Page 11 of The Devil Knows Her Name

The silence behind me had a doubtful air. I slid my hands beneath the fawn, lifting her up, and she obligingly unfolded her stilt-like legs to support herself. I felt each one gently, searching for any signs of heat or swelling, but she seemed to be in good shape.

“Honestly, you’ve done a good job with her,” I said, glancing back up at Sarah. She was still standing against the entryway, and for all the hassle she’d given me on the porch, she was watching with an impassivity I didn’t normally see from someone who’d been caring for a wild animal. She had her arms crossed in front of her, which caused her sleeves to scrunch up at the elbow and expose the bandages on her hands and arms again.

“Something happen to your fingers?” I asked casually, returning my gaze to the fawn.

She immediately dropped her arms to her sides, pulling the sleeves down with her fingers again. “Oh, well, you know. I went apple-picking last week and lost my balance on the ladder. Had to grab the tree to catch myself.”

It was a terrible lie. I didn’t really think the fawn had bitten her; they only had four little milk teeth in their heads, just calcified nubs that could never do that much damage. But Sarah was clearly lying and on the defensive, and that made me wary.

“Okay, well, I just want you to know, deer can get rabies. It’s uncommon and all but unheard of in one this young, but it’s within the realm of possibility.”

“She didn’t bite me. I’m just clumsy.”

“Sure. But—don’t hesitate to call me if you happen to remember anything, okay?”

She didn’t answer. I bent down and gathered the fawn into my arms, trying to avert my face from the maggot-rot stink of her. She didn’t struggle, just folded pliably back into a little bundle and allowed herself to be carried out.

Broder was waiting for us on the porch, so close to the door I was certain he’d had his ear pressed against it, trying to eavesdrop. He backed up quickly, but his face went hard when he saw the fawn in my arms.

“So she did have it,” he said triumphantly.

“Thanks for your help, Chief,” I said with forceful brightness. “We’re all set here.”

I breezed by him, not intending to give him time to ask questions. As I started down the steps, the bundle of the fawn shifted slightly. There was a long, loud tearing noise.

Belatedly, I turned. Broder was standing behind me at the top of the stairs, the sleeve of his uniform torn open to reveal a sweat-gleamed forearm, the pale flesh unmarked. He stared at the fawn.

“It tried to bite me!”

“That’s absurd,” I said automatically. “How could she?”

Behind us, the interior door slammed closed.

“It did!” Broder insisted. “It bit me!”

I seized the magic again, grimly wrapping my power around the shape of his will and strangling it like a windpipe. “No, she didn’t,” I said again, slower and louder. “Look, you ripped your sleeve on that nail.”

The nail in question was not close enough to have ripped Broder’s sleeve, but it was there, hanging rusty and bent from the railing. His eyes focused on it dimly. I drew more power from the web, hung his focus on the nail, let him imagine there were faint blue threads drifting from it, helped him remember the poke of metal on his arm right before the sound of the tear.

“Oh,” he said.

Just then, the fire whistle sounded, a wailing note that carried through the valley. “That’ll be you,” I said, not relaxing my hold on the magic for an instant. “Thanks again, Chief.”

He stumbled down the porch steps and past us to the driveway, returning to the cruiser without another word. It was only when the sound of the car faded completely that I released the magic, and a wave of exhaustion passed over me so strong that I nearly dropped the fawn.

I sank to my haunches and set her on the ground, uncaring if Sarah was watching through the window. The white spots in the fawn’s fur swam in my vision, and sweat rolled down my nose and stung my eyes.

What the fuck did you do? I asked myself.

Broder and I were not friends. There was not even mutual respect between us, but I did respect my profession, and that profession did not include lying to cops about the potential danger of wild animals. My telling the truth sometimes meant someone got a fine, even if I thought they did the best they could in a given situation; rarely, it meant an animal was euthanized for testing when it otherwise might have been allowed to live. Still, I always told the truth, because I’d seen too many rehabilitators go down the long, tragic spiral of one white lie after another, until one day they were raided by the DEC and found with a hundred “pets” they couldn’t bear to release, their floors covered in shit and their walls full of skeletons.

Why had I done it? Especially when the truth—well, the truth was I hadn’t seen the fawn try to bite Broder. The truth was that she was too small to do damage even if she did bite. So why had I lied? I didn’t know.

I picked her up again, ignoring the weakness in my legs, and went to the truck. I situated her in one of the custom, built-in crates and absently rubbed a little patch of fur between my thumb and forefinger, trying to determine if she’d been dyed or stained with something to make her stink. Nothing rubbed off on my skin, and that wouldn’t make sense anyway; if she had been dyed, her spots wouldn’t show.

I shut the crate door and started violently at the sight of Sarah, who was standing inches away. “Sorry,” she said.

“That’s okay.”