He taps his sling. "I am definitely out of the running. So that's top three. Next is the militia."
"Our boys like their target practice."
"As do Jen and Nicki."
"True enough. Are any of them good enough to make that shot, though?"
"Depends on what 'that shot' is," he says. "I hate giving Phil credit, but there's no way to say for sure that the bullet would have hit Brady."
"Are you thinking maybe he wasn't the target?"
"Who the fuck knows at this point? It seemed aimed at him. No one else was standing there until I got in the way. But would it have killed him if I didn't interfere?" Dalton throws up his hand.
"If it didn't kill him, would that have been intentional--trying to spook us rather than assassinate Brady? Or would it have missed because our shooter isn't a crack shot? We could just be looking at a decent shooter with an overinflated sense of his--or her--skills. So . . . Ty?"
Tyrone Cypher was sheriff of Rockton before Dalton's father. When the demotion to deputy rankled too much, he'd gone to live in the forest.
"Are you looking at Ty for this?" The wrinkle in Dalton's nose tells me what he thinks of that. He doesn't say it, though, just keeps making coffee in our French press.
"I'm looking at everyone for this. He was a professional assassin, though."
Dalton snorts. "Hit man. There's a difference."
Which is true. "Assassin" conjures up an image that is not Tyrone Cypher.
"What's his firearm prowess?" I ask.
"On a scale of one to ten? Negative three."
I give him a look.
"I'm serious," Dalton says. "The guy prides himself on not using guns. You know that."
"So when he says he worked with his hands . . ."
"If Ty says it, it's true. He's serious about that, too. I've never actually caught the guy in a lie. Which, like you said, might not mean he never lies--just that he saves the falsehoods for the big stuff."
"Has he ever said he can't shoot? His comments about the military make Will think he served."
"Tyrone doesn't volunteer information. He's never said he can't shoot--he just chooses not to. The problem is motive."
I rub my fingers together and then I realize the gesture means nothing in Dalton's world.
"Money," I say. "Ty killed for money before, and he doesn't seem to have any moral qualms about doing it again."
Dalton shakes his head. "I see where you're going, but Tyrone doesn't give a shit about money. Now, if they offered him a barrel of coffee creamer, maybe. But even then, it'd mean working for the council, and you know how he feels about that."
"So you trust Ty."
He makes a face as he passes me a filled mug. "I wouldn't say trust . . ."
"We've been trading with him since last winter."
"The man works for coffee and powdered creamer. Can't beat the price. But trust him? He's . . . What's the scientific term? Loony tunes."
I have to laugh at that. "True. He has his own special brand of crazy. But you trust him enough to trade with him, send him on scouting missions, and let him into Rockton."
"As long as he's escorted."
"Only because you don't want to freak out the locals."
"Yeah, okay, sure. I trust . . ." He stops. "Fuck. I just stepped into it, didn't I?" He sighs. "Where is this leading?"
"I'd like you to deputize Ty for a few days. I need information I can only get from the internet, and the only person who can fly out of here is you. It's a lousy time for you to leave, but I think the need outweighs the danger. I'd like you to take an overnight trip to Dawson City, with a list of what I need researched. I'll stay here and Ty can help guard Brady."
Dalton snorts. "Because he'll scare the ever-loving shit out of Brady?"
"Possibly." I smile. "Ty won't buy Brady's stories. He might even be able to give us some insight into how likely it is that he committed these murders. Mathias knows one side of killers. Tyrone knows another."
"It'll take a day or two to find Ty. By then, Brady's permanent residence will be done so I won't mind leaving. What do you want online?"
"Everything you can get on these crimes he supposedly committed. Including whether they actually exist."
"Actually exist?" He looks at me, his mental wheels turning fast. "Fuck."
"Yep. I need information on the San Jose shootings, information on the Georgia murders, plus anything that can help us figure out whether Oliver Brady is responsible for either."
15
It's the next afternoon. Val has conveyed Dalton's message to the council. They're "considering" letting him go to Dawson.
I'm the sole officer on duty right now. Dalton and Nicole have gone into the woods to get Jacob's message and look for Cypher. An hour ago, someone from the logging party came running back to say there's been an accident. Nothing serious, but a hatchet injury always requires immediate attention, so Anders has left with his first-aid kit.
