Chapter 2 #2
Kurt hoped the two-and-a-half-hour drive back to St. Louis the next morning would be the distraction he needed.
He awoke an hour before dawn from chaotic dreams that were the detritus of his years of service.
He’d planned to spend the last part of the day catching up with some old buddies still stationed at the post, but he was too antsy to wait around until they were off duty.
And after surviving the uneasy family reunion last night, the idea of hanging around Fort Leonard Wood an entire day with no solid plans wasn’t enticing. His mother had mentioned she had the day off, but try as he might, Kurt could only tolerate her in small doses.
His thoughts circled as he headed east on Interstate 44.
Reconnecting with Rob Bornello was long overdue.
Kurt had never gotten around to seeing Rob when he was home on leave, and he genuinely missed his mentor.
He’d like to believe that driving nearly 150 miles back to St. Louis less than twenty-four hours after landing had nothing to do with the images of the dogs that had flashed across the TV screen last night.
But Kurt was getting better about not lying to himself.
He wouldn’t rest easy until he got inside that warehouse and saw the dogs for himself.
He just needed reassurance they were being rehoused into centers with caring, competent staff.
Whatever he saw today, Kurt was determined not to get involved.
He’d make a donation, but he was staying out of this mess.
He’d lost too many dogs—and too many buddies—over the last several years.
It was a commitment he’d made after losing Zara in Afghanistan a few months back.
He needed a break. Needed to immerse himself in something that didn’t matter. Something physically demanding that would have him crawling into bed after a demanding day, something to exhaust his body and quiet his mind. And he intended to do it where it wasn’t hot.
He knew Rob was going to try to put him to work, but in the long run, Rob would understand.
Rob had introduced him to the K-9 world.
Kurt had started shadowing him at the post as soon as his grandparents trusted him to bike away for the afternoon.
Rob had kept in contact after he left the post, taking Kurt to exhibitions with him a few times a year.
By the time he pulled into a gas station a mile from the warehouse address his grandfather had shoved at him as he was leaving the bar last night, Kurt was surprised to find it wasn’t even eight o’clock yet.
He’d grab a cup of coffee and whatever prepackaged breakfast sandwich looked the best under the heat lamps and be on his way.
* * *
If Kelsey had any doubt diving into a dogfighting rescue would be controversial, it vanished as she and Fidel, her coworker, pulled in front of the warehouses in north St. Louis County where the confiscated animals were being held.
It was only eight in the morning, and the picketers were already here, polka-dotting opposite sides of the street. Peacefully it seemed, so far anyway.
Kelsey scanned the handwritten posters as she stepped from her car.
The clearly animal-rights side wanted harsh punishments for the dog men and demanded an end to vicious dogfighting.
A few people held posters with enlarged pictures of themselves snuggling with well-known fighting breeds, pit bulls mostly.
Some had even brought their dogs along. Kelsey counted at least four leashed pit bulls, two Rottweilers, and a few breeds she couldn’t identify milling among the group of supporters.
Her cheeks flamed hot as she took in the posters on the opposite side of the street.
It wasn’t only the glare of the morning sun that caused their posters to burn her retinas.
A quick skim made it clear these protesters didn’t want the animals being rehabbed.
Once a killer, always a killer. Protect our neighborhoods, stop killing sprees before they happen.
Humanely euthanize now and save human lives.
One poster asserted that animals existed to serve humans, and fighting dogs didn’t serve anyone.
She chewed hard on her tongue to keep from stalking over with a mouthful of statistics none of them would likely care to hear. Fighting with fired-up protesters wouldn’t change their minds and would only give her a headache.
Fidel, who’d been finishing up a phone call with his wife, stepped out from the passenger seat and surveyed the scene.
He made a guttural sound, and Kelsey wondered if she might have to guide him away from the protesters.
Fidel grew up in the slums of Mexico City and credited a unique childhood relationship with a stray basenji as the reason he kept away from the city’s violent gangs.
“We should head inside,” she suggested. “I told Mr. Bornello we’d be here at eight. I’ll text Megan that we’re going in. She can join us when she gets here.”
