Breaking Creed

6

Back on land, Creed watched tourists enjoying the crowded beach even as the sun began to sink. Kids raced each other and skipped in and out of the surf with squeals of delight. The sounds and play of happy children. It made the scene on the fishing boat seem even more horrific.

He wanted to pack up his gear and head on home, but he had accepted an invitation from the flight crew to get a drink and an early dinner. Considering what they had just witnessed, the thought of food probably sounded odd to some. But for those who did this sort of thing for a living, Creed understood it was an integral coping mechanism.

It didn’t bother him. Years ago he had learned to disassociate his stomach and hunger from emotion. The habit started when he was a marine and became more important when working with his search-and-rescue dogs. When they were on a cadaver search, it could take hours and be in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by miles of woods or wetlands. The dogs had to eat for energy, even if they had just found a decomposed body or body parts. The dogs didn’t care if the air was filled with the stench of rotting flesh and the buzz of blowflies, so Creed had to learn not to care. Usually Hannah packed sandwiches for him along with the dogs’ meals. When his dogs ate, Creed ate. And Grace was ready to eat.

He saw that Liz Bailey and Pete Kesnick had found a table on the busy patio that overlooked the Gulf. He was relieved to see just the two of them. Having peeled off his own flight suit and boots, he could still smell fish and wondered if everyone around him could smell it, too. But no one, other than Bailey and Kesnick, paid any attention to him.

In the shadow of the new and contemporary Margaritaville Hotel, Walter’s Canteen looked like a ramshackle leftover. The place had survived hurricanes Ivan and Dennis, and though it enjoyed some of the hotel’s overrun, it was more popular with the locals than the tourists, many of whom came to dinner by boat and parked in a slip at the marina across the road. Some of them were also fishermen. Creed may not have noticed, but Grace did as they squeezed through the crowded tables.

“It’s pretty busy,” Kesnick told him. “So we got you a beer.”

“Thanks.”

“And a bucket of shrimp,” Bailey added, shoving aside the plate with a pile of shells from what they had already peeled and eaten.

Creed also noticed both of their bottles were almost empty, while the condensation had barely started to slide down the side of his. It’d take a lot more than a couple of beers to forget the sight of those kids lying like sardines under the floor planks.

He off-loaded his backpack and sat down, pulling Grace in close, but she was distracted by Bailey’s outstretched hand. Normally, he’d rein her in. Make her sit beside his feet. But after the day she’d had, she deserved some extra scratches. He loosened up on her leash, and Grace pranced over to Bailey.

He took a sip of the beer. It felt good going down, and the bottle made his hand slick with cold. Despite the setting sun, it was still hot. He could smell the shrimp and wondered how long it’d take to get rid of the fish smell from his nostrils.

“What happens to them now?” he asked, and could see that both Bailey and Kesnick knew what he was asking without further explanation.

It was Kesnick who attempted an answer, though he prefaced it with a shrug. “I guess they find their families and notify them.”

“Can you let me know what you hear?”

“Sure,” Bailey told him.

Before they could continue, a waiter came scurrying over to their table.

“Sir, we can’t allow you here with that dog.”

“We’re outside,” Kesnick said. “And she’s a service dog.”

“Doesn’t matter. There’re people eating.” The guy was tall, with buffed arms and sun-streaked hair.

“It’s okay,” Creed told them. He didn’t have the energy to argue with a surfer probably pumped up on Red Bull and taking his table patrol seriously. “We’ll do this another time.”

But as he started to stand, Bailey grabbed his arm.

“No, it’s not okay. This dog rescued five kids today.”

“Sorry, but I don’t make the rules.”

“No, you don’t. Send over the owner,” she told him.

“Owner’s not here tonight.”

“Yes, he is. You must be new. He’s seated in the lounge. Martini. Gin, not vodka. Last bar stool by the window.”

Creed saw the waiter’s face pale despite his tan skin. A vein bulged at his temple. He shot a look at the window in question. Then, without a response, he turned and made his way through the crowded tables to the lounge door.

“I don’t want to get you two in trouble,” Creed said, but he could see how much Bailey and Kesnick were already enjoying this showdown. “I almost got kicked out of this place once before.”

“Really? Because of Grace?”

“No, it was years ago. I was drunk and started a fight.”

Bailey stared at him, waiting for more. Kesnick, however, smiled and lifted his bottle of beer in salute.

The waiter was back at the lounge door, towering over a gray-haired man in a tan jumpsuit. The waiter was pointing at them, and the owner lifted his hand to shield his eyes from the sun. He said something to the waiter and sent him back inside, then he hobbled his way toward them with a scowl on his face.

“Seriously,” Creed said, “I don’t want to get you two thrown out, too.”

He was used to people treating him differently whenever he had the dogs with him, telling him where he could or couldn’t park at rest areas. Warning him to keep his dogs quiet when they weren’t even barking, or to keep them away from their children. But most kids liked dogs. Without parental interference, they were drawn to dogs. Their first impulse was to touch them, just like the kids on the fishing boat. Apparently it was an impulse so strong that it overrode other basic survival instincts.

“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.