*
Becca shouted something. Owen thought it might be his name, or maybe the doctor’s. Everyone, especially Dale Carstairs, seemed to think Reitman was Three Harbors’s answer to a prayer.
However, that wasn’t why he put his hand around Jeremy’s throat and squeezed—again. The reason for that were the scratches on the guy’s arm.
Someone tried to grab Owen, probably Dale. He doubted Deb was that dumb. Reggie snarled, and the hands clutching at him disappeared.
“Let him go, Owen. Now.”
That was Deb.
Owen released the guy for the second time that day, and for the second time Dr. Reitman slid to the ground like a rag doll.
“What is wrong with you?” Becca shoved past Owen and touched Jeremy’s face.
“Look at his arm.”
She glanced up, frowned, then lifted the shirtsleeve that had fallen back down in the upheaval.
Three scratches marred the man’s skin.
Owen waited for Becca to straighten, to back away, to show them to Deb, who would then cuff the guy as Becca threw herself into Owen’s arms and thanked him for seeing the truth when no one else had.
Instead her head fell forward; she shook it then stood. “Those scratches are healed over.”
How had he missed that? His only excuse was that he’d been so furious at the thought of anyone hurting Becca that he’d gone a little overboard. A world without Becca in it was not one Owen could bear.
In dog handler school they’d learned why dogs were so good at explosives detection. Not only were their noses about a thousand times more sensitive than a human’s, but the size of the portion of their brain used for analyzing those scents was between twenty and forty percent larger. Which might explain why a human would smell beef stew and a dog would smell onions, potatoes, carrots, beef, flour, salt, and so on. This was how MWDs could ferret out bombs. While one explosive might be made out of different materials than another, they all needed a reason to go boom—and that scent set off the dogs. Owen had seen IEDs buried in dirt, covered with garbage, wrapped in Lord knows what, but still Reggie had found them.
What this meant to Owen was that even though Reggie’s indication of insurgent was suspect, there was something off about Dr. “Right Man.”
Certainly Carstairs’s adoration of the man, so soon after he had told Owen—again—to leave Becca alone, had made Owen want the guy to be bad so much he’d been blinded to anything else.
He still thought it was pretty damn odd that they were searching for an intruder of the same size, wearing a ski mask, which had been found right next to a fellow who had scratches—albeit old ones—right where Becca had put some.
“Maybe he’s a fast healer.” Owen wasn’t willing to let it go.
“Freaky fast,” Deb said. “Like supernaturally woo-woo fast, even.”
Becca cast Deb a curious glance, as if the chief were serious.
“Where’d those scratches come from?” Owen asked.
“What difference does it make?” Becca’s dad snapped.
Owen had forgotten for a minute that the man was there.
“Jeremy didn’t try to kill Becca,” Carstairs continued. “Why would he?”
“Why would anyone?” Owen wondered.
“Exactly,” Carstairs agreed.
“No, really. Why? You think it was random?” Owen’s gaze went from Carstairs, to Becca, to Deb.
“Random is a lot more rare than people think,” Deb said.
“Cat,” Jeremy blurted. Reggie starting wailing.
“Lass das sein,” Owen ordered.
Reggie stopped. The doctor stared at his arm so hard Owen wondered if he were trying to make the scratches disappear by wishing for it.
“What cat?” Becca asked.
Reggie let out a short yip, as if he just couldn’t help it. Owen wondered how he even knew the word.
MWDs were taught to chase only what they were told to and nothing else. It wouldn’t do to give a dog the command to search, then have him distracted by a rabbit or squirrel or any other furry creature and pursue it, allowing an insurgent to go merrily in another direction and AK-47 someone down the line.
“A cat scratched me here a few days ago.” Jeremy tapped his forearm.
Owen frowned. The guy had tapped the wrong arm.
Chapter 13
Owen looked like he wanted to knock Jeremy over the head with his club, and drag me off by my hair. Jeremy continued to act like he’d already been hit with a club. I wondered just how much oxygen Owen had deprived him of while strangling him—twice. I didn’t think it was as much as I’d lost beneath the pillow, but what did I know?