The kennel was a contemporary warehouse. Creed had a loft apartment above it with all the luxuries and comforts of a retreat. When he designed the place he convinced his business partner, Hannah Washington, that he wanted his living quarters above the kennel so he could keep an eye and ear on the most prized possessions of their business, K9 CrimeScents.
Actually, Creed just liked being near the dogs. Sometimes in the dead of night, when visions and images haunted his sleep, he found comfort being surrounded by them. He and Hannah had rescued each and every dog in one fashion or another. But Creed knew they rescued him in a way he could not explain to anyone. Not even Hannah.
Now he watched Jason Seaver wiping the sleep out of his eyes. As he made his way into the kennel, Creed realized how much Jason looked like a young boy. Almost ten years younger than Creed, Jason had seen his world blow up on him before he reached the age of twenty. The kid was one of Hannah’s rescues. She said Jason reminded her of Creed and that was one of the reasons she hired the young man.
Tucked under Jason’s arm was his sleepy-eyed black puppy. In less than a month the Labrador pup Jason had named Scout had almost doubled in size. He brought Scout to play with the dog’s mom and siblings while he worked. This morning he put the puppy down on the ground before he got to the yard.
“Watch this,” he told Creed as he walked three paces back, then knelt on the ground facing the pup. “Come on, Scout. Come give me a kiss.”
The puppy wiggled his entire back end, almost losing his balance in his excitement. He bounced toward Jason and without hesitation stood up on his hind legs, reaching for Jason’s face and planting a big slobber right on the lips.
“That’ll come in handy when he’s searching for cadavers,” Creed said, but he couldn’t help smiling.
“I’m thinking chick magnet.”
Jason picked up Scout, and when he came inside the yard the other dogs ran to greet him. They shoved and nudged each other out of the way for Jason’s attention. None of them noticed or cared that one of the kid’s shirtsleeves hung empty below the elbow. When Creed had first met the young veteran he had been belligerent and moody, self-conscious about the amputated arm to the point of daring anyone and everyone to notice it. That the kid was thinking about picking up women—even with the lousy trick of using his puppy—had to be a good sign.
Now if only Creed could make a decent dog handler out of him.
“We’re ready to use the real stuff today,” he told Jason, and held up a Mason jar with the lid tight over the contents.
“What’s inside?”
“Some dirt and a piece of a blanket. Both were underneath a dead body.”
“Cool. How’d you get it?”
“Grace and I helped find the guy. Wasn’t a homicide, so the detectives let me have a few things for training.”
“Andy claims you have a whole stockpile.”
Andy was one of the first handlers Creed had trained. At the time she’d known more about dogs than Creed, having spent years as a veterinary technician. This was a second career for her. He knew better than to ask a woman’s age but guessed Andy was somewhere in her forties.
“Yeah? Well, don’t believe everything Andy tells you. Here, take this.” And he tossed the Mason jar, realizing too late that maybe Jason couldn’t do a one-handed catch. But the kid had no problem.
“Take it and hide it good.” Creed pointed to the trail that led into the forest. “Just before you hide it, remove the lid. There’s a cheesecloth stretched across the top. Leave that on.”
“You want me to bury it?”
“Bury it, throw it up in a tree, drop it in the creek, do whatever you want with it. Don’t think about it too much. When you finish, come on back.”
The fifty-acre property was surrounded on three sides by forest. The privacy and seclusion it afforded them was one of the reasons Creed chose this place in the northern part of the Florida Panhandle. It also provided endless training ground.
His cell phone started to vibrate as he watched Jason disappear into the woods. He glanced at the screen to see it was Hannah. Less than an hour ago they’d had coffee and Hannah’s fresh-baked cinnamon rolls in her kitchen.
“Already miss me?”
“I ought to feed you sugar more often in the morning, you gonna be this sweet.” Then without missing a beat she went on to business. “Landslide in North Carolina. Some man from the DoD. We got a request for you specifically.”
“Me or Grace?”
Over the summer there had been a lot of media attention, most of it centered on Grace, their amazing Jack Russell terrier. The scrappy little dog had won the hearts of the nation when she helped make several drug busts and stopped one human trafficking incident, resulting in the rescue of five children.
“Actually, you. No specific dog.”
“When did the slide happen? Are we talking rescue or recovery?”
“Late last night into this morning. It’s still raining, and from what I understand, there’s still potential for more slides. Possible rescues. Definitely recovery.”
“I’ll need to leave right away. What is that? A five-hour drive? Can you come finish with Jason?”