CHAPTER 35

On the way out of town, I stopped by Southside Package, picked up a bottle, and tucked it into my pack for later. In another fifteen minutes, I was parked on the trailhead above the cave where Doogan had dumped Dublin Costello’s body.

HRD dogs sniff out more than just whole bodies. They detect multiple levels of bodily decomposition, which means that they can find body parts, bones, tissue, and blood. The gun Gran used to kill Dublin Costello was likely splattered with minuscule droplets of blood and body tissue, since Gran was in such close range when she pulled the trigger to defend herself. If so, it would be easily detected by Wilco’s trained nose.

Wilco and I would start at the cave and spread outward. Doogan had estimated that he’d travelled a mile from the site before tossing the gun by a tree trunk that had been split by lightning. Not such an exact description, but I was hopeful that Wilco’s nose would find the gun. So we headed downhill, Wilco off lead and sniffing at random. I walked a good twenty yards behind him, keeping a watchful eye, but not interfering. The cold spell had finally broken, the sun was out and the sky a crisp cerulean, with cotton candy clouds. I lifted my face upward, took a deep breath, and let the sun warm my cheeks. My tension melted away. Out here, in nature, with my dog, doing what we loved most, I felt content. Happy, even.

But Pusser’s words crept back into my mind. Addiction counseling. What a bunch of bullcrap. I wasn’t an addict. I could quit at any time. I’d proved that this week. Almost four days without booze or my meds.

I shifted my pack to relieve my shoulder. The bottle clinked.

I’d have to go back to work at the Sleep Sleazy. I couldn’t do that. Didn’t want to do that. At least Gran would be happy to hear I’d lost my job. No more shame or embarrassment over her granddaughter the cop. To her mind it was cleaner to scrub vomit from toilets than help muskers catch criminals.

I kept moving, focusing on my dog and willing away the dark mood that’d crept over me. Thirty minutes later, I spotted a tree with a large limb, about twenty feet up, hanging precariously. One strong wind would bring it crashing down. Anyone standing under it would be instantly crushed. The widow-maker Doogan told me about it. I waved to get Wilco’s attention and led him to that area.

He ran his nose along the forest floor, scooping up scents as he went. Ears pricked, nose twitching, tail high and bushy. Then suddenly he switched back on himself, then back again, and his tail went rigid, almost parallel to the ground.

He was onto a scent.

I waited patiently while he worked, back and forth, his nose pressed to the ground. A snort, then a sneezing fit to clear his snowpacked nostrils, and back to sniffing. I stood stock-still, taking in his every move, feeling every twitch, every ripple of his muscles. We were close. I could feel it.

I waited. And watched. On and on, he went, showing an interest, but no alert. I went to the area and searched the ground. No gun. I kicked around at the ground. Nothing, but a flash of green caught my eye. I bent down for a closer look, wiped away a couple layers of snow, revealed a corner of fabric, scraped some more, and unearthed a green silk scarf. My fingers flew to my neck, my mind zooming in on an image of Katie Doogan standing in the doorway of her home.

It was her scarf.