Home of the Brave (Raine Stockton Dog Mysteries Book 9) (12 page)

“That was Monday?”

She nodded.

He didn’t remove his gaze from her.  “And two days later he’s dead.”

She swallowed hard, lips compressing tightly together once more.

“You knew it was him,” Buck said.  “The minute we got word about the homicide.”

She chose her answer carefully.  “It seemed too much of a coincidence. I was afraid he’d been made.  But I didn’t have the authority to investigate and there was no evidence to suggest I should go over your head.  I follow orders.”

Buck leaned back in the squeaky leather chair, his expression impassive now, studying her.  “One thing about working for me,” he said, after a long time.  “You’ll find I’m the easiest guy in the world to get along with as long as you tell me the truth.  But I can’t have a man on the force who lies to me.”

She stiffened.  “Sir, I never lied.” 

“You lied about what you were doing here!  You came in here pretending to work for me and your loyalties were never with this office!”  A sharp breath, and his tone returned to even.  “The men and women in this department are a team.  More than that, we’re a family.  I’ve worked with some of them ten years. A lot of them didn’t think it was a good idea to bring an outsider in.  A lot of them didn’t think you’d ever fit in.  But I stood up for you.  I told them to give you a chance.  Now it turns out they were right.  I don’t think you even want to fit in here.”

She flinched.  “Sir, that’s not true.  I—I wanted to come here.  I asked for this assignment.”

His gaze narrowed sharply.  “To spy on me?”

“No sir.  To work for you.”

“Then you should have worked for me.  We would have gotten to the bottom of this a lot sooner if you hadn’t been so damn worried about following orders and just told me what you knew.”

She swallowed back a response.  The response would have been, of course, that she had asked to be assigned to the case and he had told her it was out of their jurisdiction.

He answered what she did not say, his tone sharp. “You should have fought harder.”

She said, “Yes sir.” 

She waited.  He said nothing, just regarded her silently, rubbing his chin with his thumb and forefinger, thinking.

At last he said quietly, “We both need to spend some time thinking about whether you’re a good match for this job.  Meanwhile, get back to duty.  The FBI will probably have some questions for you when they get here.”

She stood up.  “Yes sir.”  She hesitated.  “Sir, do you think …”  Her own brow puckered as she struggled with the question.  “Could it have been because of me … my phone call … that got him killed?”

Buck’s expression softened, but only fractionally.  And all he could do was shake his head.  “I don’t know.  You did what you were told.  You didn’t have a choice.”

She nodded and turned to the door.  He stopped her.

“You said Brunner had infiltrated a group of dissidents,” he said, frowning.  “What kind of dissidents?”

She replied, “Terrorists.”

Chapter
Twelve

S
ome people like to do; some people like to teach.  I like both so much that if I were given a choice between crossing the finish line in record-breaking time with a clean run and watching a student do the exact same thing—well, I’m not sure which I’d choose.  But I do know there can’t be much in life that is more fun than seeing the big grin on a kid’s face the first time he tells his dog to jump over a bar and he actually does it.  Gosh, I love my job.

Of course, it wasn’t all smiles and puppy kisses on the first day of class.  There was the sheltie who took up residence in the tunnel and refused to come out. The goldendoodle who relieved himself on the dog walk.  The Chihuahua who insisted on crawling under the six-inch jumps instead of leaping over them.  When Monty, with her Great Pyrenees on leash, took off running and her dog did not, she took a tumble and scraped her knee.  Willie was there in his ATV to transport her to the nurse within moments of my pressing the button on my radio, and she and her big dog rode off in style, looking more pleased with the attention than hurt.

Cisco, my faithful demo dog, was so excited by the abundance of fresh kids to pet him and fresh dogs to play with that he had a hard time focusing on his job.  He had a tendency to take one jump and turn back to the crowd with a grin, waiting for applause, or to scramble through the tunnel and keep on going to the nearest child, mugging for a rubdown.  That wasn’t entirely okay, of course, but as I tried patiently to explain to my students, no dog is completely at his best on the first day in a new place.  I hope that made some of the kids feel better about their dogs; I know it made me feel better about mine.

