Something did come of the flirtation, and Nicole had announced she was planning to spend the winter with Jacob, joking not to give away her apartment, because she might not last a week. She’s been gone ever since.
Having a partner means Jacob isn’t swinging by as often as he used to. We’ll need to look for him, and that’s why Dalton is trying so hard to solve the map puzzle on his own. The time we spend hunting for Jacob is time we’re not hunting for three missing hikers.
He sets his pencil down with a snap. “Fucking tourists. They should need to pass an exam before they’re allowed out there. You have to take a test to drive a car, fly a plane, do all kinds of dangerous shit. But you can just walk into the fucking wilderness dressed in your fucking fancy clothes, without a fucking satellite phone or any fucking common sense.”
I let him vent. This is the guy whose cardinal rule for newcomers isn’t “Don’t cause trouble” or “Pull your own weight.” It’s “Stay out of the fucking forest.”
You want to explore the wilderness? That’s great. No, seriously, that is fantastic. We have ways for you to do that. Hunting teams and harvesting teams and fishing teams and logging teams.
You just want to enjoy nature? We have guided hikes and boating and even spelunking.
You know what all those things have in common? An armed guide who will take you in and bring you out and keep you safe, and if you think I’m the world’s biggest asshole for not letting you go for a walk on your own? Then I’m the world’s biggest asshole. Now go join a team or shut the fuck up.
“These tourists aren’t our responsibility, but we need to figure out what happened,” I say. “As much as I hate to say it, rescuing potential survivors isn’t as important as identifying the perpetrators and convincing the council to help us resolve this.”
“Yeah.”
“And I really hate to say this but…”
“Injured tourists help our cause.”
We’ve been looking for the spark that will light a fire under the council’s ass and force them to admit the hostiles are a problem we must resolve. Having us attacked by hostiles last year didn’t do it. Having Maryanne tell us her story of kidnapping and brainwashing didn’t do it. Having hostiles murder a First Settlement resident last month—and their leader, Edwin, blaming Rockton for “riling them up”—didn’t do it. Maybe this finally will: tourists who could report wild people in the forest and return with law enforcement and camera crews.
“I need to just get off my ass and go find Jacob,” Dalton says.
“Sorry, yeah, you kinda do. And…” I take a deep breath.
“I need to do it alone because you’ve got a victim in critical condition. A victim you need to keep questioning.”
“I’m not sure she can give us any more.”
“She’s been delirious. She might be easier to speak to later. You need to stay.”
“While you run around the forest alone, after what happened to these people.”
Now I’m the one venting. The hostiles have always been there, and they’ve always been dangerous, and if they’ve been worse lately, that means Dalton will be even more careful than usual, and he’s already the most cautious person I know.
“I’ll take Storm,” he says.
“Thank you. She’ll help you track Jacob, too.”
“I know. I’ll pack, and you go do that other thing.” He quirks a smile. “The one I’m leaving town to avoid.”
“Telling the council that we have a Danish tourist in our infirmary, and three more Danes—dead or alive—in the forest.”
“You got it.” He claps a hand on my knee. “I would love to help, but like you said, I gotta get off my ass and find my brother.”
“Pretty sure you said that.”
“Just reading your mind. Now let’s go find Phil.”
* * *
We don’t need to find Phil. We’re at the station door when it flies open, clipping me in the nose. I stumble back into Storm, and Dalton catches my arm, snapping “Can you fucking knock?”
“I believe this is a public building, Sheriff,” Phil says as he walks in. “So, no, I will not knock. I will instead apologize to Casey for opening the door too abruptly.”
When I came to Rockton, Phil was a disembodied voice on the radio, and I formed a very vivid picture of our council liaison. Early fifties, short and balding, supercilious and prissy, a man who’d spent his career being passed over for promotions and now had to make the most of this limited source of power.
Then he showed up here to solve a problem and turned out to be the romance-cover version of a businessman. Thirty-one. Model-handsome. Tall, fit, and trim. The kind of guy who wears glasses to be taken seriously. That doesn’t mean he isn’t fussy or supercilious or even prissy. I had the personality right. I just made the unforgivable error of stereotyping the appearance that went along with it.
Today, Phil wears business-casual attire. Considering he’d dressed in a shirt and tie for the first few months, this is progress. He isn’t wearing his glasses, and I’d take that as a sign of progress, too … if not for the misbuttoned shirt and sleep-tousled hair that suggests he’s forgotten his glasses because he’s been roused from Isabel’s bed.
“We have a problem,” he says.
“Yes,” I say, “and I’m sorry you weren’t notified. I went by your house around two this morning, but you weren’t there. I can’t inform you if you’re not where we expect you to be.”
Actually, he was exactly where we expect him to be, but as long as he continues to pretend he isn’t sleeping with Isabel, then I’m justified in rapping on his door and moving on.
“I … have a feeling we are not discussing the same urgent situation,” he says. “I also have a feeling that, after you tell me what happened at two in the morning, my situation will suddenly be far less urgent.”
I wave for Phil to come in and sit. Dalton hesitates, and I tap his arm, saying, “Go find Jacob. I have this.”
