by Alex Kava
And their rescuers? The guardsmen glanced at one another, and Creed thought they looked lost and uncomfortable. They were used to dealing with the criminals who did this sort of thing. They rescued victims from capsized boats and ministered to those brought out of the water. Usually their victims were glad to see them. But these kids cowered as if they still weren’t sure who was friend or foe. And the guardsmen responded by keeping a safe distance, not wanting to treat them like cornered animals, refraining from any attempt to touch or comfort. Afraid it might spook the kids even more.
It was Liz Bailey, the Coast Guard rescue swimmer—and the only woman on board—who broke the silence. Suddenly she was there, having waded down through the mahi-mahi. She still wore her flight suit, and instead of its bright orange fabric scaring the children, they all looked at her as if they were bedazzled. Creed had to admit that, with her short, spiky hair and aviator sunglasses, she did look like a superhero.
“Let’s get you something to drink,” she said to them while she pulled bottles of water and sports drinks from her shoulder pack.
Creed was closest to Bailey, and he moved in to help distribute her offerings. That’s when he noticed that the rescue swimmer’s hands were trembling.
“We need to get you hydrated.” Her voice was friendly and soothing but had the authority of a mother at summer camp, and it did not reveal an iota of the tremor or her uncertainty.
But the kids still didn’t move.
Bailey gave the drinks to Creed to hold. She dug into her bag again.
“I have protein bars, too,” she told them.
The kids didn’t budge. Instead, they huddled even closer together. The oldest girl just stared at Bailey as if she knew there could be nothing in that pack that would make this right.
“We’re gonna get you back home,” one of the guardsmen finally said. But he stayed back behind his oversized shovel that kept the fish from sliding into the small reception area they had created.
Still, the kids just stared. None of them made a move toward Bailey’s offerings or responded in any way to the guardsman’s attempt at reassurance.
Creed felt Grace wiggling against him, restless in the mesh carrier under his arm. Bailey’s taking treats out of her pack must have reminded Grace that she’d found what they were looking for, and yet she had not been rewarded. But it wasn’t treats that Grace was interested in, though some of Creed’s dogs did prefer treats. Grace insisted on her pink squeaky elephant, and she knew that Creed had it somewhere on him.
She poked her nose under his elbow. He put his hand inside the carrier to calm her, but Grace wasn’t satisfied. She pushed her head and shoulders forward and swatted at him with one paw.
That’s when the little boy noticed her, and his eyes grew wide. The empty shell that up until now had only stared and whimpered, suddenly pointed and shouted, “There’s a puppy dog!”
All the children’s heads bobbed up, following the boy’s finger. For the first time, they were wide-eyed and alert. Creed took a step back, not wanting to add yet another object to fear. He started to gently push Grace farther into the mesh carrier when one of the girls asked, “Can we pet her?”
Before he could answer, the other little boy asked, “What’s her name?”
“Does she bite?” It was the same little girl who wanted to pet Grace, but the question seemed instinctive, from years of parental instruction, as if it were something she was always supposed to ask before approaching a dog she didn’t know.
“Is she your dog?”
“How old is she?”
Finally Creed smiled and put up a hand to ward off more questions. “She’s my dog,” he told them. “Her name is Grace. I’m not sure how old she is because I found her when she was already grown up.”
“Where did you find her?”
“She was hiding under a trailer on my property. Someone had taken her from her home and dumped her. She was hurt and hungry.”
He watched their faces and realized what they were thinking. Grace wasn’t much different from them.
Then the oldest girl said, “I bet she was scared, too.”
Creed nodded. “Yup, she was very scared. She wasn’t sure who to trust. But she’s not scared now. You all can pet her if you go slow and if you’re gentle.”
He stood in place, waiting for the kids to decide on their own to come to him.
The littlest boy, who had noticed Grace first, came forward slowly and offered his dirty hand for Grace to sniff. She immediately licked his fingers and the boy giggled.
“That tickles.”
