Home of the Brave (Raine Stockton Dog Mysteries Book 9) Page 4

  Instead, I merely gave him a cool look and said, “Thank you, Melanie. I’m glad you like it.” Then I changed the subject with a smile. “Hey, you’ll never guess who I met today. A real live bomb-sniffing dog! He’s the newest member of our sheriff’s department.”

  “No kidding!” Her eyes went big. “German shepherd or Malinois?”

  “Malinois,” I replied, unaccountably proud of her for knowing the difference. “He speaks German and,” I added triumphantly, “he’s going to do a demo for us at camp!”

  “Cool!”

  “His name is Nike,” I added. I could feel Miles examining my new haircut in the way a surgeon might examine diseased tissue. It was beginning to get on my nerves.

  “She,” corrected Melanie. “Nike was the winged goddess of victory. If her name is Nike, she’s a she.”

  I lifted my eyebrows. “No kidding. I wondered why they’d name a police dog after a running shoe. How’d you know that?”

  She shrugged. “Everybody knows that.”

  I lifted an eyebrow. “Okay then. Why don’t you put Pepper in the play yard and run and get my dogs’ leashes from the back porch. Your dad’ll load your stuff into my car and then we’ll be ready to go.”

  “Okay,” she agreed readily, and took off toward the house at a trot.

  “Don’t let Pepper bite the leash!” I called after her.

  She bent down and took the leash from Pepper’s mouth, then held the leash straight above the dog’s head so she couldn’t reach it, just as I had taught her. I smiled with approval.

  “You didn’t even mention it,” Miles said.

  I was confused. “Mention what?”

  “That you were thinking about getting your hair cut.”

  “Oh for heaven’s sake. I didn’t think about it. I just did it.” Impatiently, I started toward his car to get Melanie’s things.

  “You might have at least asked me what I thought.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Now it was my turn to stop and stare. “That’s the most sexist thing I’ve ever heard!”

  “I liked your hair long.”

  “Do you ask me every time you get a haircut?”

  “That’s not the point and you know it. The point is that you didn’t even take my opinion into account. You didn’t care what I thought.”

  I was both incredulous and incensed. This was definitely not the way I had pictured the afternoon going. I thought I’d tell him about getting arrested, and he’d find a way to make me laugh about it, the way he always did. Then I’d tell him about the exotic new woman on the force, with her military background and her precision-trained dog, and he would be interested and impressed, because just about everything interested Miles. And then we’d speculate on how she’d ended up here and whether or not she had a prayer of ever fitting in, and eventually I’d casually mention that my ex-husband’s girlfriend was back in town and back on the force, and I’d see the compassion in his eyes and that would make me feel better. We wouldn’t talk about it now, but eventually we would, because Miles had a way of making hard conversations easy, even when you didn’t want to have them. Meantime, we’d talk about camp and all the fun things Melanie and I were going to do and how much he’d miss us both … Besides, I’d really thought he’d like my hair.

  “Excuse me,” I said coolly, “let me get this straight. I’m supposed to ask you before I get my hair cut but you can’t even bother to inform me before you throw your support behind the opposition candidate for sheriff?”

  He looked momentarily taken aback. “What? What are you talking about?”

  I opened the back cargo door and hauled out Pepper’s overnight bag, a zippered canvas tote discretely marked with a high-end paw print logo and outfitted with multiple pockets, O-rings and hooks for necessities like treat bags and pickup bags, a built-in water bottle holder and a waterproof interior bag for kibble. I knew all this because I had helped Melanie pick it out from the pet supply catalogue. I slung the strap over my shoulder and replied shortly, “Forget it. Just get the crate, will you?”

  Miles swung Melanie’s sleeping bag and backpack over one shoulder and effortlessly lifted the wire crate in its nylon holder in the other hand. He followed me to my car. “Are you trying to tell me you’ve decided to run for sheriff? Because that’s the only reason I can think of that you’d have any interest whatsoever in whom I’m voting for.”

