An abrupt nod, and he waves toward his house. We walk there in silence. Once we’re inside, he closes the door.
“I really am busy,” he says.
I nod and stay in the hallway. “We need to discuss how to handle things in future.”
Cool blue eyes rest on me. “Do we? My position in this town tells you how to handle matters. I should have been apprised of the new information. You didn’t trust me not to run to the council with it.”
“It isn’t about trust—”
“Eric is in charge here. You and I support his efforts. That makes you a colleague, not an underling. However, it means I am not your underling either. I am management level. I need to know everything that affects the management of this town.”
“Do you?” I say.
His jaw twitches again. Before he can answer, I continue, “Is that what you want? I’m not being facetious, Phil. Eric and I need you to take a long and hard look at your position and what is expected of you and whether you actually want what you’re requesting. You’re right. You and I are management level supporting Eric. But we’re not in charge of the same department. You actually don’t need to know new developments in a criminal case. It isn’t your department.”
“It is if it affects town security.”
“Does it?” I ease back. “Does it make an actual difference whether these settlers were murdered by hostiles or not? We’re keeping residents out of the forest. That covers all bases. And while Eric may be our CEO, he’s not on Rockton’s board. He works for them. We work for them. If Eric and I decide not to keep them abreast of every new development, that’s our choice. They expect it from us, to be honest. Do you want them to expect it of you?”
When he says nothing, I continue, “That’s what you need to decide, Phil. Where do you serve Rockton better? As the guy they can trust to pass on all new information? Or do you want to risk them finding out that you’ve jumped sides?”
I meet his gaze. “Have you jumped sides? Or is this your exit strategy?”
He blinks. “What?”
“Your exit strategy. Your way out of Rockton.”
“I know what an exit strategy is, Casey. I just don’t understand how it applies . . .” He trails off and then says, “You think I want the council to realize they cannot trust me. They’ll recall me and send someone else in my place. The problem with that is what they’ll do when they recall me.” He lifts a hand. “And, no, I don’t fear being buried in a shallow grave. What I fear, Casey, is the loss of my career. I was headhunted to the organization before I graduated from university. I interned there and immediately went to work for them upon my graduation. I have exactly one position on my résumé. A position I cannot use if they fire me.”
“You can always use them on a résumé. You just can’t use them as a reference.”
“They would deny ever having employed me, and a future employer would not find any record of such an organization. They’ve paid me very well for accepting this ‘quirk’ of my employment. Should I ever leave, they’ve promised to provide a proper reference from one of the board members’ corporations. That presumes, obviously, that we part on good terms. Otherwise . . . ?” He shrugs. “I believe Eric would say they have me by the balls. In an iron grip.”
“Okay, then you need to decide how to handle that. Do you want us only to tell you things you can pass along? Or tell you everything and let you handle the fallout if they realize you withheld information? Take time to think about that, please, Phil. I will apologize for not letting you know about the bullet, but in my defense, we were still working through the implications.”
He nods. “Understood. I’m sorry if I overreacted.”
“You didn’t. It was a shitty way for you to find out.”
“You were putting Edwin on the spot. I realize that. And I will let you return to your investigation and decide, with Émilie’s input, how to handle this with the council.”
“Or, since she’s technically your boss, you could just let her handle it. If she decides not to pass the information along . . .”
A smile touches his lips. “I will consider that. Thank you.”
* * *
When I get to the station, it’s empty. I’m about to retreat when Dalton calls, “Back here,” from the rear deck.
I find him in his chair, boots braced on the railing. He’s wearing the hat I bought him for sun protection, which bears more than a passing resemblance to a Stetson. He has it pulled down to shade his eyes, and as I walk out, I have to smile.
“You should be on the front porch with that pose,” I say. “Put a shotgun across your lap, and you’d be the perfect Wild West sheriff.”
