FORTY-FIVE
We've been out there for about twenty minutes, silently watching the fox hunt mice.
"You do have to consider me," he says, breaking the silence. "As a suspect. Anyone could be a killer if you push the right triggers."
I hug my legs closer and say nothing.
"You don't believe that," he says.
"I've heard the theory. It's been used in serial killer defences."
"Yeah, I know." He catches my look and says, "I read up on serial killers in case we ever get one smuggled in. But the idea that anyone could kill is not an excuse. It's sure as hell not a defence. It just means you can't underestimate people. If pushed to the wall, we're capable of the otherwise unthinkable. It's the instinct to survive and to protect."
"And wreak vengeance?" I murmur.
"An instinct for vengeance? Nah. A drive maybe, stronger in some than others."
"Stronger if that protective instinct is thwarted."
He peers at me. "What are you thinking?"
"Just ... considering."
Once the clouds clear, it's a perfect night for the northern lights, the sky lit up with the most amazing show I've seen yet. I'm in no rush to sleep--I swear that tea still had caffeine in it. Dalton and I have moved from the deck to my bedroom balcony.
My fox has returned from its prowling, and Dalton's telling me a Cree story about a fox who outwitted a trickster god. Someone knocks at my front door, the sound echoing in the quiet. I call, "Back here!" and a moment later Anders appears in the yard.
He looks up to where I'm leaning on the balcony railing. He grins, and he's about to speak when Dalton moves up beside me. Anders's smile falters, but he finds a softer version of it, with a quiet, "Hey," and then, "I need to talk to you, Casey. Actually, both of you."
I look over the railing, measuring the distance to the ground.
"No," Dalton says.
"You don't think I can jump it?"
He snorts. "Do you think I'm stupid enough to say that, so you can prove me wrong? Get your ass down the stairs."
I climb onto the railing.
"Did I just give you an order?" he says.
"I'm off duty."
I jump. He mutters, "Fuck," as I drop. I hit the ground. As I straighten, Anders smiles and shakes his head. Then his gaze lifts to my balcony.
"You're still sleeping up there, right?"
I say yes, and there's a pause, and it's not until I hear a door close inside, as Dalton walks through the house, that I make the connection. I wave at myself. "Fully dressed."
"Which doesn't mean that wasn't about to change," he says. "I don't mean to pry..."
"Nothing to pry at. My balcony is the best place to see the northern lights. It was talk and tea. Not exactly scandalous." I lower my voice. "And please don't say anything to him that would suggest otherwise, or it'll be the last time I'll get company to watch the lights."
He smiles. "I'll volunteer."
"And you'd just watch the lights with me and expect nothing to come of it?"
"Uh ... not expect, but hope? Hell, yeah. Eric's probably the only guy I know who could sit on your bed, stargaze and not hope there was more coming." He leans in and mock-whispers, "You may have heard, he's a little weird."
"What's that?" Dalton asks as he steps onto the deck.
"Will says I'm a little weird," I say.
He snorts. "I'm not disagreeing after that stunt."
I shake my head and say to Anders, "What's up?"
"Just a situation that could require a woman's touch. Mick didn't go home after work tonight. He was tired, so Isabel said she'd close up. She sent him home at eleven. He wasn't there when she got back, and she's concerned. Considering we've had three murders, I don't feel right dismissing it."
"Is anyone else not where they should be?" I ask, as casually as I can.
"Hmm?" Anders says.
Dalton gives me his dissection-table look. Then he says for me, "Have we had any other reports of trouble? Anyone seen heading for the woods?"
Anders frowns. "No."
I nod, and Dalton and I head out for Isabel's while Anders goes to do a walkabout and see if he can spot Mick.
As Dalton and I walk over to Isabel's, I say, "About Mick, I heard you fired him."
He snorts. "Someone's spreading stories. Mick quit. He didn't much like being a cop. I think he only agreed to be one up here because it helped him get into Rockton. When the council brought Will in, they were willing to keep Mick on, but he jumped at the chance to quit. He did militia duty for a while. Then he hooked up with Isabel, and the only enforcement he's done since is kicking drunks out of the Roc."