Suddenly Creed and Grace were surrounded, all five children taking turns, remembering to be gentle and letting Grace sniff, then lick. Smiles and giggles, even a laugh.
Creed looked over at Bailey and the guardsmen. They still kept their distance and continued to stare at the macabre scene, all of them in awe as one Jack Russell terrier transported these scared and bruised victims back to being kids.
5
ATLANTA, GEORGIA
AMANDA STARED at the television screen as she clutched her stomach. Another luxury hotel. A gorgeous room on the fifteenth floor. Who needed a television in the bathroom? This room was larger than her bedroom at home. It was pristine white, the tiled floor wonderfully cool to the touch. Moments ago she had laid her curled body—fetal-position tight—on the smooth surface, her hot and sweaty cheek flat against the floor. She wished she could stay there forever, but again, the cramps jolted her. That, and Zapata pulling at her, insisting she get up and use the toilet.
“It is time,” the old woman coaxed Amanda, a whispered calm so uncharacteristic that Amanda could hear the strain in Zapata’s voice even as she tried to hide her impatience.
“I hurt so bad,” Amanda said, while her eyes stayed on the television screen and yet another guest was introduced on The View. “It didn’t hurt like this the last time.”
She didn’t want to ask, didn’t want to say it out loud, but Amanda worried that one of the balloons had burst inside her. What had happened to Lucía . . . what if it was happening to her, too? Would Leandro slice open her belly before she was even dead? She couldn’t stop seeing the girl slumped on the floor. She couldn’t stop thinking about the knife in Leandro’s hand. There had been no hesitation. And all that blood. Amanda had never seen anything like it.
“She was a weak girl,” Zapata said suddenly, as if she could hear Amanda’s thoughts. “You must not think about her. You are strong. Much stronger.”
The unexpected compliment pulled Amanda’s attention away from the television to find the old woman’s eyes. They were black stones—cold and hard, which reminded Amanda of the tiled floor, but unlike the tiles, there was absolutely nothing soothing or comforting in Zapata’s eyes.
The old woman held out the drinking glass in her hand, offering it to Amanda as though it were a gift. Amanda had already drunk half a glass of the chalky liquid that she knew was a laxative.
She shook her head. “I’ll puke if I drink any more of that crap.”
Then she saw the flash of anger in the old woman’s eyes—brief and electric, but shockingly powerful—before Zapata realized her mistake and stashed the anger back behind the cold stones.
“Where’s Leandro?” Amanda wanted to know.
The last time, he had been there with her, stroking her back, caressing her sweat-drenched hair away from her face. His whispers had been gentle and sincere as he encouraged and praised her.
“He has other matters to attend to.”
Like getting rid of Lucía’s slashed body.
But again, Amanda didn’t say it out loud. Instead, she bit her lower lip and wrapped her arms tighter around her body as the pain continued to twist her insides into a knot.
“He said he would always be here with me.” She avoided Zapata’s eyes
. Actually, Leandro had never said such a thing, but Amanda took comfort in the small lie. She and Leandro had spent many hours alone together. How would the old woman know what had been said?
Zapata turned to leave as she muttered to herself, “Dice muchas cosas.”
Amanda didn’t understand, but from the way the old woman said it, she knew that Leandro would not be coming this time.
She wanted to return to the cold tiled floor. Her eyes found the television screen again. As she slid her body down and curled up against the pain, she watched the handsome man with the little dog take his seat in the middle of the talk-show hosts. The caption at the bottom of the screen identified them as RYDER CREED AND HIS DRUG-DETECTION DOG, GRACE.
The dog sat down at the man’s feet, leaning against him, its tail thumping against the floor. It looked up at the man, almost smiling and definitely happy to be with the man.
Amanda laid her cheek on the cold floor. She closed her eyes as another wave of pain sliced through her stomach, and she thought, That’s all I am, one of Leandro’s dogs.
