Dalton shoots past.
"Gun," he snarls. "Get your damn gun out."
I do. Ahead, I can still see Storm, her black rump bobbing. Then I spot a figure with its hands out to ward her off. Dalton shouts. The figure says "Whoa--" and Storm takes him down. Then laughter rings out. Sputtering laughter.
Dalton slows, shaking his head. As I jog over, Jacob struggles to get to his feet while pushing Storm off.
"No one can sneak up on you guys, can they?" Jacob says.
"Yeah, because sneaking up on people who have these"--Dalton waves his gun--"is such a good idea."
"Cranky." Jacob grins my way. "That's the word you use for him, right?"
"Yes," Dalton says. "I'm cranky because my damned fool brother just tried to get himself killed by sneaking up on me when I'm in this fucking forest looking for--"
"The guy who killed all those people?"
Dalton eases back. "Yeah. He escaped and--"
"Found him."
"What?"
Jacob's grin widens. "Does that make you less cranky, brother?"
"Depends on how much longer you stand here instead of taking me to him."
50
We'd speculated that Jacob might have abandoned his camp because he got wind of irresistible prey.
And he had. His prey was Oliver Brady.
Jacob was camping after taking down the bull caribou when he spotted the man he'd met with us a week ago, and he knew Brady ought not to be out wandering the forest alone.
Jacob had his bow and knife and a waterskin, and that was all he needed. He followed Brady for two days, waiting for an opportunity to take him down. He didn't get one. The first night--when Brady massacred the settlers--Jacob lost him late in the day. He managed to find him again yesterday afternoon and planned to capture him that night but . . .
"He met up with a guy," Jacob says.
I glance at Dalton. He says nothing but shoves his hands deeper into his pockets.
"Can you describe the person?" I ask.
"I didn't get too close, but I could tell he was smaller than your guy." Jacob moves a limb from the path. "No, not smaller. Shorter."
Jacob goes on to say the guy had short, dark hair, maybe graying, but he wore a hat so it was hard to tell. Clean-shaven. Dressed in jeans, boots, and a bulky jacket. Carried a gun.
I reach for Dalton's hand, our fingers interlocking. Jacob notices and says, "He's one of yours?"
I nod. "Our lead militia. He took off last night. He was due to go home the day Brady arrived. We suspected he helped Brady escape, but we hoped Brady had just conned him into it, convinced our guy he was innocent."
"That could still be the case, though, right? Brady tells your guy he's innocent, and gets his help escaping, and then they meet to get through the forest. Paid escort."
"Yeah," Dalton says, "but if we keep telling ourselves there's a logical explanation, we're going to end up on the business end of a gun, finding out there isn't."
"I guess so."
We keep walking. I ask Jacob where Brady has been, what he's been doing. Jacob first encountered him over by the mountain, where we found Val's body. From there, Brady wandered. Or so it seemed to us, but as Dalton points out, without wilderness navigation experience, he probably thought he was getting someplace.
It's even possible that he climbed the mountain to get a better vantage point and in the distance spotted the First Settlement. Because that's the direction he seemed to head. From the mountain, he must have met up with the hunting party and killed them. When Jacob found Brady's trail again the next day, he saw him watching the First Settlement.
"He scaled a tree on the far side. He kept his distance, but he stayed up there until early evening before he came down and took off."
Had he seen the village from the mountain, thought it was a town, and made his way there, only to realize those people lived even more primitively than we did? That they had no ATVs or motor vehicles or horses he could steal?
But the First Settlement was only two hours' walk from where Brady massacred settlers for their belongings. Why do that if he thought he was close to the end of his journey?
So many questions. All of them unanswerable until we have Brady.
Jacob had spent today tracking his quarry. Plan A had been to capture him at night and march him back at knifepoint. Plan B had been to wound him from afar and do the same. But Kenny's arrival kiboshed that.
Then, as Jacob tracked them, he heard the First Settlement men who'd escorted us into the forest. He overheard enough to realize we were in the area. So he'd made note of Brady's current location and hurried to find us.
We reach Brady's camp. He's not there. That's only mildly disappointing--we figured he'd only pulled over to rest. But he's been here, very recently, so we'll find him.
