Home of the Brave (Raine Stockton Dog Mysteries Book 9) (2 page)

I am a dog lover by nature, which might be obvious from the kind of work I do—most of which is with my golden retriever, Cisco, who, while he might be a little short on blue ribbons, has saved enough lives to become pretty famous around here. I’m also trial secretary of our local agility club, vice president of the tracking club, and am the entire population of the local chapter of the Golden Retriever Rescue and Purebred Rescue, as well as an active volunteer with the humane society. There is absolutely no chance of my being uncomfortable in any situation in which dogs are present.  This was no exception.

I said softly, “Hello there, big fellow.”  I believe in talking to dogs.  Most of the time they’re more interesting than people, and this one already had a huge advantage over his handler, being the only one of the team who was not trying to put me in jail.  I added, “Welcome to the force.  Nice to meet you.  Really.”

He regarded me coolly for another moment, seemed to decide I was no immediate threat, and turned his attention back to the direction in which his handler had gone.  I relaxed and settled back against the seat.  Things were definitely looking up, now that there was a dog involved.

Or at least that’s what I thought.

Less than five minutes later the front door opened and the woman got behind the wheel of the car.  She had my papers, now limp with rain, in her hand, along with my pistol. She said, glancing at me in the mirror, “Miss Stockton, are you aware that your license to carry a concealed weapon has expired?”

Oh,
crap
.  The smug sarcasm with which I had been about to greet her vanished like sun behind a cloud.  “That’s just great,” I muttered.  Then, because she seemed to be waiting for an answer, I added irritably, “Of course I didn’t know!  Listen, if you’ll just radio the office and tell them what happened …”

She said, “It’s against the law to carry a concealed weapon in the state of North Carolina without a permit.  I’m going to have to take you in.”

I sat forward abruptly.  “
What
?”

The dog swiveled his head at me and gave a soft growl of warning.  I didn’t blame him.  He was just doing his job.

I sat back, but my annoyance was only growing.  I was cold, wet and late, and my usual good nature—which was better on some days than others—was fast disintegrating.  “You know they have a name for overzealous cops around here, don’t you?  It’s called the Barney Fife Syndrome, and I never saw a more perfect example of it. This is definitely not the way to settle in to a new community, I’ll tell you that much. You have no idea how sorry you’re about to be, but don’t say I didn’t try to warn you. Aren’t you supposed to read me my rights or something? ”

She put the car in gear without response.

“Hey!”  I twisted around to look at my car, sitting forlornly by the side of the road.  “Hey, what about my car?  Did you at least lock it?  I’ve got stuff inside!”

She pulled out onto the road without response, and I flung my head back against the seat in a rather childish display of exasperation.  Needless to say, I made no further attempts at conversation.  Neither she nor her dog looked at me again.

Chapter
Two

B
y the time we parked in front of the Public Safety building the rain had stopped, the sun was out, and the steam that rose from the wet pavement reminded me of the slow burn my temper was doing.  She opened the door and I got out, and this time when she took my arm I snapped, “I know the way.”

She released my arm, and I gave a self-satisfied toss of my wet, ruined hair.  But before I could get too carried away with self-congratulations, she spoke a single guttural command in German, and the Malinois appeared out of nowhere to stand at my side.  I couldn’t help being impressed.  With the dog on one side of me and the officer on the other, I was escorted into the building.  Even if I had been a real criminal, there was absolutely no way I would have tried anything under those circumstances. 
Now that
, I thought, sliding an admiring glance down at the dog,
is what I call teamwork.

But as soon as we crossed the threshold of the sheriff’s department and I saw the surprise on the receptionist’s face, my annoyance was back.

“Hey, Raine,” she said, trying to cover her confusion. “Cute haircut.”

“Thanks.”

Then she looked concerned.  “Are you okay?”

I said, probably ungraciously, “I’m soaking wet.  Do you have a towel?”

