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

by Donna Ball

  I glanced over at her. “My first dog,” I said, with difficulty, “I mean my first working dog—she was amazing. Her name was Cassidy. She taught me everything I know about dogs, about search and rescue, about life, really. I can’t tell you how many saves we made together. We were so in sync I didn’t even have to tell her what to do, she just did it. Working with her was like poetry. Like dancing. We were inseparable for almost fourteen years. When people would call me a dog lover, I would always say, No. I love a dog. I always thought there would never be another dog like her. And I was right.”

  To my surprise, Jolene actually glanced at me. Until then I wasn’t sure she was listening, or even interested.

  “When she died it was like she took a piece of me with her. In a way she did. She took a piece of my life—all those years we’d lived through together, the things we’d accomplished, the memories we made. Gone. And the scar she left on my heart was so hard and so thick that for the longest time there was no way for another dog to get in. I didn’t want another dog to get in, because it’s a lot harder to open up your heart than to keep it closed, if you know what I mean, and I just couldn’t. I didn’t have that kind of courage. Even when I got Cisco, it wasn’t the same. I could never love another dog like I loved Cassidy. But after a while … I don’t know. He wasn’t Cassidy, and I didn’t love him the same, but that was okay. It was good, even. In some ways what I have with Cisco is better than it was with Cassidy, and I never thought that would happen. But I think maybe that’s the whole point with dogs. They keep giving us chances, you know—to be better, to grow bigger, to love more. But we have to give them a chance first.”

  Jolene said nothing. I hadn’t expected her to. I rested my head on my knees again and listened to the rain.

  After a long time Jolene spoke. “I think your dog’s okay,” she said. “We would’ve heard a shot if he wasn’t.”

  Scant comfort, maybe. But at least she made the effort.

  And then she frowned. “There’s something strange about this whole setup.”

  I could barely hear her over the rain and thought I had misunderstood. “What?”

  She said, “It’s been over four hours. Nothing is happening. They’re not making any demands. They’re not trying to scare us with their power. They’re not threatening us or mistreating us. They’re not even preparing for a siege. They’re just … keeping us here. Like they’re waiting for something.”

  I found that thought more frightening than any other possibility I’d considered. “Waiting for what?”

  She winced in pain as she shook her head. “I don’t know.” She blew out a breath and leaned her head back against the wall again, closing her eyes. “I can’t think. But whatever it is, it’d better be soon.” She opened her eyes briefly. “So far it’s been a peaceful takeover. But that won’t last. It never does. So … it’d better be soon.”

  The brief downpour gave cover for the advance team, but it also slowed them down considerably. By the landmarks described in the last radio check-in, they were still twenty minutes away from visual contact.

  That was too long.

  “We need to call in the helicopters,” Buck said tensely. “At least we can get pictures. You can drop a SWAT team in.”

  Manahan ignored him.

  Buck strode back to his car and pulled on his flak vest. The rain had left the day dark and steamy, with a ground fog wisping through the woods on either side of the road and leaves dripping in an early twilight. The weather wasn’t over, and the going wouldn’t get any easier. He slammed the car door, opened the trunk, took out his rifle. He started back toward the blockade.

  Manahan said, “Sheriff, you are not authorized for this.”

  Buck said, “This is my county. The safety of every soul in it is my responsibility. That makes me authorized.”

  Behind him, Buck heard other car doors slam. One by one his deputies came to stand behind him. Out of the corner of his eye, Buck noted that Wyn was one of them.

  The patient expression Manahan tried to adapt did not disguise the steel in his eyes. He said, “Sheriff, I appreciate the help you’ve given us so far, but know that I will do whatever I have to to make sure the lives of those children are not endangered by a hothead with a hero complex. We have choppers standing by. When I call for them they’ll be here in five minutes. Until then, we follow procedure.”

