by Robert Crais
I won’t leave you.
“Scott? Wake up.”
Scott lurched awake, and saw Glory Stiles standing over him. Her face split into the most beautiful, amazing smile, and she held out a cup of coffee.
“Black, two sugars. Watch out now, it’s hot.”
Scott had worked with a sketch artist until almost three, and crashed on a couch in one of the conference rooms. He winced as he sat up. First move of the morning was always bad, as if the scars across his ribs grew brittle with sleep. He accepted the coffee, and slowly creaked to his feet.
Stiles said, “Sleeping on these couches is just the worst, now, isn’t it? Heaven knows, I’ve done it too many times.”
Carter came in as Scott stood, holding a sheet of paper in his teeth as he tapped out a text on his phone.
Scott sipped the coffee, and said nothing about the true reason for his stiffness. He checked the time, and was shocked to see it was mid-morning. The night before, Budress transported Maggie to the K-9 Platoon’s training facility when Scott was ordered to report to the Boat.
“I have to see about my dog. She doesn’t like being away from me.”
Stiles flashed the smile at Carter.
“Aw, Brad, now isn’t that cute? You see how they are with these dogs?”
Carter finished his text and handed Scott the sheet. It was a copy of the artist’s finished sketch.
“What do you think? Anything you’d change or adjust?”
Scott was impressed with the quality of the artist’s work. The hand-rendered sketch wasn’t a photograph, but the likeness was good. It showed a fair-skinned man in his early fifties with high cheekbones, a long nose, and short dark hair. The artist had captured the man’s pouty mouth in just the right sneer.
“No, sir. Looks good. It’s the man I saw.”
Stiles arched her eyebrows.
“Anything you maybe forgot earlier? A scar or a tattoo? A little business in his ear?”
Stiles touched the stud in her earlobe.
“No, ma’am.”
Carter’s phone buzzed with an incoming text. He read the message quickly, then turned to Scott and sat on the edge of the table.
“So we’re good to go with the art?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’ll pull mug shots based on your description. You’ll have to look at them, but we’ll let you get some zees first, okay?”
“Sounds good. Can I go?”
“A couple more questions, and we’ll cut you free.”
Scott glanced at his watch again, and hoped they would hurry.
Carter said, “You were the first inside, right?”
They had covered this at length the night before.
“Yeah. Myself and Sergeant Budress.”
“How’d you gain entry?”
“The back door.”
Stiles flashed the big smile.
“He means, how’d you open the door?”
“We kicked it. It was locked.”
Scott paused and corrected himself.
“Paulie kicked it. I sent Maggie in when it popped, I went in with her, and then Paulie. We send the K-9 first.”
Stiles leaned back against the table and crossed her arms.
“So the door was locked, intact, and undamaged before you entered?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Scott wondered if they had inadvertently committed a policy violation.
“Did we do something wrong?”
“Oh, no, you most certainly did not. This is good.”
Stiles glanced at Carter, pleased, and Carter nodded.
“First blush, you think, here’s this a-hole trying to escape, he wants to hide, so he breaks into a house. Only Etana didn’t break in. He didn’t have a key, so someone let him in, which means this person knew him, and you know what I’m thinking?”
Stiles grinned, as if this were a regular routine.
“Tell us, Brad. What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking the man in the house, your man—”
Carter gestured at the sketch.
“—had dealings with Etana, and maybe expected him. But when he realized Etana brought an army of cops along, he killed the little sonofabitch.”
Stiles nodded.
“Yes, sir. This would seem to make sense.”
Carter glanced at Stiles.
“Check for gang affils. La Eme, in particular. Associates in with the cartels, and priors with arms and munitions. Military-grade stuff like this, it might’ve been coming from or going to Mexico.”
Carter pronouced it Meh-hee-co.
Scott suddenly recalled how his eyes burned when he entered the house, and smelled the sharp odors again as if they clung to his skin.
“The place reeked of chemicals. Were there chemical weapons or toxins, or something that could hurt my dog?”
Carter and Stiles traded an uneasy look, and Carter cleared his throat.
“Bomb Squad and SID are checking. As far as I know, it was soaked with bleach and ammonia. We found jugs of the stuff.”
Scott glanced at his watch again, even more worried than before. Budress or one of the other handlers would have texted if Maggie showed symptoms, but Scott wanted to check her himself. He put down the coffee.
“Are we finished? I need to see about my dog.”
“Another sec. Wanna be sure I have the timeline straight.”
Scott was annoyed. These were things they had gone over at length a few hours earlier.
“I don’t know what else I can tell you.”
“Before you saw Cole, you were in the backyard with Budress and the others, correct?”
Stiles said, “Evanski and Peters.”
“That’s right.”
Scott glanced at his watch again to drive home his annoyance. Carter pretended not to notice.
“The man in the sport coat—our suspect here—had gone back into the house. You saw Etana on the couch, the blood, and realized the man might duck out the front. That’s when you ran to the street.”
“Yeah. Like I told you last night.”
Stiles crossed her arms, staring at him.
“Did you hear anything from the front, something that maybe made you think he was getting away?”