She actually stood to search for one, but the officer handed her an envelope with my paperwork in it, and she sank back to her chair again.  The woman jerked her head curtly toward a row of chairs that were lined up against the wall.  “Wait there,” she said.

I rolled my eyes and walked over to one of the chairs, wet shoes squishing.  When I sat down, she gave the dog another curt command in German, and he positioned himself squarely in front of me, his intense, alert gaze watching me.  I muttered, “Okay, now you’re just showing off,” as she walked over to one of the cubicles that the deputies used to fill out paperwork and make phone calls.  I said to the receptionist, “Annabelle, what’s the deal with …”

But Annabelle was on the phone and held up a finger for patience.  I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but I hoped it was about getting me out of there because patience was something that was in short supply for me at the moment. 

There followed three or four of the most unpleasant moments I have ever spent around a dog, and this from a woman who spends most of her day picking up dog poop. A couple of deputies peeked over the top of their cubicles and grinned.  One of the courthouse clerks stopped by to leave an envelope at the desk, did a double take when he saw me, and said, “Hey, Raine.”

I said “Hey” back, and he left without asking any questions.  Not that there was anything unusual about seeing me in the waiting area of the sheriff’s department with a dog at my feet.  I’m sure it was just the fact that I was soaking wet.

Annabelle put down the phone and gave me a smile that tried very hard not to look nervous.  I remembered she had never been that comfortable around big dogs.  She said, “It’ll be just a few minutes.”

I wasn’t sure what would be just a few minutes, but before I could ask, she added pleasantly, “Big weekend planned?”

I decided to play along, mostly to demonstrate that I was completely unfazed by this absurd turn of events, but also because at the moment I couldn’t see that I had much choice.  “I’m going to be teaching at Camp Bowser Wowser.”  I kept my voice conversational, but loud enough so that Deputy Diligence, or whatever her name was, would have no trouble hearing just how unfazed I was.  “It starts tomorrow, but the instructors are supposed to be there this afternoon, so …”

Her pale eyebrows shot up into her sandy, straight-cut bangs.  “Bowsie Wowsie?  What’s that?”

“Bowser Wowser,” I corrected.  “It’s a really cool camp for nine- to twelve-year-olds and their dogs.  Usually they hold it over in Tennessee, but this year it’s at the old Camp Bluebird, just off Highway 511.”

“No kidding?  I thought that place had shut down years ago.  I was a counselor there as a kid.”

“Me, too.”  Most of the people who grew up in this county had worked there during the summer at one time or another. It was one of the few ways for a teenager to make spending money—legally, that is.  “I guess they haven’t had any regular groups up there in a while, but it must still be in good enough shape to rent out for the weekend.  The woman who runs the camp is pretty particular about the safety of the dogs.  And kids, of course.” 

She smiled reminiscently.  “Gosh, I had some good times there.”

We chatted like that for another couple of minutes, each of us trying to ignore the fact that I was being held in custody by a guard dog that had been trained to kill.  When the phone rang she snatched it up immediately, listened for a few minutes, and looked enormously relieved when she returned her attention to me.

“Buck said you should wait in his office, Raine,” she said.  “He’s on his way.”

“Great.”  I tilted my head toward my canine guard.  “What about …?”

“Oh. Umm …” 

But even as she looked around in some uneasiness, the dog’s handler reemerged from her cubicle.  She did not look in the least perturbed, although she surely had been informed of her gaffe by now.  She said, “Nike, here!” And the big dog glided to her side—in a perfect obedience heel position, I might add.

Even though there was certainly no love lost on my part for his owner, anyone would have to be impressed by a dog who speaks two languages and executes positions so precise that he might have plotted them with a slide rule.  It was easy to forget that very dog had held me hostage only moments ago, and with such dedicated intensity that I have no doubt that if I’d tried to move I’d now be on my way to the ER.

The officer said, “This way, please.”

I just stared at her.  “Really?”  I gave a short shake of my head that scattered droplets of water across my shoulders and turned to make my way down the hall.  “Nice dog, though,” I added over my shoulder.

