Page 26 of Desperate Creed

“Yes, it was.”

His wife’s unhappiness was a complete surprise to him. He knew that he spent too many hours consumed by his job. How many family events had he walked in the door late or missed entirely? But he loved his boys. He loved his wife. He’d never questioned either.

It was at that moment it occurred to Willis, his three sons would be just fine. All of them were off building lives of their own. Beth would be fine, too. She had said as much. Willis would be the only one displaced from his home of thirty years, the rose garden he’d curated, the magnolia trees and crepe myrtles he had planted along with the bird feeders he’d built and placed.

It was clear to him now that he spent too much time in his backyard and literally with his head in the clouds.

“Dad,” his son’s voice brought him back. “Maybe it’ll all blow over, just like the storms. You know mom. Tomorrow she might change her mind and redecorate a different room.”

That made Willis smile, but a bit of sadness poked at him. Maybe that was the problem, Willis realized. Maybe he really didn’t know his wife. He didn’t seem to know her at all.

19

Southern Alabama

(50 miles south of Montgomery)

Sheriff Krenshaw took a look at Grace then took a step back as if to get a better view of the handler and dog.

“Search dogs I’ve worked with before are usually bigger. Labs, shepherds. What the hell is this?”

“Jack Russell terrier. Her name’s Grace.”

“Where you from, son?”

Creed was used to this. He didn’t take offense. Instead, he simply said, “Florida Panhandle. Just outside of Pensacola.”

“Look son, no disrespect intended but...”

Creed relaxed his stance even as he braced himself for the insult, because usually when people prefaced a remark with, “no disrespect intended,” it was right before they said something insulting.

“This is only the beginning,” the sheriff said as he waved his arm in a wide circle as if to emphasize the enormity of the disaster. “We have more storms coming. That means we don’t have much time to find survivors. They’re saying this weekend could be as bad as 2011. Now again, no disrespect, son, but you probably were off surfing at Pensacola Beach in 2011 and don’t even remember that massive outbreak.”

“You’re right I don’t remember. I was in Afghanistan.”

The man blinked several times, and Creed could see his jawline tighten like he’d just bitten down on something bitter.

“Army?” he asked.

“Marines.” Creed waited a beat and added, “I was a K9 handler.”

Now the sheriff shook his head, “First out. First to die.”

Creed nodded.

“Desert Storm,” the man tapped his own chest. “I remember a K9 handler we had in our unit for a short time. He saved all our asses a couple of times.”

Marine K9 units moved from one platoon to another for weeks at a time. For that reason Creed and Rufus were always the outsiders. And yes, everyone knew they were the first out, first to die. The platoon knew not to get attached to them, even though they depended on the pair to get them through fields of IEDs or booby-trapped buildings. What Creed and Rufus did—especially the dog’s ability to warn them—it seemed a little bit like magic to the others. They were never sure whether the K9 team would end up saving them or getting them all killed. But one thing they knew for sure was that Creed and Rufus would be the first out, first to die.

“Hell,” Krenshaw was shaking his head, “I owe you an apology.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“No, no, I am truly sorry.” The man’s entire demeanor changed. His arms went slack as his sides. “My wife keeps telling me I’ve gotten too damned cynical in my advanced age. Says I’m too quick to judge people on account of all the assholes I’ve dealt with over the years.”

“Hey, I see you two met,” a woman said as she came up from behind him.

“Norwich, I just made a damn ass of myself. You should have told me Mr. Creed was a Marine.”