Home of the Brave (Raine Stockton Dog Mysteries Book 9) (14 page)

I looked around helplessly at the mess on the ground, and so did he.  His expression changed again, from suspicion to dismay.  He knelt on the ground, putting the gun beside his feet, and began to try to gather up the remainder of his provisions.  The meat was covered with dirt and debris, slobbered on by dogs, and completely ruined.  “You did this?” he said, and his voice sounded numb.  He looked up at me with a fistful of meat strips in each hand and outrage in his eyes.  “Why did you do this?”

I took an instinctive step backward, bringing Melanie and the dogs with me. “I didn’t do it,” I assured him quickly.  “My dog did.  He didn’t mean any harm.  I could pay you …”  But even as I said it I wondered how I was going to pull that off, since the only thing I had in my back pocket was my cell phone.  And I also knew something else: a man like this did not need money.  Everything he needed was in that bag.  And Cisco had destroyed it.

I finished weakly, “Is there anything I can do?”

He looked at Melanie, and at the dogs, and finally at me.  He looked and sounded tired.  “Just go home, lady.  Just … go home.”

“Maybe we could help you clean up …”

“Did you hear me?”  His voice was sharp and I startled.  “Just get the hell on out of here!”

I took Mischief’s and Magic’s leashes and said to Melanie with quiet urgency, “Let’s go.”

I walked so quickly back down the path that she had to trot to keep up with me, but I think she was more excited than scared as she demanded breathlessly, “Are you going to call the cops?”

We were by now well out of hearing range, and certainly out of sight, but still I didn’t slow down.  “No.”

“Why not?” she demanded.  Her eyes were big behind the glasses.  “He had a gun!”

“Not everyone who has a gun is a bad guy,” I told her.  And because I noticed her face was red and sweaty even in the relative shade of the woods, and all the dogs were panting, I did slow down as the trail leveled out.  “The first time I met your dad he had a gun,” I added.

“Oh yeah?”  She looked surprised.

“He was hunting behind my house,” I explained.  “People are allowed to hunt.”

She scowled.  “Well, I don’t think they should be.”

There was a part of me that privately agreed, but I also knew there were two sides to every story.  “A lot of people around here feed their families by hunting.”  I thought of the man we had just left behind, and the dried strips of meat that were probably hand-smoked squirrel or possum.  And probably all he would have to eat for the next month.

“My dad doesn’t.”  She sounded angry and disappointed.

“That’s true,” I agreed.  I let the dogs go to the end of their leashes, and now that the lake was in sight, I relaxed my shoulders a little.  “But, whether we like it or not, these days Man is the only natural predator for a lot of species.  Deer, for example.  Without hunters to keep the population down, the herds would eat all the plants that other animals need to survive.  Pretty soon there would be so many deer they couldn’t even feed themselves and they’d starve to death too.  It’s called wildlife management, and even though it’s hard to understand, it does help to keep nature in balance.”

She was silent for a moment, and even though I knew the whole concept of natural selection and assisted husbandry was a bit advanced for a ten-year-old, I hoped at least I had done something to redeem her father in her eyes.

Melanie said, “I still think we should call the cops.  He pointed a gun at us.  You’re not allowed to do that.”

“No,” I said.  “That was stupid.  But that doesn’t make him a criminal.  It just makes him an idiot.  And my dad used to say that if you locked up every idiot there’d be nobody left to run the country.”

A puzzled line appeared between her brows and I smiled, dropping a hand on her shoulder.  “Look, the poor guy was just trying to enjoy the great outdoors when Cisco and Pepper came along and ruined his campsite and stole his dinner.  If anyone’s the bad guy, it’s us.”

She looked worried.  “Is Cisco in trouble for tearing up the bag?”

I shook my head.  “He was just being a dog.  And you know it’s pointless to punish a dog after he’s already gotten away with the crime.”

“So if the guy with the gun isn’t in trouble, and Cisco isn’t in trouble,” she inquired reasonably, “who is?”

I sighed.  “I am,” I admitted unhappily, “for being the worst dog trainer ever.”  But then I managed a brief bracing smile and injected an upbeat note into my tone as I added, “And we’re all going to be in trouble if we’re late for our next class.  So let’s step on it, okay?”

Chapter
Fifteen

B
uck said, “You’re talking about a homegrown militia.”  But even as he spoke he was shaking his head.  “Look, I’m not saying we don’t have our share of good old boys talking a bad game, and that talk might get a little rowdy down at the Legion Hall on a Saturday night, but that’s about as far as it goes.  You’re talking about the kind of people who’d put a bullet through a federal agent’s head and then burn his body in a car.”

“The FBI is aware that the vast majority of militia groups across the nation are mostly rhetoric,” responded Agent Armstrong.  “We have no interest in those.  But the number of radical cells capable of plotting and committing violence against the government and its citizens has grown dramatically in the past eight years.”  She nodded again at the map.  “And these we are very interested in.”

“We think recruiting may begin with moderate militia groups, the kind you’re talking about,” Manahan said.  “But then a selection process begins for the most radical, the most dedicated … misfits, mostly, usually ex-military.  The cells are usually composed of members from a mixture of communities, which is why they’re able to go undetected virtually under the noses of their friends and neighbors in small towns like these.  They use their acts of terrorism to accelerate recruitment.  Frightened people tend to take up arms and seek retaliation, particularly when they feel their own government can’t protect them.  The Alabama incident is a perfect example.  It took those people months to put their community back together after the bombing. ”

“And four new radical cells formed within two hundred miles of the incident,” said Armstrong.

“And you’re telling me that one of these cells is operating right here, in my county.”

“We believe so, yes.”

Buck walked across the room to the small grimy window that looked out over the parking lot.  He gazed at it for a moment, his hands in his pockets.  Then he turned and looked at them.  “What are we in for?”