  “I didn’t say ‘voting for.’” My tone was short. “I said ‘support.’ And there are a lot of people who are interested in what you do or don’t do in this election, Miles. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt you to remember that not all of them are on your side, I don’t care how much money you throw around. Nobody likes an outsider who comes in here trying to tell us how to run our business.”

  “There’s the girl I know and love,” he murmured.

  Miles and I had been on opposite sides of every political issue that arose since the day we’d met, along with a host of other things. In fact, we had met when I headed up a committee that tried to file an injunction against him, and my name had been on at least two law suits filed against him since then. Not a very propitious start to a romance, granted, but that was who we were. There was absolutely no reason I should expect this election to be any different.

  Even though his voice sounded amused, I knew he wasn’t. This was just his way of getting around a fight which had somehow, at some point, become my fault. The worst part was that he was right. It wouldn’t be fair to Melanie to ruin her big weekend by fighting and I certainly wasn’t going to be the one who got blamed for it.

  I passed him a handful of bungee ties and said, “Crate on top.”

  I took Melanie’s backpack and arranged it in the spot I’d saved for it on the backseat floor in between Pepper’s bag and my own while Miles went around the car to secure the crate. I do a lot of traveling with my dogs and am an expert packer. Transporting two humans, four dogs and a weekend’s worth of supplies was a piece of cake for me. With the crates on top, I packed everything else on the floor between the bench seat and the front seat, unrolled our sleeping bags on top, attached a doggie hammock between the two seats, and created a wide, comfortable space for two dogs to lounge on the trip. Two more dogs would go in the back cargo area. I even had room left over for a rolling cart to assist with unloading when we got there, and a cooler that held Cisco’s frozen food and a few treats for Melanie and me.

  Miles double-checked the security of the crates and I waved at Melanie, who was in the play yard with multiple leashes draped around her neck, throwing a ball for the dogs in self-defense. “Girl assistant!” I shouted. “Release the hounds!”

  She waved back and called, “Roger that!”

  For some reason that reminded me of the sullen Deputy Jolene, which immediately dampened my mood. But as soon as Melanie opened the gate I was grinning again. A herd of dogs thundered toward us, tongues lolling, tails wagging, tripping and skidding in their enthusiasm, and even Miles laughed and knelt to ruffle fur and scratch ears when the four canines piled upon us, pressing their wriggling bodies close and competing for the most attention. We got them sorted out and fastened into their individual seat belts—Pepper and Cisco in the backseat, Magic and Mystery in the cargo area—and Miles said, “Are you sure you’re going to be able to handle all these dogs? I can check in on the little ones if you want. I’m going to be here all weekend.”

  I knew he was just trying to be nice, but I rolled my eyes anyway. “You do know who you’re talking to, right? Besides, Mischief and Magic hardly ever get to do anything. This is their vacation.”

  Now the glint of amusement in his eyes was genuine. “Right.” He turned to Melanie. “Okay, munchkin, give me a hug.” She did so, although in a rather perfunctory manner. He kissed her hair noisily and she squirmed. “Have a good time. Drink plenty of water. Don’t forget the sunscreen. Don’t stay up all night giggling.”

  “Dad!” she protested. “I’ve been to camp before!”

  “Call me
if you need anything.”

  “No phones until 7:00 p.m.,” I reminded him. “Camp rules.”

  He repeated firmly, “Call me if you need anything. I’m only half an hour away.”

  “Forty-five minutes,” I corrected, going around to the driver’s side door.

  “Bye, Dad.” Melanie finally managed to escape his embrace and scurried into the passenger seat. “I’ll call. They make you call at camp. Every night.”

  He smiled. “I love you, sweetie. Have fun.”

  “Love you back.” She slammed the door and tugged at her seat belt. “I will!”

  Miles came around to my door and leaned in. “Do you have everything? Is your phone on?”

  “I’ve been to camp before, too, Dad,” I said, and started the engine. Cisco panted in my ear and Pepper gave a small excited yip.

