Page 3 of Fallen Creed

“I’m a K9 handler. Your guys are expecting me.”

The deputy cocked his head to the side, not to get a look at the ID but to examine the front of the Jeep. The state of Florida required only a back license plate. Creed was used to the blank front, but sometimes it threw off law enforcement in other states.

Finally, the man came in closer, bending enough to get a glimpse of Grace sitting on the back bench. That probably didn’t help. Creed could see his skepticism even without getting a look at the deputy’s eyes. Most people still expected a big dog: German shepherd, Labrador or Golden retriever. Typically, Jack Russell terriers weren’t viewed as scent dogs. Hardly any of Creed’s dogs fit the standard description, so he was used to the scrutiny.

Up close, the deputy looked young, clean-shaven, with pockmarks from a recent bout of acne. His hair was military short, his uniform pressed and clean.

“Who did you say you are?” he asked, now taking the ID wallet from Creed’s extended hand.

“Ryder Creed. I’m with K9 CrimeScents.” He pulled the bill of his ball cap down in case the deputy hadn’t noticed the logo imprinted across the front.

“Hey Archie, he’s good.” A deep voice yelled from the front yard, and the deputy’s head jerked in its direction. A guy in a black ball cap, black T-shirt, blue jeans and shoulder holster waved a “come on” gesture. “He’s with me. We’re waiting for him.”

“Oh sure. Yes, sir.” He handed Creed back his ID wallet without a word or a glance and headed to his SUV. He gave Creed a liberal berth, edging his own vehicle into the tall grass that lined the driveway.

Creed couldn’t help smiling. Tommy Pakula had an air of confidence and authority even before he was promoted from Omaha homicide detective to special investigator for Nebraska’s Human Trafficking Task Force. It was almost a year ago that Creed met Pakula. If it hadn’t been for the man’s gut instinct and dogged tactics, they might have never found Creed’s sister, Brodie.

Pakula met him as he parked the Jeep under one of the huge cottonwoods. As Creed opened the tailgate and started getting his gear, Pakula greeted Grace.

“You drive all night?”

“We stopped in Omaha. Got a room, some rest, some breakfast.”

“Next time, let me know,” Pakula told him. “You can crash at my house, if you don’t mind a houseful of women.”

He remembered Pakula had three or four daughters.

“Already used to that,” Creed assured him. At home, women usually outnumbered him.

“How’s Brodie doing?”

“She’s good.”

“She’s a tough young woman.”

“That’s what she keeps telling me,” Creed said.

He opened his daypack and found a handful of yellow-wrapped candies scattered on top. He swiped a hand over his jaw.

Brodie.

Recently, she’d learned how to order from the Internet. The Butterscotch candy was one of their grandmother’s favorites. Every visit they’d find her crystal candy dishes filled with something different: lemon drops, Bit-o-Honey, brightly colored jelly beans, and assorted flavors of taffy. He imagined he’d find others at the bottom of his bag.

Two months ago, Brodie had earned a paid position at their training facility. Hannah insisted, and Creed agreed. Brodie had taken on not only helping with the kennel chores but was now doing water training exercises with their working dogs. Hannah was teaching her how to manage her new bank account, but it was interesting to see the items she chose to spend money on. Socks, books, dog and cat treats and most recently, Butterscotch candy because they reminded her of their grandmother.

Creed wasn’t used to reminiscing. Of course, he wasn’t. He’d spent his teenage years on the road with his mother, searching for Brodie, going from city to city following a sighting or a tip and always hoping to find her. In later years, he hoped only to find answers.

But it made him smile when Brodie helped him remember good memories, shoving the horrible ones to the back of his mind. Slowly, she was teaching him that not all of their past, their family history, had to be mired in pain and regret.

This operation, and returning to Nebraska, was something Creed insisted he be a part of. It was his way of giving back, donating his time and Grace’s expertise. Last year, this operation and Tommy Pakula helped find his sister. This time, maybe he could help another family find a missing loved one.

“I’m hoping your girl can do her magic,” Pakula said with a tilt of his chin to the clapboard farmhouse. “Name’s Freddie Mason. Seems like an ordinary guy. Nice place. Never ceases to amaze me how they can blend into a community and hide in plain sight.”

“What have you found so far?” Creed asked. It helped to know what devices had already been recovered and from where, in case Grace could still pick up their scent.

“His laptop was on the kitchen counter. Cell phone was in his back pocket. Neither have diddly squat on them. Of course, our cyber guys will dig deeper into them. Right now, he’s in the backyard, out of our way. O’Dell’s been sweet-talking him, playing good cop to my bad cop, but so far, we can’t seem to crack him.”

“O’Dell” was FBI agent Maggie O’Dell. She and Pakula had worked together before. Actually, the three of them had been a part of the same operation that ultimately saved Brodie.