Page 28 of The Boy Who Cried Bear
Dalton rocks forward. “So you’ve noticed Max going into the forest alone, which we absolutely would not want him doing, and you didn’t say anything.”
“He’s ten, and he’s got you telling him all these forest secrets. Of course he’s going in. I would at that age. Hell, I do now.”
I give him a look that says that isn’t helping.
“The point,” Gunnar says, “is that he’s a responsible kid. Too responsible, if you ask me. He’s had a lot of shit in his life, and it’s made him nervous about doing anything wrong. That’s good for his parents, but not so good for him.” He lifts his hands. “Which is never anything I’d say to Max himself. I’m not going to encourage a ten-year-old kid to act out. I saw him go into the forest and I watched—not because I’m a perv but because I thought he deserved a little safe rebellion time. He goes in maybe fifty feet. Pokes around. Sometimes sits on a log and hangs out. If he went further, I’d have told someone.”
“You still should have told someone,” I say, before Dalton can. “But I appreciate that you were keeping an eye on him.”
“Which you’re saying very nicely so you don’t make me feel like a perv until you need to question me about the possibility that I am a perv.”
“Yep.”
“I’m not going to take offense at that.”
“Good, because you were the last person seen with a missing child, after taking him up to your perch. I’m not saying you meant anything untoward, but I’d be a really shitty cop if I didn’t consider that.”
“I know. I’ll be waiting at the town hall for you.” He strips off his shirt. “Take this.”
“Uh…” I say.
Dalton sighs and shakes his head. Gunnar has just handed me his T-shirt, and he’s not wearing a jacket or sweater, despite it being about five degrees above freezing. Those of us who’ve acclimated to the cooler weather often dress lighter than others. That’s not Gunnar’s excuse. Yolanda once described him as having a serious clothing allergy. He just likes to wear as little as possible to show off what he’s got underneath.
“For scent,” he says, handing me the shirt. “I haven’t been near where Max goes into the forest, and I want your dog to confirm it.”
“That’s not actually how it works, but yes, I’ll ask whether she smells your scent there.”
“She won’t. You do that, and I’ll be at the town hall.”
“With a shirt on?”
He waggles his brows. “That’s up to you.” He stops so fast it’s almost comical, and his gaze goes to Dalton. “That was a joke. I wouldn’t hit on your wife.”
“Not in front of me, at least?” Dalton shakes his head. “I’m not worried.”
“Put on a shirt, Gunnar,” I say. “Before you freeze.”
CHAPTER NINE
We check the spot where Storm found Max’s trail. It’s exactly where Gunnar said it would be, and as we walk along it, Dalton and Storm both confirm Max has been back here a few times. There are multiple trails of his in the area, along with footprints and clothing fibers on an old log, presumably the one he sits on.
Did he come back here tonight? It’s impossible to tell. If Storm can distinguish between a two-hour-old trail and a ten-hour-old one, I don’t know how to get her to convey that information to me. She can only find trails and confirm they’re recent.
Dalton can do the same. There are three trails that go past the log. All three end about twenty feet later. We can’t tell which is the most recent. They’re all newish, according to Storm and Dalton, meaning less than a week old.
Dalton is going to circle town again, but we don’t have much hope. Of all our current residents, Max is in the forest more than anyone. He joins every possible excursion, and Dalton and I take him on some of our own. We’d hoped that would keep him from making his own treks, but we must admit Gunnar was right there. He’s a ten-year-old with an interest in the forest. He’s going to take our prohibition with a grain of salt and decide we really only mean he shouldn’t go far on his own.
Back in town, I find Gunnar on the front steps of the town hall. I still struggle to call it that. In Rockton, it was the police station. Here, we’re trying to move away from that. “Police station” implies that there are residents who require policing … when many of them have escaped that sort of person.
We also considered doing away with our titles: sheriff, detective, deputy. We decided against it in hopes that the titles suggest protection rather than enforcement. We’re here to keep you safe rather than “police” you. Maybe it’s all semantics. I don’t know.
“I didn’t hear any commotion,” Gunnar says as I approach. “I’m guessing that means you didn’t find Max.”
I shake my head.
“Did you find a trail that could lead to him?” he asks.
Another shake.
