"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 championship. 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 shirt 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 pushing 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.

"She's still teaching," the boy said.

He did live in Three Harbors. Maybe things had changed. Except ... Owen let his gaze wander over the people still hanging around.

The kid had the only tan in town.

"And I bet no one speaks decent Spanish but you and her."

The boy shrugged, which Owen took as a yes.

Owen had always figured Seora hadn't actively taught her cla.s.ses because talking seemed to make her cough. As he recalled, breathing had made her cough.

"She still have 'allergies'?" Owen made quotation marks in the air with his forefingers.

"She coughs like it's her last day on earth," the kid said. "Considering she smells like Marlboros, I'm not sure if she's allergic to smoke or fresh air." He contemplated Reggie with interest. "Your dog is a..."

"Malinois," Owen supplied.

"Belgian." That was Billy, who continued to stare straight ahead as if guarding the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier rather than frayed crime scene tape hung across a sidewalk.

"I know what breed he is." The boy sounded as if he wanted to roll his eyes again. Owen had never felt so old. "He's a working dog." The kid's gaze lifted to Owen's Marines-style hair. "A military working dog."

"You know a lot about dogs."

"I work for Becca." He held out his hand. "I'm Joaquin."

Owen shook. A couple of tourists jaywalked, weaving in between the cruisers and the pickups parked w.i.l.l.y-nilly at the curb, then strolling up the sidewalk in front of the clinic. Billy hurried over to shoo them away, then began to string yellow tape from sign to sign to prevent such a breach from occurring again.

Owen considered making a break for the back door, but Billy glanced over his shoulder as if he'd heard the thought. His glower was as threatening as it had ever been. It had never occurred to Owen that a lineman would make a great cop, but it should have. Billy's protect-and-defend instinct was well honed, and his ability to read minds, or at least eyes and faces, even better.

"Joaquin," Owen repeated. "How many people have called you Joe Quinn?"

Joaquin laughed. "You've been here before."

"I lived here once. I'm Owen-"

"McAllister?"

"Yeah." Owen considered the kid again. Maybe someone he knew had gone away and married someone who'd named their kid Joaquin. But he doubted it.

"I know you. I mean..." His quick grin made him appear younger than Owen had first thought. "I've heard of you."

Had Becca mentioned him to her employee? Hope fluttered.

"People talk." Joaquin's grin faded, and he shrugged.

The hope died. If Becca had mentioned him, it couldn't have been anything good for the boy to go all twitchy like that.

"I was a dumb kid," he said.

"No. Well, maybe. Aren't all kids dumb?"

Joaquin got smarter by the second.

"You're a big deal now. People call you a hero."

"They do? Since when?"

Confusion flickered. "Since forever."

"Not," Owen muttered.

"I've never heard anything but how great you are."

Owen opened his mouth, shut it again, glanced at the waning crowd. Someone called his name, another waved.

"This is Three Harbors, right?"

Looked like Three Harbors, but it wasn't acting like Three Harbors.

"All day," the kid said. "Lucky us."

"Not a fan?"

"I won't complain."

"Just because you won't doesn't mean you shouldn't."

"Sir?"

"Let me guess. You're different. You don't fit in. No one wants to play with you."

"I don't wanna play with them either," Joaquin said.

"Sure you do."

"From what I heard you didn't play with anyone except-"

The kid broke off. Good choice.

However, Joaquin was frowning at Reggie and not at him.

The dog's ruff had gone razorback then he blew air through his nose, an indication that Reggie had caught the scent of something he didn't like. Not explosives. That tell was ears up, sit down, stare at the place where the bomb was situated with the attention usually given to a five-pound steak. Razorback was for- He took off, yanking the leash from Owen's hand. Owen stared at his empty palm for an instant before he took off too. Unfortunately Owen's version of "taking off" these days was a hop, skip, and a gimp.

Someone in the gathering behind the police tape drew in a loud, shocked breath.