“Hello, Mr. Kesnick.” The gray-haired man put a hand on the flight mechanic’s shoulder as he squeezed back behind his chair and scooted over to Bailey, all the while keeping his eyes on Creed. “Hello, darling,” he greeted her as he bent down and kissed her cheek.
“Hi, Daddy.”
Creed raised an eyebrow at her and she smiled as she introduced them.
“Daddy, this is Ryder Creed and Grace. Creed, this is Walter Bailey, the owner of Walter’s Canteen. He’s also my father.”
“Part owner,” Walter corrected her as he shook Creed’s hand from across the table. Then he took his hand and offered it to Grace to sniff. “Sorry about the misunderstanding. Hey there, Grace.” Then to Creed, he said, “She’s a gorgeous little girl. We had a Jack Russell years ago.”
“Not that I remember,” Bailey said.
“Must have been before you were born. Addie, we called her. She was a bundle of energy. Need some water for her?”
“No, thanks,” Creed told him, and patted the backpack now on the wood-planked floor. “I’ve got everything she needs. Do you mind if she eats here under the table while we do?”
“Not at all. In fact, I have the new boy bringing you all some appetizers. On the house.”
“You don’t have to do that, sir.” Kesnick beat Creed in declining the offer.
“No, I insist. It’s not every day I get to treat a celebrity.” He wagged a finger at Grace then Creed. “Two of um. I read the article about you in USA Today.”
“Daddy reads three newspapers every morning.”
“Those drug busts up in Atlanta. That was you two, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
He looked back at his daughter, concern suddenly furrowing his brow. “You doing something with drugs out on the Gulf?”
“Don’t worry. We’re already back, safe and sound.”
Creed waited for her to tell him about the kids, but Walter simply nodded, accustomed to not getting to hear about his daughter’s adventures until and unless she shared.
“Join us,” Kesnick offered.
“I’d like to but I’m chatting with some navy boys from Philly. Howard took them deep-sea fishing this afternoon. I’ll stop back to make sure the boy-genius is taking care of you.”
He bent down to peck his daughter’s cheek, again, then he pointed at Creed, his finger crooked with arthritis, his blue eyes serious. “Those drug cartels are mean sons of bitches, excuse my French. You watch your back.”
They watched him squeeze and shuffle around the crowded tables, none of them saying a word even after he disappeared through the lounge door.
“Don’t pay attention to him,” Bailey said. “He reads a lot of thriller novels, too.” But she wasn’t smiling.
7
Thunder rattled the glass. Creed rolled over to watch the lightning fork through the sky, illuminating the night outside the open window. A breeze brought in the smell of rain. He needed to shut the window before the downpour started, but he closed his eyes instead and he stayed put. Sleep didn’t come easy for him. On the rare occasions when it came at all, it knocked him out completely.
He could hear a dog barking, but his eyelids were too heavy. Nearby an engine rumbled to life. The smell of diesel stung his nostrils. Another flash. His eyelids fluttered, caught a glimpse of blurred headlights, then closed again.
In the back of his mind he remembered how crowded the rest area was. Trucks hummed in back, in their own parking lot, separated from the cars and SUVs. Rain turned the wet, greasy asphalt into streaks of neon red and yellow and orange that danced and moved, the reflection of taillights and running lights coming to life. Creed’s sister, Brodie, had been fascinated with the slimy smears. Leave it to Brodie, she could always see rainbows where the rest of the family saw only dirty pools of diesel. Creed remembered how she pranced from puddle to puddle, making sure she splashed in as many as possible as she ran the short distance from their car to the brick building that housed the restrooms. And although he couldn’t hear her, he knew she was humming or singing the entire way. So happy, so good-natured — traits you’d never guess would be hazards.
“Her feet will be soaking wet,” Creed’s father had grumbled from behind the steering wheel as he watched her.
The game was on the radio. Fourth quarter, only five minutes left, and his team was behind by three.
“Can’t you shut that dog up,” he yelled over the backseat.
That was why Creed hadn’t been able to escort Brodie. He had been told to take care of and shut up their family dog so his dad could at least hear “the frickin’ game.” It was bad enough that they would be driving all night and he would have to listen instead of watch. He was already mad that Creed’s mom had to stay behind for a few extra days to take care of Creed’s grandmother.
Ironically, years later, when Creed would find him with a bullet hole in his temple, Creed would wonder if the football game playing on the big screen in his father’s living room had offered condolence or inspired madness.
But that night at the rest area, in the car with the pitter-patter of rain against the roof and the soft blue glow of the interior lights, there seemed to be nothing wrong with staying in the car while Brodie went all by herself to use the rest area’s bathroom.
Now Creed heard the barking again. From the edge of consciousness he knew he needed to wake up before the dream gained traction. Before it grabbed hold and started to play in slow motion. Before it began to flicker and wrap around his mind while it slowly ripped at his heart.
He felt his body twitch. But his eyes only fluttered, lead shutters refusing to disengage. He knew what came next. What always came next. The dog was warning them. He could hear it barking louder now. Why hadn’t they listened to the dog?
A clap of thunder jolted him awake. Creed sprung up as though someone had connected battery cables to his chest. In fact, his heart throbbed so hard that he rubbed his breastbone, half expecting to find electrodes left behind. There was nothing, not even a shirt.
It took him a minute to realize he wasn’t at a rest area. He wasn’t even in his Jeep. Instead, he was safe and sound in his bed, the flash of lightning revealing pieces of his loft apartment. He looked over at the alarm clock on his nightstand. The digital display had gone dark. The storm had knocked out the electricity again. There was enough tinge of light on the horizon just below the storm clouds to suggest sunrise. Unless he had fallen asleep hard and it was the next night’s sunset. That had happened a few times, when exhaustion took him over so completely that it literally wiped him out for days.
From the foot of his bed Grace glanced up at him.
“I’m okay,” he told her, and the dog plopped her head back down, too exhausted to disagree with him.
He leaned over the edge and saw that Rufus hadn’t budged. The old Lab was hard of hearing but had long ago earned his spot at the side of Creed’s bed. Neither dog stirred as the thunder continued. Which reminded Creed, and he held his breath to listen.
The generator had kicked on. Living in the Florida Panhandle meant dealing with year-round lightning storms. That was the engine hum and the diesel smell he had mistaken for eighteen-wheelers. But there was no dog barking. As real as it seemed, it was only a part of his dream.
The breeze brought in a mist from the open window. Creed pushed himself out of bed to cross the short distance, but instead of closing the window, he let the rain spray his sweat-drenched body as he stared out over the property.
Woods bordered two sides of the fifty-plus acreage that he and Hannah had transformed into an impressive canine training facility. From this angle, even through the trees he could see the main house. It had been a dilapidated two-story colonial when Hannah convinced him they could restore it. All the other buildings on the property had to be bulldozed. Then, one by one, they built what they needed, revising and designing their plan as the business catapulted them into rapid success.