"I thought you just got in."
"At ten to nine. I started the water and then flipped through the files to check on something. I was looking at the cases of other attacks. Specifically, how close they were to the town and the level of violence involved. The other bodies were found deep in the forest. Powys was barely a kilometre from town, and the level of violence was a huge escalation."
"Yep." That's all he says. Then he drinks more coffee.
"Have there been problems with the, uh, hostiles lately? Could this be a response to a provocation?"
I'm expecting him to snap back that no provocation would justify cutting a man off at the knees--literally. But he says, "No," and continues drinking.
"Is it possible the death was staged?" I ask. "That someone in town did it and is trying to blame these hostiles?"
"Yes." The answer comes without hesitation.
"You've already considered this," I say. "Were you going to discuss your thoughts with your new detective?"
"Sure. If you didn't bring it up. Gonna give you a chance to prove you aren't an idiot first."
"Thanks."
He nods, accepting the gratitude without seeming to catch the sarcasm. He's draining his coffee, and I'm struggling to pick through my thoughts and choose the best question before my window evaporates, but before I can, he says, "The thing you need to understand about the hostiles is that they're animalistic."
"Brutally violent, you mean."
He swings his gaze my way; a laser beam that slices through me like I've misstepped in a high-tech heist.
"Do you know anything about animals, detective? Predators?"
I think fast. "Yes, they ... Oh, okay. When you said animalistic, I took that colloquially. You mean literally. That they're like predators. They kill for survival. For food, trespass, threat, and such."
A grudging nod, and I feel as if the laser has stopped just short of cutting a major artery, but it hasn't backed up yet.
I continue. "You mean that the hostiles are predatory. Which is what you implied in your notes on the possible cannibalism. To them, it would be about survival. They won't allow themselves to die of starvation because of a cultural taboo. While they'd certainly kill Hastings if he posed a threat--and might even kill him if they were experiencing a severe food shortage--the actual level of violence inflicted was unnecessary. It's sadistic. Which is human. Primate, at least. Some apes have been shown to demonstrate ... Well, that's not important."
He hesitates, as if he's about to say, No, explain. New data for that curious mind. But then he nods abruptly, acknowledging this isn't the time for digressions, and I put the subject in my back pocket, as something I might be able to pull out later, to engage him in conversation.
"That's what you meant, right?" I say.
"Yes."
"Okay." I sip my coffee, which is cooling quickly in the brisk morning air. "Can I ask you about--"
"Coffee's done." He gets to his feet. "Time to head out."
"Okay, but can we talk about the hostiles as we walk? It'll help if I better understand--"
"I'm getting Will. Meet me at the stables."
"Stables?" I say as we walk through the station.
"Your background check said you can ride."
"From summer camp, when I was twelve." How thorough was my background check?
"Stables. Twenty minutes. Saddle up." He opens the front door. "Don't take my horse."
The door is closing. I catch it and call after him. "Which one's yours?"
"You're a detective," he calls back. "Figure it out."
I grab the coffee thermos, lock up the files, and set out. The stables are on the edge of town. The pasture is encircled by a solid eight-foot barrier to keep predators from thinking the horses look yummy. Dalton mentioned there's a permanent stable hand living over the barn, but she's nowhere to be seen. The horses are up and in the pasture, though, and the stalls are mucked out.
I'd hoped Dalton was being sarcastic about figuring out which horse was his--that I'd find his name over its stall. No such luck.
The obvious choice is the black stallion. The biggest, baddest horse for the local hard-ass. But stallions are notoriously temperamental, and Dalton wouldn't have the patience for that. Nor would he give a damn about riding the most impressive steed.
I assess the options: five horses to choose from. I saddle up three. I'm leading out a big grey gelding when Dalton and Anders come ambling along.
"That's not my horse," Dalton says.
"I should hope not," I say. "Because I've put Will's saddle on her." I pass the reins over. "Correct?"
Anders smiles. "Correct, detective. And good morning to you, Casey."
"Good morning. The coffee thermos is inside the barn. I figured the boss might not give you time to make any."
