"I--"
A look from Dalton silences him again.
"You assigned yourself to that time slot. You abandoned your post. The prisoner was left unguarded, with a weapon, while a fire brought everyone else running. A fire set in the lumber shed, which you know very well. It was a delayed-start fire, giving you time to go on guard duty."
"I--"
"You brought Brady his breakfast. You offered to bring it. We realize now that it was poisoned--not to kill him, but to get him out of that cell. So Brady is in the clinic with his wrists tied and under guard. Fire breaks out. Everyone runs . . . including his guard. He is left with a knife and the perfect hostage."
He slouches in his seat. "Shit. I'm not even sure where to start."
"Well, that depends," Dalton says. "If you'd like, you can start with explaining why you were the one bringing that food tray."
"I took it from someone. She was in a hurry and complaining about her workload, and I wanted to be nice." He lowers his voice to a mutter. "Even if she'd never do the same in return."
"Jen," I say.
"I'd rather not name names--"
"You have to," Dalton says. "But in this case, you don't need to. That description says it all."
"So you volunteered to take the tray," I say. "Then you volunteered for guard duty at the clinic."
He shakes his head. "I was scheduled for guard duty with Brady here at the station. Will asked me to make up a twenty-four-hour schedule, with me and Sam alternating four-hour shifts. Will picked us two for it."
He pauses and then hurries to add, "Which made sense. Paul's in the doghouse right now, and Will wanted his best two guys. His two most experienced. That'd be me and Sam."
"And the knife?" I say.
"After I offered to help you open that can, someone asked to borrow it, and I said sure, just leave it on the sawhorse when you're done. When I went back to get it, it wasn't there."
"Who borrowed it?"
"I'm not even sure. I was cutting wood, and someone asked behind me. I never turned around. I barely heard him over the saw."
"Tell me about leaving your post."
"I heard the bell. I went outside, and someone said it was a fire. I ran back in. Brady was sound asleep. Val was doing one of her algebra puzzles. I'd talked to her earlier about it, said I remembered giving those to my students. She assured me this one was much more advanced."
An eye roll and a slight smile. "You know Val. Anyway, when I came in, she was absorbed in that. I said there was a fire at the shed, and I should go, and she said, 'Yes, yes.' Those were her exact words. 'Yes, yes.' She never even looked up. I double-checked Brady's restraints, and told Val I'd send someone to take my place. But then I saw you coming, Casey, so I thought it was covered."
Kenny shakes his head. "I made a mistake. A big one. But my mistake was leaving my post. Not helping Brady escape. I'd never do that."
28
We place Kenny under Dalton's version of work release. He'll do the lumber-shed repairs during the day and spend his nights in Brady's new residence, as we give his cell to Roy instead. As for our suspicions with Kenny, we will say nothing to the council. As far as they'll know, we are punishing him for letting Brady escape on his watch.
Kenny will be leaving as soon as this is over, and we will let him go, even if that means he's going to collect a reward down south for helping Brady. Otherwise, if the council knows, we cannot trust he'll survive the trip south, and whatever mistake he's made, it doesn't deserve the death penalty.
We spend the next day combing the forest for Val and Jacob. Dalton's trying not to freak out about that. There is no sign that anything has happened to his brother, and this is how Jacob lives. He moves with game and the seasons and whatever whim strikes him.
Jacob's life, though, means Dalton can't pick up a phone and call to warn him about Brady. Jacob comes and goes, and that stresses his brother out at the best of times. The fact we can't find him means absolutely nothing. It's just driving Dalton crazy.
We take an ATV out the next morning. We have three of them--two smaller ones that can take a passenger on the back and a side-by-side that only travels on the widest trails.
I've been trying to talk Dalton into dirt bikes for getting deeper into the forest. In fact, when the council told us we'd get a windfall from Brady, that's what Dalton said to me, trying to find an upside--we'll get a couple of those bikes you've been talking about. Which apparently isn't happening now.
We're riding one of the smaller ATVs. I'm on the back. We'll switch at some point--Dalton knows there's no way I'm taking the bitch seat for the whole trip.
