Shortly after that, Cypher leaves us. He’ll drop off the cougar at his camp, where he insists on preparing the skin for me. We continue on to retrieve Val’s body, but we can’t find it. She’s out of sight by the time we reach the top of the cliffside, and we follow the stream along until we reach the lake where Dalton is certain her body will stop. We don’t see her there. At some point, her clothing must have caught again and submerged her body.
I’m not sure what we’ll do about this. I want to find her, obviously. But someone else is missing, too, someone who is almost certainly still alive: Jacob.
Dalton tells me his brother’s campsite seems to have been abandoned before the black bear found it. It’s a hunting camp—a basic tent, sleeping furs, and the backpack we saw the bear rummaging through. The only thing missing? Jacob. That could suggest he was just out hunting . . . if he hadn’t left his gun. And the food bag he’d hoisted into a tree was full.
“That makes no sense,” I say as we walk. “If Brady found Jacob at his camp, he’d take the gun and food.”
“Then he must not have found him at camp. Jacob could have been out scouting.”
“Without his rifle?”
Dalton shrugs. “Getting water then.”
“And you’re sure it was Jacob’s site?”
“One hundred percent. His gun. His pack.”
I want to say that I don’t think Jacob could be captured so easily. Or that Brady would have forced him back to take his supply stash. But, yes, Brady could have surprised Jacob, and he might not have realized Jacob would have food nearby.
“We’ll stop at Rockton,” he says. “Get Will and a couple of others and head out to look for Val.”
Which seems to be the right move. But it’s not. This winter, when we had a fatality in town, Anders had said, “I can’t fix dead.” It wasn’t just a gibe, though. It was hard truth.
We can’t fix dead.
Val is dead. Brady killed her. We know those two things; so autopsying her body will only tell us how he did it. Brady won’t ever see the inside of a courtroom, though, especially for anything he does up here.
I do want to put Val’s body to rest, but how much of that is about me and not her? She’s gone, and I blame myself, and I want to do something for her, and the only thing I can do is retrieve her remains. Would she care?
No. The only thing she’d care about is justice. If we think Brady might have taken Jacob, that’s all the more reason to focus on him.
We retrieve the ATV and return to Rockton. With everything that has happened, it feels as if it should be nightfall by now. Instead, it’s two in the afternoon, and we’re still able to grab a late counter-service lunch.
Dalton takes Anders, Jen, and another militia member and heads back on the ATVs to search for Val.
I stay behind. One of us should, and Dalton wants me to tend to my various scrapes and bruises and pulled muscles. When I don’t argue, he gives me a look, as if to ask what I’m up to, but I tell him I don’t want to slow them down, and someone does need to be here in case Brady circles back.
Plus, I have to tend to the wolf cub, change his dressings and look for signs of rabies. I think it’s the last excuse that convinces him. I’m still worried about Dalton’s bite, so that makes sense.
I put Storm in the house. I hate locking her in but the alternative is a recap of pup versus cub.
When I open the door to my old house, I hear the scrabble of claws as the cub races behind my couch. This time, I can lure him out with meat scraps. I haven’t proven dangerous so far, and that monster isn’t howling and scratching at the door.
I replace his dressings and check for signs of rabies. I see none, and by this point, I’m starting to agree he isn’t infected.
As I change his dressing, I resist the urge to scratch behind his ears or cuddle him. That is oddly difficult, more than it would be with a human patient. We’re already crossing a line by feeding him—associating humans with food. Yet we aren’t sure what else to do, besides declare him rabies-free and dump him into the forest to fend for himself. Abandon him to die. That’s what we’d be doing, and neither of us suggests that.
When the door opens, I grab for the cub. I’m accustomed to Storm as a puppy, where an open door meant freedom. Instead the wolf cub dives back behind the sofa.
Mathias walks in. Before I can give him shit for not knocking, he says in French, “I want the wolf-dog.”
“Uh, yeah . . . no. He’s not a—”
“Pet. I realize that. No one else will.” He purses his lips. “Except Dalton. And of course, you, but you already have Storm, therefore giving you guardianship of another animal would be unfair.”
“No one is taking this cub. The whole ‘not a pet’ issue.”
“Which is why I am requesting guardianship.” He crouches to peer at the cub. “Australian shepherd.”
“Hmm?”
“The dog blood is Australian shepherd. I am familiar with the breed—my family owned several. It’s a working dog, like all shepherds. I believe that will help counteract the wolf blood and the combination of the two will produce an excellent guard dog. Possibly even an acceptable hunting dog, given the wolf instincts.”
When I say nothing, he looks over. “What is the alternative? It cannot be returned to the wild at this age. It cannot be released once it is grown. It cannot be given to anyone in town who will, despite all protestations, expect a dog like Storm. I have scraps to feed it. I have the time to train it. I am bored. It will be a project for me.”
“I’m not sure an animal should be a cure for boredom, Mathias.”
“Then consider it a favor. To you. Otherwise you will be placed in an impossible situation. You’ll never euthanize an animal you have rescued and cared for. So you will be forced to add it to your household, which introduces a dilemma. It cannot sleep by your bed like Storm, or roam freely as she does. Yet if Storm bonds with the cub as a pack mate, you must treat them the same, which means either restricting her or being dangerously lax with him.”
I hunker back on my haunches. “Did you hear about Val?”
“All right. You are not outright refusing me, which means you are changing the subject so you may consider my request. Also you are reminding me that this might not be the time to make such a request. Yes, I heard she is dead. I also know you will feel responsible. If you wish to discuss that, I would remind you that Isabel is the therapist.”
“I’m not looking for therapy. Or absolution. You were there. You know what happened. I chose to let Brady take Val because that seemed the best chance for her survival.”
“True.”
I carry the wolf cub’s bowl into the kitchen for fresh water. “The question I want to ask you is why. Why would Brady kill her? Yes, we suspect he’s a serial killer, but his MO suggests he likes torture and captivity. Would a quick kill serve the same purpose?”
“No,” he says as I return with the water. “But the urge to kill is . . . People often use the analogy of hunger or thirst. I prefer sex. Most of us enjoy it, and it satisfies a need, yet we can survive without it. For a murderer who likes to torture his victims, a quick death is akin to shower masturbation with someone banging on the door telling you to hurry up. It won’t scratch the itch, but it does the job in a pinch.”
I set the bowl down along with more meat scraps. When the cub comes out from behind the couch, Mathias crouches and takes a piece, holding it out.
I make a noise in my throat, and he says, “That is an excellent Momma Wolf impression, Casey.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Oh, but I do. The same thing Momma Wolf would. Watch myself because you have not yet decided whether I pose a threat to your little one.” He feeds the cub. “Are we certain Brady murdered Val?”