"So you threw rocks at me?"
"Pebbles." He pauses and tilts his head, as if realizing this may not have been the best move. "I need to talk to you."
"Tomorrow."
"No, tonight. I was going to wait, but I know you're mad at me, and I've had a few beers, and I've decided I need answers tonight."
"And if what I want is sleep, that's too bad?"
That head-tilt, working this out, his brain fuzzy--a guy not accustomed to more than a beer or two at a sitting.
"I'd really like to talk," he says. "Just five minutes, and you can come into work an hour late."
"That doesn't help when I'm too busy to come in late."
He pauses, thinking hard, and I know I sound pissy. I'm not pissy. I'm scared. Terrified of going down there and buying whatever he sells, because I look at him in the moonlight, that confusion and worry on his face, his usual swagger gone, as he tries to figure out how to placate me, seeming a little bit lost. I want to tell him it's okay. Brush aside my fears and go with my gut.
"Five minutes?" he says. "Please? I know you're angry, and I can't figure out what I've done, and I need you to tell me so I can fix it."
Damn it, Eric, don't do this.
"I'm not angry," I say.
His voice firms. "Don't pull that shit with me, Casey. You've been distant since yesterday, and by this afternoon you could barely stand the sight of me. I need to know what I've done wrong."
I hesitate and then say, "Hold on. I'm coming down."
He's still on my back porch. The cross fox is out, prowling, and Dalton's gaze flicks to it and then back at me, like a schoolboy trying hard not to be distracted when he knows he's in trouble.
"It's about the case," I say.
"Yeah, I figured that."
"About Abbygail."
He nods, his expression neutral but his shoulders tightening as if he's bracing himself.
"The night of her birthday party, you were seen behind the community hall with her."
Silence. Then, "Fuck," and he closes his eyes, swaying slightly, and I want to grab him and shake him and say, No.
Do not do this, Eric. Do not tell me it's true. Or if it is true, give me an excuse. Don't stand there with your eyes closed looking like you're about to throw up, because that tells a very different story. One I do not want to hear.
"Eric?" I say.
"I--" His eyes open, and in them I see panic. Panic and guilt. Such incredible guilt. "We--It--"
He looks off to the side. At the fox and then away again.
"I need you to tell me what happened," I say.
"I know." His voice is barely above a whisper. "I will. I just ... It's ..."
He swallows and looks around for an escape hatch. He spots the back door and heads for it, throwing it open and walking inside, and I want to yell, Hey! That's my house! but I know there's no subtext in the intrusion. He wants to take this conversation inside, and so he does.
When I walk in, though, I see he wants something very different. He has my tequila bottle in hand, and he's pulling a mug off the shelf.
"I don't think you need that," I say.
"Yeah, I do. I really do."
He pours the shot and downs it so fast he gasps, grabbing the back of a chair as he doubles over, coughing. When he straightens, his eyes are watering. He closes them for a second and then looks at me and says, "I fucked up, Casey. I fucked up so bad."
I wave to a seat, but he shakes his head and stays standing, still gripping that chair.
"I was blind and I was stupid and I hurt her," he says. "I didn't mean to, but I did."
I struggle to stay calm. To look calm. "Tell me what happened."
"We left the party together. She'd had too much to drink, and someone had to walk her home. We were passing behind the hall, and she said she saw an animal dart under it. I followed and ... and she kissed me. I didn't see it coming. Absolutely did not see it coming. She'd pecked my cheek a couple of times, when I did something for her, and maybe that was a sign, but I thought it was just a friendly kiss. This wasn't. I couldn't even process what was happening. When I did, I backed away. Fast. I told her she'd had too much to drink. She said she'd had just enough to do what she didn't dare when she was sober. She said ... things. About me. How she felt. I panicked. I just panicked. I said hell no. That wasn't happening. Ever."
