Page 10 of Midnight Creed

Creed scanned the woods, then his attention came back to the mattress. Trash spilled out around it. In fact, the mattress itself appeared to be lopsided and seesawing on top of whatever was underneath.

Suddenly, a cold shiver slid down Creed’s back. He turned and examined his dog.

Trust your dog. It was a phrase he drilled into his handlers.

Was it the jacket Bolo had originally alerted to? Or was it the mattress? Had Creed missed it? Was it possible that Caleb Monroe’s body was the lump underneath?

He tamped down his suspicion and tried to keep his pulse from ticking up. Bolo was watching him, concerned that his handler was starting to smell like panic. Or was he simply waiting for him to turn over the mattress?

“Sheriff,” Creed said, interrupting a conversation that had gotten drowned out by his argument with himself.

Norwich looked over and immediately was concerned. “What is it?”

“Probably nothing,” he told her, his hand automatically flattening at his side to tell Bolo everything was fine and to relax. “I’d feel a lot better if we had a look under this mattress.”

The color drained from the sheriff’s face, and instinctively, everyone else stepped back.

“Deputy Greer,” Norwich instructed. “Can you carefully flip that mattress over?”

Creed moved to assist, but the deputy quickly stopped him, purposely stepping in front of Creed as if to make a point. “I’ve got this.”

“Wait!” Hogan became agitated again. “You think that kid is hiding underneath there?”

The others ignored him, all focused on the dirty, ripped mattress, but Creed kept an eye on him. Hogan was either still flying high, knew more than he was telling, or maybe just a little slow. Creed glanced at Bolo. He hadn’t moved. If anything, the dog looked bored.

Deputy Greer stalled, pulling on latex gloves, then planted his feet and squared his shoulders. He looked like he was preparing to deadlift a loaded barbell from his gym floor. The flimsy mattress would be an awkward grab, but not heavy. Creed wondered how many dead bodies the deputy had seen. He wanted to reach around the guy and simply flip the damned thing over just to stop his churning stomach.

“Deputy Greer.” Norwich was getting impatient, too.

He gripped the edge and flung it, upending a cloud of leaves and dirt and garbage. Something small and alive scurried out from the debris pile and into the grass. Bolo’s and Gunner’s ears pitched, but neither dog pursued.

A musty scent filled the air, mixed with a rancid tang. Creed drew in a sigh of relief almost at the same time as Norwich. One thing was certain. The smell didn’t include human decomp.

The garbage dump consisted of fast-food wrappers, bulging plastic bags, bottles, cans and foam takeout containers scrambled together with mounds of decaying leaves and brush. No dead body.

Hogan’s bunched up shoulders finally relaxed. Deputy Greer wiped sweat off his forehead with the back of his gloved hand. Norwich nodded to the men.

Creed was relieved his dog had done a good job. But something still bothered him. How did Caleb Monroe come down into these woods, discard his jacket on this mattress, then disappear without leaving a scent?

7

Washington, D.C.

Snow began to fall, and Maggie pulled her ball cap down tighter. Her eyes tracked along the buildings as she walked, searching for surveillance cameras.

The collar on her FBI jacket was already turned up, but wet flakes still slid down her neck. It was only December, and she was tired of the cold. It felt like she couldn’t warm up ever since getting caught in an early October snowstorm back in the middle of Nebraska.

Other than instilling a bone-deep chill, that blizzard had revealed a lot of things for her personally. Her friend, Gwen Patterson, often said a crisis pushed people to show their true selves. It churned up and sifted out what was trivial, then brought to the top all that was real—what mattered most. A sort of push-come-to-shove analogy.

For Maggie, that storm and what was lost in it, forced her to admit some things to herself. It wasn’t until she’d almost lost Ryder Creed that she realized how very much she needed him. That was a hard pill to swallow considering she’d spent the last ten years convincing herself she didn’t need anyone else.

Two months later, she still wasn’t comfortable with that admission.

“You FBI?” a woman’s voice called out from behind Maggie.

When she turned around, it took her a minute to find the woman. She had tucked herself alongside the concrete stairs to a small coffee shop. An awning over the entrance protected her from the snow. It looked like she was wearing every piece of clothing she owned. Her small face scrunched between a pink scarf and a knit cap.

“Yes, I am,” Maggie told her.