Desperate Creed Page 2

  It’d only been four months since they’d been reunited. Only two months since she’d come to live with him and Hannah.

  Not unlike the Belgium shepherd, Brodie came with her own injuries and PTSD that needed healing. So even now, he let her watch from the shadows when he really wanted to tell her she was spooking the dog. But acknowledging her presence might spook her. She tried to hide even that. She was doing her best to be brave when everything around her was new and difficult. She had gotten used to shoving her emotions aside during her captivity when there were other daily needs she had to deal with, like being hungry or cold or left in the dark. But despite her attempt at pretending she was doing okay, Creed could see the truth in her eyes. Just like the Belgium shepherd, Creed could sense her discomfort.

  When Brodie first came to live with them, she followed him around as if she was afraid to let him leave her sight. Creed felt like he had a ghost silently stalking him from behind trees and around corners. She had been gone from him—gone from the world, really—for sixteen years. She was still gauging her freedom, testing and pushing the limits; reaching and feeling for the boundaries.

  Now he could see her edging closer.

  To the shepherd, Creed said, “Don’t be afraid. You’re okay,” but this time he said it louder, hoping to include Brodie.

  She had admitted to being afraid of dogs. Sharing early on that her captor, a woman named Iris Malone, had sent a dog to attack her once when Brodie had tried to escape. Creed had seen the scar on her ankle. The bite must have been bone-deep. There was nothing he could say to make her trust another dog. But Grace, Creed’s scrappy, little Jack Russell terrier, had come a long way to convincing Brodie that not all dogs were the same. Nor would they attack her. But Creed knew it was a lesson she’d need to learn directly from a dog if she intended to make a home here.

  The fifty-acre property was a training facility for K9 scent dogs and the kennel with dog runs and acres of fenced-in yard was home to dozens of dogs of all sizes and breeds. They came to them from shelters; some had been dropped off at the end of their long driveway. Hannah liked to say that they rescued abandoned and discarded dogs and turned them into heroes. When she told Brodie this, it seemed to make an impression. The idea of being abandoned was something she could understand.

  Now suddenly, Brodie was at the edge of the swimming pool. Creed hadn’t even heard her. She had learned to be quiet all those years she’d spent trying to make herself invisible. Perhaps there was a future for her in some clandestine profession, because he hadn’t seen her approach the pool. He barely saw her now, but the dog told him she was there. His nose sniffed the air, and he was paddling to turn himself around, trying to get a good look at her. He wasn’t panicked. He was excited.

  Creed kept his attention on the dog as he guided Knight to the shallow end of the pool.

  “What happened to his leg?” she asked as if it was perfectly normal for her to sneak out of the shadows then engage in a casual conversation.

  One of the first things Brodie had asked of her brother was to tell her the truth, always. No matter how painful he thought it might be. And, she told him she didn’t want it “sugarcoated.”

  “He was a bomb sniffing dog in Afghanistan.”

  “Like Rufus?”

  He’d shared with her how he and Rufus had worked as a team finding IEDs and clearing a path to protect units of Marines in Afghanistan. Until one day a young boy from the village brought a bomb into their camp. A bomb strapped and hidden on his small body.

  Rufus had alerted, but by the time Creed made the connection, it was too late.

  Creed was sent home, but Rufus’ injuries weren’t severe enough. After they patched him up, the dog was returned to service with another Marine handler. It cost Creed a favor to a man he didn’t respect, along with a vow of silence, but he got to bring Rufus back and the two were reunited. The dog still slept at the foot of Creed’s bed.

  “Yes, like Rufus,” Creed told Brodie.

  “But the bomb went off? He missed it?” She looked confused.

  “No,” Creed corrected her. “His handler missed it.”

  “Did his handler lose a leg, too?”

  “His handler was killed.”

