Page 114 of The Boy Who Cried Bear
The hell you will.
We want answers.
What answers? There is nothing Rogers has said or done that we can argue against. His men apparently found evidence that Jay was Sandy’s partner in pedophilia. Jay admitted to strangling Max, and that injury on his right quadriceps proves it.
Jay said they paid him to kill Max … but he’d been willing to say anything to escape the fate he foresaw: the exact one that came true, leaving him dead, facedown in the dirt.
Sandy kidnapped Max. His motive was pedophilia. Someone killed him. We have no evidence that the “someone” wasn’t Jay, but either way, Sandy isn’t our concern. Our concern is who tried to murder Max, and that was Jay, whatever his motive.
Did Rogers really offer a bounty on Max?
If there is any chance that this man in front of us would order a child killed to protect his camp, then we absolutely need to know that … but it also means we absolutely cannot call him on it with two armed guards flanking him.
“You’re going to clean this up?” Dalton says finally.
“Yes.”
“And we won’t have to worry about ever finding anyone from your camp on our side of the boundary line again?”
“Yes. You have my word on this.” He meets Dalton’s gaze. “This was a very unfortunate incident that taught me we have underestimated a potential danger. We will be locking down to ensure this never happens again. We want to be good neighbors. I think we both need that. Also, the mountain is now your territory, as requested. If we need to go there for any reason, we will consult with you.”
I put my hand on Storm’s head, and we walk away.
It’s all we can do. For now.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
As we return to town, I mull over the bloody mark on Jay’s shoulder. I mention it to Dalton, but I can tell he doesn’t see the significance. Just blood spatter from the shot, right?
It wasn’t blood from the shot. It was a dime-sized spot of blood that had seeped from an injury to Jay’s shoulder, one inflicted before he put his shirt on. I don’t point this out to Dalton. He’d see it himself if he weren’t so upset over what just happened. He needs to work through that. I need to work through this, because my brain screams that it is significant.
And then, as we reach town, it hits me.
“Does April still have my tablet?” I say.
Dalton frowns, as if trying to understand my question in the context of what just happened.
“I need to check something,” I say. “I’ll meet you back at home.”
He gives himself a shake and says, “No, I’ll come with you. What’s up?”
“Possibly just a bad case of paranoia.”
He snorts as he strides along beside me. “Right now, a little paranoia feels like a damn fine idea.”
We reach the clinic. April is there, pulling the blinds as the sun sets.
“I need a medical opinion,” I say.
I turn on my tablet. I flip through the photos of Sandy until I come to a particular one, where I zoom in. It’s the spot I’d noticed on his shoulder, where one of the stab wounds cut through a circular scar but didn’t completely obliterate it.
“What’s this?” I ask.
She adjusts the brightness. I grab a probe and tap the scar. “This. It looks like a smallpox vaccine mark, except it’s new. They still give smallpox vaccines, right? When necessary?”
“That isn’t one. I can see why you would think so. It is a scar, though smaller than those obtained through the vaccine.” She peers at it and then grumbles, “It would be easier to see if it had not been nearly cut away.” A frown and she starts moving the enlarged image. “The edges to this wound are different. They suggest…”
“More scalpel than knife?”