This was a new question. Scott searched his memory, and shook his head.
“No. It just occurred to me, is all. No one was covering the front.”
Carter nodded.
“Okay. So you ran to the front, and saw Mr. Cole.”
“Yeah. Couldn’t miss him. He was in the middle of the street.”
“Did you see him get out of a car?”
“I didn’t see where he came from. I looked, and here was this guy in the street with some coppers chasing him.”
Stiles arched her eyebrows again.
“Last night, you said you were watching the suspect.”
“Cole shouted. It could have been Alvin, but I’m pretty sure it was Cole.”
Carter pooched out his lips, thinking.
“Uh-huh.”
Stiles said, “So Mr. Cole shouted, you looked, and he was running at you?”
“Not at me. I wasn’t in the street, but yeah, he was running in my direction.”
Carter’s phone buzzed again, and he frowned at the incoming message. He turned away to respond, and Stiles cocked her head, curious.
“Why didn’t you sic your dog on him?”
Scott smiled. Releasing a police K-9 was an action controlled by the rules and requirements outlined in the LAPD Guidelines, no different than firing a weapon.
“It isn’t that simple. Alvin was right behind him.”
“Not Cole. The suspect. You were closest. You saw him run off down the street.”
“Across the street and
between the houses. I called it in.”
“That’s right. Was he too far away?”
Scott wondered if she was implying a failure on his part, but decided her questions were innocent.
“Etana was still inside. Officers were in pursuit, so I opted to join my partners. Better a dog goes first, than a man.”
Stiles nodded, and seemed satisfied.
“I saw you and Mr. Cole talking. What was that about?”
“Last night?”
“In the hall here. When we released him.”
Scott was annoyed she asked about Cole, and glanced at his watch again.
“I told him he was stupid for chasing a suspect. I almost shot him.”
Stiles laughed.
“Uh-huh. And what did Mr. Cole say to that?”
“He thanked me for not shooting him.”
“That’s it?”
“Yeah, pretty much. He’s one of those guys, thinks he’s funny.”
“Don’t they all?”
Carter finished his text, and abruptly offered his hand.
“That’s all for now, Scott. Thanks for hanging in. Go give your dog a biscuit.”
“We’re done?”
“Until we have more questions.”
Stiles gestured toward the door.
“And we always have more questions. I’ll be in touch about the mug shots.”
Scott hurried out to the elevator. He was tired, hungry, and wanted to sleep, but his concern for Maggie overshadowed everything else. He phoned Budress on the ride down to ask about her.
“She’s fine. I checked her, and Leland checked her, too. They cut you free?”
“Yeah. Listen, the fumes in the house were bleach and ammonia. We won’t know about toxins or chemical agents for a couple of days.”
“Dude. She’s good. Relax.”
Budress had been a K-9 handler for sixteen years. He had a lifetime of experience.
“She is?”
“Yeah. She’s fine. Come see for yourself.”
Scott felt better after talking to Budress. He didn’t think about Stiles and her question again until he reached his car, and then it began to bother him.
11
Maggie
USMC MILITARY WORKING DOG Maggie T415 finds herself standing on a dusty road in the central provinces of the Islamic Republic of Afghanistan. The mid-morning sun is so harsh the Marines surrounding her hide their eyes with sunglasses. Maggie, who stands with her Marine K-9 handler, Pete, does not know she is a military working dog. She does not know her serial number, T415, is tattooed inside her left ear or that she is in Afghanistan or the men around her are Marines. She is a German shepherd dog. She knows what she needs to know. Her name is Maggie, she and Pete are pack, and Pete is currently pouring water onto her head and back. In her dream, Maggie does not feel the brutal heat or the sand burning her pads or the dust blowing into her eyes or the itchy feel of the cool water Pete scratches into her undercoat. In her dream, she remembers only Pete’s strong scent, the joy of Pete’s attention, and the happiness she shows by wagging her tail. The other Marines are shadows without scent or substance. Only Pete and those memories she associates with Pete are real to her. In her dream, Maggie does not remember Pete has only twelve minutes left to live.
Maggie does not dream in sequential images as humans dream. Humans are visual. Maggie dreams first of scents, which trigger emotions and images she associates with those scents.
Pete. The scent of his gear and battle rifle and sweat and soap and the nylon and steel leash that bound them together.
The green tennis ball hidden in Pete’s pocket. Felt, rubber, adhesive, and ink. The green ball was her favorite toy and her reward when she found the special scents Pete trained her to find. The scent of the green ball was the scent of a promise. Pete’s promise to reward her.
The game they play. Maggie dreams of their game often. They walk together on a long road, far ahead of the shadow-Marines. Maggie is searching for the special scents Pete trained her to find. If she finds a special scent, she will drop to her belly, stare at the source of the scent, and Pete will reward her. He will pet her, squeak his approval, and throw the green ball. Pete happy. Maggie happy. Pack happy. Maggie loved to chase the green ball. Maggie loved to play their game.
