Page 84 of The Boy Who Cried Bear
Think of it as a bedtime story.
About a guy who was stabbed thirty-three times.
I’ll want to talk to April about the wound pattern, but mostly what I need to do is my own crime-scene tech work. Revisit my notes on the weapon Sandy saw and compare it more precisely to the wounds I found.
Was Miner Sandy attacked by the bear-man? That is indeed the most likely explanation. Sandy had—in his witness report from earlier—described the knife the bear-man brandished, which seems to match the size of the wounds. I can picture the bear-man holding Max hostage in that shack when Sandy came rambling through the forest.
Did Sandy hear voices? They carry so far in the woods that I suspect that was the precipitating event. The bear-man leaves Max, presumably bound. He sneaks up on Sandy, who hears something in the woods and moves off the path, where he’s attacked from the rear. The bear-man takes him down and then goes wild, stabbing until he’s absolutely certain the threat is eliminated.
After that, the bear-man realized he needed to move Max. With Sandy dead, he had time to do a thorough job of clearing the shack, leaving only moth-eaten blankets. However, being agitated, he didn’t think to hide his trail until they reached the creek.
Why would the bear-man take Max in the first place? I’m hoping that, in the man’s deluded mind, he’s looking for a son. Companionship in the wilderness plus a child to teach and raise in his ways. That drive is strong. I’ve seen it in otherwise rational people. Hell, I saw a version of it in my own parents. April and I were their legacy. We were supposed to follow in their footsteps and continue their work in the world. When I did not, I had failed them.
The drive for men to have sons is even more culturally ingrained. Is it possible that our bear-man spotted Max and envisioned a son? At ten, Max is the perfect age for that. He’s independent enough to take care of himself and start learning the basics of wilderness survival, while not old enough—or big enough—to be a serious threat. It’s roughly the same age Dalton had been when he was taken from the forest in a reverse of this scenario, Dalton being snatched from settlers and brought into a town as the son for a grieving couple.
If that’s the answer, then Max is relatively safe for the time being. He’s smart enough to see what’s happening and do whatever it takes to relax his captor’s guard. It also gives us time to find him. He will be traumatized, but not to the extent he would be if this is the scenario I fear most, the one where he has been taken by a sexual predator.
I’m trying not to think of that.
I should read through Sandy’s interview notes from Mr. Rogers again, in light of his death.
I push to my feet … and there’s a sound on the back porch.
I go still. Our cabin faces the town, leaving our back deck with nothing but a forest view. That means no one coming to our house is going to knock on the back door.
I listen, but everything has gone silent.
Did I really hear something?
I glance at Storm, who is so deeply asleep that I suspect we could be invaded by a family of grizzlies and she’d never notice.
Did we leave food on the porch? We’re extremely careful about that. Food attracts pests, and around here, those pests can be a whole lot bigger than mice.
I pick up my gun from the table and head toward the kitchen. I suspect I was hearing things, but I’ll still check it out. I round the corner just in time to spot a gray tail out the window.
A wolf?
That has me stopping short. I’m not generally worried about wolves, but if the shy predators start coming onto our porch and peering in, that would be a concern. The tail has disappeared, and I’m easing around the corner when Storm brushes my side, making me jump. I reach to give her a pat, but she just walks past me to the back door and looks over her shoulder expectantly.
When I don’t move, she nudges the door handle.
Open this, please. I wish to go outside.
Okay. As much as Storm respects wolves, she’s not going to be quite so blasé about one on her territory … unless it’s a very specific instance of the species.
“Nero?” I say to Storm.
From outside comes an answering woof.
My gaze swings toward the window. Wolves don’t woof. That sound came from a human.
I peek out. A face appears so suddenly that I know I’m supposed to jump back in terror. Instead, I only shake my head, as relief courses through me.
I yank open the door. “Lilith.”
“That was underwhelming,” she says. “At the very least, you should have pulled your gun on me for popping up like that.”
“More like pulled my gun on you for skulking around like that.”