  Buck said angrily, “What makes you think that by the time you get finished following procedure there’ll be anybody left alive to endanger? You know as well as I do that if this was a hostage situation they would’ve tried to make contact by now! The chances are—”

  But then he saw Miles Young, who had been leaning against a car a few feet away, straighten up. He saw the look on his face. And he said nothing more.

  Manahan repeated, “We follow procedure.” He turned away.

  Buck started to move forward but Miles Young said in an odd, still tone, “Sheriff.” Buck realized that the other man was no longer looking at him, but peering fixedly at a space over his left shoulder. Buck heard the sound of movement in the brush behind him and he spun around, rifle at the ready.

  “Halt! Police!” he shouted. “Identify yourself!”

  A dozen weapons were pulled and aimed; a dozen officers and agents swung into position as the clear form of a man appeared from the wet shadows of the woods. “Don’t shoot!” he called. “I’m unarmed.”

  And that was when a golden retriever appeared in the mist beside him, tongue lolling, tail wagging, and trotted affably toward them.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “I’m not a part of this!” Buck had Reggie Connor on his face in the road, roughly cuffing his hands behind his back. “I’m turning myself in, but I want immunity, I’m telling you! I’m not a part of this!”

  Buck jerked Reggie to his feet, sweating and breathing hard. “What are you not a part of, you stupid son of a bitch? Where are they? What have they done to the kids?”

  Reggie was soaked and muddy and looked terrified enough to be telling the truth. “I don’t know! They burned up my dad’s car! They told me they were going to borrow it and then they burned the damn thing up! I don’t need no part of this. I didn’t sign up for this!”

  “The camp!” Manahan spoke sharply. “What do you know about the camp?”

  “Nothing, that’s what I’m telling you. I didn’t know what they were planning. It was the dog. It wasn’t until the dog that I figured it out. And that’s when I knew I couldn’t have no part in this! I’m turning myself in, but I want a lawyer!”

  Miles Young was kneeling on the ground, one arm around a wet and bedraggled Cisco, who looked less relaxed to be here than he had a moment ago. Buck swung his head toward Cisco. “What about the dog?” he demanded.

  “It’s his collar,” Reggie said. “There’s writing on it.”

  Before Buck could make the two strides to Cisco, Miles had pulled off his collar and read the message there. His face sagged with relief as he handed the collar to Buck. “They’re alive,” he said.

  In less than five minutes, the plan was in action. The SWAT team was mobilized to access the building by foot; a phalanx of men was organized to surround the camp on the lake road. “This is a silent approach,” Manahan ordered. “You will reconnoiter with the advance team and make no aggressive moves until our intelligence is confirmed. It’s reasonable to expect the approach may be mined. These people have already shown they have access to sophisticated munitions. It is imperative that you maintain cover. Sheriff, stand by to—“

  Suddenly the air was rent by the screech of a police siren. The blast lasted barely more than a second but it seemed to go on half a lifetime and it was loud enough to be heard two states away. When Buck whipped around, eyes searching the controlled chaos that surrounded him, he saw Lyle Reston, looking stricken and horrified, with one arm inside his squad car. He straightened up slowly and into the frozen silence stammered, “Sheriff, I’m sorry. I…I was reaching for my radio and I
accidently …”

  Buck just stared at him.

  “That’s it,” Manahan said grimly. “They know where we are now.” Then, loudly, “Move in, men, full assault mode! Backup teams, stand ready!”

  Buck walked to Reston, who looked increasingly uncomfortable. “Sheriff,” he said, “it was an accident.”

  Buck demanded quietly, “What were you doing on this side of the county this morning? You were supposed to be patrolling in town.”

  A quick shift of his gaze. “You’re right. But I had a tip on Connor’s whereabouts and I decided to follow up. It paid off, too, didn’t it?”

  “Oh yeah?” Buck walked around the unit and opened the trunk. “What kind of tip?”

  His answer wasn’t quite fast enough. “One of the neighbors. He called about the car.”

  Buck came around the car, a handkerchief wrapped around the hand grip of a .44 Magnum. He said, “When we find the bullet that killed Willie Banks, will ballistics match it to this gun?”

