Suspect by Robert Crais

hindquarters that drew him. He squeezed past the crate for a better view, and watched her eyes follow him.
    “This Maggie?”
    “Yeah.”
    “She ours?”
    “Nah. Donation dog. Family down Oceanside thought we could use her, but Leland’s sending her back.”
    Scott studied the pale lines and decided they were scars.
    “What happened to her?”
    Mace put aside the hose, and joined Scott at the gate.
    “She was wounded in Afghanistan. The scars there are from the surgeries.”
    “No shit. A military working dog?”
    “U.S. Marine, this girl. She healed up okay, but Leland says she’s unfit.”
    “What kind of work did she do?”
    “Dual-purpose dog. Patrol and explosives detection.”
    Scott knew almost nothing about military working dogs, except that the training they received was specialized and excellent.
    “Bomb get her?”
    “Nope. Her handler was blown up by one of those suicide nuts. The dog here stayed with him, and some asshole sniper tried to kill her.”
    “No shit.”
    “For real. Shot her twice, Leland says. Parked herself on her boy, and wouldn’t leave. Trying to protect him, I guess. Wouldn’t even let other Marines get near him.”
    Scott stared at the German shepherd, but Mace and the kennel faded, and he heard the gunfire that night—the automatic rifle churning its thunder, the chorus of pistols snapping like whips. Then her brown eyes met his, and he was back in the kennel again.
    Scott bit the inside of his mouth, and cleared his throat before speaking.
    “She didn’t leave.”
    “That’s the story.”
    Scott noted how she watched them. Her nose worked constantly, sucking in their smells. Even though she had not moved from her prone position, Scott knew she was focused on them.
    “If she healed up okay, what’s Leland’s problem?”
    “She’s bad with noise, for one. See how she lays back there, all kinda timid? Leland thinks she’s got a stress disorder. Dogs get PTSD just like people.”
    Scott felt himself flush, and opened the gate to hide his irritation. He wondered if Mace and the other handlers spoke about him like this behind his back.
    Scott said, “Hey, Maggie, how’s it going?”
    Maggie stayed on her belly with her ears folded back, which was a sign of submission, but she stared into his eyes, which possibly indicated aggression. Scott slowly approached her. She watched as he came, but her ears stayed down and she issued no warning growl. He held the back of his hand toward her.
    “You a good girl, Maggie? My name is Scott. I’m a police officer, so don’t give me any trouble, okay?”
    Scott squatted a couple of feet from her, and watched her nose work.
    “Can I pet you, Maggie? How ’bout I pet you?”
    He moved his hand slowly closer, and was six inches from her head when she bit him. She moved insanely fast, snarling and snapping, and caught the top of his hand as he jerked to his feet.
    Mace shouted, and charged into the run.
    “Jesus! She get you?”
    Maggie quit her attack as quickly as she bit him, and once more lay on her belly. Scott had jumped back, and now stood three feet away from her.
    “Dude, you’re bleeding. Lemme see. She get you deep?”
    Scott pressed his handkerchief over the cut.
    “It’s nothing.”
    He watched Maggie’s eyes move from him to Mace and back, as if she had to watch them both because either might attack.
    Scott made his voice soothing.
    “You got hurt bad, big girl. Yes, you did.”
    I’ll bet I’ve been shot more times than you.
    He squatted again, and held out his hand again, letting her smell his blood. This time she let him touch her. He spread his fingers through the soft fur between her ears, then slowly stepped away. She stayed on her belly, watching him, as he and Mace backed out of her run.
    Mace said, “That’s why she’s going back. Leland says they get fucked up like this, they’re never right again.”
    “Leland said that?”
    “Voice of God.”
    Scott left Mace washing out Maggie’s crate, and