Tessa Leoni: Crash And Burn Part 3

Annie took in the wreckage as well, whining low in her throat. She was no longer dashing about, but regarding her handler fiercely. She knew, Wyatt thought. With a dog's unerring sense, she understood it was time to work.

Frechette told the dog to stay. She whined again but did as she was told. The handler walked around the scene, taking in the broken gla.s.s, the bloodstains, the pieces of warped metal. He was looking out for his dog, Wyatt realized, as was his job.

The handler came around, peering in the rear pa.s.senger's side window. "Think the kid sat back here?"

"That's our a.s.sumption," Kevin spoke up.

"Clean," Frechette commented.

Wyatt frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, most of us carry a lot of s.h.i.t in our cars. Extra jacket this time of year, snacks, bottles of water, I don't know. Mail we haven't taken into the house yet, dog leashes, random junk. At least, my vehicle has most of that stuff. Bet yours does, too."

Wyatt couldn't argue with that. He stepped closer. First time around, he'd been focused on the damage in the front. This time, he saw Frechette's point. The floor of the rear of the vehicle contained some shards of gla.s.s, most likely from the broken whiskey bottle or dragged from the front as the driver had crawled through. But, yeah, the normal detritus of everyday life-old coffee cups, bottles of water, snacks for the child, iPad for playing in the car . . . Nada. The rear seats, cargo area, held nothing at all.

Apparently, the only item the driver thought you needed for a road trip was a bottle of Glenlivet.

"That a problem?" Wyatt asked the handler.

"Not at all. Good news, really. I was worried the back might have more gla.s.s, be hard on Annie's paws. Way I see it, we can load her into the cargo area, have her jump into the rear seats and get to work. Hey, Annie!"

The yellow Lab, still obediently sitting next to Kevin, whined in response.

"Wanna work?"

A single enthusiastic bark.

"All right, honey. Let's go to work. Come, Annie. Come!"

The dog bolted to his side, a yellow bullet that paused only long enough to home in on her handler's face, awaiting the next command.

"Up!"

She leapt into the cargo area.

"Go!"

She was in the pa.s.senger's seat, not sniffing, not exploring, big brown eyes still riveted to Frechette's face.

"Okay, Annie," Frechette called through the open rear hatch. "Here's the deal. There's a missing girl and you're gonna track her. Track, do you understand?"

Wyatt thought this was a pretty colloquial approach to dog training, but what did he know? Annie certainly seemed to understand, ears p.r.i.c.ked, body on high alert.

"Scent up!"

The dog dropped her head, began snuffling over the seat, the door handle, the window. Her lips were peeled back slightly, as if she was taking the scent not just into her nose but into her mouth and tasting it.

"Go find, Annie. Go find!"

The dog whined, now working the rear seats in her own grid pattern, back and forth, back and forth. She was on the hunt, no doubt about it, her attention no longer on her handler, but 100 percent focused on catching scent.

She backtracked. Moved from behind the pa.s.senger's front seat to behind the driver's seat. More anxious sniffing, another low whine. Exploring both rear car doors thoroughly, up and down, side to side. Then a first exploratory paw, stepping off the seat onto the gla.s.s-studded floor.

Thank G.o.d for dog boots, Wyatt thought. He couldn't have watched it otherwise.

More whining, anxious, distressed. Then Annie was back on the seats, side to side, back and forth. Then with a graceful hop she was over, in the rear cargo s.p.a.ce, diligently working that s.p.a.ce inch by inch.

Some dogs lie down to signal they are on scent. Others barked. Wyatt wasn't sure of the nuances, but best he could tell, Annie wasn't having any luck yet. And it was p.i.s.sing her off.

She glanced at Frechette, whined again, clearly frustrated.

"Scent up!" he repeated.

The dog dropped her head, back to work. She leapt from the cargo area to the rear seats. Then, after another few minutes of careful exploration, backtracked to the middle of the bench seat. She snuffled, paused, snuffled.

Then, facing forward, she leaned forward toward the gla.s.s-strewn center console, her movements slow and careful. She understood gla.s.s, Wyatt realized. Or at least had enough experience with it to know to proceed with caution. More sniffing, above the gla.s.s. And then.

Woof.

She retreated to the center of the bench seats. Woofed again. Jumped over the seat backs to the cargo area. Another bark, tail up, eyes back on Frechette as she ran to the rear b.u.mper, body on high alert.

Frechette got the message. "Track, Annie. Track!"

She sailed out of the car, a tad too enthusiastically, then had to backtrack to recover the trail. But within a matter of minutes, she was on scent, head down, sleek body moving effortlessly over the ground as she jogged from side to side, bush to bush. She began to ascend the ravine; they followed.

Moving in the dog's wake, Wyatt began to notice things he hadn't spotted before. The way this one bush had a broken branch. Another offered up a long strand of dark hair caught between two leaves. A person had come this way, and to judge by the freshness of the snapped twig, very recently.

Tracking was never completely linear. They stayed ten feet back, allowing Annie plenty of s.p.a.ce to work as she jogged forward, eased back, raced right, then regrouped to the left. An older, wiser dog might have paced herself, whereas Annie had clearly thrown herself into the chase. Come h.e.l.l or high water, she was gonna find her target.

They worked their way up the ravine in a slow zigzag pattern, as if the initial person hadn't known where she was going. Had been stumbling around in the dark.

More evidence: a dislodged rock, trampled gra.s.s, a sc.r.a.p of torn fabric. Wyatt flagged each item for future collection. They'd have to map this trail, sketch it up, then retrieve all evidence for testing.

