Harry Powys hasn’t just been murdered. He’s been butchered. By humans.

Nine

When I tell the others what I think happened, Anders stares at me. Then he looks at Lowry and Dalton. After a moment, Dalton says, “Yeah.” Anders looks at the body again. Then he’s in the next room, puking in the sink. It only takes a minute, then he’s storming back into the autopsy room, wiping his face on his sleeve.

“You knew about this,” he says to Dalton.

The sheriff grunts.

“Cannibals?” Anders stalks over and plants himself in front of Dalton. “You’ve got fucking cannibals in the forest and you didn’t see fit to tell me?”

“Did you read the files?”

“What?”

“The files I gave you. The town’s background. What we have out there.”

“I went through them.”

“Flipped through them. Didn’t actually read them. Or you’d have known that we’ve found evidence of cannibalism before. Been a few years and, yeah, it’s questionable. But the possibility has always been there, in the files. Not my fault you did a half-assed job reading them.”

“Cannibals, Eric? Fucking cannibals, and you can’t be bothered—”

“—telling people everything that might be out there? Yeah, I’m just lazy that way.”

“I don’t mean—”

“Folks don’t argue when we insist on escorted hikes and hunts because they know ninety percent of the danger out there. The other ten? That’s the fine line between scaring people and shoving them into outright panic.” He waves at the corpse. “This would be panic. So it’s need-to-know, and if you didn’t read the goddamn files, then I guess you don’t need to know too badly.”

“Um …” I say. “Cannibals? Can we talk about—”

“Read the files.” Dalton heads for the door. “Then we’ll talk.”

“Where the hell are you going?” Anders says.

“To think. You stay for the autopsy. Beth? The report goes to Detective Butler.”

Anders mutters under his breath. Dalton gets as far as the next room. Then, “Butler?” Curt. Impatient. As if I should know I’m supposed to follow him. I take one last look at Powys, and then I leave.

We get three steps out of the clinic and Dalton says, “Beer?”

I jog to catch up. “What?”

“You drink beer?”

“Uh, no. There are a few things we need to talk about, sheriff, and beer definitely isn’t on the—”

He wordlessly turns into the Roc. There are more people there, the bar cleaned up after the fight. Isabel’s at a table, talking to a patron. She says, “Sheriff,” when Dalton walks in. He strides behind the bar.

“What do you drink?” he asks me.

“Tequila, but I don’t need—”

He pulls out two bottles. “Which one?”

I hesitate before pointing to the cheap brand. He snorts, puts that one away, and takes the other to the door.

Isabel blocks his exit. “Help yourself, sheriff.”

“I did.”

“From your pissier-than-usual mood, I’m guessing that you didn’t find anything on Jerry. Can I bar him from my establishment now?”

“No.”

“I’d like—”

“Too bad. I want him to keep coming here,” Dalton says. “It’s the place he’s most likely to screw up.”

“And what do I get in return?”

“My grudging tolerance of your establishment.”

“You can’t shut me down, Eric.”

“Not officially, but I can sure as hell find a way to make you decide to shut your doors.” He moves her aside. It’s not a shove, but it’s not a gentle nudge, either.

As we pass, she calls after him, “You know what, Eric? I bet you’d be a lot happier if you did more than grudgingly tolerate my establishment. I don’t believe I’ve ever met a man more in need of—”

He turns on her so fast she jumps.

“I was teasing you, Eric,” she says, her voice softening.

“You want to make me happier? Stop complaining about Hastings and help me pin something on him, so we can get this dope out of our town.”

“I know,” she says. “I’m sorry.” He starts walking, and she calls after him, “Keep the bottle, okay?”

“I planned to.”

“Asshole,” she says, but there’s no venom in it.

Dalton walks half a block and then lifts the bottle of tequila. “One shot.”

“I don’t really need—”

“One shot on the job. Off the job? Three max.”

“I don’t drink more than two shots. Ever.”

He glances over. “You got a problem?”

“You mean, am I an alcoholic? No. It’s a personal choice.”

He studies me, in that way that makes me struggle not to squirm. Then he grunts and turns away.

“Stick to it,” he says. “I catch you drunk? Twenty-four hours in the cell. I catch you high? I’ll march you down to Beth for testing, and if it comes back positive, you’re on maintenance duty for the rest of your stay.”

“All right.”

He stops, eyes narrowing. Then he notices we’re being watched by a half-dozen locals, and he marches silently on to the station. As soon as we get inside, he closes the door and says, “I’m serious, detective. I don’t make idle threats.”