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"We should go back to town and get--"
"Nope."
Before I can say anything, Dalton is shimmying up the trunk. I used to be quite the climber in my tomboy youth, but scaling an evergreen is tough. He clearly has practice.
As I watch him, I see his point in not going back to town. What would we get? A ladder? A hydraulic lift? The animal in that bag is hurt badly enough that it can't claw or bite its way out. I can tell now that the dark shadow on one side is actually blood. That's what brought the scavengers. Then, realizing they hadn't a hope in hell of getting to it, they'd tried for the nailed-up intestine.
Dalton is up there now, examining the sack. He reaches out and gives it a tentative push. Then, "Fuck."
"Heavy?"
"Yeah."
"We can switch places," I say. "I'll lower it for you to catch, but..."
"It's too heavy. Going to be tough enough for me to do it. You stay back. We have no idea what's inside."
"I don't think it's in any shape to attack. It isn't even reacting--"
"Doesn't matter. I lower. You stand clear. That's an order."
"Yes, sir."
He takes a few more minutes to evaluate. Then he pulls out a knife and cuts one rope. I can't quite see what he's doing up there, half hidden by branches, but he gets one rope wrapped around his hand before he severs the other one. He manages to lower the sack, but the rope isn't quite long enough and it stops about a foot from the ground, swinging as Dalton groans with exertion.
"Gotta drop it," he grunts.
"I can--"
"Orders, detective. Stay the hell back."
He lets go before I can do anything except obey. The sack hits the ground, and the creature inside lets out a mewling cry of pain.
"Stay right there," he says. "And I'd appreciate you getting your gun out while I come down."
I train my weapon on the sack as Dalton shimmies down about halfway and then drops the rest of the way.
The sack is bigger than it looked in the air. Clearly, it's no fox or wolverine inside. I look at Dalton. He's heading for the sack with his knife out.
"Sheriff?" I say carefully.
"Yeah."
That's all he says--"Yeah"--and I know it means that whatever I'm thinking, he's already come to the same conclusion. He bends beside the sack and moves it a little, as if putting it in a better position. The thing inside doesn't react. Dalton motions for me to keep my gun ready as he flicks his blade through the canvas. Then he rips the sack open, and we see what's inside.
Jerry Hastings.
He's bound hand and foot and barely conscious. He doesn't even seem to notice when Dalton opens the sack. His eyes are unfocused, his lips moving over and over as if he's saying something, but we don't hear a word.
His hands are bound in front of him. As Dalton cuts them free first, I clutch my gun. Then Dalton reaches down and gently pulls up the bloodied front of Hastings's shirt. There's more blood underneath, his skin painted in a wash of it. That doesn't disguise the thick blackened line, though. Where someone has crudely stitched him up and then cauterized the wound.
I turn away fast, and I come closer to throwing up at a crime scene than I ever have in my life. My stomach lurches, my hand reaching to grab something, anything. It finds a brace, not a tree or sapling, but warm fingers, clenching mine and holding me steady.
"Sorry," I say as I turn to Dalton. "I ... It's..."
"Yeah, I know."
He rubs his chin with his free hand, and his fingers are trembling slightly. He exhales, breath rushing through his teeth in a long, slow hiss. I look back at Hastings, lying on the ground, that terrible black scar on his stomach. It's not the blood or the wound that sickens me. It's the thought of what's happened. Of what someone has done.
