He laughs like this is the funniest thing he's heard in years. Then he ushers me to a chair--sorry, the chair--and pours me a glass of water from a collapsible pouch.
"Are you a police detective?" he asks. "Or a private eye?"
"Police," I say.
"I was in law enforcement, too."
"Brent was a bail bondsman," Dalton says.
"Bounty hunter, please. It sounds sexier." Brent turns to me. "Shitty job. Paid well, but do you know the problem with people who jump bail?"
"They don't want to be caught?"
He cackles a laugh. "Right you are. And they are highly motivated. Got shot three times and stabbed five, and I have the scars to prove it. Here, let me show you."
"Another time," Dalton says.
"Hey, I bet I've got the best damned body she's ever seen on a man my age. Living up here? Climbing in and out of this place? Take a look at--" He starts pulling up his shirt.
Dalton stops him with, "Save it for a special occasion." He looks at me. "Brent chased a guy up here. Fellow ambushed him with sulphuric acid. He will not show you the scars to prove that, but it made him decide to give up chasing bad guys and just stay."
"In Rockton?" I ask.
"Fuck no," Brent says. "Pardon my French. Do you know what that place really is?"
"Brent is a conspiracy theorist," Dalton says. "He's got a dozen of them for Rockton. Next time we come out, ask him to tell you the one where it's a test facility for biological warfare. That's his best."
"You think so?" Brent says. "I like the alien ones better."
"The alien ones are shit." Dalton hefts the knapsack he brought. "Got some stuff for you, presuming you have goods and intel to trade."
"Both for you, Eric. Always. Did you bring me that Canadiens jersey?"
"Couldn't find it. Picked up a Maple Leafs one instead. That's okay, right?"
Brent spends the next minute telling Dalton why it is not okay in a diatribe only a true hockey fan could appreciate.
Dalton only shrugs. "Stupid fucking game anyway."
He gets another minute of fan ranting for that. Then he pulls out a Canadiens jersey and tosses it to Brent, who takes it and mutters, "Asshole." Then he turns to me. "I played for the Habs, you know."
"One season," Dalton says. "He warmed the bench."
"Asshole," Brent mutters.
"Keeping you honest." Dalton lowers himself to the floor in front of the fire and makes himself comfortable. "What do you have for me, Brent?"
Brent gives him a rundown on everything he's seen in the past week or so. The camp we'd spotted below was trappers--two men and a woman who are apparently part of a tiny community of former Rockton residents, now living about ten kilometres east. Dalton knows them and grumbles because they were supposed to "check in" when they were in the area, so his militia didn't mistake them for bears.
Speaking of bears, Brent had spotted two grizzlies, a "sow" and a young "boar," and I make a mental note of the terms. Dalton knows the female and wonders if the male is her son from a few springs back, and they debate that, rather like trying to figure out the parentage of a local kid based on whom he resembles.
Brent had also spotted a feral dog that had been giving them both trouble. He'd shot at it with his bow. "Lost the goddamn arrow," he says. He'd seen signs of a hostile, too, but that was way out, when he'd gone on an overnight hike. It was a woman, who'd only watched him. Dalton suggests she might have thought he looked like good husband material and razzes him about that, but otherwise seems unconcerned.
I listen, saying nothing, fascinated by what I'm hearing. It is all so far outside my realm of experience. And yet it isn't. Take out the details, and it sounds exactly like me dealing with a confidential informant. Brent lets Dalton know what is going on in the area, in return for goods like clothing and coffee and other items impossible to come by for a guy living in a cave.
When Brent finishes with the basic report, Dalton asks specific questions about Powys and Hastings. Brent never saw the former, hasn't seen the latter. He's a little annoyed by the question, too.
"If I spotted one of your people out here alone, you don't think I'd tell you?"
"Depends. Last time we had a runner, you admitted you saw him and never told me."
"I would have as soon as I saw you again."
"Could come by the town."
"I wasn't in a sociable mood."
"If you see anyone, will you come by?" Dalton pauses for at least ten seconds before adding, "Please." Brent sobers at that, as if the "please" tells him how serious this is.
