Colton's K-9 Rescue
Autore
Colleen Thompson
Letto da
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Capitoli
21
Chapter 1
Breeze ruffling his shaggy, dark-brown hair, Malcolm Colton adjusted his cap and zipped the collar of his tactical all-weather jacket higher as the wind shifted and the fine mist turned to drizzle. If Pacer, his K-9 search-and-rescue partner—and often, his only reason for getting out of bed these past three years—felt the deepening chill through his thick coat and working vest, he gave no indication. The red-and-black German shepherd mix, whose DNA contained just enough hound to make his ears floppy and his nose exquisite, was far too intent on dragging Malcolm to follow the scent trail he’d picked up, several miles from the area where the task force had previously chased.
This unsanctioned mission had come courtesy of a new tip from a citizen. It was a tip that Malcolm had risked everything—including his future volunteering with Owl Creek, Idaho Search and Rescue—to pursue on his own after shutting off his phone and disabling his GPS tracker so no one would have any way to find him. He felt even worse about lying to his family, telling his dad over their morning coffee that he was making the two-hour drive to Boise to meet up with a friend for the weekend. “If you can spare me on the ranch for a couple days, that is,” he’d added, as if his father hadn’t been practically begging him to take time for a getaway since the tragic drowning of Malcolm’s fiancée three years earlier.
Beaming over the rim of his mug, Buck Colton had nodded his approval and reached over to scrub Pacer’s thick ruff affectionately with his free hand. “Don’t you worry, son. The ranch can spare you for a few days, especially with Greg and Wade both here to help me. And you know I’ll have fun spoiling your buddy while you’re gone—if he’s not too busy playing with Betty Jane to give me the time of day.” He chuckled warmly at the reference to the way his cousin Wade’s dog and Pacer would wrestle when both K-9s were off duty.
“Oh, I’m taking Pacer with me,” Malcolm had told him, racking his brain to come up with a reason that would throw off any suspicion about the dangerous idea that had taken root in his mind. “This friend of mine is quite the fan of animals, and to be honest, she’s asked specifically if she could meet him.”
Laughing, his dad—who was currently head-over-heels in love and convinced that everyone else should be—set down his mug and clapped Malcolm on the shoulder. “You sly dog, you! So, who’s the lucky woman? And how long have you been hiding this big news from me?”
“This is exactly the reason I didn’t tell you, Dad. It’s still early days and very casual, so I don’t need you making a huge deal of this. Or telling anyone else in the family before I’m ready. Got it?”
His father mimed locking his mouth and tossing away the key, a gesture so totally unlike him that Malcolm chuckled and shook his head remembering it now. Still, he felt another surge of guilt for getting the man’s hopes up, because every time Malcolm so much as thought of putting himself out there in the dating world again, he broke out in a cold sweat, remembering the moment he’d finally caught the eye of one of the EMTs who’d been working frantically to revive Kate beside Blackbird Lake that horrendous August day. Remembering the bitter truth he’d seen there as he’d listened to the other Dowling sister screaming.
He still heard those heartrending screams in his nightmares. Screams forever etched into his memory.
Malcolm staggered to a stop as Pacer abruptly pulled up short, raising his head and sniffing the breeze deeply. A trailing rather than a tracking dog, he didn’t follow the footprints of the criminal who was their quarry—which was a damned good thing since Malcolm hadn’t spotted any in the hard-packed, rocky ground at this elevation. Instead, the well-trained K-9 sought out the scent cones that floated in the air or attached to items their quarry brushed against, such as vegetation or rocky outcrops.
Jerking his head sharply to the right, Pacer barked and lunged again, indicating that he’d caught another strong whiff of the scent matching that of the old T-shirt belonging to the subject. Thinking of where the item had been collected and the damage the man had done to Malcolm’s family had him telling himself that nobody got to cause his loved ones so much pain and then use the cover of some freak storm to disappear forever. Because at this point, Malcolm cared far less about his own personal safety—this storm and Markus Acker’s track record of putting Coltons in the ground be damned—than he did about ending the nightmare that had held his family in its grip for far too long now.
