“Sergeant Mercer, Major is legally your adopted animal.”
“I know.”
“The military can't conduct a civilian seizure operation.”
“I know.”
The fantasy of soldiers storming Linda's house would have been satisfying.
Reality was more complicated.
Mrs. Alvarez continued.
“But the working-dog program can coordinate with law enforcement, provide records, alert state and federal partners, and contact facilities that receive retired government working dogs.”
“Do it.”
“I also recommend calling Colonel Rhodes.”
I hadn't spoken to Colonel Samuel Rhodes in three years.
He had commanded our battalion during my final deployment.
More importantly, he knew Major.
Major had once found an explosive device beneath Rhodes's vehicle in Afghanistan.
Every year, on the anniversary, Rhodes sent him a steak.
I called.
He answered on the third ring.
“Mercer.”
“Sir.”
“You only call me sir when something is wrong.”
“Major has been taken.”
Silence.
“Taken how?”
I told him everything.
When I finished, he asked only one question.
“Is Major injured?”
“I don't know.”
“Who's leading the case?”
“Deputy Harris.”
“Send me his number.”
“What can you do?”
“I can make calls.”
“I need more than calls.”
“You need coordination, not theater.”
He knew me too well.
“Understood.”
“And Mercer?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Do not confront the woman again.”
“She told me to do my worst.”
“Then disappoint her by doing it correctly.”
The Search Begins
Within twenty minutes, everything changed.
Major's federal retirement records reached the sheriff's office.
Every animal shelter within one hundred miles received an alert.
Veterinary clinics were notified.
The state highway patrol circulated Linda's SUV description.
The working-dog program contacted rescue organizations.
Retired military handlers began calling shelters one by one.
People who had never met me started searching because they understood what it meant when a working dog disappeared.
Deputy Harris returned to Linda's house.
She refused consent to search the SUV.
She denied personally transporting Major.
She claimed a contractor had handled the removal.
That was the first crack in her story.
Mrs. Higgins's photograph proved Linda had been there.
Neighborhood security cameras showed her SUV leaving at 2:46 and returning at 5:51.
Linda had lied before the investigation had even begun.
At 7:22, Rhodes called.
“We found the contractor.”
“How?”
“HOA payment records.”
The contractor was Wade Cressman.
He owned a wildlife-removal company specializing in raccoons, snakes, and birds.
Not retired military dogs.
Linda had paid him eight hundred dollars from the HOA emergency fund.
Cressman told deputies Linda had ordered him to remove a dangerous shepherd.
She supplied the meat.
She cut the lock herself.
“She took Major to a shelter near Rolla,” Rhodes said.
“Which one?”
“He claims he doesn't know.”
“How?”
“Linda transferred Major into her SUV at a gas station and continued alone.”
“So she knows.”
“Yes.”
“Can they arrest her?”
“They need evidence.”
“She admitted it to me.”
“Was it recorded?”
“No.”
“Then Mrs. Higgins's statement and Cressman's testimony will help.”
Rhodes paused.
“But we need Major.”
That sentence struck me.
We needed him alive.
At 7:41, a shelter in Rolla scanned a German shepherd matching Major's description.
The microchip alert triggered.
I grabbed my keys.
Rhodes stopped me.
“Wait.”
“I am not waiting.”
“The shelter transferred him.”
My hand froze.
“To where?”
“A private facility.”
“Why?”
“He was labeled military-trained and dangerously aggressive.”
“Linda.”
“She signed the intake form under a false name.”
“What facility?”
“We're tracking it.”
“How long ago?”
“Ninety minutes.”
I closed my eyes.
Major had been taken from his yard.
Driven nearly a hundred miles.
Surrendered under false information.
Transferred again.
Linda hadn't acted impulsively.
She had planned this.
She had researched a route designed to make Major disappear.
“Alex,” Rhodes said.
“I am here.”
“We will find him.”
“You can't promise that.”
“No.”
His voice hardened.
“But I can promise that the number of people searching just doubled.”
The Colonel Arrives
Vehicles began arriving at my house around eight.
Not armored vehicles.
Not soldiers carrying rifles through suburban flower beds.
Something much more powerful arrived.
Coordination.
A county mobile command truck parked near the intersection.
Two sheriff's vehicles joined it.
A state police K-9 coordinator arrived.
Three retired military handlers drove in from nearby towns.
Colonel Rhodes arrived with a military police liaison and a civilian attorney from the working-dog program.
Neighbors stood on their porches.
Linda watched through her blinds.
Rumor spread that the Army had come for her.
Technically, the Army had come for Major.
Linda was simply standing between them.
Rhodes walked into my yard and examined the severed lock.
Then he picked up Major's bent identification tag.