Who the hell shot at us? Executed the two wounded hostiles? Tried to kill the rest of us?
It makes sense that it was the same person who shot at Brady a few days ago. Was Brady really the target, though? He was nowhere in sight when the sniper executed the hostiles and opened fire on us.
There are too many loose ends that "Brady is innocent" does not explain.
Yet none stamp him as guilty either.
We're missing a piece of the puzzle here. A huge one. And I'm starting to think I know what it is--or at the very least, I know where to begin this trail.
A few words from Brady, dismissed as the rantings of a killer, determined to lay blame anywhere he could.
Words that could have come straight from the serial killer handbook.
I'm being set up.
Why?
Because I know a secret.
56
"We're taking you to Edwin," Dalton says to Brady as we leave the scene of the settler massacre.
"Who?" Brady says.
"We need to get Gregory back," I say.
"Greg--? My stepfather? He's here?" Genuine fear spikes Brady's voice.
"He's being held hostage," I say. "In exchange for you."
"What?"
"You massacred three people from a settlement out here. They wanted a guarantee that we'd hand you over. Your stepfather volunteered."
"Volun . . . ?" He stares at us. Then he laughs. "Oh, that's funny. I know you don't mean it to be. You're trying to scare me into thinking you're handing me over to these crazy mountain men. I don't know why you'd bring Greg into this, but telling me he voluntarily turned hostage in exchange for me?" He shakes his head. "That bastard wouldn't voluntarily piss on me if I were on fire. He doesn't do anything for anyone except himself."
"Well, he did. Unless you're suggesting the guy we left as a hostage is an imposter."
I describe Gregory Wallace, and Brady's ashen complexion answers for him.
"No," he says. "That's not--He has an agenda. Goddamn it, no. He's up to something and . . ."
"And what?"
"And I have no idea what it is, but I can promise you--Wait. Hell, yes." He wheels on us so fast he startles Storm. "What are you about to do?"
I glance at Dalton.
"Didn't you just say you're taking me to trade for Greg?" Brady says.
"No, we're taking you to work this out," I say. "We aren't going to turn you over for execution. That's not--"
"But it's what Gregory expects. That in order to get him back, you'll need to hand me over. Which means he doesn't need to kill me. You guys handed me over. Some crazy mountain men killed me. Not his fault."
"So he wants you dead."
Brady stares at me, eyes bugging. He blinks. Stares some more. "Have you listened to a word I've said since I got here? Yes, Greg wants me dead. Why the hell did he send a sniper to shoot me? Why did he show up himself when that failed? To make sure--one way or another--that the job gets done."
"For the money." I turn to Dalton. "Seems a little overcomplicated, doesn't it?"
"Just a little," he drawls.
"Hell," Jacob says. "I've never even been down south, and that sounds crazy to me. Accuse you of killing a bunch of people, ship you off into the wilderness, and then execute you?"
"Gotta be easier ways of killing an inconvenient heir," Dalton says.
"At the risk of sounding like a rich prick lecturing the local rednecks, it's not that easy to get rid of me. My mother loves me more than she trusts Greg. If I died down there, she'd suspect him. In a few months, he'll tell her the so-called truth. By then, he'll have fabricated all the evidence he needs to convince Mom that her darling boy was a psychotic serial killer. Then he'll show her all the steps he took to keep me safe . . . only to have me die in these woods, through no fault of his own."
"There must be more to it," I say.
Brady growls under his breath. "I don't want to call you stupid, Detective . . ."
"Then don't. And please remember that I am a detective. Your story stinks. Back at the start, even you said there was more to it. A secret you knew, about your stepfather."
"It doesn't matter. What matters is--"
"Eric, can you cuff him? We really need to get him back to Edwin. We may need to find a gag, too."
Brady wheels . . . to find my gun pointed at his face, Dalton's at the side of his head.
"Hands behind your back," I say.
"You think you want my secret, Detective? Actually, you don't. Because if there's any doubt in your mind that I'm a lying son of a bitch, this will erase it. The only person who gets to hear it is my stepfather. One final card I can play to beat him at his game. It's my ace in the hole, and I'm not letting you take it away from me."