  He checked her face. Her eyes were on the dog but there was no emotion. It was one of the hardest things for Creed to accept about his sister. She displayed few feelings Turning off her emotions had allowed Brodie to survive. But she was twenty-seven years old and after spending all of those years in isolation, he couldn’t help wondering if she’d ever be able to turn that mechanism on again.

  The dog started swimming toward Brodie, now anxious to meet her. Creed expected her to bolt. Or at least, move away.

  To his surprise, Brodie lowered herself to the side then sat, dangling her legs over the edge. She had no fear of water and was still a good swimmer. At least there were a few things Iris Malone hadn’t stolen from her.

  The dog was so anxious he’d forgotten his earlier dependency on Creed. Now, he paddled on his own, leaving Creed to follow. But it was obvious he was exhausted, and Brodie seemed to sense it. Almost as if instinctively, she slid into the pool—shoes, shorts and T-shirt. The water came to her waist. She didn’t seem to notice or care. She grabbed for the handle on the dog’s vest, and he bumped into her, grateful and ready to be helped out of the water.

  Creed swam up beside them just as the dog licked Brodie’s face and was rewarded with a rare smile. He was impressed that she didn’t wince or pull back.

  She noticed his surprise but instead of addressing it, she asked, “Can he walk on his own?”

  “Yes, but I need to lift him out of the pool. I don’t want him to slip on the steps.”

  She allowed Creed to take over, relinquishing the fact that she didn’t have the upper body strength to carry the dog.

  “Swimming will help him build back his muscles without putting pressure on his shoulder,” he explained as he hugged the dog close to his body and walked up the stairs.

  She climbed out of the pool and stood beside them. Creed handed her a towel. But he now Brodie kept her distance from the dog. She didn’t reach down to pet him. Instead, she awkwardly wiped her arms and legs, but didn’t wrap it around herself.

  He looked up to the windows that ran the length of the fieldhouse. Just like in the kennel, he’d purposely designed them to be above eye-level so the dogs couldn’t see out and wouldn’t be distracted while they were training. But Creed could see the morning sunshine was being replaced by dark storm clouds. He saw a flash of lightning. Brodie noticed, too, but rather than triggering concern it simply reminded her of something.

  “Oh, I forgot to tell you,” she said. “Hannah sent me to tell you there’re storms coming, and you need to get out of the pool.”

  3

  THE RUMBLE OF THUNDER that followed was still in the distance. Creed smiled to himself. Evidently, thunder and lightning didn’t bother or impress Brodie.

  “Maybe I could swim with you guys sometime.”

  She was still focused on the dog. Another streak of lightning lit up the sky, and Brodie barely glanced at it. Creed looked up at her as he towel-dried the dog. In the last several months, he’d seen her flinch at the sight of a syringe and jump at the sound of a knock on the front door. But she seemed unaffected by the approaching storm.

  There had to have been plenty of severe weather in Nebraska. That’s where they had finally found her, locked inside an abandoned farmhouse in the middle of nowhere.

  “Thunder and lightning doesn’t bother you?” he finally asked, curiosity getting the best of him.

  Her eyes darted to the windows. In that brief moment Creed caught a glimpse of the little girl he remembered. Her once long hair was cut so short it spiked up in places. She insisted it be short, sometimes taking scissors and cutting it herself. Though taller now, her adult figure was skinny, straight-hipped and flat-chested, the result of malnutrition. She looked more like young teenager than a woman i
n her late twenties. And now she seemed almost embarrassed that she hadn’t given the storm proper attention. She glanced at him and shrugged.

  “I was usually in the basement,” she said casually as though it was as simple that—a basement, not a prison. “It was the one place safe from the storms,” she added.

  Her eyes flicked up to the windows again and back to Creed. “Do we need to get to the basement?”

  He looked up again and gave the slice of darkening sky careful consideration. If Hannah had sent Brodie to bring him in she must be watching the weather forecast. He waited for the next flash of lightning then counted to himself—one one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand, four one-thousand—then came the rumble of thunder.