There are two wrappers in the clearing where Jacob had seen Brady and Kenny sitting on logs. Protein bar wrappers. The kind we keep stashed in the militia equipment shed.
I pick one up and examine it.
"Yeah, that's ours," Dalton says.
"I know." Something about the wrapper nudges at me, though, telling me to look closer. I see these bars almost daily--Dalton insists we inventory any pack before taking it out.
This flavor is my personal favorite-- chocolate peanut-butter. Or it used to be my favorite. The company revamped the recipe lately and changed the packaging, sticking on a New & Improved Taste! band, which I'd grumbled should read New & Cheaper Ingredients! because it definitely did not taste better.
"This is old stock," I say, confirming as I check the expiration date.
Dalton shrugs. Jacob has already headed out to find the trail, and Dalton's struggling against telling me to put the damned wrapper away and come on before the trail gets cold.
"We ran out of these months ago," I say.
"Yeah, okay." He peers into the forest, head tilting as if he's listening for his brother. Storm tugs at the leash, seconding his impatience.
"Did we have old stock anywhere?" I ask.
"I don't know," he says. "Is that important?"
It isn't. Not right now. But it's bugging me, like so many things.
I fold the wrapper and put it in my pocket as I follow him from the clearing.
Jacob finds the trail easily. Brady is no outdoorsman. Once he got far enough from Rockton, he stopped using even amateur methods of hiding his trail. He's walking along what he probably thinks is a path, but it's really just a deer route. That means it's narrow, and we find freshly broken twigs and crushed vegetation, and even footprints when the ground gets marshy.
Jacob is in the lead, maybe twenty paces ahead. It's impossible to walk silently with an eighty-pound Newfoundland panting and lumbering alongside us, so we're hanging back. When Jacob finds the footprints, he gives a birdcall and, through the trees, I see him gesture at the ground. Then he keeps going.
We reach the spot, and I see what he was indicating and crouch to examine footprint impressions in the soft ground. Some of the prints are partials, just a toe or heel squelching down, the rest of the foot on harder ground. But I count five nearly complete and distinct shoe impressions. Three come from sneakers. Brady had been wearing sneakers the last time I saw him.
When I motion for Dalton, he puts his foot beside one print and I can confirm it's the same size, a nine. Average-size feet from an average-size man. Yet they give me that now-familiar niggle. I didn't expect Brady would still be wearing sneakers. Why not, though? That's what he fled wearing, and it's not as if he'd have been able to find other footwear in the forest.
"Those are his," Dalton says. "Since you seem to be wondering."
"I am."
"They match the prints he left when he first ran. I remember thinking they're shitty shoes. The kind of fancy sneakers that wear out after a month out here."
I nod. He's right. But something . . .
I turn to the other prints. These are boots. Rockton boots. We don't exactly have a shopping mall of sele
ction in town. Dalton finds a couple of styles that fit his criteria--good for outdoors, readily available, durable and reasonably priced--and that's what you get. These are the type I wore until I went down to Whitehorse with Dalton and bought a pair better suited to my small feet.
I flash back to last month, in the station, waterproofing my new boots. Anders came in with Kenny and picked up the boot I'd already done.
He whistled. "Nice."
"Yep, I'm spoiled. Perks of sleeping with the boss."
"You mean compensation for sleeping with the boss."
Kenny chuckled at that and took the boot from Anders. "These are nice. Good arches. That's the problem with mine. Not enough support for high arches. Hurts like a bitch after a daylong hunt."
"How long have you been here?" Anders said. "And you're just telling us now?"
Kenny shrugged. "I didn't want to complain."
It'd been too late to get him special boots, and when Dalton said we had a stash of other ones--different designs for those who couldn't wear the usuals--Kenny had brushed it off. That's how he was. Never wanted to make waves. Never wanted to ask for anything special. Like the bullied kid who found his way into the cool clique and just wanted to ride that out, behave himself in case the others decided he was a pain in the ass and kicked him out.
Which is why helping Brady doesn't--
I rub my neck. Stop making excuses. My flashback does prove something: that I know Kenny left Rockton wearing boots like these.