She might have pulled a gun on me, or set her dog on me at the very least, if Lyle Reston, one of Buck’s deputies, hadn’t fallen in step beside me at that moment.  I’d gone to school with his older brother.  “I’m heading that way, Deputy Smith,” he said.  “I’ve got this.”

Well, at least she had a name, or part of one anyway.  I didn’t even bother to wait until we were out of earshot to ask, “Who
is
that?”

He smothered a grin.  “Piece of work, isn’t she?  That’s Deputy Sheriff Jolene Smith, and her partner Deputy Nike.  A gift from Homeland Security.  They just arrived Monday.  The dog is fitting in just fine.”  He frowned a little.  “Weird name, though.  Who names their dog after a running shoe?”

I privately wondered the same thing, but was far more curious about the dog’s origins than his name. I said, “Homeland Security, huh?  Wow.”

“The sheriff wants us to make her feel at home.”  His expression grew rueful as he paused outside the door to Buck’s office.  “I guess some of the boys have their own ideas about how to do that.  Sorry you got wet.  Do you want me to bring you some paper towels from the men’s room?”

I looked at him suspiciously.  “No.  What do you mean, the boys have their own ideas?”

“Just don’t be too mad.”  He opened the door to the office for me. 

“I’m already mad,” I told him, “and I’m running late.  Who’s going to take me back to my car?”

“I’ll tell the sheriff you’re waiting,” Lyle said, and he left quickly as I stepped into the room, closing the door behind him.

The office hadn’t changed much since my uncle had occupied it.  It was a small, cluttered, olive drab space that smelled like burned coffee and hard-working men.  There was a map of the county with magnetic pins, a bulletin board cluttered with memos and sticky notes, an oak desk scattered with folders and stacks of papers.  The one window was cloudy with grime, which was just as well because the only view was that of the back parking lot.  No wonder Buck preferred to spend his time elsewhere.  Come to think of it, so had Uncle Roe.

My aunt and uncle were currently on vacation on the dog-friendly beaches of Topsail Island with their collie, Majesty (who was actually my collie, but they loved her so much I didn’t make a point of it) and my cousins.  They had all rented a beach house together for the next two weeks, and had invited me to join them as a matter of routine.  Now I almost wished I had.  And I really would love to know what my Uncle Roe would make of these new developments in the sheriff’s department that he had run so efficiently for thirty years.

I glanced at my watch, frowned in annoyance, and briefly thought about leaving Buck a note and just walking out. Then something caught my eye on his desk—a half-unwrapped stack of eight-by-ten posters that looked as though they had just come from the printer.  Curiously, I walked to the desk and picked one up.  The face of a handsome man with wavy hair and good, honest eyes looked back at me; the face of a man I once had loved enough to marry, and had called my best friend since I was eight years old; the face of the man who had betrayed me in a way only someone you trust implicitly can do.  It was the face of Acting Sheriff Buck Lawson, and beneath the black and white image was printed in bold black letters: VOTE  CECIL “BUCK”  LAWSON FOR SHERIFF NOVEMBER 6.  And in a slightly smaller, italic font,
Justice … Integrity
.

I grunted softly with surprise and reexamined the poster.  Buck had been appointed sheriff when my uncle retired unexpectedly last fall after a heart attack.  I knew that if he wanted to keep the job he would have to be duly elected when the term of appointment expired, but no one had mentioned to me that he had actually decided to run.  Of course, I had been a little busy keeping up with my own stuff, but still, you’d think someone would have mentioned it.  Local election campaigns always started midsummer.  I was beginning to feel a little out of touch.

The door opened and Buck came in.  He had a way of entering a room, all shoulders and long strides, that always turned heads.  My head was no exception.  He came behind the desk, took the poster out of my hand and thrust another official-looking form at me in its place.  He looked stern.  “Fill out the application, pay your fee, and you’ll get your gun back.” He looked at me more closely and added, surprised, “You cut your hair.”