By the end of the class we had gotten the sheltie to leave the tunnel, everyone had completed the course, and most of the kids were eagerly looking forward to competing in our mock agility trial on Sunday.  I went to lunch with a bounce in my step.

I had told Melanie I would meet her at 1:00 for our lake excursion, so I didn’t linger at the instructors’ table after I finished my meal.  Willie Banks was pulling up in front of the dining hall when I came out, and I waved to him.  He acknowledged me with a nod.

“How’s Monty?” I called as I came down the steps.

He gave me a flat look under the brim of his straw hat in response, so I explained, “The little girl with the big dog who scraped her knee at the agility field.”

He spat tobacco juice on the ground.  “Yeah, she’s okay I reckon.  I left her at the nurse’s office.  That’s all I’m supposed to do.”

He started up the steps past me, and when we were abreast I said, “Say, Willie, have you noticed anybody up here doing target practice?”

He stopped and stared at me.  Actually, it was more of a glare.  “What’re you talking about?”

“I found some shell casings and a straw target when I was setting up the agility equipment this morning.”

He said, “Nobody’s allowed up here unless they got permission.  That’s my job, to keep them out.”

I shrugged and continued on my way.  Clearly, he wasn’t about to confess to anything that might indicate he hadn’t been doing his job.  “Just wondering if you saw who it was.”

“I had to chase some fellas off a while back that wanted to play paintball,” he said abruptly to my back.  “And that’s just what I did, too, you better believe it.  Chased them off.”

I gave him a casual smile over my shoulder.  “Okay, thanks.  See you later.”

He did not smile back.

I stuffed some towels and floating toys into my knapsack and changed into my swimsuit, not because I was planning to swim, but because by the time four dogs finished shaking themselves dry, I would be as wet as they were.  On the other hand, the noonday sun was so hot you could practically hear the grass crackle, and I was glad I wasn’t holding a class that involved running and jumping in that big open field this time of day. Maybe a swim wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all.

The path to the lake was not shaded, and the dogs were panting at the ends of their leashes as Melanie and I trotted behind.  The sun baked my scalp and my shoulders, and I wished I had worn a tee shirt over my suit, instead of just a pair of shorts.  Guiltily, I remembered my promise to Miles and demanded of Melanie, “Did you remember sunscreen?”

She replied easily, “Sure, I always remember.  So as I was saying, this big Doberman comes rushing after the disc, but Pepper cuts in from the side, you know, and leaps six feet straight up …”

I doubted that but didn’t say anything.

“… to snatch it right out of the air before it hit his face!  She was amazing!  Mr. Lee said she could go to competition level if she wanted to.”

Once upon a time, I was ten years old and life was full of possibilities and all I had to do was choose between them.  I said, “So what do you think?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” replied Melanie sensibly.  “Pepper has lots of choices.”

I agreed, “Good for you. Get all the offers before you sign to a team.”

For a moment she looked uncertain, and then she grinned.  “Right.”

“Hey,” I said.  The lake was in view, twenty yards away.  I knelt down and put my hand on Cisco’s collar.  His panting increased tempo.  “Ready?”

Melanie nodded and knelt beside Pepper.

“Set … go!”  I unclipped Cisco’s leash, and then Mischief’s and Magic’s.  Melanie released Pepper.

I wasn’t worried about letting the dogs off leash this close to the lake.  Pack behavior is fairly predictable, and I knew the other three would follow Cisco, whose gaze was so intent on the water that his eyes would probably get there before the rest of him did. Sure enough, as soon as I released his collar, Cisco took off at a leap.  We laughed out loud as the pack scrambled down the remainder of the hill and followed Cisco as he dived—belly-flopped is more like it—into the water.  The truth is, Mischief and Magic don’t even like to swim, but they followed Cisco because, well, that’s what dogs do.  Even Pepper, who had only had swimming lessons at the doggie spa with its bone-shaped pool, plowed gamely into the fray, dog-paddling with the best of them. 