Two-thirds of the way up, they came upon a large boulder, streaked on one side with a reddish-brown substance. Blood, Wyatt realized. Heavy enough not even the rain had been able to wash it away. They paused as Annie worked the base of the boulder, whining anxiously. The girl had been injured, then. Maybe, as they'd discussed, she'd regained consciousness before the mother and gone in search of help.

A lone child, standing roadside in the middle of the night . . .

They didn't talk anymore. Annie moved forward. Wordlessly, the three men followed.

Cresting the hill, Annie began to bark. Now she dashed into the road, racing straight ahead, then right, then left, then around and around in a twenty-foot circle, nearly frantic. She crossed the road, darted back. Headed back down the ravine ten feet, came leaping back.

"Track!" Frechette commanded, frowning at his charge. "Told you she was young," he muttered under his breath, half excuse, half explanation.

Annie didn't look at him anymore. She continued running in circles with growing frustration.

Abruptly, the dog sat. She stared at Frechette, barked twice, then lowered her head and lay on the ground. She was no longer a friendly, eager canine. In fact, she wouldn't look at them at all.

"What does that mean?" Wyatt asked.

"She's done. Not only lost the trail, but she's worked herself into a state over it. She'll have to rest before we can try again. Give us thirty minutes."

Wyatt nodded at the handler, who stepped forward to tend his despondent charge.

"Dogs don't take failure well," Kevin commented.

"Neither do I." Wyatt headed back to the edge of the ravine, peering down at the meandering trail they'd just followed. So someone-the missing child?-had made it this far, and then . . .

"Sir."

Wyatt turned to see Officer Todd Reynes standing by him. "Todd," Wyatt greeted him. "Heard you were the first responder. Thanks for taking the lead in looking for the missing kid."

"Not a problem. Sir, that's the search dog, right?"

"Yep. Her name's Annie. Young, we're told, but did a good job tracking the trail this far. Now, however, you can tell she's a little frustrated."

"She's lost the scent?"

"Apparently."

"I think I might know why."

Wyatt arched a brow. "By all means, Officer," he said, indicating for the man to explain.

"See that sign there?"

Wyatt turned toward the roadside. Sure enough, fifteen feet down was a yellow caution sign warning of the sharp turn ahead.

"When I first arrived on scene, I noticed the caution sign because Daniel Ledo, the man who placed the initial call, was standing beside it. While right about there"-Reynes pointed to Annie, still lying on the ground, gazing up at her handler mutinously-"was the ambulance."

Wyatt straightened. "You're saying-"

"That's where the EMTs loaded the driver onto the stretcher."

Wyatt closed his eyes. He got it now. The scent the dog had picked up, the trail they had just followed up the ravine. Not the missing child's after all, but the driver's.

"Always the risk," he muttered. "I mean, you can tell the dog to track, but you can't tell her who to follow."

He crossed to Frechette to break the news. Frechette reiterated that his dog needed a break, but in twenty or thirty minutes, they could try again.

Which they did. Twice, with the same results.

According to Annie, one scent came out of the vehicle. One scent trailed up to the road. They circled her around the wreck. They brought her to the fast-flowing stream.

Annie grew increasingly sullen and resentful. She'd done her job.

One scent. One trail. One person, who mysteriously disappeared in the middle of the paved road.

That was Annie's story, and she was sticking to it.

"Houston," Wyatt declared shortly after 10 A.M., "we have a problem."

Chapter 5.

WHAT DID YOU dream of when you were little? Did you plan on growing up to be an astronaut or a ballerina or maybe even a superhero with a red cape and the ability to leap tall buildings in a single bound? Maybe you were going to be a lawyer like your mother or a fireman like your father. Or perhaps you couldn't identify with your family at all. You mostly dreamed about getting the h.e.l.l out and never looking back.

But you dreamed.

Everyone dreams. Little boys, little girls, ghetto-born, white-picket raised. Everyone aspires to be someone, do something.

I should have dreams, I think, but for the life of me, I can't remember what they are.

The doctor is in the room. She stands near the door, talking to the man who claims to be my husband. Their heads are together and they speak in hushed tones, like lovers, I think, but don't know why.

"Before the accident, was she sleeping any better?" the doctor asks.

"No, few hours a night at best."

"How about her headaches?"

"Still bad. She doesn't say anything anymore. I just find her lying on the sofa, an ice pack across her forehead."

"Mood?"

The man gives a short bark of laughter. "On a good day, merely depressed. On a bad day, fit to kill."

The doctor nods. Her name tag reads DR. SARE CELIK. She is beautiful, with dark coloring and exotic features. I wonder once again about her relationship with my husband. "Emotional lability is a common side effect of post-concussive syndrome," she is explaining. "Often for loved ones, it's the most difficult. How about her memory? Short-term recollections better?"

"When she first regained consciousness, she claimed not to recognize me at all."

Dr. Celik arches a brow, finally appearing surprised. She flips through a chart in her hand. "Needless to say, I ordered a head CT, not to mention an emergency MRI upon admittance. Both came back clear, but given her past history of TBIs, I'll order follow-ups in the next twenty-four hours. How did she handle the situation? Agitation? Rage? Tears?"

"Nothing. It was like . . . She claimed to not know I was her husband, yet the news didn't surprise her."

"She'd been drinking before the accident."

My husband flushes guiltily, as if somehow this is his fault. "I thought I got all the bottles out of the house," he mutters.

"Please remember what I told you before: Alcohol directly impedes the brain's ability to heal. Meaning for someone with her condition, any alcoholic drink at all is counterproductive to her recovery."

"I know."