“Take care of my dog.” That was the last thing Martinez said to me on that terrible day in Afghanistan, the day he died and I got shot and Elvis got depressed. Now here we are, me and the bomb-sniffing Belgian shepherd, home in Vermont. There are no enemies to find, no battles to fight, no wars to win.

Unless you count the rage of grief that threatens to consume us both. I’m supposed to be moving on, planning my future, getting a (new) life. But all I’m really doing is walking the dog. Well, I walk, and Elvis runs. Long treks through the Green Mountains. We set out at dawn every day, mile after mile through the Lye Brook Wilderness on a never-ending journey of remorse and regret.

It’s midsummer, and the forest is green and lush and thick with the chatter of birds and the skittering of squirrels and the faint cries of distant hikers. This week is the 4th of July holiday, and there are more people in our woods than ever.

Elvis and I hide out in the forest. He’s not fond of fireworks anymore. They trigger his PTSD. I don’t suffer from PTSD, and I’m fine physically, apart from an occasional twinge in my gluteus maximus where a bullet blighted my once perfect ass. My parents, lawyers to the core, want me to go back to school and become an attorney and join the family firm. My idea of hell.

There are only two disciplines I’ve ever loved: law enforcement and literature. I can’t picture myself as an English professor; academia seems too tame for me now. I was an MP in the Army, and I was a good one. But I can’t answer to the Army anymore. I’m not sure I can answer to anyone. Except for Elvis, who like it or not is my new boss.

He was Martinez’s dog. A handsome dog, all tawny fur and dark muzzle and curlicue tail. A sleek, elegant dog who could take you down in a minute. Smart and strong. I’m not sure he likes me much or trusts me much, but we’re stuck with each other.

I’ve got my pension and my cabin and part-time work helping my grandmother out at her veterinary clinic. I’m giving myself the summer to figure out what to do with my life. It’s been nearly a year now, and I still can’t face the future. Our future was supposed to be marriage and kids and a sweet little ranch house in Lockland, Texas, where Martinez was going to train dogs and handlers for the Army and I was going to teach English to high schoolers. That seems an impossible dream now.

We just keep on walking, me and Elvis, waiting for inspiration to strike. This morning there’s something different in the air. Elvis is distracted. The shepherd bounds off into the brush, and I follow him into a small clearing. He drops into a sphinx position. In Afghanistan, that meant he was alerting to mean explosives.

But this is Vermont. I don’t see any evidence of any bombs. I don’t see any evidence at all. The ground is not disturbed.

“Everything looks fine,” I tell Elvis. “Come on, let’s go.”

He looks at me, his triangular ears perked. I sigh, and I do what I was trained to do. I take out the duct tape I carry in my backpack always, as old habits die hard, and I tape off the area just in case. Maybe fireworks. Meanwhile, we’ll keep on walking. Elvis runs ahead again, and as we come into a clearing, we hear it, the sounds of a baby crying. We run towards the wailing.

We may technically be civilians. We may technically be retired. We may technically be walking wounded. But around that copse of sugar maples lies our next adventure, me and Elvis, a team whether we like it or not. And we’ll have help soon, in the form of game warden Troy Warner and search-and-rescue dog Susie Bear.

We’re on a new mission now. Somewhere, Martinez is smiling.


Give away: Have you ever rescued a dog? Leave a comment or a photo below for a chance to win an autographed copy of A Borrowing of Bones. U.S. entries only, please. The giveaway ends September 14, 2018. Good luck, everyone!


You can read more about Mercy and Elvis in A Borrowing of Bones, the first in a NEW mystery series from Minotaur Books.

Grief and guilt are the ghosts that haunt you when you survive what others do not. . .

After their last deployment, when she got shot, her fiancé Martinez got killed and his bomb-sniffing dog Elvis got depressed, soldier Mercy Carr and Elvis were both sent home, her late lover’s last words ringing in her ears: “Take care of my partner.”

Together the two former military police—one twenty-nine-year-old two-legged female with wounds deeper than skin and one handsome five-year-old four-legged Malinois with canine PTSD—march off their grief mile after mile in the beautiful remote Vermont wilderness.

Even on the Fourth of July weekend, when all of Northshire celebrates with fun and frolic and fireworks, it’s just another walk in the woods for Mercy and Elvis—until the dog alerts to explosives and they find a squalling baby abandoned near a shallow grave filled with what appear to be human bones.

U.S. Game Warden Troy Warner and his search and rescue Newfoundland Susie Bear respond to Mercy’s 911 call, and the four must work together to track down a missing mother, solve a cold-case murder, and keep the citizens of Northshire safe on potentially the most incendiary Independence Day since the American Revolution.

It’s a call to action Mercy and Elvis cannot ignore, no matter what the cost.

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Meet the author
PAULA MUNIER is the author of A Borrowing of Bones, as well as the bestselling Plot Perfect, The Writer’s Guide to Beginnings, Writing with Quiet Hands, and Fixing Freddie: A True Story of a Boy, a Mom, and a Very, Very Bad Beagle. She was inspired to write A Borrowing of Bones by the hero working dogs she met through MissionK9Rescue, her own Newfoundland retriever mix rescue Bear, and a lifelong passion for crime fiction. She lives in New England with her family, Bear, Freddie, and a tabby named Ursula.

Connect with Paula at paulamunier.com

All comments are welcomed.