"Storm, no," I say. "Brent will come out. He'll bring your bone."
She keeps whining, but I've told her to stay and she obeys.
We're going down the first passage when my light catches something on the wall. Dalton is ahead of me, and as I stop for a closer look, he glances back.
I have the penlight between my teeth so I can crawl. Now I take it out and shine it on the wall to see . . .
A handprint.
A red handprint.
"Eric . . ."
"He's been hunting," Dalton says. "Must have butchered up top. That's what Storm smells."
He says that, but he still moves faster, and I remember Storm whining on the path, getting excited, presumably she smelled Brent.
And if it wasn't Brent? What if, instead, she picked up the very scents we asked her to find?
As we crawl, I tell myself I'm overreacting. Brady doesn't know anything about Brent. He has no reason to come for him. No idea where to find him. The chances that Brady would just happen to take shelter in the same cave where Brent lives? Infinitesimal. The opening isn't even visible from down the mountainside.
We reach the cavern that Brent calls home. There's blood on the floor, large drops, some smeared. A shelf has been pulled down, contents spilled, another bloody handprint on the wall.
"Brent?" Dalton's voice echoing through the cavern. "Brent!"
I'm following the blood. More smears here, like drag marks. They lead to the smaller cavern Brent uses for storage. I pull back the hide curtain. And there is Brent, lying on the floor, curled in fetal position, blood soaking his shirt, one hand pressed against it. His eyes are closed.
I bend to clear the low ceiling. Then I crouch beside him. My fingers go to his neck, and he stirs.
Dalton's figure fills the entrance.
"He's alive," I say.
Barely. Brent's eyelids flutter, but he can't open them. His face is almost as white as his hair. He isn't breathing hard enough for me to even see his chest rise. Then there's the blood. A pool of it under him, his shirt soaked with it.
We get him out of that small cavern. That wakes him, crying in pain. Dalton wets a cloth as I gingerly peel up Brent's shirt. I take the cloth and clean as carefully as I can. Brent whimpers, his eyes still shut, and Dalton tries to rouse him.
There's a bullet hole through Brent's stomach.
"Diagnosis dead?" a papery voice whispers.
I turn. His eyes are barely open, but he's trying to smile.
"I know the diagnosis," he says. "Dead from the moment the bullet hit. Body just hasn't realized it yet."
He's right. If he'd been steps from a hospital when he'd been shot, he might have survived. Even that is unlikely. And now . . .
Tears well. I blink them back hard.
"Casey?" Brent says. "I already know."
"I can try--"
He reaches for my hand and squeezes it. "Let's not waste my time. Not much left."
"You want a drink?" Dalton asks.
Brent manages a hoarse laugh. "I would love a drink."
Dalton takes a bottle from the backpack we brought. A gift for Brent, in return for his bounty hunting services.
Brent cranes his neck up. "Is that . . . ?"
"Scotch. I'm told it's the good stuff. Bought it a while back, in case you ever had anything better to trade than skinny-assed bucks. Never did. But I guess you can have it now."
Brent laughs, knowing full well that Dalton would have bought this on his last trip, after Brent and I argued over the merits of Scotch versus tequila.
Dalton pours him a glass full.
"Trying to get me drunk?" Brent says.
"Yeah, hoping those conspiracy theories of yours might make more sense if you're loaded." He hands him the glass. "Got any theories on who did that to you?"
"It's the bastard you were keeping in that town of yours. Kid told me you think he's some kinda killer. Insisted he's not." Brent looks down at his gut. "Seems he lied."
"Okay," I say. "Just rest and--"
"I'm not resting, Casey. I'm helping you catch my killer. And drinking. Heavily. If it starts spilling out my guts? Don't tell me."
He takes a deep drink. "I was down the mountain, shooting grouse at twilight. Kid got the jump on me, the fuck--" He stops. Apologizes to me for swearing, as always. "He got me dead to rights. I was picking up my game, had put my gun down. He wanted to know where to find Jacob."
"Jacob?" Dalton tenses.
