Lone Wolf

by Sara Driscoll

  “Thanks.” Meg swallowed back any misgivings and looked down to find Hawk’s eyes already fixed on her. “Come, Hawk. Let’s get to work.”

  Friday, April 14, 1:22 PM

  Strip Mall, Highway 40

  La Vale, Maryland

  Meg followed one of the state police handlers and his Belgian Malinois through what was left of the breakfast bar’s front door and back out into daylight. Hawk followed two steps behind her, dejection in every movement. His head drooped and his tail hung limply, his steps dragging. Meg’s blue coveralls were coated in soot and she knew her face had to be as well, from the gritty air inside the restaurant. She paused, letting Hawk catch up to her, and ran a gloved hand down the black fur on the back of his neck. It came away smeared with soot.

  She caught sight of Brian, between squad cars still in place with lights swirling and flashing. He sat on a concrete curb at the edge of the parking lot, Lacey sitting between his knees, her chin on his thigh as he rubbed his hands back and forth over her blackened fur.

  “Come on, Hawk, let’s go see Lacey.”

  Hawk’s ears perked up at Lacey’s name and his pace quickened for a second or two before slowing again.

  She frowned down at him, but kept moving across the parking lot until they reached Brian.

  He looked up at her. Soot coated his face, except for white lines radiating from his eyes and bracketing his mouth. “We struck out in the tax office. Any luck in the restaurant?”

  Meg let out a long, discouraged breath as she sat down next to him on the curb, set down her helmet and heavy gloves, and coaxed her dog closer to pet and praise. “Not one. They didn’t have a chance. There were a few who were closer to the door, like they were trying to get out, but some were under rubble from the explosion. And even if they’d survived the bomb, they didn’t survive the fire from the gas line break. We found fifteen.”

  “Twenty-two for us. Don’t know how many were in the methadone clinic; the staties are in there. I’m hoping no more than a few. Hopefully it was too early in the morning for addicts to get out of bed and go for treatment.” He dropped his head to rest his forehead between Lacey’s ears. “Who the fuck is doing this?”

  Meg’s eyebrows shot upward. It was unusual for Brian to swear. Normally, he was the happy-go-lucky one in the unit, always with a quick grin or a stupid joke to raise the spirits. For him to get sucked in to the abyss normally reserved for others said something about what he and Lacey had just gone through. She laid a hand over his forearm and squeezed gently. “Bad?”

  He only turned his head far enough to fix her with a sidelong gaze. “Bad doesn’t cover it. Most of what we found was in pieces. Not that what you had must have been any better. Most of what you found had to be burned to a crisp.”

  “Not most. All.” Her gaze rose to the remains of the building. Now only wisps of gray spiraled from the depths of the wreckage, but the nightmare remained contained inside. “I want to hurt him for doing this.”

  “Get in line. And I guarantee we’re not the only ones who want that. Jesus H. Christ, Meg, I understand having a grudge against the government, but this isn’t how you solve it. You don’t fix your issue by killing innocent civilians.” His hand curled into a fist, the muscles under her hand tightening to rock. “He can’t be right in the head.”

  The anger rose so violently in Meg it caught her off guard and left her shaking. “Don’t you go making excuses for him,” she spat. “He is one hundred percent responsible for this carnage.”

  Brian turned his arm under her hand and caught her fingers in his, held on in solidarity. “Hold up, that’s not what I meant. And I agree he’s responsible. I didn’t mean he was insane, just twisted. He sees his actions as justified because his almighty cause is important. Everyone else is just collateral damage. And now he’s hit the IRS and the Department of Agriculture. Who’s next? The Treasury? Health and Human Services? Veterans Affairs? The DoD?”

  “Any of them.” Meg pulled her fingers free to scrub both her hands over her face. She pulled them away to find the soot smeared over her palms. “All of them. Hell, Brian, who knows?”

  “Maybe we’ll be lucky and he’ll feel free to talk to that Post reporter again.”

  Meg turned to look at Brian with speculation. “You think that guy knows something?”