6
PENSACOLA BEACH
BACK ON LAND, Creed watched tourists enjoying the crowded beach even as the sun began to sink. Kids raced each other and skipped in and out of the surf with squeals of delight. The sounds and play of happy children. It made the scene on the fishing boat seem even more horrific.
He wanted to pack up his gear and head on home, but he had accepted an invitation from the flight crew to get a drink and an early dinner. Considering what they had just witnessed, the thought of food probably sounded odd to some. But for those who did this sort of thing for a living, Creed understood it was an integral coping mechanism.
It didn’t bother him. Years ago he had learned to disassociate his stomach and hunger from emotion. The habit started when he was a marine and became more important when working with his search-and-rescue dogs. When they were on a cadaver search, it could take hours and be in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by miles of woods or wetlands. The dogs had to eat for energy, even if they had just found a decomposed body or body parts. The dogs didn’t care if the air was filled with the stench of rotting flesh and the buzz of blowflies, so Creed had to learn not to care. Usually Hannah packed sandwiches for him along with the dogs’ meals. When his dogs ate, Creed ate. And Grace was ready to eat.
He saw that Liz Bailey and Pete Kesnick had found a table on the busy patio that overlooked the Gulf. He was relieved to see just the two of them. Having peeled off his own flight suit and boots, he could still smell fish and wondered if everyone around him could smell it, too. But no one, other than Bailey and Kesnick, paid any attention to him.
In the shadow of the new and contemporary Margaritaville Hotel, Walter’s Canteen looked like a ramshackle leftover. The place had survived hurricanes Ivan and Dennis, and though it enjoyed some of the hotel’s overrun, it was more popular with the locals than the tourists, many of whom came to dinner by boat and parked in a slip at the marina across the road. Some of them were also fishermen. Creed may not have noticed, but Grace did as they squeezed through the crowded tables.
“It’s pretty busy,” Kesnick told him. “So we got you a beer.”
“Thanks.”
“And a bucket of shrimp,” Bailey added, shoving aside the plate with a pile of shells from what they had already peeled and eaten.
Creed also noticed both of their bottles were almost empty, while the condensation had barely started to slide down the side of his. It’d take a lot more than a couple of beers to forget the sight of those kids lying like sardines under the floor planks.
He off-loaded his backpack and sat down, pulling Grace in close, but she was distracted by Bailey’s outstretched hand. Normally, he’d rein her in. Make her sit beside his feet. But after the day she’d had, she deserved some extra scratches. He loosened up on her leash, and Grace pranced over to Bailey.
He took a sip of the beer. It felt good going down, and the bottle made his hand slick with cold. Despite the setting sun, it was still hot. He could smell the shrimp and wondered how long it’d take to get rid of the fish smell from his nostrils.
“What happens to them now?” he asked, and could see that both Bailey and Kesnick knew what he was asking without further explanation.
It was Kesnick who attempted an answer, though he prefaced it with a shrug. “I guess they find their families and notify them.”
“Can you let me know what you hear?”
“Sure,” Bailey told him.
Before they could continue, a waiter came scurrying over to their table.
“Sir, we can’t allow you here with that dog.”
“We’re outside,” Kesnick said. “And she’s a service dog.”
“Doesn’t matter. There’re people eating.” The guy was tall, with buffed arms and sun-streaked hair.
“It’s okay,” Creed told them. He didn’t have the energy to argue with a surfer probably pumped up on Red Bull and taking his table patrol seriously. “We’ll do this another time.”
But as he started to stand, Bailey grabbed his arm.
“No, it’s not okay. This dog rescued five kids today.”
“Sorry, but I don’t make the rules.”
“No, you don’t. Send over the owner,” she told him.
“Owner’s not here tonight.”
“Yes, he is. You must be new. He’s seated in the lounge. Martini. Gin, not vodka. Last bar stool by the window.”
Creed saw the waiter’s face pale despite his tan skin. A vein bulged at his temple. He shot a look at the window in question. Then, without a response, he turned and made his way through the crowded tables to the lounge door.
