The Search (12 page)

“That’s Tracie and her Lolo. They found Syl in just under seventy-five minutes. Not bad. Not bad at all. Mica’s the one helping her out, with his Ringo. His positioning at the successful find was close enough for him to intersect with Tracie and assist in bringing Syl, with her fake sprained ankle, back to base. Besides, he’s got a crush on her.”

“On Syl? Like brownies, who doesn’t?”

“Not on Syl.” Though she shook her head, Fiona found herself amused and a little proud at Simon’s comment. “On Tracie. They’re both from the Bellingham area, like the rest of the unit. Excuse me.”

She closed the distance to give Tracie a handshake, then a hug, to fuss over the dogs. To laugh with Sylvia, he noted.

She did have an appealing way, he supposed. If you liked the überoutgoing, the type who tended to touch or embrace in a kind of second nature, and looked good in jeans or work pants, sweatshirts or sweaters.

He couldn’t think of a woman who fell into that subset ever attracting him before, not sexually in any case. The fact that she did presented an interesting puzzle.

Maybe it was her eyes. They were so clear, so calm. He suspected they were just one of the reasons animals responded to her. You felt you could trust those eyes.

He watched as she slung her arm around Tracie’s shoulders—there was that just-have-to-touch, just-have-to-connect aspect of her—and led the woman over to . . . What would she call it? he wondered. Base? HQ? Anyway, it was a table under a pole tarp.

Debriefing, he assumed, noting down whatever data needed to be noted down. It struck him as a little over the top for an exercise. Then he remembered she’d found a little boy in the very big woods, in a cold rain.

Details mattered. Discipline and efficiency mattered.

In any case, the brownies were excellent, and the interlude gave him a chance to flirt with Sylvia.

“How are you coping after your ordeal?” he asked her.

Sylvia laughed, poked him in the chest. “I love when I get to play the lost woman. I get some exercise—wandering around, then either plopping in my spot or wandering some more. It depends on which victim behavior Fee wants to replicate. It’s handy you came by. I was going to call you when I got home today.”

“Yeah? To ask me on a date?”

“You’re so cute. I sold two of your pieces yesterday. The high-sided bench and the five-drawer chest. I’ll take more whenever you can get it to me.”

“I finished a couple of things this morning actually. A wine cabinet and a rocker.”

“Ah, the famous wine cabinet.”

He shrugged, glanced back at Fiona. “It’s not her style, that’s all.”

Sylvia smiled and nibbled on a strawberry. “She has a lot of styles. You should ask her out to dinner.”

“Why?”

“Simon, if I thought that was a serious question, I’d be worried about you.”

She hooked her arm through his as Fiona addressed her class.

“Everyone did a solid job today, as individuals, as teams and as a unit. Next class we’ll be working a different terrain with an unconscious victim. I want you to work your dogs thirty to sixty minutes, mixing in short ten-minute problems. Let’s keep using someone your dog is familiar with. After the next class, you can try someone he or she doesn’t know. Please don’t skimp on your first-aid training, and let’s try some of those exercises compass only. Keep your logs up-to-date. Any problems, any questions before next time, shoot me an e-mail or give me a call.

“And please, God, finish off those brownies so I don’t.”

Sylvia gave Simon a kiss on the cheek. “I’ve got to run. Check on my shop and my Oreo. You can bring the new pieces in whenever you want. And take my girl out to dinner.”

He lingered out of curiosity, and because his dog had finally played himself out and was passed out under the table.

“He’s had enough for today,” Fiona commented when they were alone. She began to gather dishes.

“Question.” He picked up empty glasses and followed her toward the house. “Those people take your class.”

“Obviously.”

“This was what, like two hours?”

“A little more. This is an advanced stage, and a mock Search and Rescue, so it was set up, search, debrief—add the pat on the back.”

“And between that they’ve got to work with the dogs an hour here, an hour there, study first aid—”

“Yes. One of them’s an EMT, and they’ll all need to be certified in CPR, and basic field treatments. They’ll also have to know how to read a topographical map, have a good working knowledge of climate, wind, foliage, wildlife. Both they and their dogs have to be in good physical shape.”