Dalton moves his foot beside one print without prompting. It's smaller than his. Smaller enough to be noticeable, and yet significantly larger than my ladies' size five. A men's seven maybe.
I remember Anders joking that Kenny should try on mine--that they might fit. Which suggested Kenny's feet were small.
"Casey?"
I nod and straighten. This is the worst part of community policing--investigating a crime when the person responsible is someone I know, someone I like. I need to remind myself that beyond the few people I associate closely with, I don't really know anyone in Rockton. I cannot know their pasts. Even people without that past can come here and commit horrible crimes.
I grieve for the loss of the Kenny I thought I knew. I'm deep in my thoughts, following Dalton, and--
"Stop right there," a voice rings out. "Hands on your head, you son of a bitch, or I swear I'll--I'll fucking shoot you and drag your . . . fucking ass back to Rockton."
I know that voice. I even know the diction--a poor imitation of Dalton by a guy who wants to be him.
"Kenny?" I whisper. I was just thinking of Kenny, and therefore I must be mishearing or--
Dalton is running. Doubled over, running full out. I'm taking off after him, my gun out as he pulls his. We pass a tree, and ahead I see Kenny holding a gun at Jacob's back.
51
"Turn around," Kenny barks.
Jacob says something I can't hear, his voice low, words calming. He turns, and Kenny gives a start.
"Eric?" Kenny says to Jacob.
Jacob lowers his hood.
"Who the hell are--?" Kenny begins.
"Kenny!" Dalton thunders.
Kenny wheels, gun lowering, the perfect opportunity for Jacob to grab it, but he just stays with his hands on his head. Kenny realizes he's lowered his weapon and corrects his stance, but Dalton sees that gun go up, trained on his brother, and he lets out a roar. When he snarls "Drop that fucking--" he doesn't even need to finish. Kenny literally throws the gun aside.
The gun hits the ground hard enough that I half expect it to fire, but it only bounces into the undergrowth as Dalton knocks Kenny flying.
Kenny babbles something from the ground. I reach them, but I still can't make out what he's saying.
Then Dalton has his gun trained on Kenny, saying, "Get your ass in the air," and when Kenny doesn't obey within 1.5 seconds, "Get your fucking ass in the air!"
Jacob says, "Eric . . ."
"You think I'm being an asshole?" Dalton snarls and then turns to Jacob. "This is the head of my fucking militia. The man who let Brady get away and then came out here to join him."
"W-what?" Kenny says. "No. I mean, yes, I let him get away. I didn't do my job right. I screwed up. But I didn't come out here to--"
"Get in position," Dalton says. "Now."
Getting in position means assuming the position that's like a downward dog, feet and hands on the ground, butt in the air. The first time I saw Dalton make a guy do it, I thought Dalton was trying to shame the guy, make him look ridiculous. And while it does, that's just a bonus. The beauty of the position is that the average person cannot leap out of it and attack. If he tries to rise, a foot on the ass will put him down again.
It is also, as I later discovered, a trick Dalton learned from Cypher.
Kenny gets into position, saying, "Just listen to me, Eric. I left a note. Didn't you get--"
"Yeah, Casey found it. Covering your ass, in case we found you alone. You weren't alone a couple of hours ago, were you."
"What?"
"You were seen with Oliver Brady."
Kenny starts sputtering denials, which only pisses Dalton off, and Jacob is trying to interject until finally I step in, arms waving for silence. Dalton gets the last word, of course, but then backs down, a jerk of his chin telling me to handle this.
"Kenny?" I say. "Just be quiet and listen, okay?" I turn to Jacob. "Is this the guy you saw with Brady?"
"I didn't get a look at the guy's face," Jacob says. "This could be him. That's all I can say."
"It wasn't--" Kenny begins.
"Wait," I say.
"He's the right size," Jacob continues. "Jeans. Boots. Jacket. All the same or close enough to what I remember."
"Which is town-issue clothing," I say, and Kenny nods, relieved.
"Eric? Can you give me one of Kenny's boots?"