“Jacob?” Phil turns to me. “If you are leaving again, Sheriff, you need to run that past me.”
“Never did before. Not starting now.” Dalton opens the door and motions for Storm to follow.
“You didn’t with my predecessors, an oversight I am attempting to rectify—”
The door closes behind Dalton and Storm. When Phil reaches for it, I deftly slide in the way.
“It is urgent,” I say. “He’s distracted by that, not ignoring you.”
And certainly not telling you to back the hell up because if you think he’s ever going to ask permission to leave town, you have a very overinflated opinion of your position here.
“I merely wish he would inform me—”
“That’s what I’m doing. Which I should have done last night. If you would just say ‘I’m staying with Isabel,’ then I could call on you at her place without risking the wrath of the woman who fills my tequila order. I’m very fond of my monthly bottle, and I don’t dare cross the dragon who provides it. Now tell me your emergency first and—”
The door bangs open with enough force to make us both jump. In walks a woman in her late thirties, average—even pleasant—looking. It’d taken me about an hour in Rockton to discover that “pleasant” isn’t a word anyone should ever apply to Jen.
“You two having a little celebration on my account?” she says as she stalks over. “Don’t mind if I join, then. Since I’m the cause of the festivities.”
“What are we celebrating?” I ask.
“My departure from Rockton.”
I frown. “You still have another month, don’t you?”
“This is fun for you, isn’t it, Detective?” She stops close enough for me to smell coffee on her breath. “Any more jabs you want to take? Or do you need me to turn around so you can stab me properly?”
I turn to Phil. “I’m guessing this is related to your urgent situation.”
He glances over at Jen.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that, pretty boy,” she
says. “I don’t bite. Though, considering who you’re banging, I get the feeling you like that. I might be a little young for you, though. You like them old enough to play momma and give you a spanking.”
To his credit, Phil only meets Jen’s gaze with a level stare, and after a moment, she shifts in discomfort.
“You’re the one who’s embarrassed to be banging her,” Jen mutters.
“Or perhaps I am aware of the dynamic it suggests, given our respective positions in town.”
“Her being the local whoremistress, you mean.”
That level stare again, and under the weight of it, Jen mutters and glances away. Yes, Isabel runs the brothel, and for all my initial issues with that, I have come to agree with her “my body, my choice” stance and she has been completely receptive to all of my suggestions for negotiating this difficult ground.
The brothel is also the reason Jen despises Isabel. Not because she has a moral objection to it, but because she’s freelanced in that area herself, which is strictly against town policy. We keep the sex trade tightly regulated for the women’s safety; Jen sees it as an unfair monopoly.
“Yes, this is what I wanted to speak to you about,” Phil says. “Jennifer requested an extension. It was rejected. To the surprise of everyone, I’m certain, but mostly you, Casey, who has had to deal with her extensive criminal activity and complete inability to cohabit with other residents, particularly those in authority.”
“Fuck you, pretty boy.”
“I rest my case.”
“I’m part of the goddamn militia,” Jen says. “Sherlock here hasn’t pinned a crime on me in almost a year … because I haven’t committed any. Even those so-called crimes were bullshit. I got hungry and grabbed some extra food. I got cold and grabbed some extra wood. Which I paid back.”
“Only after you were caught,” I say.
“I was framed.”
“We found your fingerprints.”
Her jaw sets. “They were planted. You think I wouldn’t know enough to wear gloves?”
“No, I think you couldn’t bother wearing gloves, because it’s so much more fun to get caught and have the excuse to tell everyone how incompetent the new detective is.”
“That’s what this is about, then. You vetoed my extension. Or you got that sheriff of yours—”
“Jennifer?” Phil cut in. “Please stop before you embarrass yourself further. Neither Casey nor Eric knew of your request for an extension. If they had, Casey would likely recommend it be granted, as she was the one who argued to allow you on the militia. Your continued attempts to paint her as your oppressor really do only embarrass yourself.”
Jen turns on him, but I step between them. “And as much fun as this conversation is, I’m going to need to bring it to a close. Jen? I’m sorry if you didn’t get an extension. The last time I heard, though, you were counting the days until you could leave. If you legitimately want an extension, I can provide a reference—I’m sure Will would, too—but the council didn’t grant Sam’s, either, and we all argued to keep him.”
“Sam didn’t request an extension.” She looks from me to Phil. “He told us he’d changed his mind.”
“The point is—” I begin.
“They refused Sam?”
“He’d been here four years,” Phil says. “The council felt that was enough.”
“I want an extension,” Jen says. “I’ve earned it. You know I have.”
She’s keeping the defensive set to her face, but genuine panic shadows her eyes.
“I will talk to the council,” I say.
Her eyes narrow. Before she can speak, I say, enunciating firmly, “If I say I will, then I will. You still have another month, and right now, I have a bigger problem. You want to help? Go over to the clinic and see what you can do. Tell Diana I sent you and that I said ‘Thanks for breakfast.’”
“I need a code word?”
I don’t bother to answer. If she walked in without saying it, Diana would figure she was poking about, causing trouble, and send her packing.