He tilts up the hat. “Nah, the perfect Wild West sheriff doesn’t need a shotgun. Just a steely-eyed glare.” He narrows his eyes. “How am I doing?”
“I’m thoroughly intimidated.”
I hop onto the railing next to his propped-up feet. Behind me, a raven croaks, and I toss her a piece of bread. She’ll gobble it down and retreat, knowing she only gets one each time she spots me. A moment later, Storm appears from wherever she’s been wandering. The dog climbs onto the porch and thumps down between us.
“Edwin lied about a standoff with a hunting party,” I say.
Dalton grunts.
“You figured that?”
He lifts one shoulder. “About as much as you did. Felicity confirmed?”
“Unwittingly.”
“So what do you think Edwin’s up to?”
“You first.”
Dalton reaches down to pat Storm. “I think he came for exactly the reason I said. To give you shit about the hostiles. Kick your ass for not moving fast enough. Bitch about you not personally informing him of the tourist attack. Showing up in person only meant he was serious. When I chewed him out for it, he had to regroup. Made up some bullshit about having information. Probably hoped after that memory-lane trip with Émilie, we’d forget to press him on his purpose.”
When I don’t reply, his boot brushes my hip. “You disagree?”
“No. I don’t think Edwin had anything to do with the death of those hostiles or the staging. Unless the First Settlement got a handgun in the last few months, we know they only have rifles.” Last winter, one of Felicity’s friends tried to buy a handgun from us, and the discussion made it clear they had none and, like Cherise, saw no point in them.
I continue, “He’s right about the staging. He’d be subtler and, yes, the problem with the staging is that we were unlikely to find it. . . . Back to that in a moment. Felicity knows nothing about the settler deaths, and I don’t think he did either. That doesn’t, however, mean that no one from the First Settlement was involved.”
“Without Edwin’s knowledge.” Dalton pauses to rub Storm’s ear. “You think that’s why he let you send him packing so easily. He wanted to hightail it home and see if his people had anything to do with this.”
“He certainly didn’t leave because he felt bad realizing he’d been an asshole.”
Dalton snorts and then puts out a hand, a gesture for me to come over and sit with him.
“I do believe we’re on the clock, boss,” I say.
“We are indeed, meaning if I say”—he motions me toward his lap—“you gotta obey.”
“Pretty sure that’s a harassment suit waiting to happen.”
“Write out a report. I’ll make sure it gets to the proper authorities.”
I slide from the railing and step over Storm. Dalton eases back in his chair, tugging the hat down again as his eyes half close, arms open for me to slide into them. Instead, I veer to the door, his alarmed “Casey?” following me. I return with two bottles of beer from the icebox.
“Since we’re apparently on a work break,” I say.
He smiles and takes one, his hand sliding over it to flick off the layer of condensation. I lower myself onto his lap, and icy fingers glide down the back of my neck, making me yelp and nearly drop my own bottle.
“Pay
back,” he says.
“For getting you a beer?”
“For encouraging me to drink on the job.”
“You don’t need to drink it,” I say.
“I succumb to peer pressure far too easily.”
He flips the cap into the rusted can by his chair. I remember the first time I saw him drinking during a shift. I’d been appalled. Exactly the sort of behavior I expected from this redneck bully of a sheriff.
It hadn’t taken long to realize just how old those caps in the can were. He did have the occasional beer midafternoon, but considering how many hours he put in, no one could fault him for that.
I lean back against him. It’s a brief respite. We both know that, and after a pull from my beer, I say, “I messed up with my theory.”
“Ah.” His arms tighten around me. “Confession time. All right, Detective, tell me the very minor error that you made and then self-corrected before anyone caught it.”
“Edwin caught it.” I lay my head against his shoulder. “I kept thinking that whoever killed the settlers meant for us to mistake it for a hostile kill. Add to their body count and intensify the situation. But that doesn’t make sense.”
“Only if you presume the people responsible have the forethought to realize the flaw in their plans. That’s presuming a lot, Casey.”