"Relax, Eric. You think I told him?" Brent slurps more Scotch. "Said he wanted to hire Jacob. As a guide. Get him out of here. I said I could do it. He said no, had to be Jacob. That's when I knew something was up."
"He didn't just want a guide," I say.
"Right. So I confronted him, and he told me that story about being a prisoner in your town, falsely accused. Says he needs Jacob as a guide and as insurance, but he won't hurt him. Offers to pay me to take him to Jacob. I say no. He threatens to shoot me in the shoulder. I go for the gun. We fight. I get gutshot instead. Maybe that was an accident, but the bas--the jerk put his fist on my gut and pushed down. Made me howl, I'm ashamed to say. But I got the gun away from him. Fired a shot. He took off. I hauled ass back here. Lost the damned gun on the way, pardon my French. But I made it. Holed up with my rifle, in case he came back."
"He didn't?"
"Nah, ran and kept running. Little pri--prat."
"Was there anyone with him? Any sign of a hostage?"
Brent shakes his head. "He was alone. Never mentioned anyone else. It was all about him. How everyone done him wrong." Brent coughs and then gasps in pain with the movement. "Damned country song, he was. You don't need to worry about Jacob, though. I don't even know where he's camping right now. Left his last spot a couple of days back."
"So he's gone duck hunting," Dalton says.
"Not yet. Came by to say he was holding off--he was tracking a bull caribou and wanted to get that first. And he was trying to decide if he should ask that girl from your town to go duck hunting. Came to me for advice." Brent gives a weak laugh. "Like I'd be any help. I faked it, though. Told him yes, he should do it."
"So he's mobile right now?"
Brent nods. "Until he gets that caribou."
I help him lift the glass to his lips. His hand is trembling. He takes two big gulps. When he speaks again, his words are slurring, exhaustion and alcohol mixed.
"Eric?"
"Right here, Brent."
"You gotta bury me in my jersey, okay?"
"The Maple Leafs one?"
Brent raises his middle finger. Then he drinks more Scotch with my help. "You know how I want to go, right?"
"I do."
"Up in one of those platforms. Like the Indians used to do it."
"I know. I'll do it just like you wanted."
Brent's eyelids flutter. Then they open. "Almost forgot. Eric? You gotta get something for me."
His words are slurring badly now, and it takes a while for Dalton to interpret his directions and bring what he wants. It's two carved wooden figurines.
"Give it to me," Brent says. "You'll do it wrong."
He takes the figures and arranges them on his palm. It's a woman in a ponytail, kneeling in front of a rolling ball of fur.
"That a bear cub?" Dalton says.
Brent raises his middle finger again.
"It's me and Storm," I say. "When she was a puppy."
"First time you brought her here. I remember you two playing in the grass. Been a long time since I heard a girl laugh like that. I wanted to capture it. She's not so little anymore."
"Yeah, Casey, gotta watch what you're eating."
We both raise our fingers for that. Then Brent hands me the figures. Up close I see the detail, the hours spent carving them. I thank him, and we talk for a little more. He's flagging, and I tell him we'll build that platform and put him in his beloved Canadiens hockey jersey. And I say we'll get Brady for him.
"I'm sure you will," he says, "but I
'm not too worried about that. I'm just glad you came. Not a bad way to go. Good Scotch. Pretty girl."
I squeeze his hand and bend to kiss his weathered cheek as his eyes close.
"Eric?" he whispers, voice barely audible.
Dalton bends by Brent's head.
"I figured it out," Brent says. "The secret behind that town of yours. This is what it's for, isn't it? Harboring the worst criminals. The ones the government wants to make disappear. Save folks the expense of a trial and hide them up here, let their sorry asses rot." His eyes half open. "I'm right, aren't I?"
"Took you long enough."
Brent smiles and his eyes close again. A few more breaths, and then he goes still.
27
I make Brent comfortable. I know exactly how ridiculous this is, but I do it anyway, arranging his body on his sleeping mat and pulling up a blanket, as if tucking him in for the night. Dalton doesn't say a word.