He swallows and white-knuckles the chair. "I rejected her. Rejected her hard. I didn't mean to, but like I said, I panicked. She got mad. Said I treated her like a child. Said she felt like the only way she'd get my attention is if she walked into the forest and made me come after her. But she was drunk. Drunk and talking nonsense, and that's what I thought until ..." The chair chatters against the wood floor, and I see his hands are shaking.
"Until she disappeared," I say. "By walking into the forest."
An abrupt nod. "That night, I stayed out until dawn patrolling, and then I put extra militia on during the day. But she came by the station and apologized. She said she'd been drunk and made a stupid mistake with the kiss, and she didn't really mean all those things she said. She apologized for threatening to go into the forest. She was angry with herself for saying I treat her like a child and then acting like one. Two nights later, she walked into the forest, and I wasn't paying attention anymore, and someone else must have been. Someone followed her and ..." His voice breaks. "I fucked up."
This is the Eric Dalton I know. This is the story that makes sense, and the anguish in his face tells me it's true. All except one part. That Abbygail went into the forest to spite him. There is nothing in the girl I've come to know that suggests she'd do that. Lash out and threaten to in drunken anger and humiliation? Yes. But she was mature enough to regret that the next day and apologize. She wouldn't do that and then take off.
Why did Abbygail go into the forest the night she disappeared? Only now do I realize that my sleeping brain really did figure it out, in a way. I dreamed that Dalton lured her in. What if someone else did, in his name? A note perhaps. And Abbygail, still smarting from his rejection, couldn't help but hope he'd reconsidered. That he'd taken time and realized he did have deeper feelings for her.
Come to the forest at midnight, Abby. Meet me by the big birch tree. I need to talk to you.
Streetwise Abbygail would only walk into those woods for one person. The guy she hoped would, one day, invite her there.
I don't tell Dalton what I think. I can't, because he'll still take responsibility. Instead, I say, "I don't think she'd do that."
He doesn't answer. Just reaches for the bottle.
"That won't help," I say.
"Sure as hell feels like it will."
He lets me take it from him, though, and slumps into a chair.
"So there's my drunken confession," he says. "Proof of exactly how incompetent your boss is."
"Bullshit, Eric. You're not incompetent. You just don't trust me to investigate."
"What?" He looks over, eyes struggling to focus.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
He closes his eyes and slouches. "Fuck."
"That's not an answer."
He reaches up and scratches his cheek, and opens his eyes, as if startled when he doesn't feel the familiar beard shadow. He's still shaving. For the trip, and then the memorial service, and now ... well, I don't know why.
He straightens. "I felt guilty and I didn't want to tell anyone what happened and I thought there was no reason to. Not unless I worried you'd find out and think I--" He looks over at me sharply. "Unless you'd think I killed her."
"I have to consider it," I say. "For anyone."
He goes still. Then he says, "Right. Of course." He runs his hand through his hair. "I knew you'd have to include me in the suspects, but I didn't put that together with Abbygail and that night, because, well, I didn't kill her, so I never made the connection and ..."
"You thought you didn't count."
He nods and slumps in his chair. "I told myself it didn't matter. I ju
st didn't want ... I knew how it looked ... I figured I blame myself enough that it's not like I need anyone else to point out that I fucked up."
"You only fucked up in not telling me, Eric."
We fade into silence. Finally he looks toward the steps. "I've kept you longer than five minutes."
I could say yes, and he'll go, but there's that look in his eyes, the same one he had the night I stitched him up, when he was hoping I'd give him an excuse to avoid going back to that oppressive house with Beth. Now he faces an equally oppressive one in his own empty house. Alone with his thoughts, like me in that cavern. Alone in the darkness.
"I have homemade herbal tea," I say. "A gift from the greenhouse folks, for solving the tomato case. I haven't actually worked up the nerve to try it. But if you're willing to be my guinea pig ..."
The faintest tweak of his lips, not nearly a smile. "I am."
"Then you start the fire and the kettle. I'll grab a sweater and blankets, and we'll sit on the deck."
Three
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, star-gaze 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. It wasn't like that at all. Mick 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."
Four
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 meaning 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.