the Belgian Malinois described as the “sugar-hyped kid” of the dog world, and that could be true when they weren’t handled correctly. A Belgian did not make a good pet, unless you had a huge amount of land and all day to spend throwing sticks. Without constant activity, they got into trouble. Left alone and bored they would destroy anything, everything, just for something to do.
But that drive to go, go, and keep going was what made them excellent bomb-sniffing dogs. Belgians didn’t stop until they found something; they weren’t afraid of much, and most didn’t get twitchy when bullets blazed all around them. Owen thought Reggie kind of liked it.
“Steh.” Reggie stood, but he didn’t move until Owen showed him the red rubber ball that was his reward, then gave the forward command, “Voran.”
Reggie nosed open the door, which Becca had left ajar. Owen followed at a slower pace, using the railing, the wall, the door for balance. He should probably use a cane. He had one, but he hadn’t been able to make himself hold on to it for more than a minute, let alone walk with it.
He’d been on a plane since yesterday. Exhaustion, combined with more walking and more sitting than usual, then driving from Minneapolis, as well as the digging, had made Owen shakier than he liked.
What he should do was take a pain pill, then sink into a warm bath and fall into a fluffy bed. However, thanks to his mother’s drug issues, he didn’t take pain pills. He doubted the water heater worked any better now than it had when he lived here. Considering the electricity was off, along with the water, it wouldn’t matter if it did. The mattresses were as trashed as the rest of the furniture, and even when they hadn’t been they weren’t fluffy.
He’d grit his teeth and get along. One of the first things he’d learned upon joining the Marines.
Inside there was no sign of Reggie. As Owen had mentioned kibble, he’d thought the dog would be waiting outside the still-closed kitchen door to the right. When he’d gone out to dig the grave, he’d put Reggie behind it, not wanting him to mess with the disgusting scene in the living room.
Reggie was a well-trained dog, but he was a dog, and sometimes he grabbed things he wasn’t supposed to—like a terrorist—and dragged them around. While Owen often enjoyed that little mistake, having Reggie ingest charcoal pet remains wouldn’t be at all amusing. So he’d confined him in the kitchen. That the windows were broken wide open had escaped him until the dog vaulted through one.
Becca spoke in the living room. Was she talking to Reggie or herself? Owen had told the dog to voran, which was a command to go forward, in working-dog-speak to do what he was supposed to do. While Reggie was usually searching for explosives, he might also find and detain insurgents if he came across one. Though Becca was neither, she was standing in front of a scene that had to smell pretty nifty to a dog.
Owen swallowed. But not to him.
“I know,” she murmured, and Owen frowned. Had he said that out loud?
He entered the living room as she smoothed her palm over Reggie’s head. The dog’s tail thumped once. She’d been talking to him. Nothing new. When they were kids she’d believed that dogs talked back.
Becca eyed the display atop the old table that someone had dragged in from the kitchen, which gave Owen a chance to move closer unobserved and take a seat on the arm of the water-stained couch. Reggie hurried over and sat, waiting for his beloved red ball.
Owen handed it over, and, enthralled, Reggie dropped it, chased it, chewed it. The dog would do anything for the red ball, which meant Owen kept the thing in his pocket 24/7—and carried a spare in his duffel.
“The chief had reports of three missing cats, a dog, and a rabbit,” she said. “There’s more than that here.”
“Some people must have figured their pets ran off or got plucked by a wolf.” Becca cast him a narrow glance, and Owen held up his hands in surrender. “I didn’t say it was your wolf.”