Chapter Fourteen
Gabriel
Jogging at a competition-worthy pace, Gabriel passed a pile of fresh-looking scat that might have come from a dog, or could be one of those boars Reaper was talking about.
Gabriel tapped his chest to remind his nervous system that his gun wasn’t holstered on his hip.
Whiskey was a tracker, not a fighter, and if she became a target, he’d need to neutralize the threat.
Daniel told him about a year ago that he’d gone out to a pig farm with a search-and-rescue team to pan the dirt in the pig pens. They did it using gold pans, like old-timey prospectors had, but with a much more gruesome objective.
They were looking for teeth.
Daniel said that if you threw a naked body in with the pigs, they’d eat it down, bones and all. Then they’d shit out the teeth.
Gabriel had thought Daniel might be pulling his leg.
There was some brotherly back-and-forth from time to time—Gabriel had rubbed it in a few times that he was an Army Ranger while Daniel was a mechanic.
Daniel gave Gabriel hell for working in a darkened office staring at images while he and Whiskey were out beating the bushes looking for the bad guys.
That was fine; they just had a different style of trying to be on the side of the better angels.
That string of thoughts took him back to yesterday’s attempt at saving the victim in an FBI jacket. Gabriel wished he’d gotten word about how that had panned out.
He took his eye off the trail long enough to pull his phone from his thigh pocket and glanced down.
Nada.
He put the phone away and made sure to press the flap down tight.
Crunching leaves had Gabriel looking over his shoulder.
Reaper was running to catch up after staying back to search what looked like a meth shack.
“Nothing, huh?”
“There was a lot,” Reaper said. “Just no kids.”
“Is Whiskey still on a scent, or is she just having fun in the woods?” Gabriel asked.
“She’s locked in. She was trained with a puppy named Chaser.”
“Whiskey and Chaser?” Gabriel asked. “Happenstance?”
“When the owner met Whiskey,” Reaper was breathing heavily as he dropped down to a jog just behind Gabriel, “the pups were round about the same age, and he changed his dog's name because he thought it was clever.”
“Not bad.”
“Chaser was a runner. He loved to get on a scent and race after it full tilt. When the two worked together, they would really get moving.”
“Maybe when they were on the same trail, they were more confident,” Gabriel said. “Two noses are better than one.”
“Alone, Whiskey is easier for a handler on the trail. But look at her; she’s on it, and you can tell because it makes sense. The trail isn’t straight to the northwest. We’ve been leaning leftish, as I’d expect.”
“You expect them to go leftish?” Gabriel calibrated his tone to match Reapers. Loud enough to be heard through his panting, but not loud enough to be a distraction or to miss ambient sounds that might give them a clue. “Is there a reason?”
“I’ve read that humans worldwide just seem to prefer going counterclockwise. We always look left.”
“I thought that had something to do with most people being right-handed. Right-legged. The dominant side being longer, stronger, so it turns the body a tiny bit, but over space and time that adds up. That’s what they told me in the military.”
“Possibly. But worldwide, no matter the culture or the handedness, it seems humans prefer counter-clockwise.”
“You’d think it would be the opposite in the southern hemisphere.”
“All right, funny guy, eyes peeled, ears attuned, settle into your pace. From my time training Whiskey, I can tell from her vocalizations we’re getting close to those kids.”
“That sound she’s making, that’s not howling.”
“That’s called baying. It’s a tracking behavior. It’s a helpful way K9s communicate, and we encourage it when our hounds are in the training stage.”
“Not all the dogs?”
“Some don’t bay at all. The hounds we need to teach them to bay and also to track soundlessly because there are some people we go after who would try to stop the dogs in their tracks.”
Gabriel felt a protectiveness spread from his chest at the thought that anyone might try to hurt Whiskey. “Bays on the trail, howls at the full moon.”
“Howls? Whiskey?” Reaper asked as he moved ahead of Gabriel.
“Last night she was giving me a private concert.”
“I’ve never heard Whiskey howl at anything,” Reaper said.
“Well, no, emergency sirens will occasionally set her off. But that’s about it.
Dogs don’t howl at the moon. Howls are pack communication behaviors.
And Whiskey doesn’t have anyone to howl with.
When you thought she was howling at the moon, did you hear any other dogs going off? ”
“It was just me, Whiskey, the moon, and the dead of night.” Gabriel’s words trailed off into silence.
It was Gabriel's first time on a search, but it wasn’t his first time out on a trail, and he had learned to read the men around him.
