"Warren!" it heard someone screaming.
TWO
Slaughter heard as he came driving toward the outskirts. He reached for the microphone. "I've got it, Marge." He switched on the siren and the emergency flasher, staring now at Dunlap. "Well, that drink will have to wait." He pressed hard on the gas pedal, racing past the houses, swerving onto a sidestreet, people staring, as the siren wailed and he was concentrating on the street that stretched before him.
Five o'clock. The forest had become increasingly dark as they hiked down through it toward the cruiser. The sun had been low toward the mountains, and the dusk among the trees had lengthened. They'd almost lost their way, but then Slaughter had noticed the big boulder that he'd chosen as a landmark. It was farther to the left than he had figured, and they'd cut across, then found the loggers' road, and worked along it to the gate. He'd heard that skittering noise again but hadn't paid attention, just had wanted to get over to the cruiser, and he'd slowly backed the cruiser, Dunlap outside watching to make sure the rear wheels didn't jolt down into a sinkhole. Soon he'd swung the cruiser so the front was facing downward. Dunlap got in, and they'd bumped across the saplings and bushes down the road to reach the highway. Even so, the fading light made driving harder, and Slaughter's eyes were strained as he finally moved out from the trees to cross the rangeland. All he wanted was a drink and then some supper, thinking he would check in at the station first, but now he wouldn't have the chance, staring at Dunlap who was fumbling with his camera, both hands shaking, his tongue persistent at his lips.
"You ought to have a bottle with you for emergencies."
"I left a pint back in my room. I figured I'd be brave."
"Well, I can't take the time to drop you off."
"Hell, I wouldn't want you to."
Slaughter squealed around a corner, swerving just in time to miss a young boy in a wagon, thinking, Sure, if you're not careful, you'll hit one kid, rushing to find out about another. Slow down. There's no point in racing if you never get there.
But he couldn't force himself to slow. He strained to watch for people stepping from a corner or from cars parked on the side. He roared through an intersection, one car coming at him from the other way, then swung around another corner as he saw the people up there and the cars along the street and one tall woman standing, crying, other women grouped around her.
As everyone turned toward the cruiser, Slaughter reached down to flick off the siren and the flasher. Other people were crossing toward the house, and at last he was forced to slow. He stopped by a car before the house, double-parking, switching off the engine, reaching for his hat. A plumber's truck was coming toward him. It stopped as he slipped out from the cruiser, walking toward the lawn. He glanced toward the truck and saw a tall man jump out, running toward the group of women, and he guessed that this was the husband as they both came to the women at the same moment. Pushing through, Slaughter vaguely had the sense of Dunlap just behind him. He didn't want Dunlap learning too much, but he couldn't take the time to send him to the cruiser.
The woman clung to her husband.
"Peg, what happened?"
"He attacked me."
"Who?" And that was Slaughter, stepping closer.
She kept sobbing. "Warren did." She gasped for breath.
And Slaughter had a name at least.
"My God, what happened to your leg?" the husband blurted.
They stared at the blood that oozed down her leg and across her shoe.
"He bit me."
"Bit?" her husband said.
"I'm telling you. I couldn't keep away from him."
"Where is he?" Slaughter asked.
"The window. He was crawling like an animal."
Slaughter hurried toward the house. It was a single-story with a porch along the front and down the left side. He guessed that Warren was the boy he'd heard about when Marge had called, and he was thinking that he'd better look in through the windows rather than go into the house and risk the chance of something coming at him. He passed the aspen in the front yard and charged up the stairs. The porch rumbled under him as he looked first in at the living room and, seeing nothing, rushed along the side. Another window toward the living room, but he didn't look through it. He stopped, frowning at a broken screen that hung out from another window. Then he drew his gun-a gun against a little boy?-and swallowed, looking in at what had been a bedroom. But the place was wrecked in there, and he could see the blood, both on the floor inside and on the porch out here, turning toward where it was on the railing just above the broken bushes at the side. He stared off toward the gravel lane back there and sprinted toward the front again.
The woman had continued sobbing as her husband held her. People stood back from them, watching, murmuring to each other.
"Did he break out through the bedroom window?" Slaughter asked.
She nodded, gasping for more breath.
"He ran down toward that lane in back?"
"I didn't see. I only heard the noise, and when I looked in, he was gone. What in God's name made him do it?"
"I don't know yet. But believe me, I'll do everything I can to find out."
"I don't understand why he would bite me." She sobbed uncontrollably as Slaughter ran toward the cruiser, picking up the microphone.
"Marge, we've got a situation here. That young boy had some kind of breakdown. He attacked his mother. Now he's running loose. I want everybody looking for him. Have you got that?"
"Affirmative."
"The same address you gave me. And one thing more. I want the medical examiner."
"Somebody's dead?" Marge asked in alarm.
"Just get him. There's no time to talk about it. I'll call back in fifteen minutes."
Slaughter hung up the microphone. He hadn't thought to ask the mother, but he knew the answer even so, although he had to check for certain, and he slipped out from the cruiser, staring at Dunlap who was near him, and then running toward the woman yet again.
She continued to cling to her husband.
"Mrs. Standish." He had seen the name on the mailbox. "Mrs. Standish, look, I know that this is hard for you, but please, I need to ask some questions."
She slowly turned to him.
This would bring the trouble into the open, Slaughter knew, but he had to ask the question. He glanced at the people near him, turning so his back was to them.
"Did your son complain about an animal that maybe got too rough with him? A dog that bit him, or a cat? Anything like that?"
They stared at him.
"But I don't understand," the woman said.
"No bites at all," the husband said. "We told him not to play with animals he didn't know."
"He cut himself," the woman said, and Slaughter looked at her.
"What is it?" she was asking.
"I don't know. Just tell me how he cut himself."
"Some broken glass," her husband said. "A barrel in the lane back there."
Slaughter felt puzzled. He'd been certain that the boy was bitten. "Several weeks ago. Think back. Did anything seem strange to you?"