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

by Donna Ball

  HOME OF THE BRAVE

  RAINE STOCKTON DOG MYSTERY # 9

  By Donna Ball

  Copyright 2014 by Donna Ball, Inc.

  Published by Blue Merle Publishing

  Drawer H

  Mountain City, Georgia 30562

  www.bluemerlepublishing.com

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, organizations and places in this book are either a product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously and no effort should be made to construe them as real. Any resemblance to any actual people, events or locations is purely coincidental.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Series Books in Order

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  It was twelve forty-five on a Thursday afternoon and pouring down rain when I glanced in my rearview mirror and saw the flashing blue lights. Automatically I tapped the brakes in acknowledgement and received a blast of the siren in return. Everyone in the Hanover County Sheriff’s Department knew my car and this was the way we customarily greeted each other. I edged over to the curb so that he could pass, but didn’t slow down much. I was in a hurry. When the car didn’t try to pull around me, I resumed my lane and kept going. I might even have increased my speed a little.

  I was closing Dog Daze Boarding and Training early for the weekend and I had six dogs checking out between two and three. Furthermore, I had promised my young friend Melanie I’d be ready to leave by three thirty sharp and she was so excited about our big weekend together that she had already called me three times that morning to make sure I was on schedule. The truth was, I was not. I always seemed to be running behind these days.

  I had never gotten a speeding ticket in Hanover County in my life, mostly because I was a good driver, but also because I knew the traffic officers would usually give you an extra eight or ten miles per hour over the speed limit outside the city limits and away from school zones. The county was just too big, and the highways too open, to enforce a forty-five-miles-per-hour speed limit consistently. Usually I took every bit of that extra ten miles per hour, and today was no exception.

  That was why I was so surprised when my ears were pierced by the repeated wail of a siren. The blue lights strobed so close on my bumper that they actually hurt my eyes. I said out loud, “What the …?” and stared at the mirror. My back windshield was a sheet of rain and I couldn’t see anything but the racing blue lights. I pulled over, impatient and annoyed as I tried to recall who was on patrol duty on Thursdays and would think it was cute to try to harass me in the pouring rain.

  I waited and watched the mirrors but saw nothing but flashing lights reflected in the rain. I waited so long that I almost ran out of patience and started the car again. Finally there was movement. I watched in my rear mirror as a tall figure in a glistening rain slicker and plastic-covered cap slowly approached my door. I rolled my eyes impatiently and stabbed the button that lowered the window. Rain water splashed in and I shouted, “For heaven’s sake, Deke, is that you? Are you crazy? I’m in a hurry!” By this time my face was splattered with water, the hand and arm nearest the window were soaked, and rain was blowing in on my upholstery. I closed the window and watched him continue his cautious approach through the mirror.

  Only it wasn’t a him. The person who eventually leaned down to peer through my window into the car was female, African American and grim-faced. And there was no such person on staff of the Hanover County Sheriff’s Department. She was not wearing the uniform of a state trooper or anyone else with the authority to pull me over on a deserted highway. Automatically, I reached for my phone.

  She rapped sharply on my window with her knuckles. “Roll down your window, ma’am,” she commanded.

  I did so, mostly because I wanted a better look at her. But when my hand moved toward the button, she stepped back from the car door and I couldn’t see much of anything except the way her hands remained close to her utility belt—just in case, I suppose, I tried to make a break for it.

  The sound of pelting rain was thunderous, so I had to shout to be heard over it. “Who are you?”

  She approached the car again and leaned down to look at me. She had gorgeous ebony skin, now glistening with rain water, and a collar-length braid of coarse black hair. She wore no makeup, but she didn’t need any. What she did wear, to my astonishment, was a Hanover County Sheriff’s Department deputy badge on the outside of her slicker.

  She said, “License and registration, please.”

  I peered at her through the rain. “You’re new, right?”

  She repeated, “License and registration.”

  I pulled out my wallet and produced my driver’s license, mostly because I didn’t know what else to do. My vehicle registration was in the glove compartment. “Listen,” I said, handing her my license, “I know you don’t know who I am …”

  She glanced at my driver’s license, and then at me. Rain bounced off her cap, making a sound like tiny pellets of gravel as it hit the plastic. “It says here your name is Raine Stockton. I need to see your registration.”

  I sighed and unfastened my seatbelt. “I’m sorry I was speeding, but I guess they didn’t tell you the limit isn’t very strictly enforced on this part of the highway.” I stretched across the seat and punched the button that released the glove compartment door. “Maybe you could just give me a warning, and check with the office later.”

  The glove compartment door fell open and the small interior light illuminated the contents. I started to reach inside but she said sharply, “Move your hands away from the glove compartment, ma’am.”