Reaper’s muscles tightened, his head jutting forward.
Gabriel’s Ranger unit had a tactical German shepherd named Otto—beautiful dog.
He would point his ears forward and twist them just left or right until they homed in and caught the sound.
The team knew that Otto had found the obstacle when they saw his ears stilled in one direction.
Their team would be searching along the ridges and in the ditch for anything that might pose danger.
Without fail, Otto was on it. He saved their skin on too many occasions to count—hero dog.
If Gabriel could describe Reaper’s posture, that’s what he saw. He’d ask later what the clues were. But for now, Gabriel shut the hell up, quieted his feet, trying to be as silent as possible as he moved through the brush.
Reaper moved farther ahead of Gabriel, and Gabriel sped up to stay within arm’s reach.
With Whiskey at the end of her line, Gabriel was thankful for all the time he had put into the trails, keeping his body ready for the next competition.
He was grateful for every race that taught his ankles to stabilize and his thigh muscles to stiffen, protecting his knees as he stepped into holes. Those experiences enabled him to keep pace.
Reaper looked back over his shoulder. “Let her loose.”
Gabriel had trained to work in symphony with his team. When he heard the directive, Gabriel instantly released the leash and watched the lemon-lime-colored lead snake under a sweet briar.
Reaper dropped into a crouch; his hands lifted to a ready stance.
Softly, softly they stepped forward.
Gabriel's heart pounded so loudly that it muted the sounds of the waking forest.
Reaper held an armful of brambles off to the side, tucking them over a tree branch, and there they were—two little kids in pajamas so wet and filthy that Gabriel couldn’t see the rabbit design.
They had their knees pulled to their chests and their arms wrapped around their legs as they leaned into each other.
Tears had left streaks on their mud-covered faces.
Their eyes were wide and hollow. Two little kids who had been miserable and frightened for too long.
Reaper quietly lowered himself until his knees were on the ground.
“Hello, Cory. My name is Reaper.” He tapped his heart.
“Your mommy and daddy couldn’t find you in the woods, so they called all their friends on the phone to ask us to please come help.
I see you have Amber with you. You took very good care of her.
I’m proud of you.” Reaper’s voice was as soft as a lullaby.
He had two little kids, and he seemed to have worked out the right sound of warmth and support to make children feel safe.
Still, two men popping out in the woods could add to the kids’ fears instead of tamping them down.
Gabriel shed his pack and set it to the side.
“That dog that you’re petting, that dog is my friend Whiskey,” Reaper said.
“She’s a girl dog. She’s a very good girl, just like Amber is a very good girl, and just like Cory is a very good boy.
I’m so glad that we found you so you can go home and hug mommy and daddy. I have another friend with me.”
Reaper didn’t turn, but Gabriel edged forward so that his head was next to Reaper’s.
“This is Whiskey’s daddy. Whiskey’s daddy is called Gabriel. Gabriel, this is Amber and Cory.”
“Good morning, Amber. Hi Cory. Look how much Whiskey likes both of you. It’s nice to see you making friends. But you look cold. Let’s get you wrapped up.” Gabriel tugged his fleece shirt from over his head, but as he bunched it up to help Cory put it on, both kids scooted backward out of his reach.
Reaper put his hand on the toe of Gabriel’s boot.
He spoke under his breath in a tone that traveled to Gabriel's ears but no farther. “Slow and steady. If you get nowhere, that’s fine. At least we know where they are. And it looks like, besides being cold and wet, a few bruises, and cut-up feet, they’re doing okay.
I need to call this in.” He looked up at the thick canopy of pines, then turned an assessing eye three-sixty.
“Comms are going to be hard around here. This might take me a minute. I’ll be back.
” He didn’t grin at the kids; he kept his face very neutral.
“Amber and Cory, Gabriel and Whiskey are going to sit with you, so you aren’t afraid.
I’m going to go call the helpers who will take you back to mommy and daddy. Okay?”
Neither one answered, but Gabriel saw that Reaper was focusing hard on their faces, watching for nuances.
Gabriel didn’t see anything on Amber’s face at all; she was a blank canvas.
But the mention of mommy put hunger in Cory’s eyes.
And that, Gabriel thought, was what Reaper was looking for. Were these kids frightened of mom or dad? Had they run away to protect themselves?
From the filth and clothing, Gabriel couldn’t assess their bodies and didn’t have the expertise, anyway, to tell if there was any abuse. That wasn’t his role. His role was to find the children, then provide a sense of safety and, if they’d allow him, perhaps some comfort.