I train my gun on Kenny while Dalton removes a boot and hands it to me. It's the one I expect. Town-issue. Same tread as the prints I saw with Brady's.
"Have you been tracking Brady?" I say.
"I've been trying," Kenny says. "But I'm not Eric. I made a lot of noise, and I figured maybe Brady would see me and think I looked like easy pickings, and then I'd get the jump on him. It was a stupid plan. I haven't even heard anyone until this morning, and that was you guys." He glances at Jacob. "You're . . . one of Eric's contacts?"
The inflection tells me he knows full well Jacob is more. The resemblance is undeniable. But I only say, "Yes, Jacob is a local scout."
"I thought he was Brady. He's about the right size. And he's got light hair. His hood was up or I'd have noticed his hair's too long. Plus, uh, the beard." Kenny exhales. "I'm sorry. I heard someone, and then I saw a guy the right size, and I jumped the gun."
I compared Kenny's boot to Dalton's. Kenny's is a couple of sizes smaller.
"Have you been on this path?" I say.
"I was on a bigger one over there." He points left. "I might have been on this one earlier, but I don't think so. I've been heading for that mountain." He points to our right.
I look at Jacob. "The person you saw with Brady . . . He was definitely with him. Talking to him? Sitting with him?"
"I heard voices. They seemed to be talking. They sat together, and I saw the guy pass Brady food."
"Eric? Can you empty Kenny's pockets and backpack?"
He does. There's a waterskin and basic tools. For food, he's brought dried meat and a handful of protein bars.
"You took these from the supply cabinet?" I say, waving the bars.
Kenny nods. "I'll repay them."
"Not my biggest concern right now." I go through the handful of bars. "You already ate the chocolate peanut butter ones?"
"I didn't take any. I know those are your favorite, so I leave them for you. The cookie ones are good, though."
"She's not asking because she's hungry," Dalton says.
"Right. Sorry. I didn't take any of the chocolate peanut butter."
"What
about old stock?"
"Old stock?"
"There was a box of chocolate peanut butter that went missing a while ago. Do you know anything about that?"
Dalton's gaze cuts my way, but he says nothing. I'm bullshitting about the missing box. The truth is that we don't monitor the bars that tightly, figuring if the militia want to sneak a few extras, that's a perk for their help.
When I say that, though, Kenny looks uncomfortable.
"Kenny . . ." I prod.
"Someone took a bunch of old stock," he says. "I don't know what flavors. I just know that when I did inventory a while back, we had out-of-date bars and I put them aside to ask Will what to do with them, and they went missing. I decided not to say anything. They were old stock."
"You have no idea who took them?"
That uncomfortable look again. "I . . . No. I don't."
He's lying. I don't know why, but I need this answer. I study Kenny--the set of his jaw, the look in his eye--and I see it's not time to press the matter.
"Eric?" I lift Kenny's boot, and he nods.
When I pass Storm's lead to Jacob, Dalton's ready to argue, but I say, "I'll be quick," and I get a reluctant nod.
I take off at a jog back to the footprints. They're just around the corner, and when I reach them, I look back to see Dalton. He's moved about ten steps from Kenny, his gun still on the suspect but staying within sight range of me.
I crouch with the boot in hand. First, I confirm, beyond a doubt, that the tread is correct. Eyeballing it, I'd also say the size is, but when I lower the boot below the prints, I see that the ones in the soft earth appear to be a size smaller.
I prod the edge of the print. While the ground is damp, it doesn't seem wet enough for the print to have contracted a size. That's possible, though. Soft ground shifts. If the boot is the right type and almost the right size . . .
Wait.
It's not the same boot. Closer examination shows that the wear pattern doesn't match. Kenny's are worn, with an uneven tread, maybe the result of unsupportive boots and high arches. The prints look like new boots, the tread very distinct.
I check the tag inside Kenny's. Then I look at the prints again.
New boots. Rockton-issue. Size-seven men's. Small for a man's shoe.
Not small for a woman's. Not unreasonably large either. That works out to maybe a nine. While we have women's boot sizes, many choose to wear the guys', finding them sturdier.
This Fallen Prey Page 26