  “McCord? The thought had crossed my mind. Why did the bomber pick him? Does he know him personally? Professionally? Did he pick his name out of a hat?” His eyes narrowed to slits. “Or is McCord really the bomber?”

  “You mean he sent himself that letter because he knew it would be untraceable through that system?”

  “It would be pretty smart.”

  “I don’t know much about him,” Meg said. “But I’ve read some of his articles. He’s clearly got a lot more education than the bomber seems to have.”

  “Or he’s faking that lack of refinement. But I’m just tossing out ideas. What I can tell you is that I’ve seen him in a dog park not far from my place. He must live nearby and he brings his golden to the park. A young one, so they come often to burn off energy. I recognized him from his byline picture.”

  “Really . . .” Meg drew the word out, her eyes narrowed on the asphalt in front of her, but seeing nothing.

  “Feel like doing a little off the books investigation?”

  “Actually, yes, I do.” She turned and met Brian’s eyes, some of the weight of their nightmare search through the restaurant finally starting to slide from her shoulders. “Look out, Mr. McCord. You’re not going to know what hit you until it’s already run you down.”

  Chapter 10

  Schutzhund: A dog sport developed in the early 1900s emphasizing athleticism and excellence in tracking, obedience, and protection. The dog must never bite unless it or the handler is attacked, and it must always stop biting on command.

  Friday, April 14, 7:14 PM

  S Street Dog Park

  Washington, DC

  Meg pushed through the wrought iron gate into one of the two park entry and exit vestibules. Double-gated to ensure no dog could escape, it was only big enough to hold one dog-owner pair at a time.

  “Ready, Saki?”

  Saki raised her wide head, gazing up at Meg with vibrant blue eyes. The excited tongue lolling out of her mouth and the quiver running through her body pretty much answered Meg’s question.

  “In we go then.” Meg bent and unclipped the leash from Saki’s pink leather collar before giving her lower back a rub. Then she unlatched the gate and held it open. “Okay, Saki, play!” Saki was off like a bullet toward the pack of dogs on the far side of the park. Meg watched her go—a small American bully, she was a “stubby” dog standing only about eighteen inches at the shoulder, but she could run surprisingly fast for such short legs. While pit bulls weren’t outlawed in DC, many people still believed the “breed” was dangerous. Meg wanted to sit each of them down and explain which end of the leash was the problem. It wasn’t any breed that should be legislated; it was the people who owned them. Saki was living proof of the gentle nature of many pit bulls. Her cleft upper palate—revealing an underbite of lower teeth and incisors—softened her look and made people naturally less afraid of her. A lovely soft smoky-gray with a white chest and belly and those brilliant blue eyes, she was short of leg with wide shoulders and a deep chest. Her diminutive size made her less threatening, and once people got to know her, they realized what a gentle girl she was. Saki was hands down the best therapy dog she and her sister had ever trained, and was a living testament to her breed.

  Watching Saki safely integrating into the pack racing around the park, Meg surveyed the space around her. The park was triangular, fitting neatly into the plot formed by the intersection of S Street, New Hampshire Avenue NW, and 17th Street NW. Encircled by a waist-high wrought iron fence, the park enclosed facilities for both canine and human. The largest part of the park was the huge open space where the dogs now ran. Carpeted with K9Grass it was a tough, long-lasting, mainte
nance-free surface for the dogs to romp on.

  Flowering cherry trees were planted at the edge of the turf bordering 17th Street. Each was encircled with an iron bench for owners to sit and watch while their dogs played only feet away. Overlooked by historic brownstones on the west, it was a lovely, peaceful oasis in the middle of a bustling metropolitan city.

  Meg took a deep breath of fresh air. Hours away from the bomb site this morning and even after a very long shower, she could still smell char in her nostrils, so the sweet smell of cherry blossoms was a welcome relief.

