Page 87 of The Boy Who Cried Bear
Broad leaves near the ground are splattered with dried splotches that reflect red in the sunlight.
I bend and scrape one with my fingernail. What flakes off is definitely the color of blood.
Did Max hurt himself, running to escape what he thought was a wild wolf?
Before I can consider that, Dalton points to a mess of footprints. Signs of a scuffle.
These are the first clear prints we’ve found. The rest have all been partial impressions—the curve of a toe or a heel that left us approximating size with no idea of the tread. These are clear enough for me to piece together entire footprints.
Two people were involved in the scuffle. One is Max. We can tell that not only by the size, but by what we can see of the tread. The other is a heavy boot slightly larger than Dalton’s, with a tread that doesn’t match our standard town footwear.
If Max had escaped, his captor caught up and grabbed him here. There’s a flurry of wild marks in the dirt, as if the captor hoisted Max up while the boy fought, his boots scuffing the ground.
And then?
And then there was blood.
I can make out where Max’s captor would have been standing when he held Max, and the blood radiates out from that spot, on the right-hand side.
“Here,” Dalton says.
His voice startles me, and irritation flashes. I’d been deep in my thoughts, reconstructing the drama, and he’s pulled me out of that. Then I see what he’s gesturing toward—more marks in the dirt.
I gingerly walk around the marks and then crouch again. It’s shaded here, and I need my flashlight to illuminate the spot. When I do, I spot clumps of dried mud. I pick up one and rub it between my thumb and forefinger. The tips come back red.
Blood flowed here. Flowed heavily into the dirt. My heart picks up speed. Max, injured and thrown to the ground, with marks in the dirt when he’d sat, bleeding. Part of a boot print and—
I stop and move my light over. There, in the dirt, is a partial handprint.
It is not a child-sized handprint.
“Can I get your light?” I say.
Dalton nods and wordlessly shines his flashlight along with mine. The pieces of the scene come together.
Someone falling, the force of that fall leaving a handprint in the ground. A man-sized handprint.
Max’s captor falling, catching himself on that hand and then lowering himself to the ground.
And bleeding.
Max’s captor was injured, and fell and bled here while tending to the wound.
I shine my light around and catch a footprint just beyond the area. Max’s captor is back on his feet. One full print, and one toe print, and then a less clear repeat of the pattern.
Max’s captor’s leg is injured. He’s limping on one full foot and one boot toe, while Max is running.
“It looks like…” I swallow, almost afraid to finish that sentence. “It looks like Max got away.”
“Yeah.”
I exhale in relief. Dalton agrees. Good.
Dalton continues, “I found three prints of Max’s coming this way, including the one Lilith saw. No others. Scuffle over there, as if he was grabbed. But he has his knife. He stabs the guy, who goes down while Max runs.”
“Remind me why you have a detective again?”
He walks over and kisses the top of my head. “Because she’s super hot, and it is in my best interests to pretend I need her expertise. Yeah, I found the blood and the scuffle, but until you found that handprint, I thought Max was the one hurt. I didn’t catch the significance of that pattern”—he points at the prints where the bear-man gave chase—“until I realized Max’s captor is the one who was hurt. Stabbed in the leg. Limping. Good.”
