This Fallen Prey (Rockton #3)(65)

I put Storm in the house. I hate locking her in but the alternative is a recap of pup versus cub.

When I open the door to my old house, I hear the scrabble of claws as the cub races behind my couch. This time, I can lure him out with meat scraps. I haven’t proven dangerous so far, and that monster isn’t howling and scratching at the door.

I replace his dressings and check for signs of rabies. I see none, and by this point, I’m starting to agree he isn’t infected.

As I change his dressing, I resist the urge to scratch behind his ears or cuddle him. That is oddly difficult, more than it would be with a human patient. We’re already crossing a line by feeding him—associating humans with food. Yet we aren’t sure what else to do, besides declare him rabies-free and dump him into the forest to fend for himself. Abandon him to die. That’s what we’d be doing, and neither of us suggests that.

When the door opens, I grab for the cub. I’m accustomed to Storm as a puppy, where an open door meant freedom. Instead the wolf cub dives back behind the sofa.

Mathias walks in. Before I can give him shit for not knocking, he says in French, “I want the wolf-dog.”

“Uh, yeah . . . no. He’s not a—”

“Pet. I realize that. No one else will.” He purses his lips. “Except Dalton. And of course, you, but you already have Storm, therefore giving you guardianship of another animal would be unfair.”

“No one is taking this cub. The whole ‘not a pet’ issue.”

“Which is why I am requesting guardianship.” He crouches to peer at the cub. “Australian shepherd.”

“Hmm?”

“The dog blood is Australian shepherd. I am familiar with the breed—my family owned several. It’s a working dog, like all shepherds. I believe that will help counteract the wolf blood and the combination of the two will produce an excellent guard dog. Possibly even an acceptable hunting dog, given the wolf instincts.”

When I say nothing, he looks over. “What is the alternative? It cannot be returned to the wild at this age. It cannot be released once it is grown. It cannot be given to anyone in town who will, despite all protestations, expect a dog like Storm. I have scraps to feed it. I have the time to train it. I am bored. It will be a project for me.”

“I’m not sure an animal should be a cure for boredom, Mathias.”

“Then consider it a favor. To you. Otherwise you will be placed in an impossible situation. You’ll never euthanize an animal you have rescued and cared for. So you will be forced to add it to your household, which introduces a dilemma. It cannot sleep by your bed like Storm, or roam freely as she does. Yet if Storm bonds with the cub as a pack mate, you must treat them the same, which means either restricting her or being dangerously lax with him.”

I hunker back on my haunches. “Did you hear about Val?”

“All right. You are not outright refusing me, which means you are changing the subject so you may consider my request. Also you are reminding me that this might not be the time to make such a request. Yes, I heard she is dead. I also know you will feel responsible. If you wish to discuss that, I would remind you that Isabel is the therapist.”

“I’m not looking for therapy. Or absolution. You were there. You know what happened. I chose to let Brady take Val because that seemed the best chance for her survival.”

“True.”

I carry the wolf cub’s bowl into the kitchen for fresh water. “The question I want to ask you is why. Why would Brady kill her? Yes, we suspect he’s a serial killer, but his MO suggests he likes torture and captivity. Would a quick kill serve the same purpose?”

“No,” he says as I return with the water. “But the urge to kill is . . . People often use the analogy of hunger or thirst. I prefer sex. Most of us enjoy it, and it satisfies a need, yet we can survive without it. For a murderer who likes to torture his victims, a quick death is akin to shower masturbation with someone banging on the door telling you to hurry up. It won’t scratch the itch, but it does the job in a pinch.”

I set the bowl down along with more meat scraps. When the cub comes out from behind the couch, Mathias crouches and takes a piece, holding it out.

I make a noise in my throat, and he says, “That is an excellent Momma Wolf impression, Casey.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Oh, but I do. The same thing Momma Wolf would. Watch myself because you have not yet decided whether I pose a threat to your little one.” He feeds the cub. “Are we certain Brady murdered Val?”

“He murdered Brent.”

“Which is not the same thing. And yet it is to you, isn’t it? If he murdered your friend Brent, then you are not wasting time wondering if he is also responsible for Val. You will determine that when you have the body, but for now, it does not matter.”

“Should it?”

“I suppose not.”

I want to snap, Then why bring it up. I don’t. He’s only nudging doubts I don’t want nudged. Brent is dead. There is no question that Brady shot him. But the question of intent is murkier. The gun went off during a fight. I want to say that doesn’t matter. Death as a result of an armed robbery is still homicide. Brady also failed to do anything to help Brent after he’d been shot. He ground his fist into the injury. Therefore, he must be the monster his stepfather claims he is.