I open the door. “You will see our situation at the clinic. If Diana doesn’t need anything, then your job is to find out how many people in town know about that situation. Track it. See what’s being said. Get back to me.”
“You want me to be your spy?”
“I want to know how much I can trust you.”
She scowls but leaves without another word.
Once she’s gone, I say to Phil, “That’s the sixth request for an extension the council has turned down since fall.”
“Actually—” He shuts his mouth. “Yes, you are correct.”
“There are more, aren’t there?”
He hesitates.
“Yes, there are,” I say when he doesn’t reply. “They just haven’t mentioned it publicly. Like Sam telling the other militia that he didn’t ask for an extension. Those who asked didn’t admit they’d been rejected. Has anyone gotten one since you’ve been here?”
“Mathias.”
“Yeah,” I say as I sit on the desk edge. “Mathias is special, in so many ways.”
“There were several granted after I arrived last spring.”
“When did they stop?”
He pauses. Then he says, “Late summer, I believe. However, no one who has requested it was truly essential services, which is the definition required for an extension. Sam qualified, and I was surprised his request was denied, but it was his third extension.”
Fewer extensions being granted. Fewer residents being admitted. I should be okay with that. Dalton has said that, ideally, he’d like to see a town of about one hundred and fifty. He’s done the math and calculated that fewer than one-thirty would risk essential services, but more than one-seventy means less choice in living quarters, fewer jobs, and lower overall resident satisfaction. Maybe this suggests the council is actually listening to him, rather than overpopulating Rockton to fill their own pockets.
“I’ll talk to Jen later,” I say. “Get a feel for whether she’s honestly looking for an extension or just being a pain in the ass. For now, we have a Danish tourist in the clinic.”
“What?”
I start at the beginning.
EIGHT
It’s a good thing Dalton had to head into the forest in search of Jacob. It’s much easier to deal with the council’s bullshit without also having to mediate between them and our sheriff.
I understand Dalton’s frustration. He has a town to run, and his focus is on the people in it. He is the shepherd, and he needs to make sure every one of his flock returns home healthy and whole. To the council, though, the residents are widgets in two-year storage, and what counts is how much they pay for that privilege.
If Rockton were a country, the council would be the corporate interests and Dalton would be in charge of social services. That leaves me playing politician and negotiating between the two.
Fortunately, I have a budding ally in Phil. When he was first exiled to Rockton, he’d been like the junior exec sent onto the work floor, supposedly to get a better understanding of the business from the ground up, but really all sides knew it was a punishment. In his case, a punishment for failing to protect a very wealthy client … who was also a serial-killing psychopath.
Phil had reacted like most junior execs sent to work among the masses—he’d waited for his bosses to realize that it was all a big mistake and that they couldn’t live without him. When that didn’t happen, he made the best of it. They wanted him managing the town from the inside? Then that was what he’d do.
The thing about being on the inside, though, is that your perspective shifts. If I’d told him about Sophie a year ago, he’d have scolded me like a child bringing home a stray—and potentially rabid—animal. He’d lecture me on all the ways my actions had endangered the town and then trot off to tattle to the council.
When I tell him now, he just sags, one hand going to his forehead. I push the lone chair from behind the desk and let him sink into it. I
make coffee and, while it’s only 10 A.M., I add a generous shot of Irish whiskey. Tasting that, he hesitates, before his face fixes in a “fuck it” look and he downs the rest.
Phil’s equanimity restored, we discuss the matter. Never once does he chastise us for bringing Sophie in. He can be an ass, but he’s not an asshole. Not a monster. Not a sociopath. Living in Rockton, I’ve learned more about all three than I ever cared to.
Phil doesn’t suggest, even for a second, that we should have left Sophie on that lakeshore. Even in the beginning, he wouldn’t have done that, but he’d probably have suggested we pop a tent outside town and care for her there. Now he sees the ridiculousness of that. It will be far easier—and less suspicious—to feed her a story once she’s awake enough to ask questions.
The problem is that any story we devise still needs a helluva lot of explanation. Maybe not to Sophie herself. You were found by people in a small fly-in community. That makes sense. Or it does until we fly her back to civilization and she tells people about this town of two hundred souls that everyone knows does not exist.
The council, not surprisingly, freaks out. We have a new liaison on that end. A woman named Tamara who, to be bluntly honest, sounds like the female version of Phil. She does exactly what I’d have expected of him a year ago, and it’s Phil himself who gets the worst of her patronizing “disappointment.” He’s the council representative here; we’re just the dumb cops.
Tamara takes the information, and an hour later, returns to convey more “deep disappointment” from the council. As they’ve reminded me before, Rockton is for Rockton residents, who pay for their safety and privacy, and it is our duty to provide that. We should have stabilized Sophie at the scene and then notified them to pick her up and discreetly deposit her outside Dawson.
I’m sure this makes sense to them. It would in a city or even a rural countryside. Here, though? The council wouldn’t need to send a plane because she’d be scavenger-chow before morning. I’m not sure they would send a plane. Just let the scavengers do their work for them.
A Stranger in Town Page 6
