He hadn’t imagined that whatever had happened had happened out there. His first, groggy thought upon hearing that one of his own was down at Blade Ridge was a perverse, horrible hopefulness. Maybe it’s Shipley. Maybe whatever madness exists out there is feeding on its own. It wasn’t Shipley, though. It was Pete Wolverton. He hung up the phone, pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, and cursed himself. All he’d heard about that place tonight, and still he hadn’t called them off. He’d considered it, but then the thought of Audrey Clark had changed his mind. She wasn’t going to abandon her cats, and he hadn’t wanted to leave her alone out there. “I’m sorry, Pete,” he whispered. “Damn it, I’m so sorry.” Then he got up, dressed, put on his gun, and went to make amends. The scene was bright when he arrived, four cars already there, three from his department and one from the state police, all with flashers going. Spotlights were shining in the woods where Pete Wolverton had died, brightening the night so that the evidence techs could take their photographs.