She set the dishes on the counter in the kitchen.

“So when do any of them have time for an actual life?”

She leaned back. “They have lives, jobs, families. They also have dedication. Becoming a Search and Rescue team takes months of hard, focused training. It means sacrifice and it brings enormous satisfaction. I’ve been working with this unit for weeks,” she added. “They have an almost ninety percent success rate on individual problems. Now we’re working simultaneously. We’ll be repeating this sort of training exercise over and over, in all weather situations.”

“Have you ever kicked anybody out?”

“Yes. As a last resort, but yes. Most of the time someone who isn’t suited drops out before I have to. Are you interested?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, it might cut into your Lifetime addiction. Still, I wouldn’t mind giving Jaws some of the early training. It’ll help him be well rounded, if nothing else. Once he heels, sits and stays, masters recall and drop on recall, we can give him a little more.”

“More than the obedience deal?” Simon studied her, dubious. “What’s it cost?”

She angled her head. “I might be open to the barter system on this one. Say, working on additional training and specialized skills for . . . a wine cabinet.”

“It doesn’t suit you.”

Narrow-eyed, she pushed off the counter. “You know, every time you say that it just makes me want it more. I ought to know what suits me.”

“You’re just being stubborn.”

“I am?” She pointed the index fingers of both hands at him. “You’re the hardhead here. What do you care who buys the cabinet? Aren’t you building to sell?”

“What do you care if a dog’s crap at training? Don’t you teach to get paid?”

“It’s not the same thing. Plus it’s usually the handler that’s crap. Case in point, Mr. C Minus.”

“I wasn’t frowning.”

“Hold that. Don’t move, don’t change expression. I’m going to get a mirror.”

He grabbed her arm but didn’t quite swallow the laugh. “Cut it out.”

“Next class I’ll make sure I have a camera. A picture’s worth a thousand, after all.” She gave him a little shove.

He gave her a little nudge.

And behind him the dog growled low in his throat.

“Stop!” Fiona ordered sharply, and the dog froze. “Newman, friend. Friend. He thought you were hurting me. No, don’t back off. Simon,” she said to the dogs. “We’re playing. Simon’s a friend. Put your arms around me.”

“What?”

“Oh, for God’s sake, don’t be so dainty.” She put her arms around Simon, hugged, laid her head on his shoulder. “Playing with Simon,” Fiona said to the dog, and smiled. She gestured so the dog walked to them, rubbed against Simon’s leg. “He wouldn’t have bitten you.”

“Good to know.”

“Unless I told him to.” She tipped her head back, smiled again. Then gave Simon another gentle shove. “Push back. It’s okay.”

“It better be.” He nudged her again, and this time the dog used his head to nudge Simon.

“Fun.” She wrapped her arms around Simon again, nuzzled. “He reads me,” she said. “If I was afraid now, he’d know it. But he sees, hears, senses I’m fine, I’m good with you. That’s what I’m trying to get through your head about Jaws and your reactions, what you transmit. Your mood influences his behavior, so—”

She broke off when she looked up again into eyes that were very close, and very focused.

“What mood do you think I’m transmitting now?”

“Funny. It’s just an exercise,” she began.

“Okay. Let’s try advanced class.”

He closed his mouth over hers, very firm and just a little rough.

She’d known he’d be just a little rough. Impatient, direct, with no testing moves, no easy flirtation.

She didn’t resist. It would be a waste of time, effort and a very hot and healthy kiss. Instead she slid her hands up his back, let herself drop into it, let herself enjoy the warring sensations of the moment.

Soft lips, hard hands, firm body—and just a hint of chocolate on the tongue that tangled with hers.

And when she felt herself dropping close to the point of no return, when climbing back would be painful, she worked her hand between them and pushed against his chest.

He didn’t stop. Her heart went from flutter to pound. Intractable, she thought, and wished she didn’t find that quality in him quite so exciting.

She pushed again, harder.

He eased back, just a little, so their eyes met again. “Grade that.”

“Oh, you definitely aced it. Congratulations. But playtime’s over. I have some lesson planning and . . . things to get done. So . . .”

“So, I’ll see you.”