  “The storm’s still a few miles away,” he finally answered Brodie. “I need to get Knight settled back in the kennel and check on the other dogs. But you can head back to the house if you want.”

  As they approached the glass door to the outside, Brodie’s eyes darted in the direction of the kennel. From the outside the building looked like a contemporary warehouse that had been renovated into condominiums. In fact, his loft apartment took up the second story. Brodie had been up to his living quarters through the outside access, but she’d never ventured into the kennel. Lately, she seemed less afraid of dogs. Even the way she handled Knight gave Creed hope. But he also understood the kennel could be overwhelming for her just because of the sheer number of dogs. He’d seen her walk the long way around to avoid getting to close to the fence line when the dogs were running and playing in the yard.

  He was about to tell her that he’d meet her back at the house when she surprised him, again, by saying, “Maybe I can help you check on them.”

  “You sure?”

  He watched her eyes as she nodded. Nothing seemed to get by her. Her eyes scanned, flickered, examined everything and then started all over again.

  Creed opened the door and a blast of air hit him in the face. The breeze was filled moisture, salty and warm as if the Gulf of Mexico was on the other side of the woods. It made him look up and study the clouds overhead, dark and swollen, moving slowing but not rotating. The low rumble of thunder suggested they had only a few more minutes, if that.

  As they walked the short distance to the kennels he glanced back at Brodie. He followed her eyes to the back door where Jason was hauling in a new delivery of dog food.

  Jason Seaver was their only dog trainer and handler who lived on the property. His double-wide trailer was a stone’s throw away from the main house and the kennels. He had come to them almost two years ago, a veteran sent home from Afghanistan after an IED explosion. The first time Creed met him Jason had a chip on his shoulder, ready to wrangle anyone who raised an eyebrow at his empty sleeve where his left arm was missing. He was belligerent, sullen and even suicidal, but Hannah had insisted Jason reminder her of Creed when she’d first met him. She had offered him a job along with an apprenticeship.

  Jason and Creed had butted heads at times, and Creed shook his head wondering what Hannah had been thinking. But just as she never questioned him when he brought another dog home—no matter how skinny and mangy the dog looked—Creed didn’t question Hannah’s wisdom. Despite their differences, Creed conceded that he and Jason did, indeed, have something in common. Both of them had come home from Afghanistan angry and broken. Creed finally offered the kid the two things that had ultimately saved him...a dog and purpose.

  Creed looked over at Brodie as they came in the same back door that Jason had gone in. Jason glanced up at them, not missing a beat as he stacked and unloaded. He didn’t seem to think it strange at all that Brodie was entering the one place she had been avoiding since she arrived. Another look and now Creed saw what may have changed her mind. She was watching Jason with a fascination on her face that Creed hadn’t seen before.

  Was this new? Or had he simply missed it? How could he miss it? Jason was here every day. He was a permanent fixture of their daily lives. A part of their little family. At their dinner table almost every night.

  “Everybody’s been fed,” Jason said. “They’re down and secure.”

  “What about Molly?” Creed asked. “She was fidgety last time.” They hadn’t had thunder and lightning since October. Creed had rescued the mixed breed almost a year ago. The dog was the only one of her family to survive a mudslide in North Carolina. Creed’s disaster scent dog, Bolo, had pawed the ground insisting there was something underfoot when the rescuers could only see a sheet of metal buried in the ground. The metal ended up being the chassis of a vehicle.

  “She’s good,” Jason said. “She’s cuddled up next to Bolo. Those two are pretty tight.” He grinned at Brodie. “Bolo sort of rescued her. Did I tell you that story?”

  She nodded. “Yes, I remember. I like that one.”

  Creed looked from Brodie to Jason and back. Something on his face must have alerted Jason, because suddenly, the grin disappeared.

  “I’ve been telling Brodie about the dogs, so she can get to know them.”