"Everything okay, Eric?" he asks.
"That first guy I mentioned turned up dead with his legs cut off. There were signs he'd been butchered."
"Jesus." Brent pales. "You're serious?" He doesn't even wait for an answer before saying, "Course you are. Sorry. I just..." He looks like he wants to sit, and I rise, but he waves me back down. "Butchered? You're sure?"
"Am I sure someone cut off parts and ate them? No. Am I sure someone wanted it to look that way? Yeah."
Brent exhales. "Okay. Right. I just ... The cannibalism thing ... I've had some damned hard winters, but no matter how bad it gets, even if I stumbled over someone who was already dead..." He shudders. "No way. No fucking way." He glances sheepishly at me. "Sorry."
"Like I said, women do everything now. Even swear."
The smile grows, just a little, and they continue talking. Then they barter goods, and I'm not sure how much use Dalton has for the fur and cured meat, but he bargains hard, as if he does.
Before we leave, Brent says, "Hold on a sec. Got something for the little cutie-pie here."
"Her name's Casey," Dalton says.
Brent grins. "Please tell me you had a dog named Finnegan."
"Sure did," I say. "When I was five. He was a brown dog, just like the one on the show. He only existed in my mind, but he was the best imaginary pet ever."
Brent lets out a whoop of laughter, and I say to Dalton, "It was a kids' show. Mr. Dressup. There was a puppet named Casey--"
"--who had a dog named Finnegan." He offers a brief smile and a nod. "Got it."
"Well, that tells me what present to pick for you, then." Brent disappears into a dark corner of the room and hunkers down by an opening into what must be like a closet for him. He rattles around inside it and brings back a fist-sized woodcarving.
"Fox," he says. "I don't have a dog, but this is close."
"It's gorgeous," I say, and it is, so intricately carved that I can feel the fur under my fingers. "Did you do this?"
He nods with a gruff, "Lots of free time in the winters."
I thank him and ask if I can come back with Dalton sometime.
"Anytime," he says, and looks genuinely pleased.
We go to leave. I climb out first. When I'm nearly at the top, I hear Brent say, in a low voice to Dalton, "You seen Jacob?"
Dalton's reply comes quickly. "No. Why?"
"We were supposed to go hunting together three days ago. He never showed."
"What?"
"Nothing to worry about, Eric. It's not like he can call my cellphone if he has to cancel. I did see him the next day. Just caught a glimpse of him as I was coming down the mountain. I tried to hail him, but he didn't seem to hear."
"But you definitely saw him."
"I did. Sorry. Didn't mean to spook you."
I continue out through the cave entrance and their voices fade behind me. A few moments later, Dalton passes out the backpack.
All the way down the side of the hill, he says nothing. Then, at the bottom, he looks over to see me admiring the woodcarving, and I can feel that laser gaze drilling into me.
"You don't need to go back," he says.
"Is that your way of telling me I shouldn't?"
Frustration flashes in his eyes. "If I was telling you not to--"
"--then you'd tell me not to. Sorry. I'm still new at this, sheriff."
He nods. Then we take a few steps
before he says, "Brent has some problems. Beth says he might be mildly bipolar. You know what that is?"
"I'm a city cop. I need to know what that is."
"He's never been a threat, but he makes Will nervous. I'm not sure it's the mood swings or just the idea of someone living like that. Which is the long way of saying that if you aren't comfortable going back..."
"Then I'd never have offered. He's interesting. His situation is interesting, too, living out there. Which isn't to say that I'm looking at him like some kind of freak, either."
"All right, then."
After a few more steps, he glances over. I'm behind him and he looks out over his shoulder rather than directly back at me.
"You were kind to him." A moment's pause. "I appreciate that."
I nod, and we continue on to the ATVs.
TWENTY-NINE
When we get back to the station, I take off to find Diana and try to make dinner plans. She's getting ready for a date, though, so I return to the office until seven then go home and, well, work some more. Or I do until nine, when Anders spots my lantern glowing and pops in to say he's grabbing a beer with Dalton and asks if I want to join them. I do.