"Then I guess you're going to get the chance to play that ace very soon. Put your hands behind your back."
We are marching Brady to the First Settlement, and I'm trying to figure out what the hell to do about that. He's called my bluff, and right now, the only solution I can think of involves showing him it's not a bluff. Handing him over to Edwin and seeing what Brady plans to do about that. Which is a shitty, shitty plan.
It shouldn't come to that. Brady's smart enough to realize that no secret is going to fix this solution. His leverage is with Wallace, who has no power here.
So how does Brady think he's going to get out of this?
He doesn't. He really is calling my bluff, and he expects me to cave.
Okay, fine. Forget the hostage exchange. Let me take you back to town, and we'll work this out.
I already know his secret. I've figured that one out. But if I confront him with it, I lose ground.
I need him to tell his secret. Break down and confess. Hand me that ace in his pocket. Give me what he thinks is his power.
I need it before we reach the First Settlement.
I look at Dalton, walking behind me, but he's deep in thought, also trying to see a way out of this predicament.
I pause to let him catch up. We need to talk. I'm not sure how but . . .
Dalton stops. He's looking to the side. I go still and listen. I don't need to focus very hard to hear the distinct clomp of boots on hard ground. Kenny's looking over, too. Brady opens his mouth, but at a sharp wave, he shuts it. Dalton motions for Jacob and Kenny to take Brady and Storm, and for me to follow him.
The boot steps continue along the path. There's no attempt to be stealthy or to avoid the path. That makes me hopeful--hopeful that as we sneak up through the trees, I'll see Anders. Or any familiar face from Rockton.
Instead, I catch the guttural tones of a settler.
Dalton lifts a hand, sees I've already stopped, and grants me a nod of apology. We both go still as we listen.
"We'll split up here," a man says. "You go left. I'll take right."
"Edwin said to stay together."
"We're tracking a southerner. An unarmed southerner."
"Didn't stop him from almost killing Martha."
"But he failed. He couldn't even take down a woman. He's soft. Old, too."
"He didn't seem that old. And he still got away. He's smart--"
"Not as smart as us."
Gregory Wallace has escaped the First Settlement. There's no other way to interpret this, but I still mouth the words to Dalton. He nods--he's come to the same conclusion.
I creep back to Brady, who's looking the other way, gazing into the forest. I slip up to him, put my gun to his chest, and whisper, "One word, and I pull this trigger."
His glare is icy rage. He hates me. I don't know if he would have hated me no matter what the circumstances. I don't know if my actions thus far have led to this. But whether he's a killer or not, I suspect that if Oliver Brady got hold of a gun, his first bullet would go between my eyes.
We wait until the settlers are out of earshot. Then we wait a little more, before Dalton nods, telling me they are gone.
"There is no exchange," I say to Brady, and he smirks.
Called your bluff, Detective.
"There's no exchange because your stepfather has escaped."
His lips form a curse, quickly swallowed.
"He'll return to our town," I say. "Which is where we're going. We're done with this bullshit. We've lost two friends, and I don't care if you murdered them or not, they would still be alive if you hadn't shown up. This ends now. We are taking you back to your stepdaddy, and we're putting both your asses on the plane. Eric will fly you within a day's walk of the nearest town. He'll point you in the right direction. He'll give Gregory a gun. What your stepfather chooses to do with the gun is up to him."
Brady's eyes widen, his mouth opening.
"You say you have a secret for his ears only?" I whisper. "You'll have plenty of time to confront him with it, after Eric kicks you both off that plane. Until then? You're gagged."
"No," he says, and there isn't any defiance in it. Only fear. "You can't--"
"Can. Will. You may say you aren't a killer, but people die a little too often around you, Oliver. So we're terminating the contract that brought you here. This is family business. Yours, not ours."
"I didn't kill--"
"Like I said, we don't care. We did, once upon a time. But then you went and escaped, which led to the whole 'two dead friends' issue."
