by Alex Kava
“Even if you don’t tell me, I have your license plate number.”
“We couldn’t afford one dog, let alone six.”
Creed counted the puppies, making sure all of them were still alive.
“Can you get your dog off of me? I can’t breathe,” the man complained.
“Yeah, that feels pretty bad, doesn’t it? To not be able to breathe.”
“Damn! You’re crazier than people say.”
“Oh, you don’t know the half of it, mister. Because if I so much as hear that you get another dog or even think about getting a dog, I’ll come find you. Do you understand that?”
The man went silent.
“Bolo, stay.”
Creed gathered all the puppies back into the bag, using it to hold them in his arms but letting all five little heads poke up and out. The mother dog saw that he was taking them, and he didn’t need to ask her to follow. She was already at his heels.
“You can’t leave me here with this dog!”
He ignored the guy again and kept walking. When he got back to the house, he’d whistle for Bolo to come home.
Tuesday
26
ALABAMA
EARLY MORNING THUNDERSTORMS had delayed O’Dell’s flight from Washington, D.C., to Atlanta. Instead of taking a second roller-coaster flight on to Mobile, she rented a car in Atlanta, deciding she’d rather drive the four hours. Her trip turned into five hours. In the pouring rain. With lightning strikes that threatened to slice the compact rental in two.
She had chugged down a couple of Diet Pepsis as her breakfast and now acid churned in her stomach. By the time she drove into Andalusia, her nerves were raw from tight-fisting the steering wheel. Her eyes were blurred from the constant dance of windshield wipers trying to slice through the battering rain.
The café was several more miles outside of town, very much off the beaten path. But it was where the Covington County sheriff had suggested they meet, adding that the Bagleys’ acreage was only about ten minutes away.
She’d left him a voice message earlier when she realized her delay. She wouldn’t have been surprised if he had decided not to wait, but his black-and-white SUV was in the parking lot next to the elongated building. The large sign out front advertised HUNTING, FISHING, CAMPING right under BLUE LAKE CAFÉ. Maybe that explained its remote location and all the pickup-truck-driving clientele.
The sky had already started to clear, puddles now the only evidence of the storms she had just driven through. O’Dell stepped out of the air-conditioned car and immediately felt the heat and humidity hit her in the face, fogging up her sunglasses. She kept the glasses on. Figured she needed them. They were the only thing she wore that made her look like she might have the authority of an FBI agent. Of course, she wanted the authority but without looking like a fed. So she had dressed appropriately.
Her oversized chambray shirt was buttoned properly, despite the T-shirt underneath, with room to conceal her Glock, in case she needed it, tucked into the waistband of her threadbare jeans. Her shirtsleeves were rolled up haphazardly, and she wore lightweight ankle-high hiking boots that looked weathered. Still, when she walked in the door, every head turned in her direction. She may have succeeded in not being pegged as a federal agent, but what caught everyone’s attention was the one thing she had not been able to conceal. She still looked like an outsider. There was no disguising that.
A middle-aged man in the corner with bristled steel-gray hair waved at her. His white shirt with a gold badge on his chest gave him away. The chair scraped the floor as he pushed it out, standing to greet her. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and barrel-chested. His bulk matched his deep voice. But when he took her offered hand, he squeezed gently, instead of shaking it like a man who isn’t used to female colleagues.
“So you ran into those thunderstorms?” he said in place of a greeting, waiting for her to sit down.
Of course, he already knew she had driven through the downpours from her voice message. That’s what had caused her delay. Instead of getting impatient, she decided it was a good place to start. So she nodded and obliged him with the courtesy of some weather chitchat.
“I couldn’t believe it just kept pouring.”
He laughed, a rich, deep-throated sound that seemed genuine. “Welcome to the South in the good ole summertime.”
O’Dell hated the games of social politeness. It was a waste of time on a day already delayed. She didn’t want to be pulling up to Trevor and Regina Bagley’s house just as the sun was setting. However, she had dealt with small-town law enforcement enough to know that what happened in the cafés and coffee shops was just as important as what happened in the field or at the crime scene.
And to her advantage, she was already learning a few things about the sheriff, though not by his own admission. Sheriff Jackson Holt was recently divorced. His ring finger still bore the indent and faded skin. She caught him reaching for the absent ring to twist it in a habit that hadn’t had time to be replaced.
The divorce, however, had not affected his meticulous appearance. His uniform shirt and T-shirt underneath were bright white, the sleeve patches like new, and the gold badge attached with careful consideration. All his attention to detail probably meant that he played by the rules—all of them, never deviating from them, which could be a disadvantage. O’Dell was hoping to find an excuse to take a look around the Bagley place, despite the fact that Regina Bagley wouldn’t be in the mood for it. And despite the fact that they had no grounds for a warrant.
Winning over the local sheriff was one of the reasons she’d agreed to meet him for lunch—now a late lunch. And the amazing aromas from the kitchen reminded her that she hadn’t eaten yet today. Over catfish and hush puppies that made her want to move in out back behind the café, she filled in Sheriff Holt with the limited details she had decided to share. Never did she mention drugs or even hint at the idea that Trevor Bagley’s unfortunate death may have been related to dealing in drugs.