He’s not being sarcastic here. Most crimes aren’t masterful acts of forethought and calculation. It is very possible that someone stumbled over the dead settlers, saw an opportunity, mutilated the corpses, and then said, “Shit, how do we show these hostile kills to Rockton without them realizing we did it?”
That’d been the strongest argument against Cherise’s culpability. She’s far too smart to stage a crime scene and then lead us to it.
“You’re right,” I say. “Someone could have done this, seen the flaw, and backed off to think it through. In the meantime, Cherise and Owen moved the bodies. If people from Edwin’s settlement are responsible, that’s the answer. But it’s also possible that this has nothing to do with us. That the killers were just covering their tracks by making it look like a wild-animal attack.”
“Which we then mistook for hostiles.”
I nod. “We can tell the bodies were slashed with a knife, but to the average person, with no forensic knowledge?” I shrug. “Knives and claws both tear.”
“That would make this an unrelated crime. It’s equally likely that someone found bodies, had a brilliant idea, and then realized it was stupid. Two potential theories.”
“Yes. I’m just kicking myself for not realizing the second one.”
“It’s been less than twenty-four hours since April discovered that bullet. It’s not like we’ve executed a suspect.” He rests his chin on my shoulder. “You aren’t down south anymore, Casey. None of your colleagues are going to question your handling of the case, and there’s no jury of public opinion to pillory you with ridiculous expectations.” He pauses. “Except Edwin, but he doesn’t count.”
He’s right. Down south, I learned to fall on my sword before anyone pushed me onto it. Make a mistake, however small? Be the first to mention it or else someone will use it as proof I didn’t deserve my position, like Edwin did. As Dalton has pointed out, such defensive tactics can backfire. Be too quick to say “mea culpa,” and no one misses any mistake, making it seem as if you screw up more often than others.
“Let’s work on this,” he says. “In the future, the correct response is not ‘Oh my God, I screwed up so badly,’ but ‘Hey, Eric, I’ve considered another possibility.’ Save the blame-taking for when I screw up. Then you can have it all.”
“Thank you.” I sip my beer. “What Émilie said about the First Settlement revolt, had you heard anything like that?”
“The version I got was that there’d been some trade trouble shortly after the First Settlement separated, and that’s why we avoided contact. The fact that guns were involved? Two residents killed? Edwin being the asshole who gave them the guns? No, somehow that didn’t get passed along.”
Which is the problem with an oral history in a transient population. If the council wanted to hide the specifics, they only needed to wait ten years or so for the story to fade into half-formed rumor.
“Do we stop dealing with Edwin?” I ask.
“Nah. The council has let him stay in the area. It’s been almost fifty years, and he’s never posed a threat. Hasn’t let his people pose one either. Right now, he’s a nuisance. I won’t put up with that shit. If he searches his settlement for potential perpetrators—and brings any back to us—then we can talk. If he protects them? Whole other situation.”
We drink in silence. Then he says, “Good call, by the way. Putting Edwin and Émilie together.”
I laugh, sputtering a mouthful of beer. “I did not foresee that, let me tell you. I figured they’re roughly of an age, and both mentioned they weren’t Rockton founders but came shortly after. So I thought there was a reasonable chance they knew each other—and with two strong personalities, that they had probably clashed.”
“Oh, they clashed all right. You expected sparks and got fireworks.”
“Yeah, somehow my mental scenarios did not include ‘Edwin and Émilie were friends and idealistic collaborators until Edwin held Émilie’s husband at gunpoint.’ ” I shake my head. “I always suspected relations with the First Settlement were volatile, but I had no idea. At least they don’t seem to have had trouble with the other settlement.”
“Different time, different reason for leaving. The Second Settlement just wanted to get back to nature. Hippies.”
“And the tea helped, I’m sure,” I say with a chuckle.
“Yeah. The tea definitely would have helped.”