As Pacer led the way, Malcolm kept his bearings using various trails they crossed in the normally popular recreational area. They crested a hill, and the sight of a familiar ridgeline had him catching his breath, though it hurt like hell to remember those vibrant, sky-blue days when he and Kate had hiked out from her family’s ski cabin, one of the many in the area, to enjoy the scenery. With the cold rain pattering down around him, he could almost hear the echo of lost laughter among the rocks and trees. Could almost see the tears gleaming in Kate’s beautiful gray eyes as she had clapped her hands together, saying, “Of course I’ll marry you! Even if you hadn’t adopted the most adorable puppy in all Idaho, can’t you see I’m absolutely crazy about you, Malcolm? And you know how much I love your family.”
Shoving aside the painful memory, Malcolm reached up to switch on his headlamp against an afternoon that had grown as dark as that day had been brilliant. Driven by a bitter wind, the rain blew straight into his face. Half blinded by the worsening conditions—the very reason that Ajay Wright, the officer in charge of the SAR operation, had ordered the team to hold off instead of heading out here—Malcolm missed seeing a hole underfoot and yelped as he found himself unexpectedly hurtling forward.
Throwing out his hands to save his face, he heard the crack before he felt it when the two outermost fingers of his left hand caught a small rock and snapped back sharply.
“It’s okay, boy,” he told Pacer, who had circled back and shoved his face directly into Malcolm’s, his deep brown eyes worried. “I’ll be fine.”
Apparently not buying it, Pacer whined and snuffled and licked at Malcolm’s face, warm breath pluming in the chilly air around them.
“I’d be a lot more flattered by your concern,” said Malcolm, “if I didn’t know you’re just eager to go find yourself a bad man.”
Pacer barked loudly, bouncing on his front paws, reminding Malcolm never to use the word find unless he was well and truly ready to get moving.
“Sorry, boy. Give me a minute. Settle,” Malcolm said, before testing his injury by carefully flexing the hand—which turned out to be an even worse idea. Once he’d finished seeing stars at the agony arcing across his knuckles and letting fly with a curse, he slipped off his backpack and fished out the first aid kit he had brought along.
With the rain growing even colder by the minute, he quickly abandoned thoughts of attempting to immobilize the hand, figuring he’d only make a mess of the bandage trying to wrap it under these conditions. Instead, he swallowed a couple of ibuprofen with some water, hoping the pills would at least delay the pain and swelling—because there was no way in the world he was turning on his phone to beg for help after disobeying orders.
Not as long as his dog, his legs, and his right hand were all working—and he had the pistol he’d brought along in case he unexpectedly found himself face-to-face with Acker.
Soon, he and Pacer were on their way again, Malcolm’s effort to tune out the ache in his hand aided by his need to concentrate on where he put his feet next on the steep uphill incline. But between the heavy run-off and the encroaching darkness, he was quickly forced to rely on Pacer’s superior senses to guide them safely through the intensifying storm.
Just as he was beginning to worry this had all been a fool’s errand, they emerged near a gravel road, where Pacer wagged excitedly as he sniffed a clump of weeds. He looked up at Malcolm, his brown eyes smiling before he gave a hound-like howl of pure joy. His entire body vibrating with anticipation, he charged off barking, head held low.
“That’s a boy. I’m coming,” Malcolm said, practically tripping over his own feet in his effort to respond to the pulling. But as they began passing ski cabins, many already closed up with the recent spring thaw, he began to wonder if it was possible that his dog was following not his nose, but a memory from when he was last here as a tiny pup.
Surely, he can’t recall that far back. He has to be on Acker’s scent. Look at him.
But as Pacer unerringly continued heading in an undeniably familiar direction, he asked himself if it was possible that, of all the places Markus could have decided to hole up to ride out this weather, he could have really chosen, by pure coincidence, the one spot that Pacer had visited before.