"What's his story before that? Why's he here? If I can ask."
"He was on a task force taking down some drug guys, and he was the only one they couldn't pay off. They decided to get rid of him. He decided he'd rather not be gotten rid of. And he wasn't all that keen on a law enforcement career after that."
"Can't blame him."
"Nope, really can't. Either it's your thing or it's not. I need people on my team who want to be there. You do. Will does. Mick didn't."
A few more steps in silence. Then he says, "Earlier, you talked about vengeance and protection. You think someone took revenge for Abbygail's death. You meant Mick, didn't you?"
I nod. "Yesterday, Mick came to me about the raspberry thing with Abbygail. You remember that?"
"Her secret admirer?"
"At first, Mick said he suspected Lang. Then, yesterday, he changed his mind. He said it was Hastings."
"Fuck. He framed Hastings for it?"
"No, I checked a few things afterward, and I'm ninety percent sure it was Hastings who left those berries."
"Which means Mick handed him over after Abbygail's body was found. And after he'd sent you sniffing in another direction. Shit." Dalton rolls his shoulders. "If Mick thought Hastings murdered Abbygail and he executed him for it..."
"But would he kill Hastings like that? I know, I can't underestimate someone's capacity for violence. Still..."
Mick is no longer just Isabel's beefcake boy toy. He's a real guy. A likeable guy. Can I imagine him murdering Abbygail's killer? Yes. Murdering him in such a horrible way? No, I cannot.
"And then there's Irene and Powys," I say. "I haven't found any connection between them and Abbygail."
"They barely knew her. They moved in different circles."
"Then what's the answer? That Mick somehow thought Irene killed Abbygail and then whoops, my bad? Maybe Powys? Nope, wrong there, too. Ah, Hastings. That's it." I shake my head. "Makes no sense."
Silence falls.
"You're thinking maybe it wasn't revenge," Dalton says finally. "That Mick killed Abbygail, too."
"I have to consider it."
"Okay."
"Do you think it's possible?" I ask.
"I think I need to keep my mouth shut unless I can say something helpful."
FORTY-SIX
Isabel's place is hard to miss, given that it qualifies as positively palatial in Rockton. A two-storey home, twice the size of mine, right in the downtown core. It's a rooming house, but since the extra beds aren't currently required, Isabel is allowed to rent the whole building.
She's sitting by the fireplace when Dalton and I walk in. She rises with, "About time. I was starting to think Will headed off to bed."
I take the seat beside Isabel's. "All right. Walk me through it."
"So that's how you're going to play this, Eric? Let your detective ask a few questions, so I feel you're taking me seriously? All right. First, let's clear the elephant from the room. Mick is not in anyone else's bed. I give him no reason to stray."
"Which--" I look at Dalton. "Maybe you should step outside."
"Why?"
"Because we'll be discussing my sex life," Isabel says. "Which would be less awkward if you'd step out, but I know you won't, so ignore him, Casey. If he gets uncomfortable, he'll leave, but I don't think Eric knows the meani
ng of the word."
"Okay, well, I was going to say that, given what you do here, you know as well as anyone that cheating isn't always about sex. Sometimes--hell, most times, I suspect--it's about filling other needs, including novelty."
"Having been a psychologist, I know that very well. It doesn't apply here. Mick is a simple man with simple tastes. And whatever you might think of our relationship, we care about each other. Deeply. But I'll set aside sentimentality and put it in words you'll better understand. Mick knows if I ever catch him stepping out, it's over. My ego's too healthy to take back a cheating bastard."
"Okay." I take out my notebook. "Give me your story."
We've been searching the town for two hours. We haven't mobilized the militia yet. It's just the three of us, going door to door. I'm with Dalton. I knock on a door and nicely ask if the occupant has seen Mick. Most times I get a sleepy, "No, I haven't. Is something wrong?" If they complain about the hour, Dalton shoulders past and tramps through their house, throwing open every door with a look that dares them to utter the phrase "private property."
We do step into a few of the houses even where the occupant was polite--if said occupant is female and looks as if she could have enticed Mick into her bed. I do it with a few of the guys, too, because that's an even better answer--if Mick has needs that Isabel can't fill.