“Sí, let’s do.”
Her heart sank as she eyed the two police officers guarding the warehouse entrance.
The few times she’d been with Fidel around the police, he’d fallen quiet and turned pale, the veins in his temples bulging.
The only thing Fidel had ever shared about his journey to America was that it had been complicated.
When he was hired four years ago, he presented all the necessary paperwork.
Neither Megan nor Wesley, the now-retired shelter founder, were ones to question it.
When she’d asked Fidel to come along this morning, she hadn’t thought of the extra stress it might cause him.
She’d only thought of how she and Megan could use his advice in picking out the animals.
Of the shelter’s five full-time employees, Fidel knew the most about dogs.
Sometimes she’d swear he spoke dog. He’d be perfect for leading the rehab project, if it wasn’t for the fact that his wife was pregnant with their fourth child and on bed rest. As a result, his schedule had become unpredictable the last month and would continue that way for a while.
Kelsey held her breath as they passed the protesters. She had an odd sense of a crowd gathering for a parade, only no one seemed to be having any fun. Fortunately, she and Fidel made it down the sidewalk without more than a few halfhearted calls directed at them.
The two policemen squared off in front of the double doors as they neared.
“No visitors,” the shorter one said. “Registered guests and rescue workers only.” His tone was blunt but not rude.
The middle button of his light-blue uniform shirt had come undone, exposing an unsightly bit of flesh.
Kelsey figured it best not to point that out.
“We’re expected,” she said as Fidel gritted his teeth. “I am anyway, and I asked Fidel to come with me. Our supervisor is meeting us here. We work at the High Grove Animal Shelter. We’ve volunteered to take some of the dogs once they’re cleared to leave. My name is Kelsey Sutton.”
The taller one lifted a clipboard from a chair. He scanned it, then glanced her way. “I’ll need some ID.”
As Kelsey fished through her purse, a loud, red classic Mustang pulled into the lot and parked.
She wondered if it was another protester, and if so, why the driver hadn’t parked off to the side with the others.
The driver, a guy, popped out and headed purposefully down the sidewalk toward her.
He was around her age and incredibly fit, precision-toned almost.
It had to be instinctive, the way her insides melted, because anyone that fit almost certainly couldn’t be her type.
His level of fitness spoke of high-maintenance diets and protein powder and lots of time in front of the mirror.
She’d seen too much growing up with two older, self-absorbed weight-lifting brothers to believe otherwise.
Sliding her license from her wallet, she handed it to the taller cop with the clipboard.
He took his time studying it, looked pointedly at her, and frowned. “I’d put you at five nine or ten, not five eight.”
Kelsey felt the heat flame up her neck as the driver of the Mustang stopped right behind them. Dear God, don’t let him mention my weight. “Five nine,” she managed, “when I’m not in these running shoes.”
“You’ll want to update that next time you’re renewing your license.”
She nodded but stayed as quiet as Fidel. They were offering to rehab confiscated dogs. Why did she feel like she was a crime suspect all of a sudden?
The tall one pulled out a radio to make contact with someone inside the warehouse.
“I have a Kelsey Sutton and acquaintance from the High Grove Animal Shelter in Webster here to see Rob. She’s on the list for an eight o’clock arrival.
” After a bit more of an exchange, the officer nodded at her. “Just a minute. He’s on his way.”
The officers shifted their attention to the man standing behind her. “Are you expected, sir?” the short one asked.
Sir?
Unable to resist, Kelsey stole a glance over her shoulder. To her dismay, he met her gaze full on. He was in jeans and a dark-gray T-shirt, but something about his demeanor radiated military or police. He had olive skin, short brown hair, and chestnut-brown eyes. And he was so fit.
He flicked his gaze to the officers, most likely forgetting her existence on the spot. He slipped an ID from his wallet. “Kurt Crawford. Military dog handler, marines most recently. Army before that. I’m here to see Rob as well.”
“Of course,” the tall one said, not even giving the clipboard a glance. “He’ll be right out.”