  She scanned the owners around her. There were about twelve dogs using the park right now and each one of them had at least one owner present. She knew what McCord looked like from his byline picture, but didn’t see anyone even remotely resembling him. As a dog person, she automatically looked over the dogs; if you saw one you recognized, then you knew the owner was also present. She remembered Brian’s statement that McCord had a golden retriever, so she scanned the dogs with that in mind—not a golden among them. Well, there was never any guarantee he’d come tonight. Or maybe he’d already come and gone. She’d tried to gauge when he might visit based on a standard workday, but he was a reporter and they often worked weird hours. So she might have to try again tomorrow. Or the next day.

  Saki was part of her camouflage. Extremely aware of the picture in the Washington Post, Meg wanted to stay under the radar. There was less chance she’d be recognized with a different dog, so she had left Hawk at home after his hard day to rest with Blink and brought Saki out to play. For nothing, as it turned out, but she couldn’t regret the outing as she watched Saki race a beagle to the far end of the park with a happy bark.

  Still keeping an eye on Saki as she played, Meg strolled along the line of cherry trees, stopping every once in a while to simply breathe in the freshness of spring. She loved DC in April. After a long hard winter, the city came alive again in young, tender grass, bright green leaves, and blossoms bursting from every—

  Meg stopped dead in her tracks at the sight of a tall man standing on the corner of New Hampshire Avenue NW and S Street, a golden retriever at his knee. A young, very bouncy golden retriever. Sitting down on a bench under a cherry tree, her gaze stayed locked on him as the light changed and he and the dog crossed and quickly traversed S Street. Circling onto 17th, he entered the park through the same gate she and Saki had just come through minutes before.

  She’d taken the time before leaving home to Google McCord. She already knew a little about him—he’d become a household name for a short time when the tragedy in Haditha, Iraq, and his part in blowing it wide open came to light—but wanted to know more. He carried the general reputation of a hotshot, but that didn’t surprise her. That was exactly the type of personality that tended to go to war zones to get the story. Danger probably gave him a thrill.

  But what she’d read surprised her. In interviews he was more thoughtful than expected, and showed honest emotion when talking about his experiences in Iraq. But he’d been ruthless when he talked about the investigation into the American marines who killed twenty-four civilian men, women, and children in Haditha. War was one thing, as was protecting yourself against an armed combatant, but killing innocent children and harmless, unarmed elders was inexcusable. He was clearly at peace with his part in revealing the cruelties done by his own countrymen.

  As part of the FBI and as an ex-cop, Meg’s distrust of the media was bone deep, but she grudgingly respected what he’d done. When he’d finally come home, instead of using that notoriety to pave the way to high profile stories, he’d nearly gone underground. He still wrote for the Post, and his stories often graced the front page, but it was done quietly. There were no rounds of media interviews, and no best-selling tell-all about his experiences. For all intents and purposes, he’d closed the door on that part of his life and moved on.

  Inside the vestibule, McCord released the retriever and then pulled open the gate into the park. He stood for a moment just inside the fence watching the dog run toward the constantly shifting pack. He coiled the leash and stuffed it away, and then jammed his hands in his pockets, his stance stiff, and his shoulders riding high toward his ears, a picture of stress.

  Not sure how long he’d stay at the park, Meg pushed up from the bench and strolled casually toward him. She’d learned long ago that nothing made conversation with a stranger easier than dog talk. She pulled Saki’s leash out of her pocket, casually and unmistakably marking herself as a pet owner. She stopped just a few feet from him, watching the dogs in companionable silence for a moment. “Is that your golden?” she asked, turning slightly toward him.

  He turned to look at her. Dressed casually in blue jeans and a denim shirt with the cuffs rolled up his forearms, he had dark blond hair left slightly shaggy and clear blue eyes shielded by wire-rimmed glasses. It gave him an attractive yet studious appearance. The lines around his eyes only magnified that look and gave him character. Eye on the prize, Meg. He’s not a man, he’s a reporter. Even in her mind, the descriptor dripped acid.

  “Yeah, he’s mine.” Suspicion laced McCord’s words. “Did he do something?”

  Meg stopped coiling and uncoiling the leash in surprise at his tone. “Do something? No. He’s just a beautiful dog.”

  “Good.” He let out a long sigh. “Sorry, he’s been driving me crazy lately. Gets into everything, never seems to sit still.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Ten months.”