Then I stand and march to the exit. "I'm going to find Brady. I'm going to find him and put a bullet through his gut and leave him out there. Let him drag his ass to shelter so he doesn't get eaten by a pack of damned wolves. I will watch him drag his ass, and I will pray that the wolves come. Wolves or a wolverine or ravens. I hope it's ravens. I hope they find him, gutshot, and they rip out his . . ."
I don't go further. Dalton knows what I mean, and he doesn't need to hear the details.
I stoop for the passageway, and Dalton grips my arm.
"Casey . . ."
"I'm going to find him."
"You will. But Brady's not waiting outside this cave."
I wheel on him. "You think I don't know that?"
"It's been twelve hours."
"I need to process the scene."
"Twelve hours."
The crime scene isn't going anywhere. That's what he means. He glances back at Brent's body.
"No," I say. "We're not doing that right now. We need tools."
"He has everything."
"Later. He's fine. He'll be . . ."
Fine. He'll be fine.
Brent is not fine. Brent is dead, and I don't want to lay him to rest because it feels like acknowledgment. Feels like acceptance. Feels, too, like I'm stalling when I need to be acting.
"We need to--" I stop myself.
Find Jacob. Warn Jacob. That's what I want to say, and that's where I must draw the line. I can't remind Dalton his brother is in danger, as if he doesn't know that, as if he's not holding himself back from running out to find him.
It has been twelve hours. Another hour won't matter. Not for finding Jacob. Not for examining the crime scene.
For Brent, though . . .
"We made a promise," Dalton says, his voice low.
"I . . . I . . ."
I look over at Brent's body. And I burst into tears, and Dalton's arms go around me, holding me tight as I sob against him.
We lay Brent's body to rest, the way he wanted it, on an open platform, with him wearing his Canadiens jersey, a reminder of the season he'd played for the team, fifty years ago.
Afterward, I examine the crime scene. That's what Dalton insists on for the next step. Jacob can wait--the crime scene could be disturbed.
Storm easily tracks Brent back to where he'd been shot. Blood and trampled grasses mark the exact spot, as do the grouse Brent shot. There's a bow and arrows there, and I remember he was new to bow shooting, having finally agreed to let Jacob teach him.
Too old for this, he'd said, learning new tricks at my age. But it saves on ammo.
Dalton said he could bring more ammunition with his trades, but Brent had blustered that he needed the other items more. Which was a lie. He wanted to learn something new. Wanted to challenge himself.
Dalton takes the grouse. When we first met, I'd have been horrified by that. Stealing from the dead? Now I know better. It is a sign of respect. Brent killed these birds, and his efforts should not go to waste. Nor should the lives of those birds. We'll eat them, and we'll remember where they came from.
Dalton takes the bows and arrows, too.
"Jacob made these," he says. "I'll give them back when we catch up to him."
Not when we find him. Certainly not if. There's very little chance Jacob is in any danger, and it really is just a matter of catching up to him. I know that. Dalton knows that. Feeling it, though, is another matter.
Brent said he got my gun away from Brady, and he's right. It's there, hidden in the grass.
I see nothing at the crime scene to contradict Brent's version of events. Not that he'd deliberately mislead us, but maybe he misunderstood. Maybe I'll find something that proves the gunshot wasn't an accidental discharge.
"What would prove that?" Dalton says when I admit what I'm hunting for.
"I have no idea. But I want it."
He wisely says nothing and just lets me keep scouring.
"Brady is still culpable," I say. "He held Brent at gunpoint. Whatever happens after that, it's still murder, even if it's second-degree."
"It is."
"And he ground his fist in the injury. I don't care how desperate he was to find Jacob. That's sadistic."
"It is."
I crouch and stare at the bloodied ground.
"You want proof he's exactly what his stepfather says," Dalton says. "Proof Brady is more than what he claims--a desperate man driven to desperate measures."
"Yes."
I want justification for my rage. I do want to see Brady gutshot for this. Gutshot and left in the forest. And that scares me. It's the sort of thing Mathias would do, and I tiptoe around the truth of what Mathias is, alternately repelled and . . . Not attracted. Definitely not. But there's part of me that thinks of what he does and nods in satisfaction. I could not do it, but it doesn't horrify me nearly as much as it should.
"I should have come out last night," Dalton says.
