This Fallen Prey (Rockton 3)

"Nah. Brady's not going after anyone out here. I still want to warn Jacob, though. I also want to let him know what's going on, get him to talk to Brent, maybe Ty, set them looking for Val."

"Good idea."

Jacob's camp is empty. That's no cause for alarm. He's packed it up, which means he headed off on his hunting trip. I feared that after he didn't leave a message yesterday. I know Nicole will be hurt, and I hate seeing that.

On our way back to town, we take a different route to widen the search. There's still no trace of Brady or Val. Tomorrow we'll visit Brent and swing by the cabin that Cypher used for the winter, see if he's still lurking about. Brent's easy to find, though, and he's a former bounty hunter, which makes him as good a tracker as Jacob.

Back in Rockton, the first thing I do is treat Dalton's hand. He's right that it just looks like a bite, but that won't keep me from worrying.

Anders has explained the situation to the residents. Oliver Brady used the fire as a distraction to escape. He took Val hostage, with a promise to leave her at a set location in an hour. If we hadn't agreed, he'd have killed her on the spot. Val was not at the promised location. We are currently searching for them.

He doesn't mention that we suspect the fire was deliberately set. That implies an accomplice, and people might jump to the conclusion it's the guy we locked up. We won't do that to Kenny. After Roy's bullshit, we don't trust people not to take justice into their own hands.

We passed a search party as we were coming in. Dalton told them to keep at it for another two hours and then switch off with a fresh group. We have the advantage of daylight at this time of year, and we can keep hunting until nearly midnight.

Next stop is the wolf-dog cub. When we enter my house, Dalton blocks the exit, expecting the cub to charge for freedom. He doesn't . . . because he's hiding behind the sofa.

I pull him out. I'm dressed in long sleeves and gloves, but he doesn't try to bite. Just shakes and whines. I've brought sedative, and he yelps at the needle, but a few minutes later, he's limp in my arms.

I work on his injured front leg. It's not as bad as I feared. It's just messy, flesh ripped as he'd struggled against the snare wire.

I bandage the wound. Then Dalton covers the cloth in a goop we use with Storm, when she insists on licking a cut or sting.

Once I'm done, I lean back on my haunches. He looks more like a lion cub than a wolf or a dog, with thick tawny fur, gray and dark brown striping, and an even thicker mane around his head. He has the same freckles as his mother, though.

"Do you think the father was a dog?" I ask.

"Probably not. Take away the coloring and those freckles, and he's wolf."

"Which is a problem."

"Either way, it's a problem. I'd rather face a wolf, but dogs have the genes for domestication. Wolves don't." He looks down at the cub and sighs.

"We'll keep him until we know he isn't rabid," I say. "Then we can . . . do whatever."

He slants me a look. "Do you really think either of us is going to be able to

'do whatever' after we've nursed him back to health?"

I don't answer.

"Yeah." He heaves to his feet. "We'll wait and see. But if anyone comes looking to adopt a puppy, the answer is fuck no. This isn't a pet. We can't turn him out into the woods at this age, though. Can't raise him and then release him after he's lived with humans. That's just as cruel. Dangerous, too." He runs a hand through his hair and sighs again.

"We'll figure it out," I say. "You and I both understand this isn't a pet wolf. But it's not a rabid dog either." I pause and look down at the sleeping cub. "Or so we hope."

"He's not. Just gotta wait to be sure and then we'll . . . figure shit out."

Figure shit out.

That's what we're doing, on so many levels, over the next twelve hours. There's still enough light for us to get to Brent's that evening, but Dalton doesn't want to leave town. We'll go at first light.

Dalton joins the last evening search. That's where he's best right now, as our top tracker.

He takes Storm. We're hoping to make a search-and-rescue dog out of her. That's what the breed is used for, though more commonly water-based, given their webbed feet and double coats. But her sense of smell is excellent, so that's our plan. She's only eight months old, just entering doggie adolescence, with the attention span to match. This is the one area of her training where I've discovered I can't push. I've introduced her to the concept of tracking, and we work on it weekly, but it's mostly play at this point--I give her the scent of someone in town, and if she can find her target, she gets a treat. If the trail's too convoluted, though, she loses interest.

Still Dalton takes her, along with Brady's and Val's dirty clothing. Storm has spent enough time around Brady that we hope that helps--she's definitely better at finding residents she knows. She knows Val less well--big dogs make Val nervous--but Storm only takes a quick sniff at Val's blouse, as if to say, "Okay, I know who you want." Which is promising.

They leave, and I stay behind to "figure shit out."