I'm on Brady duty, all of our militia having been repurposed into construction workers. That's fine--Brady's cell is secure, and it's not as if he's going to ever talk me into letting him out for a walk. Still, Petra has come over to keep me company, and we're on the rear deck.
I haven't accidentally left Brady unattended. I'm testing him. He knows Dalton and Anders are gone. He knows the militia are doing construction. And now his sole guard has just wandered outside to chat with her friend. I want to see what he'll do. So far, the answer is "Nothing."
Petra has her sketchbook out. She was a comic-book artist down south, and up here, she draws art as a sideline--people buy it to decorate their homes.
"Looks like someone's hungry." Petra nods at a raven, who keeps circling to the deck railing and then pulling up before landing. "That's yours, isn't it?"
"It's not really--"
"Yeah, yeah," she says. "Wild animals are not pets. I once made the mistake of asking Eric if I could adopt a bear cub. I was kidding. I still got the lecture. Since he's not within earshot, though, this is your raven, right? The one you've trained."
"It is." I take a piece of muffin from my pocket. "It won't come close to Storm, so you'll need to hold her."
"Have you thought of training them?"
The raven swoops past, but it knows better than to snatch the muffin chunk from my hand.
Petra puts her sketchbook aside. "I grew up rural. We had chickens, and we had dogs that we didn't want devouring the chickens. You can train them both. Teach Storm not to go after the raven, and teach the raven that the dog is safe."
Petra explains how to start, and then she puts her hand on Storm's collar, while I set the muffin on the railing.
The raven lands at the far end and begins inching along, while croaking at me, telling me to move it farther from the dog.
I start to pocket the muffin chunk. The raven lets out a loud squawk.
"Oh, she doesn't like that," Petra says with a laugh.
I put the muffin down again, and the raven waddle-walks as fast as it dares--
The station front door slams, and the raven flies off. Storm growls. Petra glances through the rear door and pats Storm.
"Good baby," she says. "Excellent instincts."
The back door slaps open, and Jen barrels out.
"What the hell?" Jen says. "You're leaving him unguarded now?"
"We're on the back porch," Petra says. "And he's locked in a cell. We aren't concerned."
"I see that. I guess maybe he's not such a dangerous criminal, huh?"
"Jen?" I say. "Don't."
"Why? Because you're busy chatting with your buddy and playing with your dog? Are you even trying to find out whether this guy is guilty?"
I don't answer that. I remember a time when I'd check out online article for crimes I was investigating. I'd read the comments section, in hopes of getting a lead or a fresh angle. Instead all I got were complaints. The cops are lazy. The cops are incompetent. The cops are corrupt. Why can't they just run DNA? Why can'
t they arrest the guy everyone knows did it? I'd log in under a fake name and try to explain, but those commenters didn't want explanations. The same goes for Jen.
Before I can speak, I see a paper in Jen's hand.
"What's that?" I ask.
"A petition."
"Oh, for God's sake." Petra reaches to snatch it.
Jen yanks it back with, "Hey!"
I put my hand out. Jen holds the paper up but doesn't pass it over.
"I have fifty names," she says. "Residents who demand a public inquiry into the department's handling of this situation."
"An inquiry?" Petra says. "Do you even know what that is? Or is it just something you heard on TV?"
"Tell me exactly what you want," I say. My voice is calm, but my heart's hammering.
Fifty names. One-quarter of the population doesn't trust our handling of this.
No, only a quarter agreed to sign Jen's petition. How many others disagree and fear saying so?
"Give me the list--" I say.
I'm stepping toward her, but she swats at my outstretched arm. Storm lunges at her. That's all she does. It's a feint, with a warning growl, nothing more, but Jen kicks Storm. Her foot slams square into the dog's chest.
If asked what I would do in this situation, I would say that I'd go after Jen. I'd be unable to help myself. But the thought does not cross my mind. Instead, I throw myself between them, stopping Jen, and then all my attention is on Storm. She's only staggered back, with a yelp that is more confusion than pain, but I'm on my knees, cradling her.