We take a table in the back corner of the Red Lion. Or I should say Dalton takes it, a jerk of his thumb making the couple who'd been there move without so much as a glower. Dalton waves me to the chair against the wall, and he and Anders pull up the other two across from me. Any guy who wants to get friendly with the new girl needs to pass both of them. No one tries.
I have a tequila shot followed by an iced tea. There's no chance of ordering a Diet Coke here. They fly in liquor, but otherwise it has to be something you can brew or mix with water.
We order nachos, too. The chips are cut and baked from homemade tortillas and the salsa is freshly made from greenhouse veggies. Both are delicious. There are a half-dozen chefs in Rockton, and they're among the highest-paid residents, which means only the best get the job, and they do their damnedest to keep it.
Nearly two hours pass, eating and drinking and talking. The bar's full, but we aren't bothered for our table.
"--we go into the forest," Anders is saying, "looking for this so-called wolf and--"
"Deputy!" a voice calls behind him. "I thought you were too busy to come out and play."
He turns, and I see Diana grinning in a way that I know means she's had too much to drink.
"You've been busy a lot, William," she continues. "And I'm trying not to take it personally, but..." She sees me and stops short. "Oh." Then with a sharp twist of sarcasm, "Well, that explains it."
"We were just grabbing after-shift drinks." I wave at Dalton, making it clear this isn't a tete-a-tete between me and Anders. "You're welcome to pull up a chair."
"Oh, am I? How generous." She walks to Dalton and leans over his shoulder to whisper loudly, "That means I get you. I always get the reject."
I freeze, certain I've misheard. Then I push to my feet. "Maybe we should step outside--"
"And settle this like men?" She lifts her fists as she sways. "Winner takes all? Or just one?" She leans to fake-whisper between the guys. "Casey doesn't do threesomes. She acts all liberal, and God knows she's not particular, but it's only one at a time, so don't get your hopes up."
I have her by the arm now. "All right, we're stepping out--"
She wrenches from my grasp and turns on Anders. "I figured this was the problem. I show up last week and you're all into me, but then less than twenty-four hours after you leave my bed, you seem to have forgotten my name. Because Casey arrived."
Anders is on his feet, sneaking glances at me as he lowers his voice to say, "We both had way too much to drink that night, Diana, and I feel like I took advantage. I said that afterward. I meant it."
"And I said you didn't take advantage, which means it's a bullshit excuse. I was fuckable when you were drunk. Why not just say that and--"
"Di, let's step out," I say.
"I asked if you had your eye on Will, and you brushed me off, when obviously--"
"When obviously I'm having a drink with both my co-workers--"
"But you've only got your eye on one." She turns to Dalton. "Don't bother. Casey might have lousy taste, but one thing she doesn't go for? Weird."
"Di!" I say.
"What? He is. Everyone says so. He's got more screws loose than you, which is saying a lot. No, like I told Casey, Will, you're exactly her type. Hot guys with more muscles than brains."
My fingers are locked around her arm again as I hiss, "That's enough--"
"Did she tell you boys about the guy she left behind? Ex-con bartender who could barely spell his own name. The guy was so dumb he took a bullet for her, and when she tells him she's leaving, the chump gives her that necklace she's wearing."
I've released her arm, and I'm shouldering my way through the crowded bar.
"Hey!" Diana calls. "Where are you going? Can't take the truth, Casey..."
She keeps talking. I walk out.
I'm in the gap between the bar and the next building, catching my breath, trembling with rage.
I'm not angry over what she said about me. An ex once said there was no use insulting me because nothing he could say was worse than what I already thought of myself. I think he was 50 percent full of shit--a frustrated psych major who couldn't get into grad school--but the other 50 percent...? I don't know.
What I'm pissed off about is letting Diana insult two guys who sure as hell didn't deserve it. I should have wised up and realized she'd stop once her target was gone.
Footsteps sound behind me. I wait to be sure they're coming my way, and it's not just some random drinker who decided he needed an outdoor piss. The booted footfalls keep coming.
"I'm sorry," I say. "That put you in a bad spot, and..." I turn, expecting Will, and see Dalton. "Oh."