  He frowned. “Don’t be a smart-ass. It’s a lot of responsibility, all those kids.”

  “And dogs,” I pointed out.

  “Precisely.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Miles, there’re three counselors and four instructors. That’s a ratio of practically three to one. That’s what you’re paying for, remember?”

  “It’s three twenty,” Melanie said, looking anxious.

  I reached for the door handle.

  “Don’t speed,” he cautioned, catching the door. “They’re not going to start without you.”

  “I never speed,” I told him, not entirely truthfully.

  He leaned in and brushed my cheek with a kiss. It was more of a gesture than a genuine demonstration of affection; a girl can tell. He straightened up and closed the door, then said through the open window, “Be careful.”

  “Seventy-two hours,” I replied impatiently, reaching for the gear shift. “We’ll be back in seventy-two hours. Chill, for heaven’s sake.”

  He thrust his hands into his jeans pockets and looked sternly back at me. “A lot can happen in seventy-two hours,” he returned.

  I just gave an impatient shake of my head and put the car in gear. “Bye, Miles.”

  “A lot!” he called after me.

  Melanie and I waved out of our separate windows and shared a grin about her overprotective dad. Only later would I think back on what he had said and then I’d feel bad, because he knew exactly how much could happen in seventy-two hours. He had been with me when it had, more than once, and when I remembered that, I wished I had been nicer to him.

  Hindsight is always twenty-twenty.

  Chapter Five

  “The first patriots, back in 1776, met in taverns, in barns and in roadhouses,” said the Professor with a small smile, “and they overthrew the tyranny of the mightiest nation on earth. I’d like to say we’re mighty grateful for the use of Brother Henry’s basement while we defend from tyranny the mightiest nation on earth.”

  He inclined a gracious nod toward their host, a middle-aged man with slightly thinning hair and bulked-up biceps and lats that he liked to show off in a USMC tee shirt that belonged to his son. Henry nodded back.

  “Just think,” the Professor went on, “what our forefathers might have accomplished if they’d had a Keg-o-Rator and a pool table, like we do here today.” He was a charismatic man with a buzz cut and a square jaw, dressed today in pressed khakis and a polo shirt. He was a good leader, firm but fair, well liked and well respected. Some of the men claimed to know his real name, but no one actually did. Most did not care. In the chain of command, he gave the orders. That was all that mattered.

  A chuckle went around the group with his remark, but it was obligatory, and did not quite break the tension. They were gathered here tonight for serious business. They all knew that.

  They were fathers, husbands, deacons of the church. They were mechanics, business owners, teachers, landscapers and unemployed. Some of them had college degrees, some had barely finished high school. Most had done military service. They stayed in shape with weekend drills and once a month held practice maneuvers in the woods and gorges and bald peaks of their native land. On these occasions they told their wives and girlfriends, their bosses and employees, that they were going fishing with the guys, or leading a Boy Scout camping trip, or helping with a mission project for the church. They never regretted the lie or wavered in telling it, because their Cause was just, and because they had taken an oath.

  They ranged in age from twenty-five to fifty, and they had gathered for this emergency-called meeting on a weekday evening at Henry Middleton’s pleasant brick ranch at the end of Camelback Road on less than an hour’s notice. Henry lived alone, his wife having left him ten years ago and his son now serving overseas, and his place was on eight fairly isolated acres. It was unlikely that anyone would notice the two dozen haphazardly parked cars and pickup trucks in the driveway and yard, but if they did he would simply invite them in, in that jovial way of his, to join the pool tournament.

  They sat on ladder-back chairs and folding chairs, on the plaid club chairs and on the faux-suede sofa over which the “Don’t Tread on Me” flag that was ubiquitous to groups such as theirs had been hastily tacked. A few held red plastic cups of beer, but no one was drinking. None of the men sitting in Henry Middleton’s basement were under the illusion that they were here to play pool. They were here because something had gone wrong.

