I don't believe she actually realizes what she's done. She is incapable of realizing it. She wants Storm. I have Storm. Therefore she must get her from me, and if Dalton is endangered by her actions, well, he's a stranger, a meaningless bit player in her life drama. And so was I . . . until I "admitted" that I'd like my lover out of the picture so I can take his job. With that, I became someone interesting to her. In her strengths, she also shows me her weaknesses.
After Harper leaves, I wait for Edwin to finally show up. He'll bring Harper with him, and I'm prepared for that.
The door opens, and my guard walks in.
"Edwin is ready for you," he says.
"Good. I'm here."
The man shakes his head. "He is waiting out here."
I tell myself this will still work. Then I step outside, and Storm starts whining, and I look over to see Dalton being led--bound and gagged--across the village.
Wallace follows, bound but not gagged, and he's glancing about, taking everything in, and I don't think he really understands what's at stake here. How can he? He doesn't come from a world where strangers can grab you in the forest, accuse you of murder, and string you up from the nearest tree. To him, this is just an interesting cultural study, a blustering show of force, all sound and fury, signifying nothing, because there's no way these people would actually hurt us.
Dalton is being Dalton. Chin up, shoulders squared. He's not worried. Nope, not worried at all. When he sees me, the facade cracks, but only for me--am I okay? He can see I am, and he nods.
Don't worry, Casey, I may be gagged and bound, but I have everything under control.
I could shake my head at that, but he's really just saying that he trusts me to have a plan. Trusts that I will get us out of this.
No pressure.
We are all led to the village square. Where the village waits. I skim-count thirty heads, all adults.
Edwin stands at the front. Someone has brought him a chair, but he's ignoring it. He's a small man, not much bigger than me, wizened by age.
The guard starts leading Storm away, and she digs in her nails, growling.
"She knows Harper," I say. "Let Harper hold her."
The girl takes Storm's lead.
I turn to Edwin. "What do you want?"
"Due process. This is a trial. A murder trial."
"And you're the judge. No lawyers, I'm guessing."
"I was one," he says.
"And one lawyer is quite enough."
He doesn't quite smile, but the glimmer in his eyes awards me a point for that.
I continue, "I'm presuming, though, that if you've gagged Eric, I'm acting as his lawyer. Witness and counsel."
"Correct."
"As a former lawyer, sir, you'll recognize the predicament I'm in here," I say. "All I know is that Eric has been accused of killing your people. I don't know what Harper told you. I don't know what you might have found at the scene. There's been no discovery. No formal laying of charges. So I'll skip straight to the biggest missing piece. Motivation. Why did Eric do this?"
Harper tenses, but I nod for her to trust me.
Edwin waves the question off. "As you well know, Detective, motivation isn't important. Fact is what matters."
"Yes, motivation gets in the way of an investigation. It clouds fact. But this is a trial. Unless Eric has confessed, we need motive."
"We have an eyewitness."
I give him a look. Just a look. He grants me another point. Juries love eyewitnesses, but a lawyer knows how unreliable they are.
"Fine," I say. "Set motive aside for now. What is the evidence beyond your witness? You returned to the scene to collect your dead, I presume."
"Our people did."
"And you saw how they died? Albie killed at his guard post. The older man in his sleeping blankets. Harper's grandmother running for her life."
A grumble runs through the crowd. This reminder does not please them.
"What evidence do you have that Eric did this?" I ask.
"He fled the scene, which means we can hardly search his belongings for bloody clothes or a weapon."
"What you need then is a second eyewitness."
I glance at Harper. Her face is glowing now. She sees victory--I will be that witness for her.
"I believe I have your motivation," I say, and then I switch to Mandarin with, "Keep your eyes on me, please, sir."
His brows lift, but he does as I ask. I nod discreetly to Harper, who is fairly quivering with anticipation. I do not dare implicate my lover when he stands right there, so I am using another language to do it, a language I share with her leader.