Manahan didn’t look happy.  “Unfortunately, we weren’t able to get much information from our agent before we lost him.  We know there’s an active cell here and we suspect they’re planning something for this weekend.”

“It fits the profile,” put in Agent Armstrong.  “These people like to take advantage of significant dates and events to stir public emotion.”

“Like a popular congressional candidate making a speech on the Fourth of July?”

Manahan nodded tersely.  “We’ve been in touch with Jeb Wilson’s office, of course.  But we’ve asked him not to publicly announce a change in schedule.  The last thing we want to do is to let these people know we’re on to them.  In the past that’s been known to accelerate the violence, not deter it.”

Buck said, “Do you have any names?”

“Sheriff,” said Manahan with chilling frankness, “we’ve got nothing but a dead agent and a credible threat.”

“These cells are structured like military units,” Agent Armstrong went on.  “Each one has a commander, a second-in-command, foot soldiers who spend their weekends training and sentries to guard their resources and coordinate attacks.  They use the Gadsden flag as their banner.”  Agent Armstrong flashed a picture of the Gadsden flag with its familiar rattlesnake and “don’t tread on me” logo, just in case Buck didn’t know what she was talking about.  “What makes this movement particularly dangerous, and to be differentiated from similar ones over the years, is that all of the cells seem to be organized under a single leader, a general, if you will, who’s coordinating all their movements.  He’s the one we’re after, and up until now we thought we had a pretty good chance of closing in on him.  That chance died with Carl Brunner.”

Manahan said, “I presume you’re running a full complement for the weekend?  Extra security for the parade?”

Buck nodded. “The traffic doubles this time of year.  My men have got all they can do to stay on top of the tourists and shoplifters.”

Manahan nodded. “They should be briefed on what’s going on, but otherwise proceed with their duties.  The fewer people out there …”  Buck knew he was about to say “getting in our way” but skipped that part and finished simply, “the better.  Your K-9 unit should sweep the parade route Monday morning, but I imagine you’d already planned that.”

Buck had not.  But he hadn’t known then what he knew now.

“As far as the public is concerned, the extra law enforcement presence is due to Jeb Wilson’s appearance at the parade,” Manahan went on.  “From your end, it should be operations normal.”

Buck said, “Operations normal.  My pleasure.  Meantime, I have a fellow you might want to talk to.  His name is Reggie Conner, and I think I just figured out where he’s been going when he told his daddy he was at AA meetings.”

Chapter
Sixteen

M
agic might have a lot of less-than-stellar qualities: she was a sneak thief, an escape artist unparalleled by anyone except her sister, and an unabashed chow hound.  But she was an excellent obedience dog, she always came when she was called, and she never ran away without permission.  She therefore won the honor of being my demo for obedience class that afternoon while Cisco rested in the cabin with Mischief.  “Rested” was, of course, a generous word.  If the truth were told, I wasn’t feeling all that benevolent toward Cisco that afternoon and thought it was best if we took a break from each other.

The afternoon downpour came right on time, just as I began my obedience class.  Eight squealing kids and barking dogs scurried for the rather frail shelter of our pop-up canopy.  While rain drummed on our plasticized roof and the interior steamed with the smell of wet dogs and wet children, I improvised a quick lecture on the three qualities of a good leader, firmness, fairness and consistency, and I felt like a hypocrite. After all, if I practiced what I preached I wouldn’t be the proud owner of a dog who took off like a wild hare after anything that struck his fancy, destroyed personal property and made me look like a fool. 

After five minutes in which my human audience pretended to listen politely while struggling to keep their dogs from whining, barking, sniffing other dogs and chewing their leashes, I asked if there were any questions.  A little girl whose paw-print lanyard ID tag read Matilda raised her hand.  I acknowledged her gratefully.  At least someone had been paying attention.

“Where did you get those earrings?” she asked.  “They’re really cute.”

I had a feeling I was losing my audience, so I called Magic up and showed off her tricks—balancing a dog biscuit on her nose, jumping through my arms, playing dead—until the rain stopped a few minutes later.  While the sun turned the swampy soccer field into a steam bath, I showed the children how each one of Magic’s tricks had been based on an obedience behavior, and soon they were excited about teaching their dogs “sit,” “come” and “down.”  I ended the class on a patriotic note, with all the dogs heeling happily around the ring while nibbling treats from their handlers’ hands to the tune of “I’m a Yankee Doodle Dandy” playing from my portable boom box.  All in all, not a bad save.

As soon as the kids scattered with their dogs for free time, I went to the camp store.  I bought every package of beef jerky on display—there weren’t that many, but some of the instructors liked to use them as training treats—along with packages of the dried fruit and trail mix that the parents had no doubt insisted we stock as snacks, and several bags of candy.  From the kitchen I begged a package of hot dogs and some fresh apples.  I offered to pay for them, but the cook just laughed and waved me off, replying that I wasn’t the first person who had been in that day looking for hot dogs to use as training treats, and that Margie stocked extra for that purpose.  The apples, she admitted, were a first, but they were free to all campers, and since they weren’t exactly a fast-moving item, I was welcome to all I could use.  I took her at her word and dumped a whole bowl into my sack.

I settled Mischief and Magic in the cabin with stuffed bones and promised them a long run after dinner.  I filled Cisco’s saddlebags with my purchases, strapped on his backpack and his leash and left for our hike.  After all, I figured Cisco deserved a chance to redeem himself.

It took us a little longer than it had the first time, since I wasn’t chasing a pair of golden retrievers going full-tilt through the brush.  But the woods were cool and fragrant, the leaves still dripping rainwater and splashing my skin when I pushed aside branches, and I enjoyed the hike.  As we approached the campsite, though, I put Cisco in a sit and commanded softly, “Speak.”