  Jason misunderstood Creed’s look of surprise as disapproval and went on to explain, “You know, so she’s not so afraid of them.”

  He hadn’t noticed that the two of them were spending time together. How had he not noticed that?

  “Jason makes the dogs sound like characters in a book,” Brodie explained.

  She loved to read. Called it her daily therapy. It made sense, and he wondered why he hadn’t thought of it.

  “That’s a great idea,” Creed told Jason. It was a great idea. He couldn’t reason why it bothered him that he hadn’t noticed the two of them spending time together. Maybe he was just being too protective. Probably. And yet, there was a knot of concern in his stomach.

  4

  CHICAGO

  August Braxton had gained a reputation for taking care of messes. He had planned thoroughly for this operation, trailing both targets for days. In The District he was known for his attention to detail and his ability to eliminate any risk factor. How could he have missed seeing that the son of a bitch was on his phone? Not just on his phone, but video-chatting.

  He couldn’t even blame Rex for this one. Although the big lug shouldn’t have picked up the phone and shown himself. His curiosity too often led to mistakes. As a result, they now had another mess to clean up.

  Fortunately, Tyler Gates paid attention to detail as well. Not only did he have a photo of Francine Russo in his contacts alongside her phone number, but also, her email address and the connection to her Facebook page. A good thing, because Rex said the woman had a towel on her head. Even when he took a close look at the thumbnail photo of her he shook his head and shrugged.

  It didn’t matter. Within seconds, Braxton had HQ track down the home address of Francine Russo. It was still early. They’d be able to pay her a little visit before she left for work. They’d get this minor inconvenience taken care of and be done.

  Now, as they approached Russo’s apartment building, Braxton kept his eyes scanning for cops. Surely, she called 911. But would they have come to take her statement? At the most, they’d send a black and white.

  Chicago was not Braxton’s town, but he knew enough to believe the cops had more to concern themselves with than to drive on over and take a hysterical woman’s statement. Even if she could describe Rex, there was no way to ID him. And if she knew exactly where Gates was when he called her, they cops would send a unit there. A possible murder scene would be the priority.

  By the time Braxton and Rex made their way through the lobby and to the elevator, HQ had provided Braxton with a second photo of Francine Russo. It was a professional headshot, taken from the advertising agency’s website, confirming that she and Tyler Gates worked together.

  Interesting, he thought. Do co-workers video-chat with each other at five o’clock in the morning? She had to be more than a co-worker. She had to know something. The fact that Gates called her almost immediately after leaving his friend’s place, led Braxton
to presume Russo knew what Gates and Kaye were doing. Perhaps she was even a part of it. How had he missed her as a piece of this puzzle?

  Her apartment building was nice, but as a senior account rep—that’s how she was listed on the agency’s website—she evidently didn’t make enough money to afford a place with doorman or a secured entry. Even the elevator was easily accessible.

  Braxton straightened his tie and gestured for Rex to do the same, all the while thinking that it was a shame this was so easy. He hated to have a hitch in his plans, but they would simply take care of it. And that would be that.

  They stepped off the elevator and he was pleased to see there were only four units per floor.

  5

  CHICAGO

  Frankie Russo let out a frustrated sigh. Tyler could be bleeding on a sidewalk somewhere, and this police officer was treating her more like a criminal than a witness.

  “What is your relationship to the alleged victim?”

  She’d already told him when she first came in. The 911 dispatcher had recommended she file a report when Frankie realized she had no idea where Tyler was.

  “You’re reporting an assault, but you can’t tell me where it happened?” the dispatcher’s voice had been so calm it only made Frankie more hysterical.

  In those few minutes, Frankie discovered how little she knew about Tyler. She sort of knew where he lived but she couldn’t tell the dispatcher his address. Nor could she tell the woman where Tyler’s friend Deacon lived. She didn’t even know if K was a middle initial, the beginning of his last name or part of a nickname.

  The dispatcher had finally given Frankie directions where to go to file a report.