DESPERATE CREED: (Book 5 Ryder Creed K-9 Mystery Series)

by Kava, Alex

  He checked his vehicle’s 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 back roads 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 stock trailer had been tossed and now laid on its side. 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. 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 Grace had 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. Two years ago, Creed and Grace had made national headlines when a search for drugs on a commercial fishing boat turned up a drug cartel’s second cargo. Grace had made the discovery under a hull filled with mahi-mahi. Instead of cocaine, she’d alerted to five children stashed under the floorboards. The cartel had kidnapped them and were planning on trafficking them.

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

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

  Survival time after a disaster like this would be a narrow window. Yet, he couldn’t ask Grace to ignore the dead for the sake of finding the living, because there wouldn’t be much distinction in the scent. This soon after the tornado, blood was still blood. And it could have been dragged or flung far away from where the body might have ended up. More than ever, Creed would need to follow the number one piece of advice he gave all of his handlers. He needed to trust his dog.

  First, he checked to see 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.

  18

  Birmingham, Alabama

  Willis Dean glanced up to see Mia Long standing in front of his desk. He’d retreated to his messy office just a few minutes ago. They’d gone off the air after the last watch and warning expired, but Willis couldn’t stop looking at the photos coming in. He’d been concerned about s and grateful none of the area schools had been hit. But he hadn’t considered the interstate.

  Crumpled vehicles had been tossed and scattered over the fields. Debris littered the area, pieces strung from the few trees that were still standing. At the interstate junction, piles of brick and boards, glittering glass and more smashed trucks and cars were all that remained from what was once a gas station, fast food restaurant and convenience store. From the aerial drone photos, he wondered how in the world anyone had survived.

  “Four dead,” he said, shaking his head.

  “It’s a wonder there weren’t more,” Mia told him.

  This time when he looked up he noticed that she had a takeout container in one hand and a coffee mug in the other. She gestured for him to clear a spot so she could set them down.

  “You’re bringing me food?”

  “You haven’t eaten since you got here. Paul ordered sandwiches. I grabbed a ham and cheese for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  Instead of making a spot for her to set the container down, Willis took it and the mug then did a half-circle, suddenly overwhelmed with the mess that surrounded him. A mess that usually didn’t bother him. Finally, he decided a pile on the credenza behind him looked sturdy enough for the food container. He sat back down and sipped the coffee. It was still hot with just the right amount of cream, no sugar. Mia always remembered exactly how he liked it.

  “We heard from Gary.”

  “And?” His eyebrow lifted at the same time that his stomach clenched and prepared him for the worst.

  “His crew’s okay. A few scrapes and cuts. They’re still a bit shaken up.”

  “How close were they?”

  “Too close. He said it whipped their vehicle around. Broke every window.”

  Willis took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He was exhausted, but he immediately felt a tension in his shoulders break loose. When the damage reports started coming in, he realized where the tornado had hit. No matter how many precautions a storm chaser took, there was always a risk.

  He glanced at the monitor on his desk as the screen refreshed. The new reports were already coming in from the National Weather Service.

  “How do you want to handle the schedule?” Mia asked.

  The first outbreak of the season. Everyone would be on-call, but of course, his entire crew would want to be in on it. They were all weather geeks. Even if they weren’t in the studio they’d be on their phones and iPads checking the radar, watching the sky.

  “Why don’t you go home and get some rest,” he told her. “I’m doing the radio interviews this afternoon. I just as well stay.”

  “Okay, I’ll see you later.”

  She turned to leave, and Willis was relieved that she hadn’t seen through his excuse. He could easily do the radio interviews from home. He’d done that many times before. When Mia stopped in the doorway, he felt his heart skip a beat.

  He was practically holding his breath when she glanced over her shoulder and pointed her chin at his credenza.

  “Don’t forget to eat.”

  “Oh yeah. Thanks again.”

  His desk phone started ringing. She gave him one last wave and was gone.

  “Willis Dean,”
he answered.

  “Dad, I tried to call you, but you must still have your cell phone off.”

  “Robbie, are you okay?” He grabbed at the jacket he’d left draped over his chair. He dug the cell phone out of his pocket.

  “What’s going on? Mom said you guys are getting a divorce.”

  Willis slouched back in his chair and slid the phone across his desk. That was just like Beth. She kept everything secret, but when she made the decision to tell, she told everyone.

  He’d never lied to his boys, and he wouldn’t start now.

  “I guess we are.”

  “So it was a surprise to you, too?”

  Willis couldn’t help but smile. It appeared his oldest knew his parents well.

  “Yes, it was.”

  His wife’s unhappiness was a complete surprise to him. He knew that he spent too many hours consumed by his job. How many family events had he walked in the door late or missed entirely? But he loved his boys. He loved his wife. He’d never questioned either.

  It was at that moment it occurred to Willis, his three sons would be just fine. All of them were off building lives of their own. Beth would be fine, too. She had said as much. Willis would be the only one displaced from his home of thirty years, the rose garden he’d curated, the magnolia trees and crepe myrtles he had planted along with the bird feeders he’d built and placed.

  It was clear to him now that he spent too much time in his backyard and literally with his head in the clouds.

  “Dad,” his son’s voice brought him back. “Maybe it’ll all blow over, just like the storms. You know mom. Tomorrow she might change her mind and redecorate a different room.”

  That made Willis smile, but a bit of sadness poked at him. Maybe that was the problem, Willis realized. Maybe he really didn’t know his wife. He didn’t seem to know her at all.

  19

  Southern Alabama

  (50 miles south of Montgomery)

  Sheriff Krenshaw 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, no disrespect intended but...”

  Creed relaxed his stance even as he braced himself for the insult, because usually when people prefaced a remark with, “no disrespect intended,” it was right before they said something insulting.

  “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 nodded.

  “Desert Storm,” the man tapped his own chest. “I remember a K9 handler we had in our unit for a 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 fields of IEDs or booby-trapped buildings. What Creed and Rufus did—especially the dog’s ability to warn them—it seemed a little bit like magic to the others. They were never sure whether the 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,” Krenshaw was shaking his head, “I owe you an apology.”

  “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,” Norwich said. “I worked with him last fall down in my neck of the woods.”

  Norwich was the sheriff of Santa Rosa County in Florida. Creed knew she was out of her territory. Probably on her day off.

  “I’ve asked Jason to 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 Krenshaw 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 a 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. He could still see the image of her dead body. Her jacket billowed around her. Her pockets had been filled with rocks and anchored her body 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, along the river behind Wylie’s cabin. Only he wasn’t in the river. He was hanging from the branch of 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,” Krenshaw pointed with his chin, his hands deep in his pockets, “took the brunt of the storm. On one hand, it’s fortunate it missed those more populated areas. 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 at that convenience 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 standing. Creed guessed that was where the restrooms were. In front of the wall, 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 the convenience 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 in the fields.”
>
  “I saw a stock trailer on my way here,” Creed mentioned.

  “Unfortunately, the driver will 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 people from their vehicles. They’re trying their level best to get to as many as they can.” 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.”

  20

  Quantico, Virginia

  After Hannah’s call Maggie left her friend, Gwen and 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 for 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.