Am I hoping to find Mick cheating on Isabel? Yes. Because otherwise, I have to consider him for the role of killer. That's another reason for going door to door. Making sure everyone is accounted for. So far so good, but not finding Mick in another bed--and not finding anyone missing from theirs--raises another possibility. That Mick is actually victim number five.
We're two-thirds done when we reach Val's place.
"Hiding, Val?" Dalton says as she opens the door.
"No, of course not."
"Huh. Not even going to ask why I'd knock on your door at 3 a.m.?"
She fumbles through some excuse, but Dalton's right. By this point, most people are opening their doors before we even get there, having caught voices in the quiet night and cracked open a window to listen.
"You should get dressed," Dalton says. "Come out and get ready with a statement, in case folks get antsy."
"I think you can handle that, Eric."
"Sure, I could, but it would take me away from, you know, actually searching for our missing resident. I'm kinda thinking public statements ought to be your domain from now on, Val. Fuck knows, it's not like you're doing anything else."
The door closes.
"All right," he calls through the door. "You go get dressed. I'll tell anyone who asks that you'll make a statement in twenty minutes. They can gather right here and wait."
"Casey?" a voice murmurs behind me. It's Kenny. "I, uh, have something for you," he says. "A tip."
I lead him into a pocket of shadow. "What's up?"
"Nothing," Dalton says as he strides over. "As usual, he's just trying to get your attention. That right, Kenny?"
"No, sir. I've got a real tip for her."
"Yeah? You seem to have a lot of tips for Detective Butler. You never did that for me. I'm kinda hurt." He steps closer. "Stop trying to get her attention."
"What? No. I know you and her..." He clears his throat. "I know you wouldn't like that."
"Damn right I wouldn't. I don't appreciate you wasting my detective's time."
Which is not what Kenny meant at all. When two people of the opposite sex spend enough time together, people jump to conclusions. The only reason they aren't outright saying anything is that I'm spending a lot of time with two guys, and no one wants to guess which I'm sleeping with and risk pissing off the other. Anders thinks it's hilarious. I find it amusing. Dalton has no idea it's even happening.
"Give Casey the tip," Dalton says. "And if it's bullshit, you're on chopping duty next week."
"You're looking for Mick, right? Well, I saw him around eleven. I was leaving the shop after working on a piece Isabel wants. When I spotted Mick heading my way, I thought he was coming to give me shit because it's late. So I say hi. He says hi and keeps going, heading around the lumber shed."
"Lumber shed?" I say.
"It's where we store the lumber."
"She means why would he be going that way?" Dalton says. Then he turns to me. "No reason."
"Could he have been heading into the woods?"
"He wasn't," Kenny says. "I heard the back door open. He went in."
"Inside the lumber shed? What's in there besides wood?"
"Nothing," Kenny says. "Not even much wood. The guys are just starting to bring in logs for winter, so it's mostly empty space right now. But, uh, very private."
"Private...? Oh."
Kenny clears his throat. "I don't want to cause trouble. If I tell you that a woman went in there after Mick, and Isabel finds out I said it..."
"Then you didn't tell us," I say.
Confusion creases his features. Then he lets out a short laugh. "Oh, right. Ha. Okay. I didn't tell you."
"But if you did, who would you tell us it was?"
"I don't know. Female. Average height. Skinny. That's all I saw. Oh, and she was wearing dark clothes. Jacket to shoes. But I don't know if that's significant because, well, it's not unusual."
True, Dalton and I are both wearing dark boots, jeans, and a dark jacket. There isn't a lot of room to be fashion conscious out here.
I thank Kenny for his time. Dalton says, "Come by the station after nine tomorrow. If the tip panned out, I've got some credits for you. If it doesn't?"
"Chopping duty awaits?"
"You got it."
"I can't guarantee they're still there," Kenny says. "It's been three hours, and if they're still there, then I know why Isabel keeps Mick around." He laughs, a heh-heh chuckle, and then says to me, "Sorry."
I smile. "Agreed. I suspect they're only there if they fell asleep, which would explain why he didn't get his ass back home before Isabel returned."