“They pretty much keep to themselves,” he told her when she asked about the couple. “Their acreage backs up to the national forest, so it’s kinda remote. I’m not sure what they do for a living. They don’t bother anybody. No complaints, anyway. Bagley inherited the property from his daddy. Somebody mentioned that he might have done a tour in Afghanistan. Said they remembered him in a uniform at the funeral.”
O’Dell kept to herself the fact that Bagley had been discharged from military duty. Perhaps she was wrong about it being dishonorable if he was still wearing his uniform.
For the first time, she wondered if his military service had anything to do with his death.
27
HANNAH WOULD BE GLAD to get out of the house. Didn’t matter that the girl had been sleeping most of the time, especially after Hannah had given her a homemade pain remedy. Her throat and stomach would take some time to heal. Sleep would do her good.
Hannah had insisted they set her up in a guest bedroom on the main level, clear on the opposite end of the house, as far away as possible from Hannah and her two boys. Her boys were still with her grandparents, but if Amanda was still here when they returned, both of them already knew not to come over to this part of the house.
There were only two doors down this hallway. One was the guest bedroom and the other door led to the basement. Actually, not a basement as much as a deep, windowless, cinder-block room that had been used as a storm cellar years ago.
Rye had taken out the steps in hopes of replacing them when he had time, but Hannah couldn’t risk her boys snooping. They’d fall and break their necks. It had to be a fifteen-foot drop. She made Rye put on a heavy metal door with an electronic keypad lock that her boys would never be able to access. And then she still told the boys never to come down this hallway. It seemed the perfect place to send this girl. Not down to the storm cellar, but rather to the gu
est bedroom at the end of the hallway. Hannah wasn’t sure why, but she didn’t trust the girl. Rye obviously thought she was overreacting, but her instincts had never been wrong before.
Still, she brought the girl a bowl of homemade chicken noodle soup, fresh strawberries, and a grilled cheese sandwich. Amanda had stared at the tray with eyes wide and jaw dropped open. She looked like an eight-year-old being presented with an extravagant Christmas gift.
“Your momma never bring you a tray in bed before?”
“No one’s ever brought me a tray of food.”
Just before Hannah could feel a bit sorry for her, the girl’s eyes narrowed, as if she just remembered something, and then the snarky teenager showed up again in time to add, “You’re not trying to poison me, are you?”
“Good heavens! What kind of a world did you grow up in, child?”
“I’m not a child.”
It came out automatically, defensively, but without much conviction. Hannah noticed her sink into the bed pillows, adjusting herself with the tray on her lap, clamping onto it as if she were worried that Hannah would take it back if she fussed too much.
“You need anything, Mr. Creed is out at the dog kennels.”
“You’re leaving?”
Suddenly there was panic in her eyes. No, not just panic. Hannah could see the fear make the girl’s whole body go rigid. And it reminded Hannah of the danger Rye had brought onto their property and into her home.
She gave a quick explanation of the house’s security system, including a one-time guest code if Amanda decided to leave. God forgive her, but Hannah almost hoped the girl would decide to up and leave by the time she got back. No good could come from helping this drug mule.
Ryder didn’t understand. Had said as much last night.
“How can you have more compassion for drug abusers at Segway House than you do for this girl?”
“They come because they want to stop abusing drugs.”
“She came to me, Hannah, asking for help. Isn’t that the same thing?”
“Did she come to you or was she running away from them?”
“What difference does that make?”
At that point she had to admit she wasn’t sure. There was something that nagged at her about this girl. She didn’t seem quite as young and innocent as she pretended to be. Bottom line, Hannah didn’t trust her. And she couldn’t explain that, either.
“We don’t know a thing about her, and she’s sleeping in the same house my boys call home.”
“You brought Jason here, and how much do you really know about him?”
“I know he was wounded fighting for our country.”
“And that’s enough for you?”
She didn’t have an answer. Her boys’ daddy came back from Iraq in a flag-draped coffin before their littlest boy could celebrate his first birthday. She knew her judgment might be clouded when it came to helping the young soldiers who found their way to Segway House. But she had also learned long ago to listen to her instincts, to trust her first impressions. She crossed her arms and watched Ryder do the same, as if they were standing off against each other. It wouldn’t be the first time. But he surprised her with what he said next.
“The whole time I was driving back from Atlanta with her, I kept thinking, Is this something that could have happened to Brodie?” He wasn’t expecting an answer. He avoided her eyes, stared at the wall across the room as if he could see something there that he hadn’t noticed before. “Those kids on that fishing boat . . . Kids disappear every day and they want us to think they’re dead. That it’s just a matter of time before we find their bodies.”
Then he looked at her, met her eyes. “But what if they’re not . . . What if Brodie’s not . . . She could have been Amanda. She could still be Amanda. Waiting for the chance to run away. Or maybe she’s given up on the chance of ever getting away.”
He didn’t talk much about his sister, even though Hannah knew he thought about her with every search. She told him it wasn’t healthy to consume his own life with one that might already be gone. But she knew from her own personal experience that losing someone before you’re ready to say goodbye can leave you with little reason and a whole lot of empty.
