At First Light(Dr. Evan Wilding #1)(31)

“You grew up in England. You were never a Boy Scout.”

He sniffed. “There were Boy Scouts in Britain three years before the Boy Scouts of America opened their doors. As in so many things, we were there first.”

“How do you even know that?”

“I was a Boy Scout. Mother made sure of that. It’s handy having someone in the house who’s always prepared.” Evan adjusted the seat belt, which threatened to cut off his blood supply at the throat. It was only one of the many reasons he preferred to take his own car. “May I continue?”

“Please.”

“The deputy said Tommy likes dead things. Yet the boy claimed he was there collecting birds’ nests—which are biological entities but hardly dead.”

“He admitted that was a lie.”

“It did turn out to be false. But it carried enough of the truth to serve, and someone as smart as Tommy will create a lie that is as close to the truth as possible.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “You have a soft spot for this boy.”

“As I do for all who must struggle unfairly in a world quick to judge.”

“You’re a softy, Dr. Wilding,” she said quietly. “So you figured because he said birds’ nests that he likes birds?”

“Not really. But it got me thinking. We saw that he’d been living near the pond for five years. He probably had collected all the nests he could want. So why was he really there? Then we saw the dovecote in his side yard. Getting his mom to agree to that no doubt took real effort on his part. More work for them both and probably an eyesore to her way of thinking. Plus he wanted special doves—the bleeding-hearts. He likes animals, but he especially likes rare animals. A theory that was confirmed, by the way, when I saw a tank with piranhas.”

“He has flesh-eating piranhas in his workshop?”

“That’s the only kind there is. But these weren’t just any piranhas. A Google search identified them as the rare ruby red spilo—something I had to check after the fact, of course.” He was rather pleased with how his theory had come together. It was always satisfying when a series of hypotheticals led to something solid. “Anyway, seeing the bleeding-hearts in the dovecote suggested that Tommy might have been at the pond to check out the rumor of the alligator snapping turtle. So I did my homework on the little beastie while you were working to wedge your car into a spot the size of a tricycle. I had a feeling that the turtle might be the path into Tommy’s heart.”

“You’re a bit of a freak, Evan. And I mean that in the kindest possible way.”

“Thank you. I think.”

“What did you make of Mr. X?”

“People are more your specialty.”

“A search warrant for the house might turn up Mr. X’s identity,” Addie said. “Assuming Tommy doesn’t destroy all evidence in the meantime. But I’m wondering if he’s even real. Why would some random dude be buying deer and cow bones? And how did he find Tommy?”

“He could be an artist. Or a middleman, reselling them to a supply company or to bone carvers.”

“Then why the secrecy? More likely he’s our killer.”

“If our killer is a bone collector, why did he use wooden slats with Talfour?”

“I hate when you step on my theory.”

Her phone buzzed. She thumbed the button to answer the call and put it through the Bluetooth. “Go ahead, partner.”

Patrick’s rumbling voice came through the car speakers. “You still out in the wilds of Kendall County?”

“Just heading back to home sweet home. Did you learn anything from Talfour’s family or friends?”

“They all swear he wasn’t into drugs or prostitution. Big surprise, right? Like they’re gonna fess up to that even if it were true. Neighbors say he was courteous. Friendly. The kind of guy who would help you carry in your groceries or put together your IKEA dresser. He liked to sit on the patio in front of his condo on the weekends and shoot the breeze with passersby. What about the cold case? Scott Desser. Find any links?”

“Definitely. We’ve got more runes. And the body was probably positioned like Talfour’s. We can’t be a hundred percent sure because there was an eight-week gap between when Desser was killed and when his body was found. Speaking of which, we had an interesting conversation with a kid named Tommy Snow . . .”

While Addie filled Patrick in on what they’d learned, Evan tuned out their conversation and bent over his notebook, picking out unfamiliar words.

Like bothy in the line, thus/from/my/bothy/i/came/homelands/ward.

What, he pondered as he scratched his beard, is a bothy? The term seemed vaguely familiar.

Addie made a strangled sound in her throat, jerking him back to the here and now. He glanced over as she disconnected with Patrick. Her face had gone red, and there was a hard glint to her eye that would have made Evan duck if there’d been anything throwable within her reach.

He closed the journal. “What is it?”

“Criver.”

“The lieutenant? What’s he done?”

“He’s gone and brought in Rhinehart.”

“Then maybe we should take it as a sign he’ll be of use.”

She directed her hard gaze at him. “I don’t want his help. I want your help. And don’t give me that bullcrap about not being a runologist. I have faith in you, Evan.”