Her dreamscape unfolds in bits and pieces, snaps and flashes, sometimes connected, other times not. She dreams of walking with Pete on the long road. She dreams of the sweet diesel scent when they ride in the Hummer. She dreams of petting, strokes, Pete giving her water, and the two of them sharing chow.
She dreams of the wild Afghan dogs that attacked her one desert evening and the hot scent of thunder as Pete rushed to her side, pack against pack, the feral dogs screaming as they died. She dreams of the fierce elation she felt at the taste of their blood, and, after, in dominant victory, the warm joy of grooming, Pete checking her for bites and wounds as Maggie licked the gunsmoke from his face, Pete safe, Maggie safe, pack safe.
As Maggie dreams of this canine combat, her paws twitch, her sleeping eyes roll, and she softly huffs.
In her dream, as was the case in life, Maggie and Pete sit together when they rest, sleep beside each other in the cold desert night, and eat apart from the others. Maggie grows wary when others approach, not for herself but for Pete. Pete is hers. Her instinct is to protect him. Maggie and Pete are pack. The others are not.
Her dreamscape turns again.
Maggie and Pete are playing their game when the stink of goats and men smelling of coriander slams into her. Her paws twitch and flicker. Her scent memory screams a warning, but she cannot escape the terrible scents crashing into her like runaway train cars, the goats, the coriander, the first whiff of the special scent, a scent that promised a reward.
Snap snap snap—her dream memories unfold.
Maggie sources the scent to one of the men.
She alerts, and Pete is beside her.
Pete’s fear envelops her as he moves to the man and in the same moment Maggie’s world explodes.
Her kaleidoscope nightmare turns faster.
Pete is torn and dying before her.
Maggie whines in her sleep at the bitter scent of his death.
She drags herself to him, compelled by instincts bred into her and her kind for a hundred thousand generations. Guard. Soothe. Heal. Protect.
A hard blow kicks her into the air, rolling her end over end. She snaps at white-hot pain in her hips, rights herself, and returns to him. She stands over him now, guarding him.
A second devastating blow throws her into the air, screaming, spinning, so high into the bright blue desert air—
Maggie’s nightmare shape-shifts to a warehouse near the Los Angeles River, where she stands over Scott. The scent of burnt gunpowder is sharp again. The scent of Scott’s dying body is stronger.
Though Maggie has no measure of time, almost two years after she lost Pete in Afghanistan, she finds herself in Los Angeles with Scott.
Scott is now alpha.
Scott and Maggie are pack.
The terrible awful dying scents of Scott and Pete melt together in her scent memory as one, and once more her pack is threatened.
The nightmare shifts again. Maggie races through the building. She powers up the scent cone left by Scott’s attacker. This is no longer a game she plays. The man she hunts is prey. A green ball is not the reward she seeks.
The other’s scent trail is as clear to Maggie as a path of living fire. She runs harder, powering after him with a hunger passed down from the mountain wolves and wild canids who chased their prey for miles, never stopping, never sated until their fangs sank deep, their prey came down, their muzzles dripped with blood.
Maggie sees her prey ahead, a living furnace of scent.
She smells his fear.
The other turns t
o face her, raises his hands, an act of challenge that fuels her primal fury.
The scent of Scott’s pain and blood spurs her across the distance. Her bone-deep instinct commands: If the pack is threatened, the threat must be driven away or destroyed.
This other will not harm Scott again.
Scott safe.
Pack safe.
Her devotion is absolute.
Maggie growls deep in her heavy chest, bares gleaming fangs, and leaps into the flames . . .
12
Scott James
SCOTT BELIEVED THE SEARCH had gone well. Budress, Evanski, and Peters had all congratulated him, but he couldn’t fault Stiles for her question. Scott had seen the suspect disappear between the houses, he had been closer to the suspect than anyone else, and Maggie could cover forty yards in two-point-eight seconds. But Scott hadn’t known whether Carlos Etana was dead or alive, or if other individuals were in the house. Chasing the suspect would have meant letting his partners face the unknown without Maggie’s help. Scott chose to back up his teammates. He didn’t think twice about it, and no one had mentioned it until Stiles. Scott was still brooding about it when he reached Glendale.
The Platoon’s training facility was a low cinder-block building at the edge of a fenced grass field. The building was divided into two small offices and a makeshift kennel, where dogs could be penned between sessions. The Platoon’s daily shift didn’t begin until mid-afternoon, but several black-and-white K-9 cars already dotted the parking lot. A lone Bomb Detection K-9 truck stood out among them like a rhino among cattle.
Scott parked quickly, and hurried inside. He expected to be greeted by barking, but found only silence. The kennel appeared to be empty until he heard a familiar whimper.
Maggie was asleep in the last run. She whimpered and huffed, and her paws twitched as if she were running. Like Scott, Maggie had nightmares two or three times a week. PTSD. Her nightmares probably weren’t much different from his.
Scott eased open the gate, and laid a hand on her shoulder.
“Mags.”
Maggie lurched awake, heaved to her feet, and wobbled sideways. A shaky start, like nightmares, was something they had in common.
“I’m here, baby girl. You doin’ okay? How’s my girl?”