I blinked a few times. The wound still looked less open. Probably because I needed to open it more.

"Scalpel, please."

I planned to make an incision, clean the wound thoroughly, perhaps insert a drain for the infection, inject antibiotics. My hands had other ideas.

I cut deeper. A whole lot of nasty flowed out. Joaquin handed me some of the gauze he'd retrieved and I blotted, swiped, then touched her flank again. Something shifted beneath the skin as though alive.

"What's wrong?" Joaquin leaned in close.

Probably just her muscles fluttering. But I'd learned to follow my instincts. They'd never steered me wrong.

The police station wasn't far from Becca's office. Nevertheless, Owen got into his pickup and drove there.

Reggie wasn't a service dog, and could therefore not waltz into any building that he wanted to. Owen would have to leave him in the truck, and he'd prefer to keep the truck, and Reggie, nearby.

Inside the Three Harbors police station a phone was ringing, ringing, ringing. He waited for someone to answer it, except he didn't see anyone in the room to answer it.

The chief's office was empty, as was the bullpen and the dispatcher's desk. Owen stood on tiptoe and checked the floor behind the reception area. n.o.body.

He settled back on his heels as the phone stopped ringing. He listened for distant talk and laughter. Maybe it was doughnut day and they were all in the break room.

Or maybe his mom had slipped her leash and- "h.e.l.lo?" he shouted.

"Yeah!"

All the pent-up air in Owen's lungs rushed out. At least one person was left alive.

Candy Tarley shot out of a doorway and hustled in his direction. She was of an age with his mother, though she appeared fifteen years younger, perhaps because she possessed hair the shade of cherry Kool-Aid. Or perhaps because she hadn't touched anything harder than Kool-Aid all her life.

"You waiting long?"

"No, I just-" What? Been worried that his mom had gone Walking Dead on the entire police force?

"Owen!" Candy's polite expression went positively cheery, or maybe that was cherry. She came around the reception desk and took his hand, but instead of shaking it she sandwiched it between hers and squeezed. "Thank you so much."

"For?" He tried to pull back, but she held on and patted him a few times for good measure.

"For all you've done."

He racked his brain, came up with nothing. He hadn't been in Three Harbors for ten years, so he hadn't done anything. Maybe that was what she was thanking him for. When he'd been in town, he'd done plenty. A lot of it was probably recorded around here somewhere.

Candy released him with a final pat. "Your service, Owen. Thank you for your service."

"Oh-uh-yeah."

He still hadn't gotten accustomed to people not only thanking him with words but with deeds. In the airport someone had paid for his Starbucks. On the flight someone had bought him a beer. When he'd rented the pickup, a woman in line behind him had insisted he use her Triple A discount, and the woman at the counter had let him.

What he was accustomed to was being cursed at, shot at, blown up. Being fawned over was a new and not altogether pleasant experience. He felt like an imposter because the true hero was Reggie not Owen. But whenever he tried to explain that, folks just laughed and bought him something else.

"Your mom got off just fine." Candy returned to the chair behind the reception desk.

"She what?"

"She's on her way to the mental health facility."

"I was supposed to meet her caseworker here."

"Your mom was ... agitated."

"Still banging her head?" Owen asked.

Candy lifted a shoulder, which was answer enough. "Peggy wanted to get her back to the environment she's used to. She said you could come out there, or give her a call in a few hours." Candy patted his arm again. "You okay with that?"

He wasn't sure why he was disappointed that he hadn't gotten to say good-bye. He doubted his mom would remember him any better here than she had at the house.

The phone started ringing again. This time Candy answered right away. "Three Harbors Police Department."

Owen started for the door.

"What was that?" The cheery in her voice fled, leaving something behind that made Owen turn. "All right. Someone's on the way." She disconnected. "It's your mom."

"What happened?"

Candy lifted one finger as she used the radio. "George, we've got 417A on Route GG."