  “Ah . . .”

  He sent her a sidelong look. “What does ‘Ah . . .’ mean?”

  “I’ve seen more than a few puppies in my time, quite a few goldens among them. They tend to be high energy and rambunctious. Is he neutered yet?”

  He turned and faced her full-on now, hands on his hips. “Are you one of those militant dog types?”

  In her surprise at his sudden change in attitude, the fact that he was a reporter totally slipped Meg’s mind, and she didn’t know whether to laugh or step back a pace in alarm. Someone was riding a fine edge tonight. So she went with laughter. “No, although I’m in favor of spaying and neutering. We have enough animals out on the streets as it is. Why I asked is because a lot of goldens really settle down after the procedure and become much calmer. Most owners do it around eight to ten months of age for bigger dogs, so he’s old enough if you wanted to take that step. Or were you planning on breeding him?”

  He continued to stare at her. “You know, this is kind of a pushy conversation. I don’t even know your name.”

  She pasted on a sunny smile—hoping it was convincing—and held out her hand. “Meg. See that stubby gray pittie out there? That’s Saki. She’s a certified therapy dog. My sister and I train dogs and she runs an obedience school.”

  “So not pushy, just informed.” His smile was sheepish as he shook her hand. “Clay. So it’s something that could calm Cody down?”

  “Can’t promise it, but most of the time, yes. Some obedience lessons might go a long way too, if you’re interested.”

  “I’ve been thinking about it. But I don’t know where to start.”

  Meg pulled a card out of her pocket; she always carried a few on her for just this scenario. “You could start here; this is my sister’s card.” She handed it to him and then made a show of staring at him as if puzzled. “You seem familiar to me somehow. Are you on TV?”

  “Close. I’m an investigative reporter at the Washington Post. You’ve maybe seen my picture with my byline.”

  “That’s it. Clay . . . Clay McCord, right? The one named after the cowboy.”

  He drew back in surprise. “You know who Clay McCord is? Not me, I mean, the ‘real’ one.”

  “My dad has a thing for old TV westerns. As soon as anything was released on video, it went right onto his Christmas list. I grew up on Rawhide and Gunsmoke. Or, in your case, The Deputy.”

  “It’s not one of the better known shows. Most people don’t connect the name.”

  “Did your pa
rents do it on purpose?”

  “Name me that?” He rolled his eyes, giving his head an exasperated shake. “My dad grew up with the show when it aired. He was just the right age to be influenced by it. There was this deputy, who always got his man, who just happened to have the same last name as him. I think he thought about him for a long time as an older brother to look up to. So when I was born, he pushed for the name. My mother only found out later who I was named after because she’d never heard of the show or the character. She was not amused that her son was named after a cowboy.”

  “Hold on . . . Clay McCord. Aren’t you the reporter the bomber contacted? That was your name attached to the story?”

  “That’s me.”

  Meg leaned in as if they were sharing confidences. “And the FBI let you publish it?”

  “Look, Meg, you seem really nice, but I came to get away from the job and to get some fresh air. Not to talk shop and rehash my family history.” He started to turn away from her. “Enjoy your night.”

  She reached out a hand to stop him, pulling him back around. By the time he’d turned around, temper sparking in his eyes, her FBI identification was in her other hand, flipped open and in his face. “Some of us can’t get away from the job. Some of us had to deal with the second bombing just a few hours ago.” She flipped the ID shut and slid it back into her pocket. “Meg Jennings, Forensic Canine Unit, FBI.”

  Temper died away and a mixture of compassion and caution filled his face. “Agent Jennings—”

  “Handlers aren’t agents. We’re highly trained canine experts.”

  “So you’re not really law enforcement.”

  Part of her knew her own spike of irritation at his misunderstanding wasn’t really reasonable, but she stepped up and into him anyway, her voice low. “We’re as law enforcement as it gets. On top of that, I was Richmond PD K-9 patrol for six years before I took a step sideways into the FBI. We’re not bumbling animal lovers. We’re K-9.”