"Eric? Can you empty Kenny's pockets and backpack?"
He does. There's a waterskin and basic tools. For food, he's brought dried meat and a handful of protein bars.
"You took these from the supply cabinet?" I say, waving the bars.
Kenny nods. "I'll repay them."
"Not my biggest concern right now." I go through the handful of bars. "You already ate the chocolate peanut butter ones?"
"I didn't take any. I know those are your favorite, so I leave them for you. The cookie ones are good, though."
"She's not asking because she's hungry," Dalton says.
"Right. Sorry. I didn't take any of the chocolate peanut butter."
"What
about old stock?"
"Old stock?"
"There was a box of chocolate peanut butter that went missing a while ago. Do you know anything about that?"
Dalton's gaze cuts my way, but he says nothing. I'm bullshitting about the missing box. The truth is that we don't monitor the bars that tightly, figuring if the militia want to sneak a few extras, that's a perk for their help.
When I say that, though, Kenny looks uncomfortable.
"Kenny . . ." I prod.
"Someone took a bunch of old stock," he says. "I don't know what flavors. I just know that when I did inventory a while back, we had out-of-date bars and I put them aside to ask Will what to do with them, and they went missing. I decided not to say anything. They were old stock."
"You have no idea who took them?"
That uncomfortable look again. "I . . . No. I don't."
He's lying. I don't know why, but I need this answer. I study Kenny--the set of his jaw, the look in his eye--and I see it's not time to press the matter.
"Eric?" I lift Kenny's boot, and he nods.
When I pass Storm's lead to Jacob, Dalton's ready to argue, but I say, "I'll be quick," and I get a reluctant nod.
I take off at a jog back to the footprints. They're just around the corner, and when I reach them, I look back to see Dalton. He's moved about ten steps from Kenny, his gun still on the suspect but staying within sight range of me.
I crouch with the boot in hand. First, I confirm, beyond a doubt, that the tread is correct. Eyeballing it, I'd also say the size is, but when I lower the boot below the prints, I see that the ones in the soft earth appear to be a size smaller.
I prod the edge of the print. While the ground is damp, it doesn't seem wet enough for the print to have contracted a size. That's possible, though. Soft ground shifts. If the boot is the right type and almost the right size . . .
Wait.
It's not the same boot. Closer examination shows that the wear pattern doesn't match. Kenny's are worn, with an uneven tread, maybe the result of unsupportive boots and high arches. The prints look like new boots, the tread very distinct.
I check the tag inside Kenny's. Then I look at the prints again.
New boots. Rockton-issue. Size-seven men's. Small for a man's shoe.
Not small for a woman's. Not unreasonably large either. That works out to maybe a nine. While we have women's boot sizes, many choose to wear the guys', finding them sturdier.
I work through Jacob's description of the person he spotted with Brady. Clean-shaven. Shorter than Brady. A bulky jacket, which would hide breasts.