I stop, with my bottle halfway to my lips. Then I push to my feet, startling Storm.
“Lightbulb just flashed, didn’t it?” Dalton says.
I set my beer on the railing and head into the station. On the desk is the sample of tea I’d needled Edwin about earlier. We’d gotten it from the Second Settlement, along with the recipe, which we’d re-created and compared to an analysis of the sample to prove it was the same.
The Second Settlement arose during the late hippie era, when a group of Rockton residents decided they wanted to renew their bond with nature. That sounds very New Age—and naive—but they’d had experts in their group, and they’d been a lot like the quartet Maryanne had headed out with. The difference was that there hadn’t been any hostiles to contend with . . . probably because, if my theory is right, they accidentally spawned the hostiles themselves. Yes, I’m well aware of the irony there—the most peaceful settlement gave birth to the most dangerous people in the forest.
It was the Second Settlement that discovered the tea. I don’t know how. They’d been vague on that. I presumed a botanist in their midst. The percentage of people in Rockton with degrees and advanced degrees far exceeds the general population. Dalton used to joke about that with the nonvictim residents—you’d think being so educated, they’d be less likely to get caught if they commit crimes. After I arrived, he realized it applied to me and stopped joking.
The truth is that the higher your education, the more likely you are to have the networks and the means to get to Rockton. Less likely to have dependents. More likely to have cash flow. Also, let’s be bluntly honest, more likely to have your application accepted. It’s easier to take a former dentist and assign him shop-clerk duty than to take someone in retail and occasionally ask him to perform dental surgery.
So my presumption is that among those early Second Settlement residents was a botanist or a pharmacist or a scientist with an interest in “pharmaceutical recreation.” That’s what’s in this jar on my desk. A natural intoxicant, mixed with dried berries and rose hips. As for what provides the intoxicating effect, I have that information under lock and key, literally. We don’t need residents coming across it and searching the woods for a natural high, especially when they’re more likely to end up brewing a lovely tea
of deadly water hemlock. Even knowing the ingredients, it’s the proportions that matter. Whoever created this tea knew what they were doing.
A Second Settlement resident concocts a tea that provides a mild narcotic effect, similar to marijuana. It calms nerves and, well, makes for very happy and peaceful settlers, the stereotype of the hippie with a joint in their mouth. It’s enjoyed the same way we enjoy our beer—at the end of a long day, a much-needed break in the daily grind of survival. A treat, not a staple.
I have a second jar of tea, too. It’s used for rituals, and it produces an added state of mild hallucinations. The Second Settlement reveres nature, and they hold rituals where they imbibe this tea to connect with the elemental spirits. I make no judgment call on that. It is their faith, and like most faiths, it both enhances their lives and, occasionally, impedes them.
Two teas. Two purposes. Both as tightly regulated as our liquor. I’ve seen nothing in the Second Settlement that would lead me to argue against either version. I believe what happened with the hostiles is an unintended consequence, impossible to foresee.
I know from Maryanne that the hostiles also drink two forms of narcotic. The first produces results similar to what the Second Settlement calls their peace tea. The second brew is much more dangerous, heightening awareness and aggression and lowering inhibitions while causing a hallucinatory state similar to LSD.
I’ve shown Maryanne ingredients from both Second Settlement teas. Only the hostiles’ shaman knows the exact ingredients of theirs, but Maryanne was able to confirm these were among the items she was told to gather. She has also sampled the peace tea and confirmed it seems similar to the hostiles’ daily intoxicant brew, though the hostiles’ was far more potent.
I believe, then, that the original hostiles were from the Second Settlement. They leave to pursue their own community. They brew the tea they’re accustomed to and then, well, it’s the age-old question for intoxicants, right? If a 5 percent beer gives me a buzz, what does an 8 percent beer do? An eighty-proof shot of whiskey? A hundred-proof?
A Stranger in Town: a Rockton novel Page 19