I look up at him, as I stay crouched.
"I decided not to come see him last night. I waited until morning."
I rise and walk to him. "Doesn't matter. This happened at twilight. We wouldn't have made it here before Brent got shot."
Dalton says nothing, and I know that will weigh on him. Like my poor choices with Val weigh on me. We haven't discussed that yet. It's not time. Not time for this either, as he pats Storm and then peers into the forest.
"Should see if she can find Brady's trail."
She can't. The blood seems too much for her. It's upsetting or confusing, and she grows increasingly anxious until I release her from the task.
Next we try to "catch up" with Jacob, while continuing to search for Brady and Val. We put up the markers, telling Jacob we need to speak to him. There's no way to warn him otherwise. Despite Dalton's best efforts, Jacob is functionally illiterate. Their parents taught them the language of the forest, the one they needed to know. I get the sense that Dalton had learned how to read and write before he came to Rockton, but presumably he sought that teaching from his parents and Jacob had not.
We head to the cabin Tyrone Cypher has been using as a base. There's no sign of him. We leave a note, though I'm not sure that will do any good either. Cypher can read; he just might choose not to.
Back in Rockton, there's been no word from the council. Petra and Diana have been taking turns with the radio. We aren't even sure how often they make contact with Val. Maybe, with us being pissed off over our unwanted prisoner, they'll just wait until we call and hope we don't.
The search for Brady and Val didn't stop while we were off with Brent. We join that, and by the time we return home, it's after nine at night. Dalton and I are exhausted. We have one more task, though. Kenny has been in the cell over twenty-four hours, as Dalton lets him stew. We need to talk to him, as much as we're both dreading it.
Kenny was the first true Rockton resident I'd met. My first taste of what to expect in this town. I'd spent time with Dalton, in my admission interviews and then over twelve hours of travel together, yet I had no idea what to make of him. There wa
s so much about Dalton that reminded me of the worst kind of cops--swaggering through life, a bully with a badge. He seemed to fit that slot . . . and then he'd do something to pop him out of it. That was uncomfortable.
I'd met Anders, briefly, and he seemed more my kind of colleague, competent and personable. But after maybe five minutes in Rockton, they'd both had to rush off to an emergency, and I'd made my way to town alone.
Go in the back door of the station. Stay there. Anyone comes in, tell them we'll be back.
Those were Dalton's orders, which seemed a little disconcerting, as if the locals were wolves who might pick me off while the alpha was away.
It was Kenny who came into the station. As I discovered later, a bunch of the militia guys had drawn straws to see who got to introduce himself to the "new girl" first. That's what I'd been to them. Not their new superior officer. Not the new detective. A new woman in town. An addition to Rockton's meager dating pool.
Kenny had exactly two minutes with me before Isabel showed up and shooed him off. I remember her asking if I could guess what he'd done in his former life. Given the size of his biceps and the perfume of sawdust, I'd guessed carpenter or construction worker. High school math teacher, she said.
When he arrived eighteen months ago, he'd never have worked up the courage to talk to you. People come here, and it's a clean slate. A chance to be whoever they want for a while.
What Kenny wanted to be was one of the cool kids. For a guy like him, cool meant tough. Except he lacked that edge and wasn't terribly invested in finding it. So he settled for hitting the gym and joining the militia. He became the guy he wanted to be. And now he'd been about to leave his new life. Had he panicked at that? Worried he'd end up back in a job he'd hate because his new skills wouldn't pay the bills? Had he been an easy target for Oliver Brady? I desperately want to say no. But the evidence must be acknowledged.
When we walk in to question Kenny, the first thing he says isn't I didn't do it or Guys, come on, you know me.
"I know how bad this looks."
"Good," Dalton says.
We pull up chairs outside the cell. Kenny has one inside. We've granted him that, in recognition that he's had to wait a very long time for this interview.
"Your knife was found with the prisoner," I begin.
He starts to speak, but Dalton says, "Be quiet and listen."
"Brady used that knife to cut his bindings," I continue. "He used it to take Val captive. You were his guard at the time--and you were in charge of the guarding schedule."