“Ridiculous,” Malcolm muttered as they turned up the long, tree-lined driveway.
Though he saw no sign of a vehicle, he knew one could be parked either behind the cabin or inside the small, detached garage. As he and Pacer started up the evergreen-studded slope, he soon made out the warm yellow glow of the lights in the single-story log dwelling’s windows. With the wind making the steady rain feel even colder, that familiar light carried him back in time, promising comfort and welcome. He pictured Kate, her beautiful face illuminated by her phone as she checked her schedule at the clinic or shot a quick text to her writer sister down in Palm Springs. Or maybe Kate was curled up in her favorite overstuffed chair by the living room picture window, watching the rain fall over the valley. The same valley where, on a clear day, one could plainly see the shimmering sapphire eye of the same lake destined to take her life in one cruel blink.
Jolted back to reality, Malcolm cursed his foolishness. Painful as it was, she was three-and-a-half years gone now, and if he didn’t want to join her before his time had come, he had damned well better pay attention. Because between his dog’s behavior, the lights, and what he’d almost swear was the scent of something warm and fragrant cooking, he was 100 percent certain that there was someone in this house now.
And that someone might very well be Markus Acker, who, already alerted by Pacer’s ruckus and his own headlamp, might be taking aim from some unseen position. Or were they still too distant?
Eager to improve their odds, Malcolm switched off his light and gave the command, “Hush,” before shortening Pacer’s lead to allow for better control.
His K-9 whined in protest, the hound in him wanting his say about the importance of his mission, but with a few freeze-dried chicken treats Malcolm had brought along as bribes, he was able to convince his partner to keep his peace.
With only the steady patter of cold rain for company, they continued toward a back patio dimly illuminated by rectangles of soft interior light spilling out from the panes of the rear door’s windows. The real question was, had Markus’s path led him up those porch steps, where he’d forced entry through that same door? Or had he bypassed the cabin, perhaps to hide out as close as the garage downslope to the rear?
Crouching low, Malcolm pressed forward, his heart pounding as he strained to hear another door or window opening. As they reached the bottom of the three porch steps, a loud crack—what he took for gunfire—had him shouting in alarm, nearly jumping out of his skin.
He felt like a damned fool when a bright flash lit the sky at the same moment before thunder pealed again.
Legs shaking like a newborn foal’s, he grabbed the handrail and let out a curse before quietly reassuring Pacer—who seemed uncharacteristically jittery as well. “It’s only a lightning strike, boy. We’re going to be all right.”
“You’re right about the lightning,” said a female voice, positioned just behind him. A voice with a volume and a confidence that carried over the fury of the storm. “But as for the question of whether you’re really all right, that very much depends on whether you make any sudden moves. And on whether you keep a firm grip on your animal as well.”
“Owl Creek Search and Rescue,” Malcolm identified himself and Pacer, his heart pounding at the clear warning in her words. “And I swear to you, we’re here looking for a wanted criminal who may be in the area and not to do you any har—”
“Malcolm?”
The astonishment ripping through that single word stripped away the threatening tone, allowing him to hear something impossibly familiar. Something he’d thought lost forever, causing him to spin around to face the woman who was already lowering the handgun she’d been aiming at him...
The same woman whose limp body he himself had pulled too late from the lake more than three years before. He saw that his fiancée’s once chin-length blond hair now nearly reached the shoulders of the old, green fatigue sweater she wore with a pair of jeans that molded to her slim form. She seemed oddly tall as well, but maybe that was because his perspective was off, shifting as he backpedaled to avoid the gun, the raw shame, and this impossible hallucination.
His feet tangled with the dog’s lead, drawing a pained yelp as he stepped on Pacer’s paw. Instinctively reacting but already off-balance, Malcolm ended up sprawling on his back.
In the next bright flash that followed, he found himself staring up not at a ghost, as his shell-shocked mind first thought, but what he’d belatedly realized was a damned ghostwriter instead.
