Beowulf: Explosives Detection Dog (45 page)

They streaked down 81 and made it to Nashville by evening. Then he rapped on the door.

A short, gray-haired woman frowned, her confusion from an “out of context” scenario. “Mrs. Barker?”

She tugged her sweater closed beneath her chin. “Yes?”

“I’m Sergeant First Class VanAllen.” He gritted his teeth. “I served with your son, ma’am.”

Her face brightened. “Oh! You knew Matt? Come in, come in!” She waved him in then saw someone behind him. “Oh, is this your wife?” “No,” Stephanie said. “I’m his sister.”

“Oh, well come on in.” She shifted aside for them to enter and called out, “Ted, one of Matt’s friends is here.”

A weathered man appeared at the end of the hall, jaw jutted about like Timbrel’s bullmastiff. “A little late, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir. I am. Sorry.” Tony lowered his gaze. “I came as soon as I could.”

“Whaddya mean?” The man acted like a drill sergeant. “It’s been over three months. My son is dead and buried.”

Tony let the man rail. No justification existed in the world of pain for losing a loved one to combat.

“Ted, quiet. You’ll scare him.”

“I ain’t going to scare him.” He pointed a gnarled finger at Tony. “This boy has seen combat.”

“I apologize I could not make the funeral. I would have been there if I could have.”

“Why weren’t you, then?”

“I was in the hospital, sir.”

Mrs. Barker offered him a seat at the table. “Were you there, when Matt was hurt?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“So you got hurt, too?”

“I did.” Tony shifted and looked at the flag in the triangular-shaped box. Above it, a shadow box of medals. “I just wanted you both to know Scrip always operated with 100 percent. He was truly one of the best.”

His father lifted his jaw. “Yes, he was.”

“I just wanted to come, apologize for your loss, thank you for raising a fine son, and apologize …” Tony’s throat constricted. “Apologize for not bringing him back to you alive.”

Mr. Barker’s eyes glossed. “I know you would’ve if you could have.”

“Absolutely, sir.”

Two Months Later

“Look, I appreciate the … interest,” Tony said as he sat on the sofa in his parents’ living room. He pushed up, his balance equally divided between his right foot and his prosthesis. He steadied himself, the artificial limb a vast improvement but still awkward. “But I just don’t think I’m up to that yet.”

The relief was still powerful, swift, and sweet that he didn’t need the crutches to maintain his balance anymore. His fingers coiled around the cane, but he refused to use it. It’d taken laser focus and endless hours of physical therapy, but he’d made it. Those walking down the street wouldn’t notice the bit of a gimp he still had.

Dean Watters sat across from him with his black Army baseball hat tugged low. “Why?” The man might have an a lanky six-three height, but his thick chest and arms belied that. “Your physical therapist signed off. You’re in great physical shape. A little training will put you on the road to passing the PFT. Then we can get back out there and—”

“No.” Tony clamped down, jaw tight, lips tighter. “Forget it.” He pushed himself off the couch, using the arm for leverage until he found his balance on the prosthesis. “As soon as Burnett signs off on my DD214—”

“Sorry, son.” Burnett came to his feet. “I’m not signing off on it. I need you in the game.”

“What part of ‘I can’t!’ don’t you get?” Tony stuck out his titanium leg.

“The
can’t
,” Dean said, squaring off with Tony. “Because you
can
. I’ve known you for seven long years, and I’ve never once seen you lie down—until now. What made you roll over and show your belly, Tony?”

“Losing half my leg.”

“What are you really afraid of?”

Tony balled his fists. “I worked too freakin’ hard to be a good soldier, a Green Beret. The last thing I want is them looking at me as an amputee.”

“Then you need to stop thinking of yourself that way. Get over yourself, Tony. Get back in the game, where you belong.”

“Bring her in,” General Burnett said.

Tony frowned and looked around.

A man with a slight limp came through the door holding the lead of a dog. He wasn’t sure what kind—looked like German shepherd but furrier. Then it hit him. “Wait. You own the ranch.” The one that brought Timbrel into his life.

The man extended his arm. “Jibril Khouri.”

Tony shook his hand. “Tony VanAllen.” His gaze slid from the man with Middle Eastern features to the dog who sniffed the room. “What’s this?”

“This is Rika.” Jibril squatted. “She’s a therapy dog.”

Tony bit back the curse. “No.” He shook his head and speared the two men he knew to be behind this. “I’m not taking a dog. I’m not screwed up. There are people out there who can’t tell day from night.” He threw a finger toward the back porch where his father spent most of his days. “My dad for one.”

A cold, wet nose nudged his hand.

Tony snapped back to the gorgeous dog. She nudged his hand until it rested on her head.

