“You think I’m kidding,” Anders says.
I shake my head. “No, she just hopes you are. Okay, let’s go talk to the militia.”
* * *
I’m heading outside with Anders when Dalton comes striding through town. From his expression, I know he didn’t catch the shooter. I re
treat into the clinic, leaving Anders in charge of getting militia alibis.
“How is he?” Dalton asks as he throws open the clinic door.
“Comatose,” I say.
I’m tucked back, out of sight of the militia, waving for Dalton to come in and shut the door, but he says “Fuck. What are his chances?” as the door still’s shutting.
“Pretty good,” I say. Then I lead Dalton into the back room. “Garcia’s dead.”
“What?”
“Lower your voice please,” I say. “It was a fatal wound. He survived long enough to get here, so I’m saying he’s in a coma, in hopes of flushing out the killer. If you disagree, let me know, and he’ll suffer a sudden fatal relapse.”
“No, you’re right. It’s a good idea. Given our track record, the shooter will figure he can break in here no problem.”
“I know you’re being sarcastic, Eric, but yes, the shooter has to think they have a chance of success.”
He slumps into a chair. April is rattling about, cleaning, but he ignores her.
“I didn’t see anything except a shape,” I say. “Adult human. That’s all I have.”
“That’s all I’ve got, too. I picked up the trail, but whoever it was, they made a beeline for town. Reentered by the lumber shed. By the time I got there, people were all over the place. They heard the shots and came out to see what it was.”
“Maybe one of them saw someone enter town from that direction.”
“Yeah. Hope so.” He waves at Garcia. “He’s not gonna be any help.” He exhales. “Fucking shitty thing to say.”
“Earlier I wanted to make him name his suspect before I rescued him. But I felt like a ghoul. Poor guy was attacked by wolves and thought he might die in that hole, and I wanted to barter for his release. I should have. I really should have.”
“Wouldn’t have helped. He would have just made shit up.”
“Now he didn’t even survive our rescue. He might have been better off staying in that hole.”
Dalton grunts. Then he rises, walks over to the table, 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.”