Last night she had told him they needed a plan. The girl could stay for now, while her boys were gone. Anything longer was asking for trouble. But even as she watched him gather up the balloons of cocaine, she didn’t ask what he intended to do with them. If it had been up to her, she would have flushed them down the toilet.
She told herself they’d both be thinking clearer in the morning. But morning hadn’t even broken the horizon and Creed had brought her a whole other pack of trouble—puppies!
Neither of them had raised puppies in a long time. Most of their dogs came to them a bit older. When Creed explained the black garbage bag, she just shook her head. Then she insisted on keeping them in the house until he could make a separate place for them in the kennels.
Lady had helped the scrawny momma round up the puppies again and again. By the time they finally settled into the temporary pen Hannah had created for them, all were exhausted. Still, the half-starved mother dog had devoured the bowlful of warm chicken and rice that Hannah had prepared for her.
Now she stole a peek at them as she tiptoed toward the back door. Lady was the only one who looked up at her. The border collie was still standing guard outside the pen, watching over them.
“I’ll be back in a few hours,” she told the dog.
Getting in her car, Hannah felt a prick of guilt, because all she could really think about was going to get her boys and driving far away.
28
SEGWAY HOUSE
PENSACOLA, FLORIDA
THE GUY WAS SKINNY AND SMALL. He looked like he might be fifteen. Jason had seen plenty of his type in the military. What they lacked in stature they tried to make up for with their mouths. Big talkers. Bullshit talkers.
He told them his name was Falco, as he grabbed a chair from the corner and asked, “You mind if I join you fellows?”
Fellows? Not fellas. His English was good but too formal. And not good enough to hide the Spanish accent. Jason wondered why he bothered. Who cared?
“Suit yourself.” It was Tony who answered for them because it was Tony who Falco addressed.
Jason didn’t blame the guy for singling out Tony. Even gathered around their poker table, they probably looked like a sorry bunch of rejects: Jason with his empty shirtsleeve dangling, Colfax with his glass eye and Frankenstein scars, and Benny with both legs sliced off above the kneecaps.
Tony was the only whole one. In another world, in another lifetime, he’d be holding down a good job with benefits as an electrical engineer for some big frickin’ corporation. Unlike the other three, Tony was still in one piece. He had no scars, no missing limbs, no blown-off parts. Tony could have passed for one of the blond college boys down here on summer break, shooting the breeze until he took off to go catch some waves over on Pensacola Beach.
They joked about Tony having no scars—how fit and trim and good-looking he was, like a shiny copper penny—all the while knowing full well that he was about as worthless as a penny, as worthless as the rest of them.
Forget about scars. Tony had what he called brain fevers. Jason once saw Tony during a full-blown one. All of them had some level of PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder), but nothing like Tony’s brain fevers. His were beyond any brain injury Jason had seen since he got back. Technically they called it TBI—traumatic brain injury. Like that made a difference. For Tony, it was as if his brain began to boil, the anger sparked by an electrical storm from within. You could almost smell it—sweat and spit and sometimes blood. You didn’t want to be anywhere in the line of fire when it happened.
On days like today, when Tony’s meds were working—or when he decided to t
ake them—he was a good guy. He was witty and told great stories. In combat he would have been the guy who had your back—no matter what. On the outside, Tony was the only one of them who probably sounded normal and looked whole. So Jason could understand this guy named Falco thinking that Tony was the leader at their table.
“I’m looking to recruit a few good men,” Falco said with a wide-tooth grin.
No one said a word. Colfax shuffled the deck of cards and started dealing them out, purposely bypassing Falco.
“I know you’re all ex-military.”
“Really?” Benny said. “What gave us away? The spit-and-polish shine on our shoes?”
Jason smiled. Colfax snorted and finished out the deal. Falco glanced at Benny’s wheelchair without a hint of humor or embarrassment, and definitely not a trace of apology. He was here to make his spiel.
“I know you guys have special skills, right? Ones you probably can’t use anymore.”
“Oh, absolutely,” Tony said. “We were all special ops. Highly classified, though. We can’t even talk about it.” He winked at Falco, then picked up his cards and gave them his full attention.
Some of the most annoying things about having only one hand were also some of the stupidest. Jason had to put his cards down every time he wanted to scratch his nose or take a drink of his soda. Alcohol wasn’t allowed on the premises. Most of the other guys drank Red Bull or coffee. He popped the soda can’s tab and everyone at the table looked up at him as though he had fired a gun. Sudden loud noises were always a problem, but not usually a soda can. Jason realized that this guy Falco had actually succeeded in rattling his buddies.
Falco noticed, too. From out of nowhere he placed a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill on the table. All eyes checked it out.
“We don’t play with money,” Colfax told him.
“I don’t play with money, either.”
The big-ass grin was gone. His eyes turned dark as they darted toward the door. He placed another bill on top, waited a beat, then placed another and another, as if he were showing a hand of cards. Only, he didn’t stop until there were ten crisp Ben Franklins staring up from the tabletop and he had exactly what he wanted—everyone’s attention.
