Suspect by Robert Crais Read Free Book Online Page B

peculiarities. Not every dog sent to the K-9 Platoon measured up to Leland’s standards. He downchecked those who did not, and returned them to their breeder.
    Leland glanced at the dog in the second run.
    “This here is Gutman. Why on earth those fools named him Gutman, I do not know, but that’s his name.”
    Purchased dogs were usually around two years old when they arrived, so they had already been named. Donated dogs were often a year older.
    “And this here is Quarlo.”
    Gutman barked again, and went up on his hind legs, trying to lick Leland through the gate.
    Leland said, “Gutman here is kinda high-strung, so I’m gonna put him with Amy. Quarlo here is smart as a whip. He’s got a good head on his shoulders, and he’s easy to work with, so I think you and Mr. Quarlo here are going to make a fine match.”
    Scott interpreted “easy to work with” and “smart as a whip” as Leland’s way of saying the other dog was too much for Scott to handle. Perkins and Barber were the better handlers, so they were getting the more difficult dogs. Scott was the moron.
    Scott heard the door open at the far end of the kennel and saw Mace come in with the German shepherd. He put the shepherd into a run, dragged out a large canine crate, and closed the shepherd’s gate.
    Scott studied Quarlo. He was a beautiful dog with a dark fawn body, black face, and upright black ears. His eyes were warm and intelligent. His steady demeanor was obvious. Where Gutman frittered and fidgeted, Quarlo stood utterly calm. Leland was probably right. This would be the easiest dog for Scott.
    Scott glanced at Leland, but Leland wasn’t looking at him. Leland was smiling at the dog.
    Scott said, “I’ll work harder. I’ll work as hard as it takes.”
    Leland glanced up, and studied Scott for a moment. The only time Scott recalled Leland not scowling was when he looked at the dogs, but now he seemed thoughtful. He touched the leash clipped to his belt with his three-fingered hand.
    “This isn’t steel and nylon. It’s a nerve. You clip one end to you, you clip the other to this animal, it ain’t for dragging him down the street. You
feel
him through this nerve, and he feels you, and what flows through here flows both ways—anxiety, fear, discipline, approval—right through this nerve without you and your dog ever even having to look at each other, without you ever having to say a word. He can feel it, and you can feel it, too.”
    Leland let go of his leash, and glanced back at Quarlo.
    “You’re gonna work, all right, I know you’re a worker, but there’s things work can’t build. I watched you for eight weeks, and you did everything I asked you to do, but I never saw anything flow through your leash. You understand what I’m saying?”
    “I’ll work harder.”
    Scott was trying to figure out what else to say when Cam Francis opened the door behind them, and asked Leland to check Tony’s foot. Cam looked worried. Leland told Scott he would be right back, and hurried away, scowling. Scott stared at Quarlo for several seconds, then walked to the other end of the kennel where Mace was now hosing out the crate.
    Scott said, “Hey.”
    Mace said, “Watch you don’t get splashed.”
    The shepherd was lying with her head between her paws on a padded mat at the back of the run. She was a classic black-and-tan German shepherd with a black muzzle giving way to light brown cheeks and mask, a black blaze on the top of her head, and enormous black ears. Her eyebrows bunched as she looked from Scott to Mace, and back again. No other part of her moved. A hard rubber toy lay untouched on the newspaper, as did a leather chew and a fresh bowl of water. A name was written on the side of the crate. Scott cocked his head sideways to read it. Maggie.
    Scott guessed she had to go eighty or eighty-five pounds. A lot bigger than the Maligators. She was big through the chest and hips the way shepherds were, but it was the hairless gray lines on her