Instinct moved his hand over her silky head. Panting in pleasure, she smiled up at him. Something in him oozed out.

“Would you excuse us, please?” Jibril nodded to the general and Dean.

“What is this, an ambush?” Tony said, but the dog had inched closer. He couldn’t help but smile. His mind skipped to Beowulf. The hound of hell.

“I will not pretend with you, my friend.” Jibril handed the lead to Tony and moved to the other side of the room. “Rika was trained for you.”

“You mean for amputees. I get it—I’ve seen them at work at Walter Reed. But I’m not interested. I’m doing fine.”

“No. I mean she was trained for
you
.” Jibril’s blue-green eyes bored into him. “Only you. I have spent the last two months perfecting her training, learning to work with an amputee, learning to detect stress and depression.”

“I don’t need pity or a dog that’ll announce to the world that I’m screwed up.”

Jibril held up a hand. Then, slowly, he lowered that same hand to his pant leg. Hiked it up. Metal and plastic gleamed beneath the light of the ceiling fan.

Tony felt the world heave. He lowered himself to the sofa with a quiet snort. Tugged up his own and revealed the airbrushed leg. “Had them paint the flag and eagle on mine.”

Jibril smiled. “It’s beautiful.”

“What’s beautiful,” Tony said, feeling the rawness, the constricting of his throat as he thought of it, “is walking down the street and nobody really noticing me anymore. No more pity. No more shame.”

“That piece of titanium and the sensors that anticipate your movement do not make the pity go away.” Jibril’s gaze was alive. “You hold that power.
You
determine what there is to be ashamed of.” He shrugged. “Or not ashamed of. Rika is just”—another bounce of his shoulders as he pursed his lips—“your new girlfriend, who can surreptitiously let you know when things are messed up before they get more messed up.”

Rika trotted to Jibril, took something from his hand, then returned to Tony. She dropped it in his lap and sat at his foot. Eyed the red Kong. Then him. Kong. Him.

“At eighteen months, she still has a lot of puppy in her,” Jibril said with a laugh. “But I promise you, she will be keyed in to you 100 percent of the time.”

“How do you know?” Tony lifted the rubber toy and tossed it out the door and down the hall.

She tore off after it.

“Because with me, she refused to surrender the toy.”

Trotting into the living room, giant red Kong in her mouth, the yellow rope dangling to the side, Rika seemed to be grinning. She deposited her toy in his lap again. She still had pretty sharp canines and flashed those things at him as she waited for him to get with the game, literally. He eyed her harness. Pity. They’d ask about her, know she was a working dog. Know he couldn’t get it together.
Just like Dad
.

“Nah.” He held out the lead. “I can’t do this. Give her to someone who will appreciate her more. Who needs her more.”

“Sorry.” Jibril slid his hands into his pant pockets. “I cannot do that. She was bought for you, trained for you. And since she has bonded to you, I will not remove her just because you are too stubborn to accept this beautiful gift.”

Tony frowned. “Look—” He went to pull himself up.

Rika hopped up on the sofa with him. Dangling her front legs over his. Retrieved her toy. Gnawed on it then leaned back against him, playing with it and oblivious to his rejection.

Hesitating, arms out as if he were afraid to touch her, Tony couldn’t help but laugh. Slowly, he rubbed her belly. Smoothed a hand over her strong shoulders and the fluffy sides of her face, all while she chomped the toy. Teeth squeaking over the rubber, she pawed at it.

“What breed is she?”

“Purebred long-coat German shepherd. Champion bloodline. The breeder donates one dog from each litter to therapy programs.” Jibril lowered himself into the La-Z-Boy chair across from him.

The strangest awe came over Tony as he watched the dog playing on his lap as if they’d been best friends for life. Ya know … he remembered how Beo had brought his dad out of that flashback. Could Rika do that, too?

“Tony.”

Rubbing her belly, Tony chuckled. Looked up. Met a strong gaze.

“I don’t think she’ll ever give up on you.”

“I … I think she could be really good. Not only for me, but for my dad.” He nodded. “Yeah, I could use a dog like her to get my mind off things.”

Palms pressed together, Jibril touched his fingertips to his nose. “I did not mean Rika.”

Tony’s heart powered down. He drew in a long, shallow breath.

Rika flipped onto her belly. Sat up. Nudged her nose against his cheek.

The wetness made him breathe a laugh. He hooked Rika in a hug, suddenly ashamed yet relieved. Arms wrapped around her, he could make no sense of either. What was he ashamed of? What about the relief? Drawing in another long, uneven breath, he detected an unusual scent in her fur. What was that?

“What—?” When he looked up, he sat alone.

With Rika.

        Thirty