His smile grows to a grin. "Excellent deduction. I owe you."
Dalton follows me inside. His saddle is on a roan gelding, a hand or so smaller than Anders's horse. Nothing fancy, but a good sound steed. He grunts and looks over at my choice--a young black mare. He shakes his head. "Take the grey mare. That one's not fully broke."
"The grey mare's too old. I'm better with spirited than plodding."
He mutters something that sounds like "Suit yourself," and continues out.
TWENTY-TWO
I do fine with the horse, whose name is Cricket. I hadn't been trying to show off. I recalled from my riding days that one of the reasons I quit was that my trainer kept putting me on the most docile steeds they had. I was too restless, she said. Too high-strung myself. I needed a patient horse.
I could see her logic, but it was flawed. I did better on the younger horses because my restlessness wasn't the "race around the barn" type, but a quieter energy that played well off a horse's spirits, as it does today with the black mare.
We spend the morning searching. At noon we return for lunch and to speak to the militia, who are searching on foot. Then it's back into the woods to painstakingly work through quadrants, divided but never out of sight. That's the rule. I swear if I so much as passed beside a large bush, Dalton would snarl, "Butler!" as if I'd made for the hills.
Back to town for dinner. People ask how the search is going. A few mention they'd heard about Powys, but the most we get there was "Helluva thing." I'm sure they're curious that rumours are winding through town. But no one expects answers from Dalton. We're back on the horses until past dark.
I'm supposed to go out with Diana and her new friends this evening. At both the lunch and dinner breaks, I tried to track her down. When I couldn't, there was a weird moment of panic as I realized there was no easy way to leave her a message. I've never considered myself a technophile, but I grew up in a world of e-mail and texts and voice messages, and to have all that stripped away is unsettling.
At the day's end, Dalton and I head back to the station. Anders has an errand and arrives a few minutes later, saying, "I ran into Diana. She said you were going out for drinks with her and some others tonight?"
"No," Dalton says. "You've got work." He continues past me, heading for the back door.
I follow. "Um, no. My shift ended an hour ago."
"I mean you have to work tomorrow. Early."
Anders prods me out onto the deck with Dalton. "She's not actually asking permission, Eric. Casey just arrived. Socializing is--"
"A fucking bad idea for a cop."
"Um, I do it."
"Like I said..."
They exchange a glower.
"Socializing affects how people see you," Dalton says. "How they relate to you. You don't see me doing that, do you?"
"Because you're the bad cop here. I'm the one they can relate to. The one they come to with their problems. I thought you appreciated that."
"I do. For you. As my deputy. Butler is my detective."
I cut in. "I'm only having a drink or two with Diana and her friends. I don't intend to join the local party scene. I just want to meet people."
"Fi
ne. I'll introduce you. To better people."
Anders winces. "Eric..."
"You want to help your friend?" Dalton says. "Find her a higher class of drinking buddies."
"They're fine," Anders says. "I hang out with them sometimes."
"You mean you screw around with them sometimes. There's a difference."
Anders grimaces in embarrassment. "Christ, Eric."
Dalton flips the cap off his beer. "It's true. They've got nothing going on upstairs. Which doesn't mean they're stupid. Just that they don't bother thinking because it interferes with the drinking and the partying and the screwing."
Anders turns to Dalton. "Casey and I are going out for drinks with Diana and her friends tonight."
Dalton grunts as if to say, "Fine." I get the feeling I'm being chaperoned, but I know Anders is only trying to smooth things over. I agree, and he says he'll meet us later--he needs to cover the evening shift at the station.
I freshen up at my house. Then I head to Diana's place. It's the upper apartment of a big house. After a day on horseback, climbing the outside steps is tougher than it should be. Hell, walking is tougher than it should be. I head along the balcony to the second apartment and knock, and I don't think I'm very loud, but the next door opens and it's Jen, the chick from the bar fight. She's stark naked. Behind her, an unseen guy whines, "Shut the damned door. It's freezing."
She ignores him and says, "What the hell do you want?" to me.
