Bobby indicated the smoldering ruin. “You think that happens without one?”
“Looks”—the chief sniffed—“and smells, like a gas leak.”
“Which is no doubt what they wanted it to look and smell like since the bomb was on the furnace. If I hadn’t seen the body and the bomb…” He spread his hands.
“You didn’t see the perp?”
“Two out of three ain’t bad,” Bobby said, causing the chief to snort again.
Dr. Christiansen arrived. “I wish I’d had that body removed right away.”
“We all do,” Johnson agreed. “What did you find before you ran?”
Christiansen cast him an evil glare then recited his short list of findings.
“How did she manage to stay conscious with her throat slit?”
“Without the body, we’ll never know,” Christiansen said.
“Swell,” Bobby muttered. They weren’t going to discover much about anything without evidence, which was probably the point.
“You were here first,” Johnson continued. “What did you see?”
It seemed so very long ago but … Bobby glanced at his phone—saw he’d missed a summons from Sullivan; he’d have to call his partner back—and figured the entire incident had taken place in under an hour.
“Doucet,” the chief said again. “Did you hit your head?”
“Probably.” It hurt enough.
“You need an EMT?”
He shook that head, flinched. He’d had concussions before, knew exactly what to do—ibuprofen, rest, go to the hospital if he started to puke or forgot who he was—he did not need anyone poking and prodding him. However … Raye should probably be examined.
He took a step in her direction and saw that one of the EMTs was doing just that—checking her pupils, asking her questions, in between barks from her still-furious best friend.
“Hello?” the chief called.
If Bobby weren’t careful he’d wind up in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. Did they have a hospital? He resisted the urge to rub his head again. One of the symptoms of a concussion, as he recalled, was slow thinking, along with inability to recall both what had happened right before the injury as well as after.
“She didn’t answer the door,” he blurted.
There. No problem remembering what had happened before the world went boom. All good.
“Probably a little hard for her to move,” Christiansen said. “Considering.”
The wind stirred, flinging ash everywhere and causing the tree ornaments to jingle.
“What’s up with her trees?” Bobby asked.
Both Christiansen and Johnson frowned. “You sure you’re all right?”
Bobby narrowed his gaze; it helped with the headache. “I’m fine.”
The chief jerked his head at the doc, and the latter moved in close enough to peer at Bobby’s pupils. “You know where you are?”
“Podunk.”
Christiansen lifted his eyebrows. “Not the time for ha-ha, Detective.”
The man was right. “New Bergin, Wisconsin. My name is Bobby Doucet. I am twenty-eight years old. I came to this house to talk to Mrs. Noita. Okay?”
The doctor stared at him for a few seconds, then stepped back and nodded to the chief.
“The trees?” Bobby repeated.
“Mrs. Noita was flaky,” Johnson said. “A bit hippie.”
“She looked pretty skinny to me.”
“Not big hips.” Christiansen gave the peace sign. “Hippie.”
“A lot of herbs,” Johnson continued. “Voodoo.”
Bobby glanced at the trees. “That’s not voodoo.” Voodoo, he knew.
“Whatever.” The chief’s lip curled. “She was a vegan.”
“Last time I checked, that wasn’t a crime.”
“Around here.” Johnson’s gaze went to a distant but still visible farm to the east. Cows peppered the landscape like black and white polka dots. “It’s damn close.”
“She practiced herbal medicine,” Christiansen put in, then lifted his hand. “Not a crime, I know. In truth, some of that works pretty good. No clue why.”
Bobby still wasn’t hearing why she’d decorated her trees. Maybe they didn’t know. Mostly, it didn’t matter.
“I broke the window on her back door,” Bobby continued. He seemed to be having a difficult time staying on point and finishing a thought—definitely mild to moderate concussion. “I called her name. She lifted her hand, and I saw she’d been branded.”
Johnson cursed. “You’re sure?”
Bobby nodded, glanced at Christiansen, who nodded too. At least he hadn’t imagined it.
“Did she say anything?” the chief asked.
“I asked her who had done it. Her answer was pretty much gibberish. Understandable, considering.”
“You wanna relate that gibberish, son? One never can tell what might be useful down the road.”
“She said, ‘Venatores Mali.’” He spread his hands. “I don’t—”
“That isn’t gibberish,” Christiansen interrupted. “That’s Latin.”
“You speak Latin?” Johnson asked.
“No one speaks Latin. Dead language.”
Bobby’d never understood what that meant. How could a language be dead? But bringing that up would only be another pointless point.