Storm runs along behind us. We aren't going that fast, and we don't really have a destination in mind. We're just covering ground and making a lot of noise doing it, in hopes that if Jacob is around, he'll pop out. Or that Val will come stumbling from the forest, having been abandoned by Brady three days ago.
We're zipping along a straightaway. I have my visor open as I scan the forest. Dalton's turning to say something just as a massive shaggy shape tromps onto the path.
"Bear!" I yell.
Dalton hits the brake. The figure in front of us shouts, "Bear? Do I look like a fucking bear?"
The man is over six feet tall. Massive shoulders. Grizzled shaggy hair and beard. Dressed in a brown jacket that he's pieced together from skins and fur.
"A fucking bear, no," I say as I hop off the ATV. "A standing one? Absolutely."
"Ha!" Cypher jabs a finger my way and says to Dalton, "See, boy? That is what we call a sense of humor."
"You get our note?" Dalton says.
"Good to see you, too," Cypher says as he bends to pet the dog. "I'm fine, thank you for asking. Weather's been clear. Hunting's good."
"We have a problem."
Cypher plunks his ass down right on the path and then pulls a kerchief full of jerky from his jacket. One piece goes to Storm. He holds out another for me.
"I said--" Dalton begins.
"That you have a problem. I was hoping you'd say something new and original. You want to know how to solve your endless problems? Take your girl here and leave that piece-of-shit town. I did not get your note. I haven't been to the cabin in days. I heard the ATV and thought I'd say hi. Beginning to regret that."
"Brent's dead," Dalton says.
Cypher stops. He looks at me, as if checking whether he's heard wrong.
"He was shot by a prisoner who escaped from Rockton," I say. "Gutshot. We found him the next morning. He lived long enough to confirm who killed him."
"Fuck." A moment's pause. Then, "Fuck." Another pause, this one followed by a knitting of his brows as he looks up. "Did you say prisoner?"
When we finish explaining, he says, "You let the fucking council--"
"We didn't let them do anything," I cut in. "You know how it works."
"Yeah, which is why I got the hell outta Dodge. You couldn't stop them from dropping off that guy, but you didn't need to accept the delivery."
"Yeah," Dalton says. "Coulda just left him there, a few hundred feet from town. A guy who tortures people to death for fun. What could possibly go wrong?"
"Okay, fine. You had to take him--onto the back of your ATV there, and then head to the swamp and dump his ass. I'd give him three days. If swamp fever doesn't kill him, the mosquitoes will."
When we don't answer, he looks from me to Dalton. "Fuck, no. Do not tell me this guy said he was innocent. No, scratch that. Of course he told you that. The fuck no is fuck no, tell me you didn't consider the possibility. Well, I guess you know better now."
"Because he ran?" Dalton says. "Yeah, if I was brought up here, held prisoner for crimes I didn't commit, I'd just plop my ass down--like you on this damned path--and sit it out."
"My ass is on the damned path because I'm tired. So is your puppy. I'm resting for her."
"We entertained doubts about his guilt," I say. "Those doubts had no impact on our treatment of him."
"Except tha
t they kept you from dumping him in the swamp. Or taking him behind the hangar and putting a bullet through his skull. That's why you're in this situation, kids. You don't have what it takes to run that town properly."
"No, we don't have what it takes to be run out of that town," I say. "If we killed Brady, the council would have put Eric on the next plane out."
"Not if you did it right. Hire an expert. I'd have taken him out cheap. You could even blame me if you wanted--we took that kid for a walk, and Ty Cypher came roaring out of the forest. You know what he's like. Fucking certifiable. Dragged the poor kid off, and a hail of bullets couldn't stop him."
"What we should have done doesn't matter," I say. "The point is that he's out there, and he took Val, and he killed Brent, and I don't care if that wasn't what he had in mind, if I see him, there will be a hail of bullets. Our priority right now is twofold. Find Val and warn Jacob."
"Well, I can't help you with the first. If I'd seen a lady out here, I'd have noticed. I'd have come to her rescue right quick, hoping she'd have been grateful."
"Uh-huh."
"Don't give me that look, girlie. I mean I'd have hoped for a reward of the material variety. I'm not a perv."
"Didn't you tell me that you came to Rockton because you slept with a mark instead of killing her? And you slept with her because she was grateful for your warning?"