Melanie waded knee deep into the water and tossed a floating ball for the dogs to retrieve.  I snapped photos on my phone and e-mailed them to Miles.  He responded with a text, “Wish I were there!”  I sent back a smiley face, because I was in a very good mood.  Seriously: a mountain lake, a summer day, happy dogs splashing in the water—who
wouldn’t
be in a good mood?

I spread out a towel and sat down in the newly mowed grass, and as soon as I did Mischief and Magic scrambled out of the water and romped over, waiting until they had reached me to shake themselves all over me, just as I knew they would.  I held up a hand in self-defense but too late.  Actually, the cold water felt kind of good, and I was glad I’d worn my swimsuit.  I dug another towel out of my knapsack and was drying them off when Melanie trotted up, Pepper at her heels.  Pepper shook herself, spraying us both, and Melanie laughed. I wiped water off my face with the dog-hair covered towel, then tossed it to Melanie, who did the same. 

“Leash,” I reminded her. 

“Pepper doesn’t need a leash,” she assured me.  “She never leaves me.”

“Yeah, well, do you want the first time to be in the middle of the Nantahala Forest?”

“Cisco would find her,” she replied confidently, and just to be a show-off, tossed the ball across the grass.  Pepper scampered after it.

It was at that moment that Cisco the Wonder Dog streaked out of the lake, paws spattering mud, coat shedding water.  I grabbed for him but I never had a chance.  He had his eye on something beyond my shoulder, and I turned in time to see him skid to a brief stop, snatch it up, and give it a shake.  It was, I realized only later, the sock I had found last night and tossed away. Before I could even draw a breath for the command that I was almost certain would be ignored, Pepper galloped up with her ball in her mouth, teasing and play-bowing to him.  The two of them engaged in one excited, high-speed round of catch-me-if-you-can, and then Pepper twirled and took off toward the woods, Cisco in hot pursuit.

Here’s the thing about dogs.  They are
dogs
.  Not children with fur, not miniature humans, not mindless robots we can control.  They are an entirely separate species, with a culture, language and agenda all their own.  They may choose to share our lives with us, cooperate with us, and even, occasionally, obey us.  But they are dogs, and the minute we forget that is the moment they will remind us they have minds, and wills, of their own.

Cisco never lets me forget that. I hoped, after today, Melanie would not forget it either.

She cried, “Pepper!” and started to lunge after her, but I caught her arm.  Fortunately, after three years of living with Cisco’s impulsive and all-too-often unpredictable behavior, my instincts have been honed to a razor-sharpness.

  I commanded, “Mischief, Magic, down!” almost before their ears could even swivel in the direction of the runaways, and I snapped on their leashes as they dropped to their bellies. I handed Melanie the leashes, said, “Stay here.  I’ll get them.”  I looped Cisco’s and Pepper’s leashes around my neck and ran after Cisco just as his waving yellow tail disappeared into the bushes.

This was hardly my first time chasing my independent golden through the woods, although I will say I was glad that this time, at least, it wasn’t entirely his fault.  I knew it would be futile to call him when he was in hot pursuit of his current favorite playmate, so I didn’t even try.  The part of a dog’s brain that was created to chase prey is much older and more powerful than the part that recognizes human language, and when you put those two in conflict, the chances that it will turn out the way you want are not very good.  So I didn’t waste my breath.  Cisco was a tracking dog—or to be more accurate, a tracking dog in training—and he could hardly be blamed for doing what came naturally to him.  I could, however, blame myself for not insisting that Melanie leash Pepper, or leashing her myself, or grabbing Cisco the minute he got out of the water, for not calling him to me the minute he started for shore.  And I cursed myself every sweaty, thorny, poison-ivy infested step of the way as I jogged after him into the woods.