Stop. Focus.
Take it apart. Look at the trees, not the forest. That’s what my first detective partner taught me. There are times when, yes, it’s good to step back and see the whole. But there are also times in police work when you must focus on the minutiae. On the trees. On one puzzle piece. Figure out where that fits and that’ll help you find where another goes. Get a few of those done and then step back, or you’ll go crazy with possibilities, each configuration sending the investigation spiraling in a new direction.
Focus.
Start with the fire.
The problem with determining the cause of a fire? The evidence has gone up in smoke. Which is why there are trained experts for this—experts who are not police detectives. But I am every investigator in Rockton, and this is one of the many areas I’ve been researching. I’ve always been a believer in lifelong learning. I took every course my department would send me on. Learned every new technique. Subscribed to every journal. Attended every local conference on my own dime, even as my colleagues rolled their eyes and said, “We hire experts for that, Casey.” True. I did not need to know anything about forensic anthropology, because I wouldn’t ever be the person analyzing buried remains. But I wanted to know. And now I am that person. Jack-of-all-trades, feeling truly master of none.
Arson investigation.
I evaluate the scene. Document it. Process the evidence.
This time, the building has been saved. There’s damage, but it can be repaired. And it doesn’t take much investigating to know it’s arson. The smell of kerosene gives it away, as it did the last time.
It is an arson easily set by anyone with any knowledge of wood and access to kerosene. Which really doesn’t narrow it down in Rockton.
Dalton comes back ahead of the others. A dripping black rug trails behind him with a look that is unconvincingly contrite.
“Got too close to the lake, didn’t you?” I call as I walk toward them.
Dalton only sighs.
“We need to take her there more often,” I say, “so the siren’s call of water is a little more resistible.”
“I’m not sure it ever will be. Been thinking of buying one of those pools.”
“The plastic kiddie ones? She’s a little big for that.” I gingerly pat her wet head, and she slumps happily.
“I mean the ones you set up,” he says. “The bigger pools.”
“Then we’ll have to keep the humans out of it.”
“If they want to swim in dog fur, they can go ahead. Just make a rule: you use it; you clean it.”
He walks over. I take his hand to examine it, but he wraps his fingers around mine, holding tight. His expression is calm, as if he’s just returned from a walk in the woods, but his tight grip tells me the rest.
“Not a trace,” he says. “Storm did well. She found the trail out of town and followed it along the path. They turned off before the spot with the wolf-dog.”
“Turned off or doubled back?”
“That’s the problem. The trail left the path, and Storm followed it awhile, but the undergrowth thickened and hit a whole warren of rabbit holes. She went nuts and lost the trail. I couldn’t get her to focus. So I took her backwards, in hopes she’d pick it up again.”
“And?”
“And I don’t know. She kept finding the same end point. I moved higher up the path in case he rejoined it, and then we were too close to the dead dogs.”
He looks down at her. “She smelled those, and she was upset. Really upset. She got away from me and kept nosing the first cub and . . .”
He exhales. “It wasn’t good. I got her out of there. Which means I can’t answer the question. All I know is they left the path at one point and neither of us could figure out where they’d gone from there.”
26
It’s time to notify the council. Except we can’t. Without Val, we don’t know how.
We have a radio receiver. We understand the basics of how to use it, and Anders knows specifics. But we don’t have a frequency. That’s top secret, need to know only, and no one other than Val, apparently, needed to know.
We move the radio to our house and wait for Phil to call in. That’s all we can do.
We’re up at four. I play double nursemaid, first tending to Dalton’s arm and his hand. The former is healing well; the latter shows no sign of infection. Then, while he cooks breakfast, I go to see the cub.
Storm comes with me. I’m not about to let her into the house—I’m still worried about rabies—but she smells him from outside and seems to think it’s another dead wolf-dog. Her whines escalate to howls. So I lift the cub up to the front window . . . and then she goes nuts because there’s another canine in town and I’m keeping him from her.
I try to calm her by cracking open the front door just enough for her to snuffle him. The poor cub sees this massive black nose and he freaks. I shut the door and Storm starts howling again. The cub stops quaking in mortal terror . . . and begins howling back.
It’s an interesting way to start my morning. I don’t think my neighbors agree.
The cub is otherwise fine. I’d left a bed and food and water. I have to clean up piddle and poop, but I’m not taking him out for a walk until that leg is better. I moved all my blankets and cushions and rugs upstairs, so the damage is minimal. I tend to his leg, replace the food and water, and then I return home for my own breakfast.
At dawn, we’re off to visit Brent. It’s a long hike to the mountain where Brent has his cave. Before we leave, we remind Storm of Brady and Val’s scents, and every time the path branches off, we have her sniff. She finds nothing. As we draw near the mountain, though, she starts getting excited. Which would be exciting . . . if we weren’t on the path Brent uses daily. Storm is very fond of Brent, who always has dried bones for her.
When we reach the cave entrance, she plunks down with a sigh. She still fits, but she won’t for much longer. Once we get through, we shove a rock into the opening, the last thing we need is her wedging in and getting stuck. She sighs again and then sticks her head into the remaining opening to watch us mournfully.
Or that’s what she usually does. This time, when she sticks her head through, her nostrils flare, and she sniffs wildly as she whines.
“Storm, no,” I say. “Brent will come out. He’ll bring your bone.”
She keeps whining, but I’ve told her to stay and she obeys.
We’re going down the first passage when my light catches something on the wall. Dalton is ahead of me, and as I stop for a closer look, he glances back.
I have the penlight between my teeth so I can crawl. Now I take it out and shine it on the wall to see . . .
A handprint.
A red handprint.
“Eric . . .”
“He’s been hunting,” Dalton says. “Must have butchered up top. That’s what Storm smells.”
He says that, but he still moves faster, and I remember Storm whining on the path, getting excited, presumably she smelled Brent.
And if it wasn’t Brent? What if, instead, she picked up the very scents we asked her to find?
As we crawl, I tell myself I’m overreacting. Brady doesn’t know anything about Brent. He has no reason to come for him. No idea where to find him. The chances that Brady would just happen to take shelter in the same cave where Brent lives? Infinitesimal. The opening isn’t even visible from down the mountainside.
We reach the cavern that Brent calls home. There’s blood on the floor, large drops, some smeared. A shelf has been pulled down, contents spilled, another bloody handprint on the wall.
“Brent?” Dalton’s voice echoing through the cavern. “Brent!”
I’m following the blood. More smears here, like drag marks. They lead to the smaller cavern Brent uses for storage. I pull back the hide curtain. And there is Brent, lying on the floor, curled in fetal position, blood soaking his shirt, one hand pressed against it. His eyes are closed.
I bend to clear the low ceiling. Then I crouch beside him. My fingers go to his neck, and he stirs.
Dalton’s figure fills the entrance.