"Which means I have learned my lesson about gratitude. It is safer in tangible form. However, I can help you with Jakey. Saw him yesterday morning, carving up a bull caribou over by Elk Ridge. He let me have the heart. I am very fond of hearts. Builds strength."
"You ate a raw caribou heart?"
"Fuck no. I cooked it." A grunt as he hefts himself to his feet and hands Dalton the last piece of jerky. "I'll take you to the site. You gotta leave the wheels, though. I'm too old to run behind it with the dog."
"You need more caribou hearts," I say.
"Evidently."
29
Dalton is calmer now. Cypher has seen Jacob, and he's doing exactly what Brent said, which explains why he left his last camp and why he hasn't been easy to find. Elk Ridge is north, and we haven't searched in that direction. Brady will head south to find civilization. Actually, the nearest village is west, but he doesn't know that. South makes sense. North does not.
We hide the ATV. It wouldn't have done us any good anyway. The fastest trail to Elk Ridge isn't more than a footpath, soon cutting through sheer rock. As we walk, Storm has a blast, tramping through the mountain streams.
"I want a dog," Cypher muses as she whips past, water droplets flying.
"Well, we do find ourselves in possession of a very young wolf-dog cub," I say. "His mother seemed like she might have been rabid, and the cub bit Dalton, so we're holding him under quarantine."
He glances at Dalton. "Doesn't look like he's quarantined."
I roll my eyes. "The cub."
"It's not rabies anyway. Never seen that in all my years up here." He walks a few more steps. "Wolf-dog you say? How much of each, you figure?"
"More wolf than dog. Just your style."
He gives me a hard look. "Do I strike you as an idiot? Only a fool thinks he can domesticate a wolf. You should give him to your boyfriend there. Seems his style. Raised by wolves, weren't you, boy?"
Dalton ignores him.
"If there's a decent amount of dog in the pup, you might be okay," Cypher says. "Too much work for me, but at least dogs are domestic animals. Wolves aren't. Can't be."
"They probably can be," Dalton says. "The root genus is the same. The question is time frame. It takes generations."
"You letting him read again, kitten?"
Dalton continues. "There was an interesting study using silver foxes in Siberia. They keep breeding them with human contact. After forty generations, they had domesticated foxes. That's forty generations. Going in reverse, with dog DNA already in the cub, it should be easier. You still have the wolf to contend with, though. The question would be mostly one of dominance. Not domestication so much as establishing a leadership position."
"I like you better when you act stupid, boy."
"I like you better when you don't."
"Who says I'm acting? You keep your wolf-dog. Getting too old for that dominance shit. Had that already with a dog like yours. Bull mastiff. Took it in partial trade on a job. I liked the dog. Didn't like the way its master was treating it--the guy figured he'd beat the dog into submission. So I persuaded him to part with the beast."
"Uh-huh."
"It was a civil conversation. I asked nicely. The guy laughed, said the dog was a fucking purebred, too rich for my blood. So I asked again, said he could take five hundred off my pay. He agreed. Well, he nodded. Had some trouble talking dangling two feet off the floor with my arm crushing his windpipe."
"You're very persuasive."
"You have no idea, kitten." He looks at Dalton. "I want a dog. You got this fancy purebred for your girl. I don't need anything that nice, but I don't want some mangy mutt either. If I find this Brady guy and take him off your hands, I get a dog, okay?"
"If you find Val, you get a dog," Dalton says. "After Brent, the other bastard can die out here. If he hasn't already."
Cypher keeps us entertained on the walk. Or I'm entertained. When it comes to Tyrone Cypher, I can never tell how Dalton feels. If asked, he grumbles and rolls his eyes and grumbles some more. I believe he sees Cypher the same way one might view the grizzly the big man resembles--potentially dangerous, potentially useful, trustworthy enough if you know how to approach him but really, you should probably avoid it if you can.
I like Cypher, but I respect Dalton's wariness. Cypher is the only person here who knew Dalton when he was brought to Rockton. When we first met, Cypher mocked Dalton by calling him "jungle boy" and making his "raised by wolves" jabs. Having gotten to know the man better, I think he was teasing. But those jabs cut deep. Dalton might not be that boy anymore--and he was never the half-wild savage Cypher claims--but he feels like he was, like he still is in some ways, and that's the sharpest needle you can dig into someone, piercing straight into their best-hidden insecurities.