“Yes. Ah, keep working on the basics. Throw sticks. Lots of sticks.”

“Right.”

When he walked out, she blew out a breath, looked at Newman. “Wow.”

His own fault, Simon thought as he loaded Jaws into the car. Or hers, he decided. It was really more her fault. Wrapping around him, rubbing in, smiling up.

What the hell was a man supposed to do?

He hadn’t expected her to be so receptive. To just give, to just open until that subtle, almost quiet sexy peeled back a corner and showed him all the heat beneath.

Now he wanted it. And her.

He glanced at the dog, currently in bliss with his nose stuck out the two-inch opening of the window.

“I should’ve just sold her the damn cabinet.”

He flipped the radio up to blast, but it didn’t swing his mind away from Fiona.

He decided to try his own “exercise,” and began to design a wine cabinet suited to her, in his head.

Maybe he’d build it; maybe he wouldn’t. But it was a damn sure bet he’d end up going back to peel up another corner.

A
trip to the vet invariably included comedy and drama, and required persistence, stamina and a flexible sense of humor. To simplify, Fiona always scheduled her three dogs together at the end of office hours.

The system also gave her and the vet, her friend Mai Funaki, a chance to recover and unwind after the triple deed was done.

At a scant five-two, Mai appeared to be a delicate lotus blossom, a romantic anime character brought to life with ebony hair curved at her gilded cheeks and fringing flirtatiously above exotic onyx eyes. Her voice, a melodious song, calmed both animals and humans in the course of her work.

Her pretty, long-fingered hands soothed and healed. And were as strong as a bricklayer’s.

She’d been known to drink a two-hundred-pound man under the table, and could swear the air blue in five languages.

Fiona adored her.

In the exam room of her offices in her home just outside Eastsound, Mai helped Fiona heft seventy-five pounds of trembling Peck onto the table. The dog, who had once courageously negotiated smoldering rubble to locate victims after an earthquake in Oregon, who tirelessly searched for the lost, the fallen and the dead through bitter winds, flooding rain and scorching heat, feared the needle.

“You’d think I hammered spikes into his brain. Come on now, Peck.” Mai stroked, even as she checked joints and fur and skin. “Man up.”

Peck kept his head turned away, refusing to look at her. Instead he stared accusingly into Fiona’s eyes. She swore she could see tears forming.

“I think he was tortured by the Spanish Inquisition in another life.”

While Mai examined his ears, Peck visibly shuddered.

“At least he suffers in silence.” Mai turned Peck’s head toward her. He turned it away again. “I’ve got this Chihuahua I have to muzzle for any exam. He’d eat my face off if he could.”

She took the dog’s head firmly to examine his eyes, his teeth.

“Big healthy boy,” she crooned. “Big handsome boy.”

Peck stared at a spot over her shoulder and shivered.

“Okay,” Mai said to Fiona. “You know the drill.”

Fiona took Peck’s head in her hands. “It’s only going to take a second,” she told him as Mai moved behind and out of eye line. “We can’t have you getting sick, right?”

She talked, rubbed, smiled, as Mai pinched some skin and slid the needle in.

Peck moaned like a dying man.

“There. All done.” Mai walked back to Peck’s head, held up her hands to show them empty of all tools of torture. Then she laid a treat on the table.

He refused it.

“Could be poisoned,” Fiona pointed out. “Anything in this room is suspect.” She signaled the dog down, and he couldn’t jump off the table fast enough. Then he stood, facing the wall, ignoring both women.

“It’s because I cut off his balls. He’s never forgiven me.”

“No, I really think it all comes down from Newman. He fears, so they all fear. Anyway, two down, one to go.”

The women stared at each other. “We should’ve taken him first. The worst first. But I just couldn’t face it.”

“I bought a really nice bottle of Pinot.”

“Okay. Let’s do this thing.”

They released Peck into the yard where he could exchange horrors with Bogart and seek sympathy with Mai’s one-eyed bulldog, Patch, and her three-legged beagle-hound mix, Chauncy.

Together they approached Fiona’s car where Newman lay on the backseat, nose pressed tight in the corner, body limp as overcooked pasta.