  I scowled in annoyance and confusion, and then I saw what had caught her attention. I groaned out loud and sat back.

  She said, “Place your hands on the wheel.”

  I did.

  “Do you have a license to carry a concealed weapon?”

  I am a dog trainer by trade, a volunteer search and rescue worker by vocation. A certain amount of that work has, over the years, been done at the behest of the sheriff’s department, and after one or two close calls, my ex-husband—who wasn’t my ex then—persuaded me to start including a handgun in the emergency supplies I kept in my pack. He had a point. These mountains are thick with timber rattlers and copperheads, not to mention the occasional mountain lion, and I have not only myself but my dog to protect. When I return from a hike, I usually put the gun in the glove compartment of my car, which is always locked, until I remember to take it inside and put it back in the gun safe.

  I hadn’t remembered to do that yet.

  I sighed. “Of course I do. It’s in the glove compartment with the gun. And my vehicle registration.” I did not, of course, reach for it. She might be a rookie, but I knew the procedure. My father was a judge, my uncle a sheriff, and I had
been married to a law officer for most of my adult life. That would be the same ex-husband who had persuaded me to get a license-to-carry in the first place. The irony was not lost on me.

  She took a step back from the door. “Please step outside.”

  I looked at the rain, looked at her, and replied, “I don’t think so.” I had just come from the Labelle’s Hair and Nails, where I’d paid eighty-five dollars to have my shoulder-length brunette curls trimmed and highlighted into a cute, above-the-ears cut that I was wild about. It’s not that I’m particularly vain, and the real reason behind the haircut was that the long hair had gotten to be completely unmanageable around the dogs. But there was someone I wanted to show off to before the new style was ruined. Besides, it was eighty-five dollars. I picked up my phone.

  She said sharply, “Ma’am, put down the phone.”

  “Hold on.”

  “Please put down the phone and step outside.”

  I glanced up at her incredulously. “In this rain? Seriously? Just give me a minute and we’ll have this straightened out.”

  I was just about to push Send when my car door suddenly flew open and a strong hand grabbed my arm, pulling me from the car. My phone landed on the front seat, far out of reach. I gave a cry of protest and instinctively wrestled against her grip. She grabbed both of my arms, hard, behind my back, and pushed me up against the car. She was really strong. I cried, “Hey!” and when I did she seemed to realize she might have overreacted. She eased her grip, just a little, but I couldn’t have escaped if I’d wanted to as she turned me around and marched me through the rain back toward the flashing blue lights.

  I probably should have been frightened, and I was, a little. But mostly I was shocked, and embarrassed, and only my very good sense kept me from trying to wrench away, or at least to give her a piece of my mind. That kind of behavior hardly ever worked out well for the perpetrator, but I think I understood for the first time why so many people instinctively fought back when an officer made an arrest. When confronted with violence, you tend to react with violence, and before you know it everything is out of hand. As far as I was concerned things were already out of hand, but fortunately for this bully, whoever she was, I was a model of self-control. That did not mean I wouldn’t have a thing or two to say about the situation as soon as she let me go.

  I wasn’t wearing a raincoat, and my shorts and tee shirt were quickly soaked. My hair dripped rainwater into my eyes. My sneakers squished as I splashed through the small river of puddles that had accumulated along the side of the road, and none of this did anything to improve my temper. We got these brief intense showers just about every afternoon in the summer here in the mountains and you’d think I would be more prepared. I wasn’t. And that, as was about to become obvious, wasn’t even the biggest mistake I made that day.

  The vehicle parked behind mine with the flash bar on top was a sleek black SUV, and I felt my first real prickle of alarm because the Hanover County Sheriff’s Department did not own a black SUV. Then I saw the unmistakable HCSD logo lettered on the door in white, and I was even more confused because beneath that familiar logo in large white letters was written K-9 Unit. I blinked and stared, my growing anger overcome by curiosity. Since when did we have a K-9 unit?

  I twisted around to look at my captor. “Who are you?” I asked for the second time.

  Her only reply was a brusque, “Wait in the unit.”

  She opened the back door of the vehicle and guided me inside without another word. I had no way of knowing whether she was placing me under arrest or simply getting me out of the rain, but at this point I was far less interested in the answer to that question than I was in the K-9 Unit stenciled on the side of the car. The cold air from the air-conditioning vents prickled my wet skin and the smell of car leather and gun oil were mixed with the familiar, welcoming scent of wet dog fur. As soon as I was in the backseat, she closed the door and I heard the twin locks snap. I barely noticed her departure, however, because I was completely captivated by the magnificent canine creature in the front seat, separated from me only by a security grid.

