And me letting her, despite Dalton's reservations.
So I look. I suck in breath. Dalton tenses, shoulder blades snapping together under his T-shirt.
"It's not Val," I say quickly.
His gaze drops then. And he lets out a quiet oath.
It is a dog.
No, it's a puppy.
On the path lies what looks like a shepherd puppy, with brown speckles on its muzzle. As soon as I see those, I remember the wolf-dog, the nursing mother
.
The cub is dead.
Slaughtered and left on the path.
I pull my gaze from the cub and wrap both hands around my gun. Dalton steps over the tiny corpse.
I lift my foot to follow. Then I stop. Eyes on my surroundings, I crouch and lay my fingertips against the side of the cub's neck.
Still warm.
I hurry to catch up with Dalton, continuing around the curve and--
He stops and lets out a string of curses under his breath.
There is another heap on the path.
We don't stop for a better look. I see bloods and entrails, and my stomach churns. I've seen plenty of dead animals up here, often in worse shape, half devoured and rotting, but this is not a predator's kill. These cubs have been planted--a trap that Dalton and I are expected to fall for because we have a dog of our own. So we will see these poor dead cubs and stop, and then--
A whimper sounds in the bushes, and Dalton lets out another curse, this one softer, almost an exhalation.
Fuck, no . . .
What will be worse than seeing dead wolf-dog cubs in the path?
Seeing one that is not yet dead.
24
We take a step. Then the sound comes again, that deep-throated whine, from the brush beside the path.
Dalton glances back at me. It's the briefest of glances, no more than a flicker of eye contact.
We should keep going. We're suckers if we don't, playing right into the trap Brady has set. A third cub has been left alive, horribly injured, as the cruelest of taunts. Punishment for the fact that we are not monsters.
Can you walk by this dying dog? You know you should. It's a wild thing, a feral beast. But I saw how you left the wolf-dog alone. I heard you say that she must have pups nearby. Heard the relief in your voices when she didn't attack, an excuse to let her live.
Suckers.
I'll leave Val by that spot where the sheriff got shot. You know the one. Just go there, and you'll find her.
The cub whines again.
"Fuck."