"Sorry," I say. "I was looking for Diana. Have you seen--?"
"No. Now get the fuck off my balcony."
I knock on Diana's door again. Jen lunges and grabs my arm. Two seconds later she's flying through her door, hitting the floor hard enough to make the balcony quiver, and her guest is standing there, as naked as she is, his gaze sliding up and down me.
"Well, hello, neighbour."
"That bitch isn't--" Jen begins.
"You want to party?" the guy says. "Jen says you like to party."
"No, thanks, but I'm--"
"Got everything we need. Dope, booze..." He grins at me. "And credits. I pay well. Just ask Jen. You come party with us, and I'll show you a good time. A profitable good time."
"I'm the new detective."
His grin grows. "Offer stands, babe. A party with all the fixings and you walk out a hundred credits richer."
"A hundred?" Jen squawks. "You're giving me twenty."
"'Cause you're worth twenty. She's worth a hundred. I'll make yours thirty, though, if you play nice. Have some fun with your new neighbour."
"You son of a--" Jen howls, and launches herself at him. I pull the door shut and walk away.
I'm passing the Roc when a voice calls, "Hey, girl," and I turn to see Isabel relighting a lantern outside her bar.
"What are you doing out and about at this hour?" she asks.
"It's not even ten."
"Let me rephrase: what are you doing out and about alone at this hour?"
"I'm fine." I pull back my jacket so she can see my gun.
"Mmm, that's not going to help, sugar. No one's going to drag you into an alley for your wallet. Or for anything else. They're just going to pester you, and I'd strongly suggest you don't shoot them for that, as annoying as they might be."
"I'm fine. No one's bothered--"
"No one stopped you on your way here?"
A couple of guys had tried, but I say, "Not really." Then, "Have you seen Diana? I'm supposed to have drinks with her tonight."
"I wouldn't count on her remembering. That girl has an active social life." She steps closer and lowers her voice. "You might want to have a talk with her. I'm all for partying--clean partying. Not much else to do up here. But sometimes the freedom is a little too much. Your friend likes the booze and she likes the boys. That isn't a safe combination."
I'm about to say no, Isabel is misunderstanding the situation, but I know protesting won't help, so I just nod. "I'll talk to her. Thanks for the heads-up."
I start to say good night, but she says, "You're not walking home alone, Miss Casey. Yes, you don't appreciate being treated like a girl in hoop skirts, and believe me, I'd be the last person to say a lady can't take care of herself. But slow down. Let people get used to you. Until then, save yourself the hassle." She leans into the Roc and shouts, "Mick!" and the bartender appears. She puts one hand on his burly bicep and says, "You're going to walk Ms. Butler home."
"It's Casey, please," I say. "And I don't need--"
"You will escort Casey home. If she argues, walk two paces behind her. Unless she tries to shoot you." She looks at me. "Please don't shoot him."
I smile. "I won't."
"And don't worry about him, either. He's perfectly safe. I keep him plenty occupied." She winks at me and then smacks Mick's ass and sends us on our way.
Mick isn't a conversationalist. We don't exchange a word until we reach my porch, and I say, "Thanks," and he says, "Anytime," then adds, "About your friend, Diana. She's..." He shifts, looking uncomfortable. "She's getting into some trouble."
"So I heard. I'll talk to her."
"Isabel's ... Well, Isabel's worried. She worries about all the new women in town, but in Diana's case it's moving fast into 'pissed off.' The best thing your friend can do is talk to her, if this is what she wants. It'd be safer that way."
"Safer?"
"Just tell her to talk to Iz. Okay?"
I nod and say good night and go inside.
I barely make it into my place when there's a tap-tap-tap at the door. It's Diana, bouncing like a kid.
"Ready to go?"
I check my watch. "Doesn't the bar close in an hour?"
"Sure," she says, grinning. "That's when we go have some real fun."
I remember Isabel's warning and say, carefully, "There's a curfew for a reason. Everyone needs to be at work the next day. It's not like home, where if we call in with a hangover, someone can cover for us."
