57

Pam Moody’s story was a hard one to hear.

She’d been awake, but just barely, when Windermere walked into her room in the hospital’s critical care unit, Stevens right behind her. She lay propped up in her bed, her face bruised and bandaged, her hands—both of them—wrapped completely in white gauze. She’d been hooked up to an IV and wore monitoring diodes beneath her gown. She was hazy, the doctor told them, from the medication she’d been given.

But hazy or not, Moody remembered. In a slow, dreamlike voice, she told the agents about the night she’d been attacked, from her shift at the Hungry Horse Saloon all the way to the rescue—Stevens and Finley driving past in the gloaming, the wolf right behind her, snapping at her feet as she climbed.

“He was, I don’t know, maybe forty?” she said when Windermere asked about her attacker. “White guy, kind of plain. Big, thick beard, really shifty eyes. Every time we made eye contact, he’d look away fast, like he was really shy or something.”

“This was at the bar?” Windermere asked. “Sometime during your shift?”

“That’s right. He had a booth in the very back, by himself. Drank a couple of Rainiers, tipped me pretty good, and then split.”

“Just like Butcher’s Creek,” Stevens said. “The woman at the Gold Spike said Kelly-Anne Clairmont was talking to a solitary guy in a booth. He left midway through the evening, and in the morning—”

“Clairmont was dead. But nobody at the Gold Spike could remember much about that guy, either.”

“He was just some normal-looking guy,” Moody said again. “Like, he could have been you with a beard, for all I really noticed. He could have been anyone.”

“What about his clothes?”

Moody thought. “He was dressed for the weather. Like, a big army parka and a woolen watch cap.” Then she blinked. “And his knife. He had a bowie knife, a nice one. There was a picture on the handle, someone riding a horse. A woman, I think. I’m not sure.”

Windermere felt her phone buzzing in her pocket. “We can work with that, definitely.” She pulled her phone out. Checked the screen. Mathers. “Excuse me for one second.”

She ducked out into the hall, swiped her screen to answer. “Mathers. Did you hear the good news?”

“The Hungry Horse woman?” Mathers replied. “I heard you guys saved her life.”

“That’s right.” Windermere tried not to sound deflated. She’d been looking forward to bragging a little. “Stevens did most of it. Followed her trail all the way up the mountain. Even had to fend off a wolf.”

Mathers whistled. “Wow. Where were you?”

“Searching the boyfriend’s house back in town. I figured I should follow protocol, go by the book while Stevens chased his bogeyman.”

“And now Stevens gets to be the hero. Well, I’m sure you’ll get your chance to one-up him.”

“Maybe.” Windermere walked a couple steps down the hall. Dodged an orderly with a stretcher barreling the other way. “Anyway, what’s up? You have something you want to talk about?”

“Got an updated location on that runaway,” Mathers told her. “I know you’re not focusing on her right now, but I figured you’d want to be updated.”

“Can’t hurt. Where is she?”

“Real close to you guys, actually. Some place called Anchor Falls. It’s, like, twenty miles north of Whitefish. She logged on to the cloud from some roadside diner this morning. Uploaded three pictures of some dude and his truck.”

Windermere didn’t say anything. Turned back toward Pam Moody’s door, only half-aware she was doing it.

Anchor Falls, she thought. Stevens, you’re a freaking savant.

“Carla?”

Windermere refocused. “Anchor Falls, yeah, Derek. You alert the local cops?”

“It’s Flathead County, same as Hungry Horse. Same sheriff’s department. I figured you might want to liaise.”

“I’m no good at liaising. You do it.” Windermere walked quickly back into Pam Moody’s room, already plotting the drive north. “Tell them to get some deputies on the ground, stat. Tell them the feds will be there in thirty minutes. And send me those pictures, got it?”

She ended the call. Ducked her head into Pam Moody’s room. “Mila Scott just showed up in Anchor Falls, partner,” she told Stevens. “Did anyone ever tell you you’d make a pretty good cop?”