Then I hear a snarl and a thump and a gasp, and I turn to see Jen pinned against the wall. And the person pinning her is Petra. She has Jen against the wall, shirt bunched in her fists. The look on Petra's face is exactly the one I would have expected on my own. Blind rage.
"You do not ever touch that dog," Petra says between clenched teeth. "You do not ever touch Casey."
"I-It was a mistake," Jen stammers. "I'm sorry, Casey. Is she okay? Should I get someone?"
I ignore Jen as I check Storm. She's breathing fine. My finger prods make her flinch but not whimper. She's rubbing against my legs, looking for comfort, and that upsets me more than the kick itself. My dog has known nothing but kindness from humans. People here fawn over her, sneak her treats, pet her, offer to take her for runs. As the only pet in town, she's a pampered princess. Now someone has hurt her. She keeps sneaking glances at Jen.
"Just go," I say without looking up.
"Is she--?"
"You kicked her. Whether she's physically hurt or not, she isn't okay."
"I'm sorry. I really am. When I was a kid, a dog attacked . . . I'm sorry. I just reacted."
I pat Storm and get to my feet.
"I was trying to accept your petition," I say, my voice cold. "You brought it. I was taking it. We all know there's a problem. We know people aren't happy. And we're trying like hell to figure out what to do about it."
"I was afraid--"
"That I'd burn the petition before Eric saw it? Tell me, Jen, what have I ever done to make you think I'd do anything except present it to him."
"I--"
"Use your goddamn brain for once. I know you have one. Fifty people can swear they signed your petition, so how the hell could I make it disappear?"
I shake my head. "Just go, okay? Take the petition or leave it. I don't give a damn. Just--"
A crash sounds inside the station.
16
I race for the door, and I don't even have it open before I hear voices. I throw open the door to see a half dozen people bearing down on Brady's cell.
"What the hell?" I say.
The guy in the lead--a new resident named Roy--points at me. "You, stay back."
"What the fuck?" I barrel in. "You do not ever tell me to do anything. Get the hell out of here. All of you."
Everyone except Roy stops. They don't leave, though. They just stop. He keeps going, barging into the cell room.
"Talk to me," Brady says, gripping the bars. "Please just talk to me."
I march past the mob. "Roy? You have ten seconds to get out of there or you are under arrest."
"Yeah?"
He steps up to me. He's at least six-two and probably two hundred and fifty pounds. It's not muscle, but he's still more than twice my size.
"Try that again, girlie," he says.
I reach for my gun. Then I stop. I see myself pulling it. I see myself pointing it. I see him laughing. And then I see Blaine, hear him laugh. A drop of sweat trickles down my hairline. I leave my gun holstered.
"Yeah, I didn't think so," he says. "Get out of my way."
I cannot get angry. Cannot get defensive. Cannot show this asshole what a mistake he's making, because if I do, I know how this ends up. With a bullet through his chest.
At a noise behind me, I glance to see Petra. Her eyes still blaze with that fire from earlier, and I put up a hand to stop her.
"Go get the boys, please," I say. "We seem to have a situation."
She stands her ground. I meet her gaze. She nods, abruptly, and then shoulders past the others.
"Yeah," Roy says. "Run and get 'the boys.' Their girlie needs some help."
"What do you want?" I say.
It's Brady who responds first. "These people see what you're doing to me, the injustice, and they aren't going to stand for it."
"Yeah, he's right," Roy says. "We see the injustice here. The injustice of being forced to live with a killer."
"No one said he--" I begin.
"I haven't killed anyone," Brady cuts in. "I didn't shoot those people. I'm being framed."
"See?" Roy says, his voice rising for the others. "Told you it was murder. Multiple murders, like I said. That's the only reason they'd build him his own private jail. He's a fucking psychopath."
"What? Wait," Brady says. "No. I didn't--"
"We want a trial," Roy says. "Now."
"How?" I say. "He didn't commit any crimes here."
"See?" Brady says. "I haven't done any--"
"Shut. Up." I glower at him. "These men aren't here to set you free, you idiot."
"Hell, yeah. We'll set him free," Roy says. "Swinging from the end of a rope."
