Billy cast a glance at Reggie, then at Owen. “Okay?”
Owen nodded. Billy’s parents were well-respected breeders of Siberian huskies. He’d probably rolled around with the puppies when he was a pup, which might explain why he felt so at home wearing a face full of fur. At any rate, Billy knew dogs and could be trusted to treat this one like the weapon he was.
Billy extended his hand palm down, fingers limp—no fast, grabbing movements that might get him bitten. Reggie sniffed his knuckles, submitted to a short ear scratch, and glanced away as if bored. Billy took the hint and withdrew.
“Hey, Prof!” The same voice as before came from the crowd. “What happened?”
“Don’t know yet.” Billy pulled yellow tape from his pants pocket and herded the gawkers back so he could attach the tape to a building. He unrolled it across the sidewalk, then secured it around a street sign and tore the end.
“If you don’t know, then why are you roping this off?”
“I was told to.” Billy turned his back on the crowd, folded his arms, and stared straight ahead. The crowd began to disperse.
Folks from here knew that Billy, the Prophet, had never allowed a QB to be sacked on his watch, and he treated any police line with the same attention. Tourists were just scared at the sight of him.
Owen and Reggie stepped toward the building. Billy’s dark eyes, which were nearly the shade of his beard, flicked in their direction. “No.”
“But—”
“Chief said no one in until she came out.”
“Becca’s dad went in there.”
Billy lifted an eyebrow. That had sounded both lame and childish.
“Is anyone hurt?”
“She’s fine,” Billy said.
“Promise?”
“If anyone had so much as a hangnail, the chief would have sent for Dr. D.” He lifted a huge paw. “Promise.”
Owen nearly asked the guy to pinky swear, but figured that was pushing it. If Becca was hurt in any way, help would have been called and Billy would know about it.
Didn’t make Owen want to go inside any less, but it did make his heart stop racing. Eventually.
If he’d been quicker he’d have been there before anyone arrived to keep him out. He could make a run for it, but that would probably go as well now as it had the last time he’d tried. He didn’t need to be tackled by the Prophet. It might not hurt as much as being thrown by an IED, then again it might. He’d heard Billy hit as hard as a freight train. However, the real trouble would be with Reggie.
According to those who’d been with them that day in Afghanistan, despite his own injuries, Reggie had remained conscious. He’d crawled over the bloody ground to get to Owen, who was not conscious, then protected him from everyone, including the medic. It had taken the other soldiers close to a half hour to talk Reggie down so that the two of them could be medevaced.
Reggie had been hurt and scared, and while he was the property of the U.S. Marine Corps, and the men in their unit were family, Owen was Reggie’s person. All good things came from him, which was the way it had to be for them to work together the way they did. That also meant if Owen was down, Reggie was standing over him until he got up. He’d prefer not to have that confrontation here.
Instead, Owen stood shoulder to shoulder with Billy. It gave him the best view of the doors to Becca’s place, and he could quiz the man without shouting.
“What’s going on?” Owen asked.
Billy shrugged. Owen didn’t know him well enough to decide if he knew and wasn’t telling, or he truly didn’t know.
“Chief Deb asked if anyone had seen a person wearing a mask running away from the clinic.”
A young man, about the age of Becca’s brothers and far too ethnic to be from here, had bellied up to the crime scene tape.
Owen glanced at Billy. The officer continued to stare straight ahead as if he hadn’t heard.
“Mask,” Owen repeated. “V Is for Vendetta? Lone Ranger? Phantom?”
“Spider-Man?” Billy deadpanned.
“Ski mask.”
A ripple went through what was left of the crowd. Someone whispered, “He speaks English.”
For a minute Owen thought they were referring to him—then the kid rolled his eyes and muttered something uncomplimentary in Spanish.
“You better hope none of them speak the language,” Owen said.
“As if.”
“Se?ora Mueller taught Spanish when I was here, and she was pretty fluent.” Though no one in her class ever turned out to be. Se?ora had mostly handed out worksheets and sent them to the language lab to listen to others speak Spanish, rather than insisting they speak it themselves.
“She’s still teaching,” the boy said.
He did live in Three Harbors. Maybe things had changed. Except … Owen let his gaze wander over the people still hanging around.
The kid had the only tan in town.
“And I bet no one speaks decent Spanish but you and her.”