“Can we see him?” Ophelia asked.
Smirnov looked at Brock, who nodded. “All right, but I have to warn you, he’s not quite there.”
Ophelia shoved down irritation at the doctor seeking Brock’s approval, but in a small town like this, she remained an outsider.A federal one. “Thank you.” Yes, she wore fluorescent pink snow pants that looked like they’d been through a meat grinder, her hair frizzed in every direction, and her bruised face lacked makeup, but she straightened her shoulders and strode into the room with as much authority as she could find. Her slightly stuffy nose left her hoping she didn’t smell too bad.
Brock followed her inside.
Wyatt Yankovich looked tall and lanky with bluish-pale skin and red hair sticking up in tufts. His brown eyes were wide, and his shoulders kept jerking beneath a blanket drawn up to his neck, even though his torso remained elevated in the hospital bed. He slowly turned his head. Red burns from the cold—and probably the wind—marred his entire neck and lower jaw. “Sheriff?”
Brock sighed. “Wyatt, this is Ophelia. She needs to talk to you, okay?” Pressing a large hand to the small of Ophelia’s back, Brock gently prodded her toward two purple plastic chairs by the bed.
She took in the machinery beeping quietly around the patient. Brock’s hand at her back should be annoying and not reassuring, yet she didn’t pull away from him. Her body ached, her eyes hurt, and an exhaustion she’d never felt before kept weighing down her limbs. As soon as she interviewed the obviously frightened kid, she needed to sleep and recuperate from the day. “Hello.”
Wyatt looked younger than nineteen. “Brock? What’s out there? What happened?” The kid’s lips trembled. “Where’s my wife?”
May poked her head in the door. “Sylvie is on her way, Wyatt. The Miller boys took a side-by-side out to get her.”
Wyatt shuddered. “I hope they’re armed.”
The doctor exchanged a look with Brock and then disappeared.
Awareness ticked up Ophelia’s still-cold shoulders. She sat, trying to look reassuring. “What happened to you, Wyatt?”
The kid sniffed. “I got caught in the storm during the day.” His voice lowered, and he looked over her shoulder at Brock, shock slackening his oval-shaped face. “It was still daylight, Brock. They don’t come out in the day. Why was he killed during the day?”
Brock drew out the chair next to her. “You’re not making sense, Wyatt. You’re in shock.”
Ophelia sat up straighter. “Who doesn’t come out in the daylight?”
Wyatt removed his hands from under the covers, revealing bandages covering them up to his elbows. “I saw the dead EVE man. With his eyes gouged out completely. Gone. Always the eyes.” He gulped and then gagged.
“Whoa.” Brock looked around frantically. “Do you need a bucket?”
Ophelia leaned forward, her instincts humming. “You saw the dead body? Did you see who killed him?” She fought to keep her voice level. “Did you get any pictures?” Why had she dropped her phone in the river, damn it?
Wyatt looked away from Brock and focused on her for the first time. With his pupils dilated from the pain medication, he finally seemed to see her. “You’re the federal lady. Aren’t you supposed to be in Anchorage?”
“I brought her here,” Brock said quietly.
“Huh.” Wyatt glanced down at her bright pink snow pants and then back up to her head. “What happened to you?”
She barely kept from smoothing down her hair. “I fell into a river and had a rough night. What happened to you?”
Wyatt swayed side to side as if he couldn’t get his balance, even on the bed. “I faced a storm and then hid from a monster. A real one. It’s true, Brock.” He shook his head and gulped again.“I thought it was all bullshit, but it’s true. They’re out there. Just waiting for eyes.”
Ophelia’s blood pumped faster, and she pressed a hand to the blanket on the side of the bed. “What’s out there, Wyatt?”
The kid shook his head. “Ask Christian. I saw him there yesterday. I think. Didn’t I?”
Brock jerked. “Christian? My brother?”
Wyatt nodded.
Ophelia stiffened. “You saw Christian out there with the dead man? Before or after the murder?” Or during? Christian seemed to have issues. Had he killed that man for some reason? “Wyatt?”
Wyatt shook his head. “I’m done. Need sleep.” He curled onto his side, facing the other way. “Tell me when Sylvie gets here.”
Brock stood and placed a hand beneath Ophelia’s elbow to help her up. “The kid needs sleep. We can talk to him again tomorrow.”