"Will's walking her home," he says. "I asked him to."
"Thank you. I'm really sorry. She's drunk and--"
"She's a bitch."
I don't stiffen. I don't leap to her defence. I feel as if I should, because I always do, and she's my friend and she's drunk. But I just say, "What she said about you was totally uncalled for--"
"Don't give a shit about that. You think I haven't heard it?" He puts one hand on the wall and leans against it. "I know what I am, Casey. Hearing it from someone like that sure as hell doesn't bother me. She's a vindictive, jealous brat, and the fact that you've actually been friends with her for half your life proves you had a martyr complex even before that Saratori business."
"Wow. Thanks. Really. Because what I need right now--"
"What you need right now is to stop feeling responsible for Diana. Maybe I'm exaggerating about the martyr thing, but if you tell me that you didn't initially befriend her because you felt sorry for her? I'm calling bullshit."
I say nothing.
"You felt sorry for her, and she's been clinging to you ever since. You give and she takes, and then she has the gall to resent you for every imagined--"
"Can we not talk about this?"
"You know I'm right."
"I also know you like to tell me what's wrong with me, and I know I don't much like to hear it."
"Seemed you were okay when she was doing it."
I zip my jacket. "I'm sorry she ruined our evening. It was a good one. Thank you for that, and I'll see you tomorrow."
He follows me out and down the road. When I'm sure that's not just because he happens to be heading the same way, I say without turning, "If you're escorting me home, walk with me, please. Otherwise I feel like I'm being stalked."
He catches up with a few strides. We don't talk. We reach my porch, and I unlock my door and turn and say, "Thanks."
Then I pause. He can rub me the wrong way, and I sure as hell don't appreciate being psychoanalyzed, but otherwise it's been a good day for us. I don't want to end it being rude, so I say, "You're welcome to come in for a coffee, but after what Diana said..."
"Diana's a--" He c
uts himself off, though it looks as painful as if he actually bit his tongue. "I don't give a shit what anyone thinks, Butler, in case that isn't perfectly clear by now. Whatever a guy down south might expect of being asked into a woman's place, I'm not from down south. I figure you're offering me coffee because I walked you home and it's cold out and you'd feel rude turning me away at the door. To which I'd say that you worry too fucking much about being nice, especially to those who aren't particularly nice in return, but apparently you don't like me pointing out your faults."
"Shocking really, because most people love that."
I find a smile for him, and he nods, giving me a ghost of one in return, and then says, "Well, the polite thing for me to do now would be to say no, I don't want a coffee. But I do, so you're going to have to make me one."
Dalton starts the fire, and I put the full kettle on the hook. We wait in silence for it to boil. I'm making the French-press coffee when someone raps at the door. Dalton grunts, "Got it." A moment later, I hear Anders say, "Oh, hey," and then, "Everything okay?"
"Yep."
"I got Diana home fine, but I wanted to talk to Casey--"
"About Diana?"
"Well, yes. About what she said and--"
"She doesn't want to talk about Diana."
"Right. Okay. I get that. Does she, um..." Anders's voice lowers. "Does she not want to talk to me?"
"She never said that."
"Did she, uh, say anything? About what Diana said? Me and her, and..."
Anders trails off and Dalton seems to wait for more, then says, "Nope. Nothing. Talk to her in the morning."
I could go out and say no, that's fine, and invite Anders in. But I really don't want to discuss Diana. So I pretend not to hear them and take mugs from the cupboard.
"Right," Anders says after a moment. "Okay. So ... see you tomorrow, I guess."
Dalton says goodbye and shuts the door.
THIRTY
We're in my living room, and damn, I'm content. Even bordering on happy. I shouldn't be. Since I arrived in Rockton, I've felt like I'm on one of those playground rides that spins as fast as the other kids can run, and at first it's exhilarating, but then you just want to get the hell off, and no one will let you, and when it finally stops, you're left lurching around, trying not to puke in the sandbox. Then, just as the ground seemed to be levelling today, I was sucker-punched by my best friend--the whole damn reason I stepped on the ride in the first place.
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