24. Nim
Chapter 24
Nim
I don’t get much sleep Thursday night. My brain refuses to shut off, running through everything I learned, trying to make sense of it all, to find something to piece together. As soon as my morning classes are done, I sneak into the cafeteria, grab a sandwich, and head to the east wing.
Then I lock myself in the computer room and resume my snooping.
I call all the motels and short-term rentals in Cinderhart.None of them report any visitors going missing the weekend my parents died. Sure, they weren’t all that eager to speak to me, but when I told them I was looking for my dad and gave them the hunter’s description, they were quick to tell me no one like that had checked in.
Ugh. My first lead is a dead end.
I start doodling in the pocket-sized notebook I bought downstairs at the stationery supply kiosk, and then turn a page and start sketching the hunter’s face. It doesn’t help that there was a bandanna on his face, but I did get a look at his eyes. I doubt it’s something I could take to Detective Thatcher, but I think it’s important to capture as much detail as I can.
I draw a picture of Boomer too. I never had animals growing up, so I wouldn’t even know what kind of dog he is, but maybe someone around here would know. He must be a specific breed because the other dogs that came into the clearing that day looked the same as him.
Is little Boomer okay? I have no idea what happened to him after Knox?—
I drum my pencil on Boomer’s sketch.
Knox must be really good with dogs. He just had to click his fingers, and little Boomer sat. And the puppy wasn’t scared of him like he was the hunter they killed. He was excited to see Knox.
I drop my pencil.
Knox knew Boomer. It wasn’t just a coincidence that the Serpents arrived with a pack of dogs...they must have known the pack. And the hunter they killed. That’s why he didn’t seem surprised to see them.
God, that doesn’t help me at all. Cinderhart is a small town—everyone in this place knows everyone else.
I groan and throw back my head, staring up at the ornately molded ceiling above me. The only leads I have left are the dogs. I go back to my notes. All I know about them is that they were obviously hunting dogs. Is that even enough to go on?
After a few minutes spent searching on the Internet, I come across the Cinderhart Hunting Association’s website. It has a ton of information about hunting seasons and what passes you can apply for, and regulations and stuff—most of which goes right over my head.
And then I see it.
There are a few random ads on the right-hand sidebar. One of them has a picture of a familiar-looking dog. A dog that looks exactly like Boomer will when he grows up. I frown when I see the website address: theplottthickens.com
At first I think it’s a typo, but once I’m on their website it makes more sense. Boomer, turns out, is a Plott hound. The people advertising on CHA’s website breed and train Plott hounds specifically for the purposes of bear hunting.
Was that what the hunter was doing? He seemed really pissed that Boomer was still scared of the sound of gunfire. Maybe he was murdered during a training session.
Poor little Boomer.
I hesitate, and then call the number. A cheery young woman answers with a bright, “Thank you for calling The Plott Thickens, how may I direct your call?”
“Hi…uh...” I glance around hurriedly, cursing myself for not working out what I was going to say before calling. “I’m...uh...working on a school project, and I was hoping you could give me some info about hunting dogs?”
“Yeah, of course. What would you like to know?”
Shit, what do I want to know?
“Is, uh, is it dangerous to train hunting dogs?”
“Dangerous?” the receptionist laughs. “Oh no, not at all.”
“But...you’re in a forest, right? Wild animals? Rifles?”
“Well, I mean...accidents do happen, obviously.” Gone is the cheery sound in her voice, and my heart starts beating just a little faster.
“Often?”
“No, not often. Our trainers are professionals.” She clears her throat. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”
“And the dogs? Do you only train Plott hounds?” I blurt out hurriedly.
“Primarily, yes.”
“And how young do you start?”
“As soon as they’re weaned.”
“And what does the training include? Like, when they’re puppies?”
“Lots of things. You know, it’ll probably be easier for you to come in, dear. You could make an appointment with one of our trainers. They can answer all your questions for you. What did you say your name was?”
I almost hang up the phone. But something pushes me to stay on the line.
“Uh...yeah, actually, that sounds great. Do you have a lot of trainers?”
“Only one at the moment.”
“Wow, I thought you’d have more than that.”
The receptionist sniffs. “One of them—” She cuts off. “You know, I’ll actually ask Ludovica to call you back. She can help you with your project.”
“She’s the trainer?”
“No, she’s the owner. She retired from training a few years ago. But she’ll be able to help. Your name please?”
I grit my teeth, staring down at the notes scrawled on my notebook. “It’s, uh, it’s Romi.”
“Romi...”
“Furino,” I supply reluctantly.
“Oh. Romi Furino.”
I groan silently. Oh God, does the reception know my roommate? Small towns suck .
“Your number?”
I give her my cell number and thank her. Was it my imagination, or did she get really shifty when I asked her about their staff? Is it possible the hunter in the woods was one of their trainers? I’ll have to figure out how to ask Ludovica that when she calls back.
I hope it’s soon.