee County’s sheriff called. He’s shorthanded and asking us to back him up on this dogfighting business, so stay loose and alert. And if you are called in, remember, they’re taking the lead.
“Meanwhile, we’ve got hot cars coming down I-75 and a couple of BOLOs from Tampa for escaped prisoners—one may have stolen a car—thought to be headed south...check your sheets.” He handed out paperwork with mug shots for the BOLOs and a list of high-end cars that were missing. “So, basically, business as usual.”
As they headed to their cruisers, Perez elbowed Nick and grinned. “Hey, if we find those dogs, maybe you can call your hot veterinarian friend in to help.” But if he was hoping for an embarrassed reaction, he’d been mistaken.
“Yeah.” Nick gave him a wicked grin. “I just might do that.”
* * *
MOUNTING A PUPPY MILL raid was a little like planning a military invasion, Kate thought as she watched the troops assemble in Saturday’s predawn hours to check equipment and discuss strategy. They had chosen to go in early, when they believed they could expect less resistance. Voices were tight with tension as the staff and volunteers greeted each other and colored armbands were passed out to assign people to duties. They had no idea how many animals they might have to deal with, but from the pictures they estimated more than sixty.
The previous day, a local judge who was friendly to the Manatee County Humane Society—his wife was on the board—had viewed their evidence and issued a warrant. Then he’d called a friend in Hardee County, next door, and gotten a judge there to do the same, since the farm looked like it straddled county lines. The Humane Society staff had called the Hardee County Sheriff’s Office to ask for deputies to serve the warrant, and Isabelle and Nance had spent the rest of the day making calls to volunteers. They also arranged kennel space with other organizations, plus fostering for animals that might be in good enough condition.
Kate and Jess had been at the shelter since before five. They’d agreed to evaluate and triage the seized animals. They’d had LeeAnn reschedule appointments, packed up plenty of supplies and loaded the back of Kate’s Jeep with equipment.
Kate had tried to call Nick to tell him what was happening, but she knew he was on patrol and probably not available. She left a cheery voice message that was short on details. Jess heard her make the call and fixed her with an indignant look.
“Reporting in to each other already?” she said, crossing her arms over her white coat. “I can’t believe you’ve let things get this far without letting me thoroughly vet this guy. I mean, he could be...a...”
“Great guy?” Kate gave her a sly smile. “He is. And he’s a state trooper, so he’s already been vetted. By the state of Florida.” She looked over to see the first cars pulling out onto the darkened road. “Time to go.”
They climbed into the Jeep, and Jess found a rock station on the radio with hard driving music that seemed in keeping with the occasion. Kate pulled out behind one of the vans, and soon they were speeding through the surrendering darkness, heading north and east. The line of vehicles stopped twice, the first time to check directions and the second to pick up their Hardee County Sheriff escort.
A lone patrol car sat at a crossroad with his light flashing, waiting for them. A deputy got out, and, with a flashlight, showed Isabelle, Nance and Liza Pacheco, the Humane Society president, the warrants they needed to serve. Jess glanced at Kate, and in the dim light from the dashboard, Jess looked a little green.
“It’s really happening,” she said, her voice constricted.
“Yep.”
“You anxious?” Jess was clearly feeling a few nerves herself.
“A bit.” Kate had to be honest. “But once the action starts, it all becomes real and nothing matters but the work.” Her smile felt tight. “You’ll be fine.” She gave Jess’s hand a squeeze. “Just think of the dogs.”
“Yeah. The dogs.” Jess leaned her head back on the headrest and took a heavy breath.
Dawn provided enough light to recognize the farmstead beneath its ragged canopy of trees. The deputy threaded his car through the overgrown driveway and inched his way toward the house, his progress made visible by his headlights. Nance, in the lead truck, drove past the property, where she then made a Y-turn and drove back to park on the side of the road nearest the house. About half of the other vehicles followed her lead, parking behind each other, and the other half—Kate included—parked on the side of the road across from them. A few of the volunteers left their cars so they could stand where they had a better view of the proceedings.
Kate slipped forward, making her way through the scrub vegetation to stoop on the slope below the cabin. Jess joined her and together they watched the deputy approach the house on foot. His body was bent as if to make it a smaller target, and even from a distance he seemed to be quaking in his boots.
“That’s all we get? Barney Fife over there?” Jess exchanged dubious looks with Kate. “What if the old lady decides she doesn’t want to hand over her dogs?”
Kate shrugged. Then one corner of her mouth drew up in a half smile. “We could always sic Gran on her.”
The deputy circled to the front of the house and worked his way through the yard to the sagging porch. The sound of his knock carried a long way in the still morning air. They waited and watched.
Then the door was flung open and out came the double barrel of a shotgun, which sent the deputy scrambling back off the porch in an undignified retreat. An old woman appeared behind the gun, filling the doorway with a mixture of absurdity and danger. She wore a ratty bathrobe and no shoes, her white hair stuck up all over, and her mouth w
as sunken—missing teeth.
“Get outta here!” she yelled, brandishing the shotgun and looking for all the world as if she meant to use it. “Off my porch...stinkin’...Nazi!”
They heard the deputy say something about “Hardee County” and “Mrs. Crowder” and hold out the warrant. The gun waved wildly and went off with a boom.
Cries of surprise and horror came from the volunteers and most of them—even those still in cars—ducked for cover. The deputy rushed to his cruiser, backed it frantically around to point his engine for the driveway and gunned it back to the road. The cruiser screeched to a stop across the road, blocking it, and the deputy lurched out while gripping his radio and blurting out, “Backup. I need backup! Shots fired at the Crowder farm in northwest Hardee!”
* * *
NICK GOT THE call he dreaded just as he was heading back to the station for reports. It had been a fairly routine shift, where just his presence in the flow of traffic was enough to turn most motorists into model citizens. Now he was stuck with the Hardee County backup action he had hoped to avoid. The universe seemed hell-bent on driving home a point with this dog thing, but he didn’t have a damned clue what it was. He had just entered the coordinates into his GPS navigation system when a second message came across the radio, one that jacked up the seriousness of the situation: “Shots fired.”
He flipped on his light bar and hit the gas.
He spent half the fifteen-minute ride airborne, and the other half being slammed against his seat as his cruiser bottomed out on the storm-rutted back roads. He tried to prepare himself for what he’d find: suspects pinned down and trying to cover an escape by shooting at outnumbered deputies...dogs caged in filthy vans...run-down RVs and makeshift tents...garbage strewed around...
He came across the last rise and hit with a thump that jarred his vision of the wooded area he was entering. Something was across the road ahead, and he glanced at his GPS to find he was almost at his destination. The “something” was a white car with a green “sheriff” strip and a light bar. As he closed in, he spotted other cars beyond the Hardee County cruiser. He scowled. Dispatch had said nothing about civilians being present. In the center of the road between the rows of cars stood a uniformed deputy and a knot of people who seemed to be intent on getting some message across.