  Lyle went very still.

  “One day we’re going to have a long talk about this,” Buck said. “But right now I don’t care why, or how, or what went wrong. What I care about is twenty-five kids and how you’re going to help us get them back to their mamas and daddies. Hand over your service weapon.”

  There was an instant when panic shot through Lyle’s eyes and he looked as though he might do something foolish. The pressure of steel in his ribs stopped him. Wyn said, “Do it.”

  She had always had Buck’s back.

  But even as he was disarmed and cuffed, even as his fellow officers stared at him in confusion and contempt, all Lyle returned was a pitying look. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “It’s over. You’re too late.”

  I was starving. It was past the dogs’ dinnertime, and the children’s too. The kids were cranky. Some of them started crying again, and begging to call their moms and dads. When Margie stood up to go comfort them, a soldier swung his gun at her. Some of the dogs—particularly the spoiled ones like Pepper and Mischief—sat and barked sharply, demanding their dinner. Others chewed or pawed at the bars of their cages.

  Steve muttered, “We have to do something. We can’t just sit here.”

  “Who does this?” whispered Kathy, the nurse. “Who takes a camp full of children and dogs hostage? It’s crazy!”

  “No one is coming for us,” said Counselor Bill. “No one knows we’re here.”

  “They know.” Jolene’s voice was firm, although the effort it cost her to speak was visible. Her lips were cracked and her skin was pinched, and the gauze bandage around her hand was stained with blood. She was dehydrated and clearly in pain. “Procedure is to wait for rescue. Do nothing to provoke the aggressors.”

  “Hey!” one of the soldiers barked, turning his rifle on her. “Shut up!”

  They had never ordered us not to talk before. The strain was starting to show on them too.

  And then the soldier swung the rifle toward Margie. “Quiet those kids down!” And to me, “And the dogs! Shut them up!”

  I said, very calmly, “I don’t have any more treats. They’re hungry and thirsty and they’ve been crated too long. There’s nothing I can do.” I thought to myself, He’s losing it. And my heart started to pound.

  Margie slowly pushed herself to her feet. Her hair was greasy and tangled with sweat and her makeup had long since worn off, but her eyes were defiant and unafraid. She called across the room to the row of children, “Hey, kids! We’re going to have a sing along! Who remembers our camp song?”

  Only the sound of barking and an occasional sob broke the silence. Margie began to sing,

  Oh beautiful, for collie dogs …

  She said, “Come on, kids, you know it! Where are my stars?” She began again:

  Oh beautiful, for collie dogs …

  Another voice, small but true, joined in.

  And German shepherds too …

  When I looked, Melanie was on her feet. I gave her the biggest smile I could find, even as my eyes flooded with tears. One by one other voices joined, and other children stood, until the sound of their singing almost drowned out the barking of the dogs.

  For poodles and Siberians

  With shining eyes of blue!

  Oh Labradors, oh Rottweilers …

  That was when we heard the police siren.

  For a moment nothing happened. The singing voices trickled off, the dogs continued to bark, and some to howl. It was only one sweet sharp blast of hope, over as abruptly as it had begun, but it froze our world for a moment; it changed everything. No one blinked, no one breathed. For a moment I think we weren’t entirely sure of what we had heard.

  And then, movement. The radios on the collars of the soldiers started to crackle. They spoke words into them that I could neither hear nor comprehend. I looked at Jolene. Her nostrils were flared, her expression still and alert. The soldiers started to move toward the doors, backing away, covering us with their rifles. And then they were gone.

  For a moment we just stared at each other. Someone whispered, “Is that it? Are they gone?”

  Melanie launched herself across the room into my arms and I swept her up, hugging her harder than I’ve ever hugged anyone in my life. The other kids started to swarm into the arms of the instructors and counselors, their protectors. Steve ran toward the nearest door until Jolene shouted, “No! Stay away from the doors!” And he had the good sense to listen to her.

