Page 64 of Fallen Creed

Creed slipped in and out of consciousness. He heard Grace whimper. This time when he jolted, the pain in his side brought him to the surface. His eyes flew open, struggling to focus. Something warm and wet on his arm.

Grace!

Finally, he could see her in the dim light. He tried to touch her, only to find his hands couldn’t move. A zip-tie bound his wrists together. Grace scampered around, paws batting at him, excited licks finding his face. That’s when he realized he was on the floor, twisted into a fetal position, wedged into a corner of the trailer.

He saw the table and bench where he’d been sitting. It was diagonal from him now about five feet away. He pushed himself up and against the wall, despite the red-hot poker in his side. The door to the trailer was directly across from him, and he couldn’t help wondering if they were getting ready to drag him out.

The wind still howled. The generator hummed. But Creed couldn’t hear anyone else inside the trailer.

Was it possible they left him?

He looked at Grace and watched her. She panted, obviously stressed, but she also wagged and nudged him in between licks. Her ears were back, humbled and excited to see him awake. But she wasn’t listening or alerting to any other noises or anyone’s presence inside or outside the trailer.

A single light above the sink made the space glow yellow. The windows showed darkness, with a white flurry brushing against the glass. He wasn’t going to wait another minute. He relaxed his balled up fists, rotated side-by-side wrists to face each other, loosening the zip-ties enough that in seconds he was able to free himself.

They had thrown his daypack underneath him. Or maybe that’s how he landed when they shoved him into the corner. Either way, it was his advantage. His cell phone was gone.

No. They had taken that before they’d drugged him.

The coffee. How stupid of him to be tricked so easily by a couple of girls.

Nothing seemed to be missing from his pack. Creed pulled out the emergency kit he had for Grace. He shoved his hand deeper and came back with an assortment of candy in colorful wrappers. Brodie. He smiled and plunged his hand back in until he found a water bottle.

Grace’s collapsible bowl was in a side pocket. As Creed started filling the bowl, Grace leaned in, lapping at the falling water, not able to wait for him to put the bowl down. He petted her while she drank, talking to her in a quiet tone, and telling her what a good girl she was. He brushed his hand against her side, and she winced in pain.

He remembered her whimper. Somewhere in his muddled mind, he had heard one of the women say, “Hey, stop kicking the dog.”

He shook the fogginess from his mind and let anger replace it as he dug out a canine energy bar from a Ziplock bag. Hannah had made them from scratch, formulating them especially for the dogs. He broke off a piece and offered it to Grace. She noticed him watching the door. He watched as she listened. After a few seconds, she took the piece of bar and chewed. He broke off another piece and popped it into his mouth. They took turns until it was gone.

In Grace’s first aid kit, he found a blister pack of Clavamox, an antibiotic. He fingered it open and swallowed it down with a sip from water in the bottle, forcing himself to leave just a little. He pulled out the container of pain meds, but immediately stopped. Was Tramadol was an opioid? The overdose last June felt too recent.

Grace was watching him. Paying attention only to him. No other sounds. No one approaching the trailer.

He ran his fingers gently over her side again, and she flinched.

He twisted off the pain med’s protective cap and poured one tablet into the palm of his hand. Also in the kit was a small container of peanut butter. Before he had the lid off, Grace was drooling. He coated the pill with peanut butter and gave it to her.

“One for you,” he said as he palmed another pill into his hand. “And one for me.” He popped it into his mouth and drained the rest of the water.

He continued to watch Grace for any signals. Her nose lifted, sampling the air, but her ears didn’t pitch forward. He figured he had a few more minutes. With the first aid kit opened and ready, it was time to check his wound. It didn’t surprise him, but he was disappointed to see that it was a bloody mess again.

—51—

“This doesn’t mean he’s dead,” Pakula said.

Maggie wanted him to shut up. His good intentions were only making her slide further off the imaginary ledge she was already on. She felt like she was hanging onto it by her fingertips. One wrong move and she might fall into the abyss. Her nerves were scraped raw. Her mind was a blur. And she couldn’t stop seeing that bloody shirt—Ryder’s shirt.

Pakula had found something else inside the black garbage bag that seemed to convince him Ryder’s disappearance might be connected to the murder of Kristin Darrow. He told her he’d explain later.

All the way back, Pakula was on his phone, and Spencer was on his radio. Both men ordering and putting into play the necessary procedures for reporting, alerting and searching for a missing, wounded dog handler.

One thing Maggie noticed through the haze of her panic, Pakula called Ryder, an official member of his human trafficking task force. Ryder wasn’t law enforcement, but Pakula had just put him on the level of one. It would elevate his search.

“A sock,” Maggie said to Pakula when it was safe for her to discuss it without wanting to scream. One black crew sock, stiff with blood. Too small to be Ryder’s.

Spencer had dropped them back off at the hotel. It was snowing again. The sheriff needed to respond to some emergency storm related calls.

Pakula gestured to the hotel’s restaurant.