“I don’t want to get you two in trouble,” Creed said, but he could see how much Bailey and Kesnick were already enjoying this showdown. “I almost got kicked out of this place once before.”
“Really? Because of Grace?”
“No, it was years ago. I was drunk and started a fight.”
Bailey stared at him, waiting for more. Kesnick, however, smiled and lifted his bottle of beer in salute.
The waiter was back at the lounge door, towering over a gray-haired man in a tan jumpsuit. The waiter was pointing at them, and the owner lifted his hand to shield his eyes from the sun. He said something to the waiter and sent him back inside, then he hobbled his way toward them with a scowl on his face.
“Seriously,” Creed said, “I don’t want to get you two thrown out, too.”
He was used to people treating him differently whenever he had the dogs with him, telling him where he could or couldn’t park at rest areas. Warning him to keep his dogs quiet when they weren’t even barking, or to keep them away from their children. But most kids liked dogs. Without parental interference, they were drawn to dogs. Their first impulse was to touch them, just like the kids on the fishing boat. Apparently it was an impulse so strong that it overrode other basic survival instincts.
“Hello, Mr. Kesnick.” The gray-haired man put a hand on the flight mechanic’s shoulder as he squeezed back behind his chair and scooted over to Bailey, all the while keeping his eyes on Creed. “Hello, darling,” he greeted her as he bent down and kissed her cheek.
“Hi, Daddy.”
Creed raised an eyebrow at her and she smiled as she introduced them.
“Daddy, this is Ryder Creed and Grace. Creed, this is Walter Bailey, the owner of Walter’s Canteen. He’s also my father.”
“Part owner,” Walter corrected her as he shook Creed’s hand from across the table. Then he took his hand and offered it to Grace to sniff. “Sorry about the misunderstanding. Hey there, Grace.” Then to Creed, he said, “She’s a gorgeous little girl. We had a Jack Russell years ago.”
“Not that I remember,” Bailey said.
“Must have been before you were born. Add
ie, we called her. She was a bundle of energy. Need some water for her?”
“No, thanks,” Creed told him, and patted the backpack now on the wood-planked floor. “I’ve got everything she needs. Do you mind if she eats here under the table while we do?”
“Not at all. In fact, I have the new boy bringing you all some appetizers. On the house.”
“You don’t have to do that, sir.” Kesnick beat Creed in declining the offer.
“No, I insist. It’s not every day I get to treat a celebrity.” He wagged a finger at Grace then Creed. “Two of um. I read the article about you in USA Today.”
“Daddy reads three newspapers every morning.”
“Those drug busts up in Atlanta. That was you two, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
He looked back at his daughter, concern suddenly furrowing his brow. “You doing something with drugs out on the Gulf?”
“Don’t worry. We’re already back, safe and sound.”
Creed waited for her to tell him about the kids, but Walter simply nodded, accustomed to not getting to hear about his daughter’s adventures until and unless she shared.
“Join us,” Kesnick offered.
“I’d like to but I’m chatting with some navy boys from Philly. Howard took them deep-sea fishing this afternoon. I’ll stop back to make sure the boy-genius is taking care of you.”
He bent down to peck his daughter’s cheek, again, then he pointed at Creed, his finger crooked with arthritis, his blue eyes serious. “Those drug cartels are mean sons of bitches, excuse my French. You watch your back.”
They watched him squeeze and shuffle around the crowded tables, none of them saying a word even after he disappeared through the lounge door.
“Don’t pay attention to him,” Bailey said. “He reads a lot of thriller novels, too.” But she wasn’t smiling.
7
THUNDER RATTLED THE GLASS. Creed rolled over to watch the lightning fork through the sky, illuminating the night outside the open window. A breeze brought in the smell of rain. He needed to shut the window before the downpour started, but he closed his eyes instead and he stayed put. Sleep didn’t come easy for him. On the rare occasions when it came at all, it knocked him out completely.