Part 16 (1/2)
”Couldn't hurt.”
Chapter 11.
Dale Carstairs had to be over twenty years older than Owen, but his legs worked a lot better. By the time Owen and Reggie climbed into the rental truck, the taillights of the man's pickup blared red several hundred yards in the distance.
”One of her patients probably freaked out,” Owen said. ”Or the owner of one of her patients had a stroke. Fell on the steps. Tripped on the curb.”
Reggie's huff sounded disgusted. Owen had to agree. He was reaching, and he knew it. But the idea of the police chief driving that fast to Becca's place because Becca was hurt made it hard for him to breathe.
He raced down Carstairs Avenue faster than he should have. People lined the sidewalk, staring toward the clinic. The police cruiser was parked as badly as Dale Carstairs's truck. Since neither Chief Deb, Carstairs, nor Becca were anywhere to be seen, Owen parked his just as badly and climbed out.
He considered taking along the Beretta he'd removed from his backpack on the way to Stone Lake, then shoved under the driver's seat. However, while he had the requisite permits to carry and conceal the weapon, as a soldier he knew just how foolish it would be to walk into an unknown situation carrying one. Chief Deb might shoot him, and he'd deserve it. He took Reggie instead.
Considering the size of the crowd, he snapped a leash onto the dog's collar. Nevertheless, when they stepped onto the sidewalk, the gawkers inched back. Reggie was intimidating. He was supposed to be.
A second cruiser slid to a stop on the other side of the street, and Billy Gardiner climbed out. He was younger than Owen by at least three years, which made him twenty-five or less. His full beard made him appear ten years older. Always had.
When they were teenagers, Billy stopped shaving on the first day of football practice in August and didn't start again until they lost a game. In Three Harbors that meant mid-November. Owen couldn't recall the last time they hadn't won the D-3 state champions.h.i.+p. From the number of years tacked onto the WELCOME TO THREE HARBORS-HOME OF THE STATE CHAMPION CENTURIONS sign, no one else probably remembered it either.
”What's going on, Prof?” The question came from the crowd as Billy looked both ways and hustled across Carstairs Avenue.
Out-of-towners might think ”prof” was short for professor; however, Billy had earned the nickname ”the Prophet,” not because of his ability to predict anything, but because of the nearly chest length of his straggly black beard by the end of every football season.
He stepped onto the sidewalk next to Owen, frowning at the bizarre parking lot in front of the clinic. His fingers stroked the parking ticket booklet peeking out of his s.h.i.+rt pocket. However, since Chief Deb appeared to be the instigator of the parking misbehavior, he left the booklet where it was.
Billy cast a glance at Reggie, then at Owen. ”Okay?”
Owen nodded. Billy's parents were well-respected breeders of Siberian huskies. He'd probably rolled around with the puppies when he was a pup, which might explain why he felt so at home wearing a face full of fur. At any rate, Billy knew dogs and could be trusted to treat this one like the weapon he was.
Billy extended his hand palm down, fingers limp-no fast, grabbing movements that might get him bitten. Reggie sniffed his knuckles, submitted to a short ear scratch, and glanced away as if bored. Billy took the hint and withdrew.
”Hey, Prof!” The same voice as before came from the crowd. ”What happened?”
”Don't know yet.” Billy pulled yellow tape from his pants pocket and herded the gawkers back so he could attach the tape to a building. He unrolled it across the sidewalk, then secured it around a street sign and tore the end.
”If you don't know, then why are you roping this off?”
”I was told to.” Billy turned his back on the crowd, folded his arms, and stared straight ahead. The crowd began to disperse.
Folks from here knew that Billy, the Prophet, had never allowed a QB to be sacked on his watch, and he treated any police line with the same attention. Tourists were just scared at the sight of him.
Owen and Reggie stepped toward the building. Billy's dark eyes, which were nearly the shade of his beard, flicked in their direction. ”No.”
”But-”
”Chief said no one in until she came out.”
”Becca's dad went in there.”
Billy lifted an eyebrow. That had sounded both lame and childish.
”Is anyone hurt?”
”She's fine,” Billy said.
”Promise?”
”If anyone had so much as a hangnail, the chief would have sent for Dr. D.” He lifted a huge paw. ”Promise.”
Owen nearly asked the guy to pinky swear, but figured that was pus.h.i.+ng it. If Becca was hurt in any way, help would have been called and Billy would know about it.
Didn't make Owen want to go inside any less, but it did make his heart stop racing. Eventually.
If he'd been quicker he'd have been there before anyone arrived to keep him out. He could make a run for it, but that would probably go as well now as it had the last time he'd tried. He didn't need to be tackled by the Prophet. It might not hurt as much as being thrown by an IED, then again it might. He'd heard Billy hit as hard as a freight train. However, the real trouble would be with Reggie.
According to those who'd been with them that day in Afghanistan, despite his own injuries, Reggie had remained conscious. He'd crawled over the b.l.o.o.d.y ground to get to Owen, who was not conscious, then protected him from everyone, including the medic. It had taken the other soldiers close to a half hour to talk Reggie down so that the two of them could be medevaced.
Reggie had been hurt and scared, and while he was the property of the U.S. Marine Corps, and the men in their unit were family, Owen was Reggie's person. All good things came from him, which was the way it had to be for them to work together the way they did. That also meant if Owen was down, Reggie was standing over him until he got up. He'd prefer not to have that confrontation here.
Instead, Owen stood shoulder to shoulder with Billy. It gave him the best view of the doors to Becca's place, and he could quiz the man without shouting.
”What's going on?” Owen asked.
Billy shrugged. Owen didn't know him well enough to decide if he knew and wasn't telling, or he truly didn't know.
”Chief Deb asked if anyone had seen a person wearing a mask running away from the clinic.”
A young man, about the age of Becca's brothers and far too ethnic to be from here, had bellied up to the crime scene tape.
Owen glanced at Billy. The officer continued to stare straight ahead as if he hadn't heard.
”Mask,” Owen repeated. ”V Is for Vendetta? Lone Ranger? Phantom?”
”Spider-Man?” Billy deadpanned.
”Ski mask.”
A ripple went through what was left of the crowd. Someone whispered, ”He speaks English.”
For a minute Owen thought they were referring to him-then the kid rolled his eyes and muttered something uncomplimentary in Spanish.
”You better hope none of them speak the language,” Owen said.
”As if.”
”Seora Mueller taught Spanish when I was here, and she was pretty fluent.” Though no one in her cla.s.s ever turned out to be. Seora had mostly handed out worksheets and sent them to the language lab to listen to others speak Spanish, rather than insisting they speak it themselves.