His face hardens. "You had no intention of listening to me--"
"You never gave us a chance to dig deeper. So off you go. Tell Gregory your secret. Maybe you two can work this out." I pause. "Unless it's a secret you plan to threaten him with . . . when the two of you are alone in the forest, and only one of you has a gun. That would be inconvenient."
I lift my gaze to his. "Yes, flare your nostrils at me, Oliver. Give me that look that says you're considering all the ways you could kill me. Relishing the options. In fact, why don't you just tell me what you'd like to do? Get it off your chest."
"I have done nothing." He can't even unclench his jaw to speak clearly. "I made mistakes out here, and your friends died. But that was desperation. I did not kill those people in Georgia. If you can prove otherwise, you would. You can't. So go ahead and put me and Greg on a plane. Let us go in the forest. But I want a gun, too. I deserve a fighting chance."
"Like those people you shot in . . ." I frown and look at Dalton. "Wait, did he just say Georgia?"
"Yeah," Dalton says. "Weird. I coulda sworn he said he was being blamed for a shooting in San Jose. You slip up there, Oliver?"
Another nostril flare. "No. I'm cutting through the bullshit. You know he's not accusing me of the San Jose shooting. He's saying I murdered five people in Georgia. Fucked-up, psychopath serial killings."
"Which you did not commit."
"No, I did not."
"Yet you know who did. Who would do . . . ? Wait. Don't answer. Let me guess. Could it be . . . your stepfather?"
Brady jerks forward. Dalton's gun barrel slams into his temple. Brady reels. Dalton catches him by the arm and presses his gun against the young man's forehead.
"You gonna call Casey a lousy detective now?" Dalton says.
"So you figured out Greg is the real killer," Brady says. "Fine. Now you see--"
"I see you're a desperate man," I say. "Desperate enough to accuse your own stepfather of the crimes you committed."
A string of obscenities follows, his face contorting with rage. "This is exactly what I knew would happen. See? See?"
As his voice rises, I say, "Do you want that gag? Or do you want the chance to keep talking?"
"Why bother? This is how it is. How it will always be. You want me to play nice, Detective?" He leans toward me. "I don't know how. Never learned the skill. Or maybe I lack the genes. You look at me, and you see a spoiled brat. Self-centered. Entitled. An unpleasant son of a bitch. And you know what? You aren't wrong."
He eases back. "I'm an asshole. But that doesn't make me a killer. I'm probably not a good person. But that doesn't make me evil. I don't think that's such a difficult concept for you to understand, Detective. You're a stone-cold bitch. Doesn't mean you aren't good at your job. Doesn't mean you don't care about your people. The sheriff here doesn't bat an eye when you threaten me, and it doesn't stop him from looking at you like the sun shines out of your ass."
He locks gazes with me. "I am responsible for your mountain-man friend's death. Court of law would lock me up for manslaughter. I accept that. I am also responsible for Val's death. I promised you'd get her back, and you didn't. But those murders back home? Those were committed by a guy who makes me look like a saint."
"Gregory Wallace."
"You liked him, didn't you? Of course you did. Everyone does. Let me guess how it went. He showed up, apologized for all the trouble he put you through, promised to compensate you for it, while being clear he knows money won't fix this. Am I close?"
Brady doesn't wait for an answer. "I know I am. I know him. He was charming and gracious and humble. Probably confided in you, too, Detective. He wouldn't bother with the sheriff. He decided you were the brains of the operation. The moral compass, too, he'd presume, because he's a sexist asshole, and you know the problem with being a sociopath? You're so busy acting your role that you can't see through the performances of others. He bought the sheriff's redneck routine and your quiet-but-thoughtful one. Am I right? Did he confess to you? Admit he made mistakes? Of course he did."
I say nothing.
Brady continues, "I bet he volunteered to help search for me. Insisted on it. He feels so bad about the situation that he wants to help find me. Take the risks alongside you two. The truth? He doesn't trust you. He wanted to be there when you caught me, to make sure you brought me in and maybe use the opportunity to stage a tragic accident."
"Yeah," Dalton says. "That explains why he offered to stay behind as hostage. In Casey's place."
"Because that guaranteed you'd turn me over to those savages."
"Except he escaped," I say.