  She made us all move away from the walls and doors to the center of the room, near the dogs, and we huddled there, I don’t know how long. We watched the doors. We clung to each other. We waited. And then we heard the sound of helicopters overhead, lots of them, close. My face broke into a broad grin as I turned my face toward the ceiling, and so did Steve’s and Margie’s and Kathy’s and Lee’s. Melanie looked up at me anxiously. “Is it over?”

  And then I heard the sweetest words I had ever heard in my life. “FBI! Stand back!”

  I hugged Melanie tightly. “Yeah,” I said. “It’s over.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Sunday night. We were all curled up together on Miles’s big sofa, a bowl of popcorn between us, watching Independence Day on his giant-screen television. Pepper slept next to Melanie and Cisco was stretched out on the sofa next to me, his head in my lap. I did not like to encourage him to get on the furniture, but Miles had no scruples whatsoever. And besides, this was a special occasion.

  Mischief and Magic, the clowns, lolled belly-up on the plush rug in front of the television. Nike, mine for the weekend, had dutifully explored every inch of the double-wide for danger, and had eventually settled in a corner where she could keep an eye on everything: Miles, me, Melanie, the dogs, the television. The way she lay so alertly in sphinx position with her gaze straight ahead made it look as though she was actually enjoying the movie.

  Melanie fell asleep before the White House blew up, her head on her dad’s shoulder, one hand in the popcorn bowl and the other entangled in Pepper’s fur. I woke up with a start around the time Will Smith was dragging the alien across the desert by the tentacles. Miles soothed me with a kiss atop my head. “Okay?” he whispered.

  I nodded and settled against his shoulder again, stroking Cisco’s ear.

  So much about the past twenty-four hours was a blur, and was likely to remain so. I remember Melanie running into her father’s arms, and I remember the look on his face as he swept her up, but I do not remember how we got out of the building. I remember Cisco galloping to me, all grins and waving tail, and I remember falling to my knees and sobbing out loud as I wrapped my arms around him. I remember Miles kissing me and holding my face with strong fingers curved against my scalp and whispering, “I love your hair!” which made me laugh and cry even harder.

  Someone told me that two of the insurgents had been shot trying to escape. I don’t know who they were. Someone else—I don’t know who—told me about Reggie Connor and how Cisco had found him and how he turned out to be in co
llusion with the militants the whole time, but none of it made much sense to me. I remember thinking, dazed, that it must have been Reggie’s sock Cisco had found by the lake after all, and that poor Gene Hicks, a bit player in this whole drama, had probably moved on long before any of this ever happened.

  What made even less sense to me was Lyle Reston. I had known him since he was six.

  They took Jolene to the hospital, where I heard she had surgery on her hand but was doing fine and would be released on Monday. Nike came home with me.

  I hadn’t had much sleep. The FBI interviews had lasted until midnight, and then I stayed to help Margie and Steve with the hysterical parents who came to pick up their children. Somehow I ended up at Miles’s house with all the dogs. He made me something wonderful to eat. I slept.

  The FBI was still combing the woods with special search teams and helicopters, but I had a feeling they wouldn’t find any more of the terrorists. This had been too well planned.

  It would take weeks, if then, for all the details to be sorted out, but the prevailing theory was that Camp Bluebird had been used as a training site and munitions dump for the radicals, just as I’d guessed. The arrival of a camp filled with children and dogs had been an inconvenience for them, to say the least, and the addition of an explosives dog demo pushed the situation to critical. When Jolene arrived early and Willie knew he couldn’t finish moving all the munitions before Nike discovered them, he decided to go rogue, figuring he had a better chance at survival by trying to sell the stolen munitions himself than to face the charges that would be levied if he was discovered to be working for the militants. Lyle Reston claimed he carried out the orders of a man called the Professor when he shot Willie. He still denied the murder of Carl Brunner, but a ballistics test of the bullet found deep in the frame of Jessie Connor’s burned out car told a different story.