Watcher in the Woods (Rockton #4)(35)

Dalton grunts. Then he rises, walks over and pulls back the sheet tugged up to Garcia’s neck. He grabs a probe from the surgical tray and starts poking at the puncture wounds.

“Excuse me, Sheriff?” April says, turning on him.

“It’s Eric. Sheriff is what folks call me when they’re showing respect or being patronizing.” He meets her gaze. “You demonstrating respect for my position?”

She doesn’t answer.

“Yeah, didn’t think so. It’s Eric.” He examines another hole. Then he starts poking at Garcia’s shredded shirt, lifting it with forceps and examining the damage.

“Can I help you, Eric?” April says.

“Actually, you can.” He rocks back on his heels. “You got any experience treating dog bites?”

“Dogs?”

“Garcia was attacked by a wolf. Those are the puncture wounds you see here and here.”

She takes a cursory look and glowers at him. “If you are testing my expertise, Sher—Eric, I do not appreciate it. While I am hardly an expert in wounds inflicted by animals, I did see dog bites as an intern in the emergency ward.”

“And these are different?”

“Those holes are near perfect punctures. If a dog bit him once, then yes, these could be correct. But an attack involves ripping.”

Dalton nods. “Ragged punctures. Tears.” He lifts Garcia’s arm to examine the gash on the underside.

“That is not a wound caused by an animal either,” April says.

“He didn’t say it was. He got this one sliding into a rock crevice.”

She takes a closer look. “That’s possible.”

“It’s shallow, though. Like the punctures. Lots of blood, but shallow wounds.”

“Yes.”

“Shit,” I say. “He wasn’t attacked by wolves, was he? I wondered when he said that—I know it’s not normal behavior for them. But you didn’t question, so I figured . . .” I shrug. “First rule of dealing with wildlife: the wildlife doesn’t know the rules.”

“Yep. Basic animal behavior supposes no external mitigating factors.”

“Like human behavior. Mental illness, physical impairment, drugs, alcohol, extenuating circumstances . . . they all play a role.”

He nods. “For humans, wolves are probably the least dangerous predator out here, all other things being equal. The big, bad wolf lore is bullshit. Livestock is more likely to attack you than a healthy wolf in the wild. A pack of wolves setting on Garcia at a stream makes no fucking sense. There’s plenty of water to go around. Plenty of prey—wolves sure as hell aren’t starving this time of year. Plenty of land, too—we aren’t encroaching on their territory. That doesn’t mean a wolf couldn’t have attacked him. Maybe he did something he failed to mention. Maybe there were cubs nearby. Hell, maybe a wolf ate something it shouldn’t have and wasn’t thinking straight.”

“You suspected Garcia’s story was bullshit, but you wanted April to check the wounds first.”

“Nah, I wanted to get him back here first. Which didn’t turn out so well.”

I walk over to the body. “He wanted to come back, didn’t he? That’s why he faked the attack. He heard us in the woods. He hopped down into the crevice. Cut himself up a bit, nothing so serious he couldn’t get out again.”

“That makes no sense,” April says.

I wince. She’s been following of our conversation, as if genuinely interested in the exchange. But now she must treat me like an idiot drawing a ridiculous conclusion.

“Is that a statement or a question?” Dalton asks.

“What?”

“Well”—he leans back against the counter—“if you’re curious about our reasoning, you should presume we have a motivation in mind and ask. Which might be what you meant. But the way you word it sounds like you’re just rendering judgment.”

“Of course I want an explanation,” she snaps. “I pointed out that your reasoning does not—to me—make sense, which is your opportunity to explain it.”

“Yeah, that’s not actually how people phrase a question. Unless they want to be a dick about it.”

“I do not appreciate—”

“I’m sure you don’t. Get used to it. I’m not putting up with your bullshit. If you have a question, phrase it as one.”

I cut in. “Here’s our reasoning, April. Yes, it seems to make little sense to fake being injured in order to return to a town you escaped. But if we tracked Garcia down, we’d toss him in the cell. At best, we’d put him under house arrest. That means there’d be no way he could grab his fugitive and run.”

“If he’s injured, though, presumably he’d come to the clinic instead of a cell,” she says.

“Right. He’d be a patient, not a prisoner. He told us he twisted his leg and hurt his ribs. That’s hard to prove. The guy just escaped a pack of ravenous wolves—we aren’t going to be questioning his injuries.”

“He would be allowed to stay in the clinic,” she says. “Then he could sneak out, finds his fugitive, retrieve his radio and leave.”

I nod. “That seems to have been his plan. He faked being injured . . . and ended up dead.”