“What’s he hunting for?” Thorne asked.
Wickens ran a hand over his bald head, paused a moment as if to collect his thoughts, and said, “Well, there’s been a bear out there he’s been looking for. It’s been nosing around the house, Morton’s been saying he wants to teach it a lesson, make sure it don’t come around here no more. My daughter, she’s got a young son, Morton wants to make sure it’s safe for him to play outside. So he grabbed his shotgun and said he was gonna go looking for it.”
“You’ve seen this bear?”
Wickens nodded slowly. “Big bastard.” Another pause. “Has one ear missing, left one I think, like it got cut off, or he lost it in a fight with another bear, which is more likely.”
Bob raised an eyebrow, imagining a bear fight, maybe.
“What’s going on?” May asked. Her voice was filled with worry. “Why are you here? Has something happened to Morton? He’s been gone a long time.”
Thorne swallowed hard, put the hat back on his head. He must have been confident that no one would hide his hat when there were life-and-death matters to be discussed.
“Mr. Wickens,” Thorne said, “there’s been a bit of an incident, just down over the hill a ways, by Arlen’s cabins.”
“This to do with Arlen’s ankle?” Wickens asked.
“Uh, no, not exactly. But I wonder if you’d mind coming to have a look with me at what we found.” Tentatively, he added, “You might want to leave your daughter here.”
May stepped forward. “No, I’m going, too.”
“Ma’am,” said the chief, “I don’t know that that’s such a good idea.”
“I’m going,” she said again, her teeth clenched in determination.
Timmy Wickens produced a set of keys and undid the padlock on the gate. He swung it open a couple of feet, enough to let himself and his daughter out, then closed it, hanging the padlock in place without driving it home.
We walked back, the five of us, no one saying anything. Thorne led the way back into the woods, and when the tarp became visible, May put her a hand to her mouth.
“It’s a man, that much we’re certain of,” said Thorne. “But he’s a bit hard to identify. I wonder, this Morton fella, did he have any what you might call distinguishing marks?”
May was staring straight ahead, slowly shaking her head from side to side, as if she could deny what was about to unfold. Wickens said to her, gently, “Miss, uh, May, does Morton have some kind of mark, maybe a tattoo, anything like that?”
I was thinking, if he had a tattoo, it had probably been eaten off him, if this was Morton Dewart.
“He’s, he’s got a dagger tattoo on his, his…” She was thinking now. “His left chest, on the left side, his left.”
Thorne breathed in through his nostrils. Clearly, that was not going to be adequate. “He got any markings or tattoos anyplace else?”
“Uh, um,” said May, tears already starting to form. “His ankle, like, a little ways up, a snake. I think, his right leg.”
Thorne nodded. This was a possibility. I sidled up next to him, alongside Dr. Heath, who’d been waiting around for our return. He lifted the tarp from the other end, revealing the dead man’s boots. Gingerly, he rolled down the thick, gray, bloody work sock, and there it was. A snake, shaped like an S, about two inches long.
Wickens and his daughter couldn’t see the leg from where they were standing, but when Thorne looked over at them, I guess it showed in his face, and he said, “I’m sorry.”
May threw her arms around her father, and began to wail.
5
IN THE FOLLOWING COUPLE OF HOURS before Dad phoned for me to come and pick him up at the hospital, I accomplished a fair bit.