"Motivation," I say to Edwin. I speak slowly, carefully--my Mandarin is rusty and probably the equivalent of a four-year-old's. "You know Eric doesn't have one. You can't even think of one."
His mouth opens. I continue, while sneaking looks at Dalton. Worried looks. Maybe guilty looks. For Harper's benefit. Dalton doesn't even frown. He trusts me.
"But I have a motivation for you," I say. "A motivation for Harper to lie. That is right in front of your eyes. I have something that she wants."
"The dog? That's . . ." He doesn't finish.
"I have something she wants," I say.
He shakes his head. "Then she would know you're telling me the truth now. She would be arguing."
"Not if I've convinced her I want Eric's job. And that she can have the dog if she sticks to her story."
"What happened out there?"
I tell him. When I finish, I say, "Which story makes logical sense?"
Edwin says, in English, "So you were tasked with imprisoning a killer. You failed to do that, and we suffered. Is that your story, Detective?"
Oh shit. I haven't fixed anything. Edwin never believed Dalton did it. This was all for show. We haven't dodged a bullet . . . we just stepped back into the path of the one that's been coming at us since we fled the massacre.
"Yes," I say. "We accept responsibility--"
"You did not. You walked away. You failed to show the basic respect due my people."
"Yeah," says a muffled voice.
I look to see Dalton has managed to get the gag down just enough to talk over it. He twists, and it drops further, and he shakes it off, saying, "Yeah, I did. That was my choice. Because I knew there was no way in hell we'd come in here, confess to our mistake and you'd let us walk away. And there was no way in hell I was putting up with your bullshit while I've got a killer out there."
"My bullshit?" Edwin's voice lowers, heavy with warning.
"Yes, and don't give me that tone. You're in charge here. I'm in charge in Rockton. We're equals. Which means you should have shown me the basic respect of marching me in here for a private audience. Not tying me up. Gagging me and talking to my detective instead. You know why I didn't come here right away. I wish I could have. Would have saved us all a shitload of grief. But I couldn't, and this is all fucking theatrics, so cut the bullshit and let me get on with my job."
"I think perhaps we should put that gag back on."
"Sure." Dalton meets his gaze. "Go ahead and try."
"He killed--" Harper begins.
Edwin spins on her, snapping as he finds a target for his frustration. "I don't know what you thought you saw out there, girl, but no one from Rockton is going to murder our people for a few bows and supplies. You lost your head in those woods, and you won't be going back out there anytime soon. Turn in your bow and hunting knife. You'll help Mabel with the cooking now."
Rage fills Harper's eyes. Impotent rage. She tried to step out of her assigned role, and she is being smacked right back into it. I want to sympathize, but she accused an innocent man of mass murder because she wanted a dog. Sympathy is a little hard to come by after that.
"Give Casey her dog," Edwin says with an abrupt wave.
Harper grips the leash. "She's mine. In forfeit, for what they did."
"You think we'll share our food so you can have a pet?"
"It's not a
pet. It can track and hunt and--"
"The only animals in this town are the ones we cook on a fire. Give Casey her dog. Now."
Harper looks at me, her eyes blazing. Then she drops the leash and knees Storm. The dog falls back in shock, and I race over, and whatever Harper sees in my face, she decides not to stick around.
I crouch beside Storm and pet her, soothing her as she keeps looking at Harper's receding back in confusion.
"We demand justice, Eric," Edwin says behind me. "We demand this killer."
"When we catch--"
"You will not bring him to me. I know you won't. Casey would promise to convey our demand to the council, but you know they'll refuse. So you will tell me only that you'll catch him, and justice will be served. That's not what I want. I am keeping Casey until you bring me this man."
"What?" I rise.
"Hell, no," Dalton says. "Do not even--"
"Casey stays. With the dog if that helps. She will be our guest until you return."
"Guest? We call that a fucking hostage."
"She is my guest."
"Yeah?" Dalton strides toward him. "If you keep her, this psycho is never going to be caught. She's the goddamn detective. You want a hostage? Take me."
