Page 35 of The Boy Who Cried Bear
“Maybe five hundred feet that way.” He points.
Close enough for these to be made by someone in town? Yes. But also far enough that they might not be.
“Can you see what they’re attached with?” I ask.
“Vines.”
String or fishing twine would suggest they were made by someone with access to a town.
Dalton’s flashlight beam moves over the ground. At first, I think he’s looking for footprints. Then I realize what else he could be looking for.
We’re in a clearing with a bloody stick figure at each compass point, while we’re searching for a missing child. When my gaze finds a slight rise in the middle of the clearing, my stomach clenches, and I’m terrified of seeing a mound of disturbed earth. I hurry over to find what looks like a campfire.
I’m crouching beside it when Storm lets out a low growl that has me laying a hand on her head. Dalton’s head swivels as he listens. Then his eyes narrow. His gaze lasers in to our left, and his hand goes to his gun. I do the same, taking mine out, although I don’t yet hear anything.
Then it comes. The rustle of something brushing through the undergrowth. It’s the faintest sound, one I’d never have noticed without Dalton and Storm detecting it first. Dalton motions that he’s going to move forward. I nod and keep one hand on Storm’s head, telling her to stay with me.
I cover Dalton as he heads into the forest. When a twig cracks to my left, I go still.
Storm stays focused on the direction Dalton’s going. There’s another whisper of undergrowth, definitely to my left, and that’s when Storm notices, her shaggy head turning that way.
Has whatever’s out there changed position, now approaching from the left? Or are there two presences in the forest?
I take a slow step left while keeping enough of my attention on Dalton. When I can’t see anything, I take another step and …
And my target is a porcupine, ambling along. Storm doesn’t do more than growl. After one encounter with the large rodents, she stays clear.
I swing my attention right, toward Dalton. I’d been distracted just long enough for him to disappear in the trees. I quickstep in that direction and—
A crackle in the forest. Then:
“Goddamn it!” Dalton snarls. “Really?”
I hurry over to see him holding Louie by the back of his collar, as if he’d caught the man making a break for it.
“This seems familiar,” I say as I walk over. “What are you doing out here this time?”
“Searching for the boy. Obviously.”
“So yesterday, when you weren’t included on the hunting team, you went out on your own and caught a week of shit duty for it. Today, when you’re not included in the search party, you thought you’d do the same thing and expect a different outcome?”
“Nah,” Dalton says. “He just didn’t count on getting caught again.”
Louie squares his shoulders. “I didn’t care if I got caught. A child’s life is at stake, and I’m not letting you two morons screw it up.”
“Morons.” Dalton chews the word over as Louie yanks from his grip, as if getting out of the way before Dalton throws him down again. Which means he doesn’t understand my husband very well.
“Morons,” Dalton repeats. “Explain.”
Louie turns to face him. “Explain what?”
“Why we’re morons. Because it seems I’m too dense to see it myself, being a moron and all. Tell us how you reached this conclusion.”
“You have no idea what you’re doing.”
“Continue.”
Louie falters, confused when Dalton doesn’t defend himself. Oh, there are ways to get Dalton to react. Even to get him to react physically. But calling him stupid isn’t going to do it. He’ll just congratulate himself on pulling off a very useful persona.