Another chuckle. "Right, yeah, okay. See you guys later, then. Hope you find him."
FORTY-SEVEN
We go straight to the shed, but we don't run. This isn't the killer's MO, so what we have here is almost certainly the scenario we hoped for: Mick is getting some on the side. While I struggle to think of him cheating on Isabel, I struggle a lot more to think of him as the guy who'd cut open a man, take out part of his intestine, and hang him in a tree to die.
Behind the shed is the chopping yard. There are a couple of sawhorses, but the equipment is all kept in the carpentry shop, which is better secured. The woodshed isn't locked. Most of the resource buildings aren't secured. You're welcome to help yourself to firewood or water or food, if you suddenly find yourself needing it in the middle of the night. Of course, if you take it, Dalton presumes you plan to pay in the morning. If you don't, there's a 100-percent interest charge for each day you delay.
I go through the shed door first, Dalton covering. As soon as we're in, we both stop short.
I inhale. "Do you smell--?"
Dalton barrels past me. What we smell isn't blood.
It's smoke.
I can see the source: a smouldering pile of wood, flames just starting to lick up from the base. That's when I catch another scent, an even worse one.
"Eric!" I lunge to shove him out of the way, but he's already wheeling, and he grabs me and throws me aside, and we both hit the floor just as the fire catches the kerosene-soaked wood and whooshes up in a pyre of heat and flame. He keeps me pinned until we're certain that's all it is--fire, with nothing about to explode. Still, the wood stack is going up so fast, the heat is like a solid wall, smoke already filling the room.
Dalton yanks me to my feet and shoves me toward the door with, "Go!" I don't. I can't, no more than he can, because I see the remains of a broken lantern, and I know it didn't just fall over and accidentally start a fire.
Someone has deliberately set a kerosene-fuelled fire. In the same place where a missing man was last see
n.
"There!" I shout, as I see a foot behind the woodpile.
Dalton turns, and his face screws up like he's about to snarl at me to get out, but I push past him and grab the foot. There's a split second where I remember Harry Powys's body, and I imagine yanking this foot only to realize that's all I have. It's not. There's a body attached, and before I can pull again, Dalton's there, helping.
It's Mick. His shirt is kerosene soaked, sparks already lighting it up. I let go of his foot, and I'm out of my jacket and slapping it on his now-flaming shirt as Dalton drags him from behind the burning pyre.
Dalton doesn't wait to be sure the fire on his shirt is out. Doesn't check for a pulse, either. There's no time. We're in a building filled with dry wood and doused in accelerant. He hoists Mick over his shoulder, and that's when I see the blood. The back of Mick's shirt is soaked with it, the fabric shredded. He's been stabbed in the back. Repeatedly.
Mick. Oh God, Mick.
Any thoughts of him as a psychotic killer vanish, and all I see is the guy I knew. The sweet, quiet guy. Devoted to his friend, Abbygail. Devoted to his lover, Isabel. A guy I'd liked. Really liked.
We're moving fast for the exit. The fire is roaring now. Whoever lit it didn't stick around to be sure it caught properly, and when we first opened the door, the rush of wind must have caught the smouldering flame, finally bringing it into contact with the kerosene. Not that the how matters. It's just my brain processing, trying to keep calm and centred and temporarily forget the fact that there's a massive fire in a building filled with wood, in a town built of wood.
Dalton slaps the radio into my hand as we move. The smoke swirls so thick I don't even realize what he's given me until my hand wraps around it. I fumble for the Call button, but my eyes are streaming and I'm coughing too hard to speak. Dalton shoulders me forward. Get the hell out first.
We reach the door. I push him through, and I'm about to follow when I see something move in the smoke. Someone's still in here.
Shit! The woman who followed Mick.
The smoke has already forced me into a crouch, and even with my shirt pulled up over my nose and mouth, I'm hacking convulsively. I shove the radio in my pocket, get down on all fours, and start toward her. For a moment, I can make her out--a pale face and light hair--but then she's lost behind the smoke and the tears streaming from my eyes. I continue forward, feeling my way.