"Are you fucking nuts?" It's Jen, shoving her way through.
"What the hell?" Brady says. "Did he say--"
"It's called a lynch mob," I say. "But if you want them to let you out and give you a trial, just let me know."
I turn to Roy. "Get the hell out of my station."
"Your station?" He snorts. "You're the sheriff's playmate, little girl. Now hand over those keys and let us clean up his mess."
"I'm going to count to three. When I finish, if you're still here, you'll be sharing the cell with this guy, and I really don't think you want that."
He laughs. Then he lunges. I duck, grab him by the arm, and throw him down. He hits the floor with a thud. I'm on him in a blink, pinning his arm behind his back.
"Holy shit," Brady says.
"I'm making the same offer to everyone else," I call. "Three seconds to get out. Which doesn't mean I won't remember all your faces."
Two leave as Roy rants and writhes beneath me. A guy named Cecil sidles into the cell room.
"Just let him go, Casey," he says. "We don't need to get Eric involved."
Jen laughs, "Seriously? Hell, yeah, Casey, just let that asshole walk away. No harm, no foul." She moves up to Cecil. "You cowardly piece of shit."
"Cecil, get out of here," I say. "You--"
I notice the knife at the last second. I'm distracted, pinning Roy's arm, his other one free to pull a penknife from his pocket. I see his arm move. I see the knife flash. But I'm too late to stop it, and it rams into my jacket. It gets caught there, and only the tip sinks into my side, but my reaction gives him the leverage he needs to throw me off. Before I can recover, he plows his fist into my jaw.
I fly backward. Jen lets out a squawk of alarm. Outside, Storm is going crazy barking. I barely hear her, jus
t like I barely notice the remaining mob surge forward. I see only that knife coming at me again.
I am on the floor, pain throbbing through me, looking up at Roy, and I don't see him--I see four thugs in an alley. It's like I'm back there, and it's happening again, only this time I know what's coming. This time, I will not go down under a hail of blows and kicks. This time, it's one guy, and I am prepared, and he is going to pay.
Roy slashes at me. I catch his arm, and I wrench. He drops the knife. I kick it away, and then I throw him down. He falls and I'm on him, my fists and boots slamming into him.
A hand lands on my shoulder. I wheel, fist flying up. I see Jen's face. See her eyes widen. I manage to divert my blow, but then Cecil has me by the collar, dragging me off Roy, saying, "Hey, that's enough."
"Fucking hell it is," Jen says.
She goes at him, and I see Roy crawling for the knife. I lunge and land on it, and he slams his fist into the side of my head.
I grab the knife from under me and flip over, brandishing it, and he lunges at me with a snarl . . . just as Kenny and Sam race in. They manage to haul him back.
I'm getting to my feet when I see Brady out of the corner of my eye. He's grinning. When he catches my glance, he shoots me a thumbs-up.
"That was fucking awesome," he says. "I gotta say, I've been complaining about the entertainment here, and you guys delivered. Hey, big guy, that 'little girl' kicked your ass, huh?"
"Shut the fuck up," I say as I rise. "Kenny? Secure--" Blood trickles into my mouth. I wipe it away. "Secure Roy. And--" I hear the slap of the front door. "Hey! No one leaves--"
The thunder of running boots cuts me short. Dalton barrels through with, "What the hell is going . . ." He sees me, staggering, blood dripping.
His eyes go wide. Then he pulls himself up short and wheels on the remaining mob. "You heard Casey. None of you fucking moves. Anyone who does will spend the rest of the year on shit duty."
"We--" one begins.
"You witnessed an officer being assaulted, and you stood and fucking watched it happen. I don't want to hear a word from any of you. Sit on the floor. Shut your mouths. And pray that when it comes time to pass sentence, I'm not half as pissed off as I am right now. Sam? Get out there and watch them."
As soon as Sam leaves the cell room, Dalton kicks the door shut with, "Better if I don't see their fucking faces right now."
He strides to me.
"I'm fine," I say. Which is a lie. I'm seeing double, my nose is streaming blood, and my lip is split. But I'm upright, and that's the important thing. I'd seen the look in Roy's eyes when he came at me with that knife, and I know I got off easy.