"Roger that. I'm on the other side of the lake but I'm on my way."

"What's a 417A?" Owen asked.

"That was Peggy who called." Candy used the radio again. "Need an ambulance to Route GG. a.s.sault with a knife."

Static nattered through the mike. Since Candy let go of the transmit b.u.t.ton, he figured the ambulance was on the way.

"Is my mom-"

"Gone."

His heart gave such a lurch that he grabbed the edge of the reception desk.

"Sorry! Not dead gone, but actually gone, as in run off again."

The joy that Owen felt that his mom wasn't dead and gone fled as he came to the conclusion that she'd been the one doing the a.s.saulting, rather than the a.s.saultee.

Only one thing surprised him about that.

How in h.e.l.l had she gotten a knife?

Chapter 17.

The tweezers slid over the edges of the object, then I pulled, slowly and gently, until it slid free. Joaquin shoved the steel bowl that had previously been on the floor in front of me. The tinny clatter echoed in a silence broken only by Pru's drugged breathing and the distant wail of a siren.

"Is that a silver bullet?" he asked.

"I'm not sure." I'd never seen one before.

"Why would someone think she was a werewolf?"

In the process of flushing the wound, I bobbled the tool. "A what?"

"Silver bullet," he repeated in the same tone my brothers often said. "Duh!"

I refrained from cuffing him in the head only because he wasn't my brother.

"She isn't a werewolf."

"If she were, a silver bullet would have killed her on contact." Joaquin handed me the antibiotic syringe.

"That's insane."

"Hey, I'm not the one who shot her with a silver bullet."

Who had? Deb had mentioned calling the DNR to report Pru's odd behavior. I'd asked her not to. I doubted she'd listened, but I also doubted the DNR had had time to send anyone yet, let alone someone who carried silver bullets.

And while we'd heard a gunshot earlier, that bullet had not been the one I'd found inside the wolf. Even if I ignored Pru's statement that she'd been shot a hundred and fifty miles from here, she would not have an infection from a wound inflicted today.

A lot of questions I had no answers to. Along with the tiny problem that the answers I did have had come from listening to a wolf and believing what she'd "said."

I finished cleaning, injecting, st.i.tching, bandaging, then picked up a cone of shame.

"You're going to put that on a wolf?" Joaquin asked. "She'll bang it against every tree in the forest."

"I'm not letting her go until the st.i.tches are out." I doubted she'd come back in seven to ten days for their removal. And leaving them in would only cause another infection.

"You going to keep a wolf in the kennel?"

"Where else?"

"The dogs will go ballistic, and the guinea pig might have a stroke."

I wished he'd stop making good points. "I'll have to keep her here."

"Isn't that kind of dangerous?"

Less dangerous than keeping her at my parents'.

"You have office hours tomorrow," he continued. "I doubt she'll lie in the corner nicely. She's more likely to eat the customers."

"She's not a normal wolf."

"Which might be why she got shot."

"Abnormal doesn't make her a werewolf."

"What does it make her?"

Pru's paw jerked. I heard a single word.

Not.

Not what? Not a werewolf? Or not, not a werewolf?

I needed some sleep.

"If you're going to put that cone on her you'd better do it," Joaquin said. "She's coming around."

I slipped the blue papery plastic apparatus over Pru's head and tied it securely. "Can you go into the kennel and get some bedding, dog food, and dishes?"

Joaquin frowned, but he did it. As soon as the door shut behind him, I spoke. "I know you're awake."

Pru sat up. She turned left, right. The cone followed. Get this off.

"It'll keep you from licking or biting your st.i.tches."

I'm not an idiot.

"You're not a werewolf either."

No, she agreed.

"Who thought you were?"

Edward.

"Who's he?"

That's almost as long and complicated a story as who I am.

The door to the kennel opened, barking flowed out, the door closed, steps approached, and I lowered my voice so that only she could hear.

"As soon as I get rid of the kid, I got nothin' but time."