Brady finally goes silent. At least a minute passes.
"Can't explain that away?" Dalton says.
"No, Sheriff, I can't. I could speculate that he overheard something that made him think he might not survive the exchange. But that's speculation. I only know something happened in that camp, and he decided he'd overstayed his welcome. I bet he took out a few of the locals on his way, too."
"Actually, no," I say. "He hurt a woman, but he left her alive and made his escape."
"Okay, that makes sense. It's hard to keep pretending you're a good guy if--"
"Down!" Dalton shouts.
He falls onto me and, for a moment, I think he's been hit. Then I realize he's pinning me down. There's a shot. Then Storm lets out a yelp of pain.
57
My dog has been shot. There's a sniper in the trees, and Storm has been shot. I try to scramble up, but Dalton holds me fast, whispering, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Casey."
I fight the urge to snarl at him. To get free of him. To get to her.
I dig my fingers into the ground to hold myself still, and I listen, as hard as I can. After a moment, I hear a labored pant, each breath ending in a whimper.
She's been shot.
Definitely shot.
As I twist toward her, I catch a blur of motion. It's Kenny rolling into the undergrowth, his arms around Storm.
"I've got--" Kenny starts.
Another shot. Kenny's whole body jerks.
Dalton starts to leap up. I tackle and yank him into the undergrowth.
"Careful," I say. "We have to be careful."
He nods, and we creep on our bellies. We're on the same side of the path as Kenny and Storm, and I can see their shapes ahead.
As we move, I hear Jacob whispering, "You're okay, you're okay, just stay still. Play dead."
"Kenny?" I whisper, as loudly as I dare.
"I've got him," Jacob whispers back. "I have Kenny and Storm. Stay down. Casey. Keep Eric down. Stay where you are. Do not move."
He's right. Any movement we make is going to draw fire
. I reach out for Dalton's hand and clasp it, and we lie there, listening to Kenny's ragged breathing.
That's when I see Brady crawling away.
Dalton squeezes my hand hard, getting my attention, and then he shakes his head.
Let him go.
Don't take the risk of going after him.
But I have to, don't I? As long as Oliver Brady is out there, people will keep dying.
I look in the direction of the shots. I see nothing. It isn't like the city, where I could scan the buildings and know which is most likely to hold the gunman. This is a forest filled with towering trees, all perfect for a sniper.
And as long as this gunman is out there, we are sitting ducks. Eventually we need to come out, and all the sniper has to do is track us and wait for us to stop moving.
So we can't stop moving.
We can't wait for the shooter to figure out where we are. We have a wounded man and dog, and we need to get them someplace safe.
I watch Brady sneak off, and I wait for Dalton to relax, convinced I'm giving up on my prey. Then I leap up to a crouch, call "Get them someplace safe!" and break into a run.
Dalton grabs for me. His fingers brush my leg. But I'm gone.
I zigzag. One shot fires into a tree several feet away. Another does the same. I'm careful, though, moving up, down, left, right, zipping behind every tree and bush in my path.
Behind me, Dalton whispers urgently to Jacob. I can't slow enough to focus on words, but I know Dalton's trusting that I'm okay while he gets the others to safety.
Brady hears me coming. He straightens to run faster. A shot hits a tree, clearly intended for me, but when he hears that hit, and he sprawls into a home-plate slide. I sprint and leap on his back. He bucks. I grab his still-bound wrists and wrench them so hard he howls.
"Shut the hell up," I say, slamming his head into the dirt. "I'm doing you a favor. Exactly how long do you think you'd survive out here with your hands tied behind your back?"
He glowers over his shoulder.
"Yeah, yeah," I whisper. "I'm a stone-cold bitch. I've heard it already. You would do well to note that you're still alive, when it would be a hell of a lot more convenient for me to change that. I will kill you, Oliver, but I need a reason. So don't give me one."
I wait until I'm sure the shots have stopped, the sniper trying to find targets again. I'm checking whether we're hidden enough to move when something thumps in the trees to my right. A family of ptarmigan explodes from the bushes, startled by whatever Dalton must have thrown at them.