  Even in these dire circumstances, I couldn’t help smiling at him, and I almost forgot to be angry. I’ve never met a dog who didn’t make me smile, and besides, my problems weren’t his fault. He looked like a German shepherd, an easy mistake for most people to make. His short, thick coat was a golden tan and his muzzle and ears distinctively marked with black. He had keen, intelligent brown eyes that turned to look at me assessingly through the bars. He was a Belgian Malinois, one of the most impressive breeds in the world for police and military work. How in the world could our little town afford something like this? And why hadn’t anyone told me?

  I am a dog lover by nature, which might be obvious from the kind of work I do—most of which is with my golden retriever, Cisco, who, while he might be a little short on blue ribbons, has saved enough lives to become pretty famous around here. I’m also trial secretary of our local agility club, vice president of the tracking club, and am the entire population of the local chapter of the Golden Retriever Rescue and Purebred Rescue, as well as an active volunteer with the humane society. There is absolutely no chance of my being uncomfortable in any situation in which dogs are present. This was no exception.

  I said softly, “Hello there, big fellow.” I believe in talking to dogs. Most of the time they’re more interesting than people, and this one already had a huge advantage over his handler, being the only one of the team who was not trying to put me in jail. I added, “Welcome to the force. Nice to meet you. Really.”

  He regarded me coolly for another moment, seemed to decide I was no immediate threat, and turned his attention back to the direction in which his handler had gone. I relaxed and settled back against the seat. Things were definitely looking up, now that there was a dog involved.

  Or at least that’s what I thought.

  Less than five minutes later the front door opened and the woman got behind the wheel of the car. She had my papers, now limp with rain, in her hand, along with my pistol. She said, glancing at me in the mirror, “Miss Stockton, are you aware that your license to carry a concealed weapon has expired?”

  Oh, crap. The smug sarcasm with which I had been about to greet her vanished like sun behind a cloud. “That’s just great,” I muttered. Then, because she seemed to be waiting for an answer, I added irritably, “Of course I didn’t know! Listen, if you’ll just radio the office and tell them what happened …”

  She said, “It’s against the law to carry a concealed weapon in the state of North Carolina without a permit. I’m going to have to take you in.”

  I sat forward abruptly. “What?”

  The dog swiveled his head at me and gave a soft growl of warning. I didn’t blame him. He was just doing his job.

  I sat back, but my annoyance was only growing. I was cold, wet and late, and my usual good nature—which was better on some days than others—was fast disintegrating. “You know they have a name for overzealous cops around here, don’t you? It’s called the Barney Fife Syndrome, and I never saw a more perfect example of it. This is definitely not the way to settle in to a new community, I’ll tell you that much. You have no idea how sorry you’re about to be, but don’t say I didn’t try to warn you. Aren’t you supposed to read me my rights or something? ”

  She put the car in gear without response.

  “Hey!” I twisted around to look at my car, sitting forlornly by the side of the road. “Hey, what about my car? Did you at least lock it? I’ve got stuff inside!”

  She pulled out onto the road without response, and I flung my head back against the seat in a rather childish display of exasperation. Needless to say, I made no further attempts at conversation. Neither she nor her dog looked at me again.

  Chapter Two

  By the time we parked in front of the Public Safety building the rain had stopped, the sun was out, and the steam that rose from the wet pavement reminded me of the slow burn my temper was do
ing. She opened the door and I got out, and this time when she took my arm I snapped, “I know the way.”

  She released my arm, and I gave a self-satisfied toss of my wet, ruined hair. But before I could get too carried away with self-congratulations, she spoke a single guttural command in German, and the Malinois appeared out of nowhere to stand at my side. I couldn’t help being impressed. With the dog on one side of me and the officer on the other, I was escorted into the building. Even if I had been a real criminal, there was absolutely no way I would have tried anything under those circumstances. Now that, I thought, sliding an admiring glance down at the dog, is what I call teamwork.

  But as soon as we crossed the threshold of the sheriff’s department and I saw the surprise on the receptionist’s face, my annoyance was back.

  “Hey, Raine,” she said, trying to cover her confusion. “Cute haircut.”

  “Thanks.”

  Then she looked concerned. “Are you okay?”

  I said, probably ungraciously, “I’m soaking wet. Do you have a towel?”

  She actually stood to search for one, but the officer handed her an envelope with my paperwork in it, and she sank back to her chair again. The woman jerked her head curtly toward a row of chairs that were lined up against the wall. “Wait there,” she said.

  I rolled my eyes and walked over to one of the chairs, wet shoes squishing. When I sat down, she gave the dog another curt command in German, and he positioned himself squarely in front of me, his intense, alert gaze watching me. I muttered, “Okay, now you’re just showing off,” as she walked over to one of the cubicles that the deputies used to fill out paperwork and make phone calls. I said to the receptionist, “Annabelle, what’s the deal with …”