There's more to it, too. I've never met Gene Dalton--the former sheriff--but I used to presume Dalton inherited his personae from him. The profanity. The swagger. The creative punishments. The hard-assed sheriff routine that is fifty percent genuine and fifty percent bullshit. Then I met Cypher, and I realized it wasn't Gene Dalton the boy from the woods had admired and emulated.
That boy wouldn't have necessarily admired the man I've since realized Gene is--quiet, thoughtful, fair and reasoned. No, if that boy was going to look up to someone, it'd be Cypher, larger than life, everyone scurrying from his path, a man both feared and respected.
The problem is that Dalton didn't stay a boy. He grew into a man who sees Cypher's shortcomings. Who realizes Cypher was more feared than respected and that maybe he enjoyed meting out his creative punishments a little too much.
But the die had been cast. Dalton still subconsciously emulates his first role model.
We're nearing Jacob's camp.
"He should be here," Cypher says. "When I talked to him yesterday, he said he wanted to finish butchering the caribou. If he's gone, he won't be far."
"Jake!" Cypher booms. "Yo, Jakey!"
There's a sound from up ahead, and through the trees I make out the side of a hide tent. Another sound comes, a grunt, and Dalton's arm shoots up to stop me.
Cypher swears under his breath. Storm catches a smell in the air, and her fur rises as I grab for her collar. Dalton pulls back a branch.
"And that, kitten, is a bear," Cypher whispers.
It is indeed, and it's right there, next to Jacob's tent, ripping through a pack on the ground. It's not a grizzly, which is some relief. It's a big black, though. A boar in his prime, maybe three hundred pounds. When he stands to sniff the air, he stretches to my height.
I cast a quick look around the camp. There's no sign of J
acob, and I exhale. While black bears aren't nearly as dangerous as browns, they can kill if provoked. Jacob knows better than to provoke one. Cypher on the other hand . . .
"You got a clear shot at it, kitten?" he asks.
"Only if it attacks," I say.
"If you've got a clear shot, take it."
"No," Dalton says. "She won't. We can't skin it here, so we're not taking it down unless we have to."
"Fuck, don't tell me you're one of those. Doesn't like killing things unless they need killing."
"Weird, I know," I say.
"Life's a whole lot less dangerous if you just take out everything in your path. Kill or be killed. It's the way of the jungle."
"We're not in the jungle," Dalton says. "This is boreal forest."
"Stop reading, okay? Just stop." Cypher sighs. "Fine, so how you want to do this, nature boy? Ask the bear if we may approach?"
"We're going to spook it. Casey can cover--"
Storm growls.
"I think your pup wants in on the fun," Cypher says.
Storm growls louder. She's straining at my grip, every hair on her body raised, head lowered. The bear rears up again and looks our way.
"Fuck," Cypher says. "Can we shoot it now?"
"Well, that depends," Dalton says. "Unless you've actually learned to aim a gun, you'd have to hold the dog while Casey shoots. And pray that Casey's nine-mil will take the bear down in one shot from this distance."
"You've got a three-fifty-seven."
"I'm left-handed."
Cypher glances at the sling on Dalton's left arm. "Can't just be right-handed like normal people. Fucking inconvenient, you are."
"Eric?" I say. "As fun as this debate is, I'm going to back Storm up before that bear decides to charge. Ty, take my gun. Eric, if you need to shoot, even with your right, you'll probably do better than him."
"Guns are unsporting," Cypher says. "I fight with my hands."
"You do that then, and I'll keep my gun."
"I'd rather you kept it anyway," Dalton says.
I start backing Storm up. It's a tug of war, but she allows me to inch her away. Dalton lopes off to the side, making just enough noise to pull the bear's attention.
I continue backing off until we've lost sight of them, and that's when Storm finally settles. She grumbles and grunts, not unlike a bear herself, her shaggy head turning from side to side as she sniffs the air. I manage to get her lying down and park my butt on top of her.