  The Professor got to the point, his expression sobering. “Gentlemen, you know why we’re here. The threat has been neutralized. I repeat, the threat has been neutralized, although not without some risk to certain of our members. We all knew what we were getting into when we signed up. Am I right?” He repeated, more forcefully, “Am I right?”

  To which the response came with equal force, and to a man: “Yes sir!”

  He looked around the group somberly for a moment. “The tree of liberty must, from time to time, be refreshed by the blood of tyrants and of patriots,” he said. “Do you know who said that, my friends? Thomas Jefferson.” And that was why they called him the Professor. He knew those things. His eyes were fierce as he said, “Remember that when the slings and arrows of the world start coming your way. We stand on the shoulders of giants to wave our flag of liberty today, gentlemen. Giants!”

  The passionate murmurs of agreement that went around the room would have been cheers under other circumstances. A few raised their red cups, but no one drank.

  “The mission has not been compromised,” said the Professor firmly. As he spoke, he walked back and forth before the group; not pacing, precisely, but stalking. Meeting eyes. Reading expressions. Holding firm. “We are a go for July 4, thirteen hundred hours. Your orders are unchanged. Bravo squadron will execute at eleven hundred hours as directed. Alpha squadron will be in place at twelve hundred hours as directed. Charlie squadron will stand by. Are there questions?”

  For a moment there was nothing, but it was clear by the way the Professor waited, his eyes searching each and every one of them with terrifying patience, that he expected something. And when it happened, it was no surprise.

  A man sitting in one of the folding chairs stood. His jaw was set. He had rehearsed. “Sir,” he said crisply. “Recommend the mission be postponed, sir.”

  Replied the Professor, “Explain, soldier.”

  “Our headquarters have been compromised,” said the soldier. “Munitions may be in jeopardy. Security has been threatened. A police investigation may be underway. In my estimation, sir, the launch date should be reconsidered.”

  The Professor nodded, thinking it over. “In your estimation,” he repeated, without judgment.

  The soldier squared his shoulders. “Yes sir.”

  “I see.” There was a note of compassion, even pity in his voice. The other men shifted their gazes uneasily away from the soldier who had had the temerity to speak up. “And in your estimation, soldier, just how should we describe our situation to High Command? Should we say we’re worried, or we’re scared, or we think something might go wrong?” He did not raise his voice, or change his posture in any way. In fact, his voice ac
tually grew quieter, and more controlled, with each word. Only his eyes changed.

  The young man swallowed hard. “No, sir,” he said, forcefully. And he sat down.

  The Professor looked around the assembly for a moment. “Gentlemen,” he said quietly, “do you know who you are? Do you understand your power? Look around this room. Look!”

  The last word was shouted; shouted so loud that it reverberated around the acoustically sound basement, and the men stiffened in their chairs. They looked as ordered.

  “What do you see?” demanded the Professor. “Twenty men? Thirty?” His eyes were blazing now, his nostrils flared. “Wrong! You are a hundred thousand strong, gentlemen! Your brothers are lined up across this nation, waiting for you—yes, you!—to act. You hold history in your hands.” As he spoke, he paced off the group, stopping with each word in front of a different individual, holding him with his eyes and his words. “ Every. Single. One. Of. You.”

  He stood silently for a moment before them, hands clasped behind his back, surveying them all with quiet authority. He said, “We have met with challenges. But we’ve also been favored with fortune. Why? Because our Cause is just. This mission will proceed as planned. I want a twenty-four-hour surveillance on the munitions site. The situation is not ideal, but it can be managed, are we in agreement on that?”

  There was a resounding, “Yes sir!”

  He nodded curtly. “Our goal is to keep civilian casualties to a minimum. We are not baby-killers. But remember how many lives have been lost already. We must have the courage to do what is necessary, and if some fall in the course of this battle, they are heroes of war, and will be honored as such. We will do what is necessary,” he repeated forcefully. He squared his shoulders and held them with his gaze and demanded, “What are we, gentlemen?”

  The assembly surged to its feet and responded with one voice, “We are Patriots, sir!”

  The Professor smiled and dismissed his troops.

  Chapter Six