City of the Lost (Casey Duncan #1)(34)

“It’s an observation that might question what we’re about to do.”

“Still a f*cking stupid question. If I wanted someone to blindly obey everything I say, I’d have hired another army boy.”

“Thank you, Eric,” Anders says.

“Though, on second thought, Will, blind obedience might be a step up, considering you never read those files.”

“Not going to drop that, are you?” Anders said.

“Nope. Butler? Talk. And if you ever have an idea about an investigation and you don’t tell me about it …”

When he doesn’t finish, I say, “Trying to figure out how you could enforce that without mind-reading skills?”

Anders chuckles. Dalton looks over, sees my smile, and nods.

“Yeah, it’s unenforceable,” he says. “So I won’t threaten. But you get the point. I hired a detective because I expect ideas. I’m tired of doing all the thinking in this department.”

“Ouch,” Anders says.

“That’s not an insult.” A few more steps. “Not really. I could use more thinking from you, Will. You’re smart enough, so there’s no excuse other than that you’re accustomed to following a commanding officer. You’re a good soldier. I need that. I also need more.”

“You know what neither of us really needs at two a.m., Eric? Brutal honesty.”

Dalton stops short. I think he’s going to comment on that, but he’s scanning the darkness.

“You got the militia up and out?” he asks Anders.

“I’m a good soldier, remember?”

Dalton ignores the sarcasm. We’re right on the edge of the woods. He’s still stopped. I start to speak, but an abrupt raised hand stops me.

“He’s listening,” Anders whispers. “The wind speaks to him.”

The deputy gets a look for that. Then Dalton starts walking again and says, “Butler? Talk.”

“Right. Okay, so you said Hastings took off into the woods, but I’m questioning the logic of that given what he saw on that autopsy table. Even if he doesn’t realize it might have been cannibalism, the sight of someone presumably ripped apart by wild animals is not going to send him running into the woods, is it?”

“Your suggestion?”

“That he’s still in town. He’s a petty little man who is not above sending you on a wilderness goose chase at two a.m.”

“Good,” he grunts. Then he keeps walking into the forest.

“Good but wrong?” I say.

“Good call on character. Hastings is a weasel. Fifty percent chance he’s done exactly what you said. Which is why I have the militia searching town.”

“Oh. So you’re a step ahead of me.”

“I’d be a lousy sheriff otherwise.”

“But you still think he could be in the woods. May I ask why?”

He motions for us to stay back while he hunkers down at the forest edge to examine something.

“Because the locals don’t always believe us about the woods,” Anders answers for him. “It’s like saying the moat is filled with man-eating sharks and killer electric eels. Some think we’re lying about the danger to keep them inside.”

“But Hastings saw the corpse.”

“And might be telling himself we did that.”

I nod. It’d be a gruesomely extreme scare tactic, but Hastings did clearly think Dalton was little more than a dumb thug with a badge.

Dalton’s on the move again. We’re following.

“I know there aren’t any pets in town,” I say. “But wouldn’t it be good to have a dog for tracking?”

“Don’t need it,” Anders says. “We’ve got Eric.”

Dalton shoots him the finger and keeps walking along the forest’s edge. He stops abruptly and crouches again, and now I realize what he’s doing—searching for signs of where someone might have entered the woods.

When I say as much, Anders nods. “There are only two maintained paths heading in, but there are smaller walking trails if you know where to find them. Running pell-mell into the forest is crazy. Following one of those maintained paths is also crazy, unless you’re looking to get caught fast.”

We look over to see that Dalton has disappeared.

Anders sighs and calls. “Yo, boss! We missed the non-existent signal. Follow or wait?”

No answer. Anders glances at me. “That means follow. You eventually learn to read the code. It’d be easier if we just equipped him with signal lights. Red for stop. Green for follow. Yellow for ‘take a guess and get your head bitten off if you’re wrong.’ Except it’d probably be stuck on yellow most of the time.”

“I heard that,” Dalton calls back.

“Good. And yes, we’re following.”

I don’t see the path until we’re on it. I’ve hiked before. But my idea of a path is a groomed trail wide enough to ride a bike on. This is barely a slice through the trees, branches catching me on both sides. Even the worn dirt underfoot vanishes as the trees close in and the ground becomes a carpet of dirt and needles.

“Patrol check?” Dalton calls back.

“He’s asking about the daily militia patrols,” Anders explains. “They report in to me. One thing they look for is signs that someone went into the woods.”