"God, you've been hanging around that sheriff too long already. I haven't missed an hour of work yet. Now come on and let's go get a drink."
TWENTY-THREE
We go to the other bar: the Red Lion. Apparently someone envisioned it as a quaint British pub, but that vision doesn't extend beyond the name. The place looks like a set piece for a Western saloon. Wooden building. Wooden bar. Wooden chairs and tables.
Diana's friends are ... God, how do I say this without sounding like a total bitch? Her friends are exactly what Dalton said they were. They remind me of the kids Diana so desperately wanted to hang out with in high school.
In eleventh grade, the popular girls had invited Diana to eat lunch with them ... an invitation that did not extend to me. I barely saw her for two weeks afterward. Then she showed up at my house crying, because it turned out all they wanted was to meet her cousin, who was an actor in a new TV show, and when she admitted she hadn't seen him since a family reunion ten years earlier, they dumped her.
I'm barely in my seat before a guy says, "So, Powys. Rumor says it was murder. Can you confirm, Detective Butler?" He holds his beer glass toward me like a microphone, with this smirk on his face that makes me think he really was a journalist in a former life. Or at least a blogger who thought he was one. A woman grabs the glass from him and says, "Don't be a dick, Dick," and the table erupts in snickers. She turns to me and extends a hand. "Petra. That's Richard. He prefers Rich, but feel free to call him Dick if he acts like one." Rich shoots her the finger, but it's good-natured enough. He eases into his chair, saying, "We're just curious. People have a right to know."
"Sure," Petra says. "You're free to ask. Just don't sneak behind Eric's back and try weaselling answers out of his new detective. You have questions? Go straight to the man himself. Stand up to him and tell him all about your right to know."
That gets a round of genuine laughter. People start ribbing Rich, daring him to do exactly that and then laying bets on exactly how many profanities the response will contain and how inventive the punishment for "bothering the sh
eriff" will be.
"He calls it interfering with law enforcement," Petra says with a grin. "But really, it's just pissing him off."
Nods and smiles follow, and not a single grumble. I'm certain I'm misunderstanding. I can understand Dalton needs to keep a tight lid on Rockton and, yes, may trump up charges against anyone who interferes with his job, but I cannot believe people don't complain about that.
Petra catches my incredulous look and shrugs. "We know the drill. He can be a jerk, but he does his job. It's not like we can afford a police public relations liaison to deal with questions. But if you ever want one, I'm your gal."
The man beside her nods. "Dalton's an asshole but a fair asshole. He'll tell us what he can when he's ready. He always does."
"You mean he tells Will," Petra says. "Who then tells everyone else."
Another round of smiles and nods.
"Well," I say. "For now I can say we haven't made an official decision on Harold Powys. We're focused on finding Jerry Hastings. The longer he's out there, the less chance we have of a positive outcome."
Rich raises his glass. "And we can all agree on that. Let me buy your first drink then, detective, as an apology for living up to my name."
Despite my misgivings, I enjoy the next half-hour. Conversation is lively, if not exactly deep. And they have a sense of fun that's infectious. They're stuck in Rockton for a few years, and they aren't providing essential services, so they can just cut loose and party, beholden to no one and nothing.
It's just past ten-thirty and I'm talking to Petra. Turns out she's a comic-book artist, which she jokes makes her all but useless in Rockton. We're deep in conversation about our favourite graphic novels when Diana perks up beside me. She straightens her shirt and tucks her hair back, and I think, Huh, who's the guy?
I look up to see Anders coming our way. He's grinning, and Diana is practically vibrating in her seat. And I smile, because now I know she wasn't pushing me in his direction--she was testing whether my gaze had already turned that way. When he catches her smile and returns it, I'm glad. I slide out, motion for him to take my place, and then sit in the empty seat on Petra's other side. Anders pulls up a chair and plunks it down next to me.
"Got a story for you," he whispers as he sits. "Rockton policing life at its finest."
There's a moment of silence, and I realize everyone at the table noticed the interplay with Diana.