Part 3
“Keep them away from him.” Caleb had to turn farther to make the officer hear. “He’s a military dog, assigned to me. Somebody comes at him with a catch pole, you’ll create another problem.”
Dwyer clipped the microphone back into place.
“Then maybe you should’ve trained him better.”
Baines leaned over the counter, wiping his upper lip with a napkin.
“You see what I’ve been dealing with? He won’t stop. Bombs, military, special training. All I wanted was for him to leave.”
“We’re nearly there,” Dwyer told him.
Caleb looked across the booths. A woman was still recording. The man with the laptop had shut it but remained seated, his hands resting on the lid. Loretta stood at the kitchen opening, holding the silverware against her apron.
There were roughly fifty people in the diner. Caleb had counted tables while he ate, noted the families and the people alone. He could put faces to nearly every seat.
He lowered his voice.
“When a bomb team opens that container, your radio log is going to show you were warned. So will every recording in this room.”
Dwyer’s grip slackened for a fraction of a second.
Then he took Caleb’s upper arm.
“Walk.”
Caleb set his feet.
“No.”
The officer jerked him backward. The cuffs caught sharply, but Caleb stayed between the traffic through the entrance and the bin.
Dwyer tried to turn him by the arm, then pressed a knee into the back of his leg. Caleb shifted his weight to the other foot. His shoulder ached where the shirt had twisted beneath the officer’s fingers.
“Quit resisting.”
“Move those people first.”
Dwyer pulled him back against the counter and caught the short chain between the cuffs. Caleb had to rise onto the balls of his feet to ease the pressure.
Rook’s growl grew louder.
The dog was watching Dwyer now, not the trash can. Caleb could see his partner’s attention narrowing to the hand on the cuff chain, the tension in his handler’s shoulders, the repeated blows and pulls that no command had yet permitted him to answer.
A man holding coffee backed away so fast that liquid slopped onto his fingers. The mother at the front kept her boy below the tabletop.
Caleb couldn’t allow Rook to decide this was a protection problem.
He turned his body a few inches, making space for the dog to see his hands behind him. The movement hurt. He extended two fingers together, held them low, and gave a short, precise whistle.
Rook’s ears moved.
The growl ceased.
The shepherd turned away from the officer. He took two careful steps toward the bin and sat, forelegs straight, tail laid along the floor. His nose angled toward the scent, and his attention stayed there.
Caleb let his heels settle fully onto the tile.
Dwyer looked at the dog and gave a sharp laugh.
“Better. Now teach him to leave when he’s told.”
Rook didn’t turn toward the sound.
“What’s he doing?” the officer demanded.
“Working.”
Baines threw the napkin onto the counter.
“I don’t care what either of you calls it. Get them out. You military fellows think everybody’s supposed to jump because you say so.”
Caleb watched the small movement of Rook’s ribs. The dog had gone back to the task he understood. He would remain on the indication until Caleb released him.
Dwyer caught Caleb above the elbow again.
“Your dog can wait for animal control. You’re coming with me.”
“If you take me away, nobody here is watching that bin.”
“That’s the idea. Everybody can quit watching you and get on with their morning.”
This time, the officer drove him toward the entrance with his forearm against Caleb’s back. Caleb took a slow step, then another, keeping the soles of his boots flat against the floor as long as he could.
Rook stayed seated.
They passed him close enough that Caleb could see the old nick along the edge of one ear. The dog didn’t rise to follow. The leash lay loose beside him, untouched.
A young waiter appeared with a bus tray of dirty glasses, trying to get around the officer and back toward the kitchen. He edged into the space beside the trash container.
Rook released one forceful breath through his nose.
The waiter jumped. Glasses knocked together, and he caught the tray against his chest.
“Keep him away from me!”
“He won’t come after you,” Caleb said. “Back away from the can. Leave him room.”
Dwyer shoved him between the shoulder blades.
“No more speeches.”
Through the open strip of glass ahead, Caleb could see the patrol car and the highway beyond it. Cars and trucks continued past, their drivers unaware of anything unusual inside the roadside diner.
He couldn’t know whether the device had a timer. He couldn’t know if someone outside was watching. All he could do was keep the people in this room from stepping over the warning Rook was giving them.
At the doorway, he stopped.
Dwyer put his shoulder into Caleb’s back.
“Move your feet.”
Caleb braced against the threshold.
A booth seat creaked behind them.
“Officer. That’s far enough.”
The voice was old, but it carried from one end of the room to the other.
Dwyer turned, still holding Caleb’s arm.
A white-haired man had stood in the middle aisle. His red cap bore faded Marine Corps lettering. He wore a checked shirt with the sleeves rolled back over thick wrists, and one hand rested briefly on the booth to steady an aching knee.
“Sit down,” Dwyer said. “This doesn’t involve you.”
The man left the booth behind him.
His name was Walter. At seventy, he needed a moment to get his knees moving after a meal. He used that moment to look past the officer at Rook’s straight forelegs, his still tail, the fixed direction of his nose.
“What’s that dog trained for?” he asked.
Baines answered before Caleb could.
“Apparently frightening paying customers. Let the officer do his job.”
Walter didn’t look at him.
“Be quiet.”
The manager’s mouth remained open, but no sound came out.
Walter stayed well away from the trash container. His gaze moved to Caleb’s stance, then to the cuffs behind his back.
“You’re serving?”
“Active-duty Navy. SEAL.”
“And him?”
“Multipurpose working dog. He’s positive on that bin.”
Walter’s hand closed over the back of a chair.
Caleb saw the color leave his face.
“Lord help us,” the old man said.
Dwyer looked from Walter to the dog.
“What are you talking about?”
“I handled dogs in the Gulf.” Walter raised his voice for the whole room. “That’s an explosives indication. He’s found a bomb…”
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