"That is far more trouble than--"
"I remember how my mother was treated here." Dalton stops in front of the old man and lowers his voice. "A child does not forget that. He does not forgive that. The answer is Fuck, no."
"I realize Casey is now your wife and--"
"I would not let any woman from Rockton stay here. Casey is a fucking detective, which means she needs to be out there hunting for this guy."
"So do you." I turn to Edwin. "I understand what you're trying to do, but you need to come up with a solution that won't hinder the actual hunt for this man."
"Take me," says a voice behind us.
I look to see Wallace, who has been so silent I've forgotten he was there. Now he steps forward.
"This is my fault, not theirs," Wallace says. "I hired Rockton to imprison the man who killed your people. They weren't equipped to do so, which the council failed to tell me. Eric and Casey had nothing to do with that. I made the mistake here."
"And who are you?" Edwin says.
"The father of the man who did this to your people."
49
If I could have stopped Wallace before he said that, I would have. But once the words are out, there is no taking them back. And there is no way of walking out of this village with him.
We must leave Wallace behind. Leave him, and trust that no harm will come to him. He is a smart man. He didn't interfere as we dealt with Edwin, so I feel confident he's not going to do anything that will endanger him in our absence. It just won't be the most comfortable way to spend his Yukon trip.
They don't let us speak to Wallace in private. All we can do is talk to him, within earshot of the others, reassuring him.
A group of settlers escort us into the forest. Then they put our weapons on the ground and tell us to stand with our backs to them, while they retreat. We do. Only when they give us the signal do we pick up our guns. Then we walk in the other direction.
"Can we go back to the scene of the massacre?" I say when we're out of earshot.
Dalton nods. He leads me there. The bodies are gone. Even the blood has seeped into the ground and disappeared, and when we arrive, the only thing that tells me this is definitely the right place is a red fox. It's in the clearing, so busy sniffing around that it doesn't see or smell us. It's snuffling madly, smelling death and seeing no sign of it.
When Storm spots the fox, she lets out a bark of greeting. The fox's head jerks up. It sees her. And it bolts into the undergrowth, leaping logs and ripping through dead leaves while Dalton digs in his heels and clenches the leash in both hands.
Once the fox is gone, I pat Storm and head into the clearing. Then I search. After a few minutes, Dalton says, "Tell me what you're looking for, and I can help."
I shake my head, as if I don't know, too distracted to answer. That's not entirely a lie. I don't know specifically what I'm looking for. But I'm here with a purpose, a question niggling the back of my mind, not ready to be voiced. Maybe never ready to be voiced. Not unless I find evidence to support it. So I just look. Then I hunker in the middle of the clearing and observe.
When I finally start to rise, Dalton says, "You gonna tell me what happened?"
"Hmm?"
"With that girl. She lied, didn't she. Outright lied."
"Yes."
Silence.
I take another look around before answering his unspoken question. "She wanted Storm."
More silence. I glance over, and he's just standing there, brow furrowed.
"The dog?" he says finally.
I drop to all fours and peer about near ground level, still searching. Then I say, "An error in judgment on my part. When she was interested in Storm, I jumped on that as a topic of conversation. Of connection."
I rise and brush off my knees. "I told her how we've taught Storm to track. I showed her how well trained she was. I said how gentle she was. How much bigger she'd get. Apparently, that was like showing off your new vehicle's special features to a car thief."
"You're serious?"
I nod.
"That's fucked up."
"It is."
I stand in the clearing. Think. Think some more. I'm so enrapt in my thoughts that I don't realize Dalton is right there until I turn and bash into him.
When I lean against him, his arm goes around me.
"You okay?" he says.
"I wasn't the one accused of murdering three people."
I feel him shrug as he says, "It was all for show. Just pissed me off."
I chuckle and shake my head. His arm tightens around me. "Something's bugging you."
"Everything's bugging me," I say as I step back. "We've left Gregory Wallace with people who know his stepson murdered their friends. To get him back, we need to turn over Brady. Which means finding Brady. Which we've been trying to do since this whole damned thing started and--"
Another squeeze as Dalton kisses the top of my head. "We'll get Wallace back. In the meantime, they won't hurt him. No point in it. If we'd left Storm, that'd be a whole different matter, apparently. But no one's going to want Wallace."
I give a strained laugh.
Dalton continues, "This just raises the stakes. Motivates us. Because, you know, we were just sitting on our asses before, trying to decide if we wanted to bother looking for this Brady guy."
I shake my head.
"Let's get to Rockton," Dalton says. "See if Phil made it back okay."
"Phil . . . Oh, shit."
"Yeah, I know. Come on. We'll--"
"One last thing. Sorry. I just want to check . . ."
I trail off as my brain finally homes in on the source of that niggling thought.
As Dalton follows, he says, "Something's up."
"Just . . . I just want to check this."
A grunt says he isn't happy with my answer. He doesn't ask again, though, just lets his dissatisfaction be known.
"This is where we found Harper's grandmother, right?" I say.
"Yeah." He points, and I see that some scavenger has rooted through the dirt, looking for the source of the blood.
"Harper came from . . ." I turn. "This direction."
Dalton nods.
I walk that way and find a spot where vegetation has been crushed. "She watched us from here. Which means . . ." I look around.
"She came that way," Dalton says, pointing. "That's what you're looking for, right?"
"It is. Thanks."
"The path where she saw Brady is over there. We can follow it, but if I thought that would do any good, we'd have tracked him from there right away."
"I know."
A soft growl of frustration. "So what the hell are you looking for, Casey?"
"I don't know exactly."
Three beats of silence a
s I backtrack on Harper's trail. Then he follows. He wants to demand answers, but he knows that's not how I work. My ego needs proof before I'll voice any outlandish theories.
Harper's trail doesn't lead directly to the path. She meandered, and when Dalton sees that, he says, "She was trying to decide what to do. Follow Brady or go back to the camp."
I'm nodding when I spot something on the ground. I walk over and bend. It looks like the shredded remains of an animal. I prod it with a stick, expecting to see a head or leg or tail. I don't. It's just hide.
"A food pouch," Dalton says.
A hide pouch that must have held food, now ripped apart, with no trace of what it once contained.
He lifts and turns it over in his hand, examining the craftsmanship.
"First Settlement." He peers into the forest, both toward the camp and out in the direction of the path. "So Harper saw Brady on the path and then followed his trail back to the camp. That's why it meanders. He was making his way in the direction of the path but didn't quite know where it was. He dropped this." He shakes the pouch. "So . . ."
He peers up and down the path. Then he goes still. His head jerks up. Storm's muzzle does the same, her nose wriggling madly.
"Back up," Dalton says.
"Wha--?"
His hand wraps around my wrist as he starts propelling us backward. I take each step with care, rolling it, but Storm's paws crunch down on dead leaves. Dalton whispers a curse just as she starts to whine. Loudly whine, while straining at the lead.
Dalton stops. His gaze swings across the landscape. Storm dances and whines.
"What did you see?" I whisper.
"Movement. Something big."
Something big that Storm desperately wants to get to. Dalton has the leash wrapped around his hand, but he's distracted, looking about. When I see Storm hunker down, I know what's coming.
"Eric!" I say, and I lunge to grab the lead.
Storm leaps. A powerful leap that catches Dalton off guard, and he stumbles, the leash whipping free, my fingers grazing it, wrapping around it, only to feel the leather burn through my hand as the dog takes off.
"Storm!"
I run after her. I am aware, even before Dalton shouts, that I'm making the exact same mistake I made when she went after the cougar. But that doesn't mean I stop. I can't.
I hear Dalton coming after me, and I double down, terrified he's going to stop me. The messed-up muscles in my bad leg scream for mercy but--