“You can get those legally, too, if you follow the rules. You just can’t legally modify it to hold more rounds. There wouldn’t be any use for an AR-fifteen up here. A nine-mil, though?” I shrug. “It’d be shit for hunting, but it’s fine protection against anything smaller than a grizzly.”
“It’ll even kill that if you aim it right,” Dalton says.
I lean back and rub Storm’s ear. “Speaking of protection, I wonder if the hikers could have brought it.”
“Ah,” Anders says. “They bring a handgun for protection. The hostiles kill them and then use it … No, the settlers died first, right? Or around the same time? Close enough that the hostiles didn’t have time to figure out how to use guns, let alone become crack shots.”
“You’re meeting Cherise tomorrow, right?” I say to Dalton. “To give her the trade goods.”
“I am.”
“I’d like to come along.”
“I figured you would.”
SIXTEEN
Next I need to talk to Émilie. I’d said that I’d get to her right after the autopsy. I can argue that I wanted to run my theories past my fellow law enforcement officers first, and that’s partly true, but it’s also me being territorial and obstinate. Émilie wants to be the bridge between us and the council, just as Phil does. Everyone wants to smooth things over so we can all work together, put our differences aside to focus on Rockton and its residents.
In theory, that is good. In theory, it is excellent, and at one time, I’d have led the charge for unity. Yet the council has screwed us so often that the push for cooperation has started to feel like victim-blaming—if we’d just stop causing trouble, they’d stop punishing us.
I do believe there are elements in the council—like Émilie—that we can work with. I also believe there are elements we can’t, and since we only speak to Tamara, we can’t mentally sort the good from the bad from the indifferent. Other than Émilie, they are a homogeneous blob of negative experiences that I cannot trust. So in talking to Dalton and Anders first, I am saying these people are my priority. Protecting Rockton means communicating with my proven allies before anyone else.
When I go to talk to Émilie, I take Storm. She serves vital law enforcement purposes beyond guarding and tracking. She’s a comfort animal when needed and, in this case, she’s distraction and diversion. Nothing says “this is just a pleasant conversation” like bringing along your dog.
I’m halfway to Petra’s place when Storm gives a happy bark and races forward to meet Petra herself, out walking.
This winter, Petra took an arrow to the chest, and while she seems fine, I’m not sure how much of that is a true full recovery and how much is just Petra toughing it out. When we draw near, Petra drops to one knee and spreads her arms, a sign that allows Storm to embrace her, paws over Petra’s shoulders as they hug. Petra pats Storm and then rises, making an exaggerated show of spitting fur from her mouth.
“I do believe your puppy needs a brushing,” she says as I walk over.
“Weirdly, it hasn’t been high on my priority list this week.”
“Which is why I’m offering to do it for you.”
“Are you sure? Looks like you’ll be busy entertaining a guest.”
“Yeah. About that, I didn’t know she was coming. Not that I’d have been able to talk her out of it, but I’d have warned you.”
“I know.”
Less than a year ago, I’d thought how wonderful it was to have such an uncomplicated friendship. Then I learned that the smart, stable, drama-free comic-book artist I’d befriended was a former special ops agent.
As Petra argued, that was just one aspect of her, an aspect unrelated to our friendship, and what I saw was the real her. I’ve come to accept that—not only about Petra but about pretty much everyone in Rockton.
I use the analogy of the internet. On it, you can present whatever version of yourself you choose. While you can be a better person online—kinder and wittier and more open-minded than you are in real life—it’s easier to be your worst self, freed from expectations. An acquaintance who knows not to joke about cats in Chinese food when he’s near me may feel perfectly comfortable sharing those jokes online … or sharing Asian fetish porn with my face attached. Yes, I had that happen, from a colleague I’d thought was a decent guy.
Rockton is the internet in real life. Be the person you want to be, with no fear of long-term consequences. You can reinvent yourself, like Kenny, the high-school math teacher who decided to hone his carpentry skills while pumping weights as if it were his job. He became the buff, tough head of Rockton’s militia. Except … well, “tough” is a word I’d only apply to Kenny in the most positive sense. He doesn’t back down from trouble. He’s never complained about his injury, and he worked his ass off to get back on the militia legitimately, not as a pity post. Yet underneath the new exterior, he’s still the sweet and somewhat awkward guy I suspect he’s always been.
That’s the thing about Rockton. We can pretend to be someone new, but truth still outs. We are our real selves, for better or worse, because anything else is exhausting and pointless. The Petra before me is still the Petra I knew a year ago, even if it’s uncomfortable to admit that after her lies.
I continue, “Your grandmother’s arrival is a surprise all around. Phil is going to have a conniption.”
She snickers. “‘Conniption’ is exactly the right word. Poor guy.”
“Any chance I can get some advice?” I ask. “For dealing with her.”
“That’s why I’m here. I was watching to see when you started heading toward my place so I could intercept. I told Émilie I’m grabbing a snack at the bakery before it closes. Join me?”
“Yes, please.”
* * *
“We can skip the part where you tell me I can trust your grandmother,” I say. “I already expect to hear that.”
When she doesn’t answer, I look over to see her mouth set with concern.
“Are you actually going to warn me that I can’t trust her?” I say.
“No, but…” She shoves her hands into her jean pockets. “You can trust that Émilie only does what she perceives to be in Rockton’s best interests.”
“Uh-huh. Everything the council does is apparently in Rockton’s best interests.”
“The difference is that they’re feeding you a line of bullshit. They are concerned with the town’s well-being insofar as that keeps it financially stable. Émilie doesn’t give a shit about that. She has more money than she can spend. Every one of her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren has a trust fund. We still have to work for a living, but we can take whatever job we like, without concern for income. That’s her gift to us. My grandmother genuinely cares about Rockton as an ideal. I only mean that you two may disagree on how to best achieve that goal.”
“So trust that she thinks she’s doing what’s best for Rockton.”
“And for Eric.”
I glance over sharply. “Eric?”
Petra shrugs and lowers her voice as we enter a busier part of town. “I don’t know his full story. Only that something happened when he was a child, and she was concerned for his well-being and fought for him.”
She means Gene bringing Dalton into Rockton. Émilie disagreed with allowing Gene to keep him—she’d been uncomfortable with Gene’s story that the boy was neglected and abandoned.
Petra continues, “Do you remember those ads on TV for ‘fostering’ kids in Africa? You were assigned a child and sent money for their schooling and health care?”
“I knew someone who did that.”
“My parents always did. Now it has a whiff of the white-savior complex, but at the time, it was cool getting updates. My parents were so proud when ‘their’ kids grew up and graduated high school and went to college or learned a trade. As if they’d played a role beyond sending checks. That’s a bit like Émilie with Eric. She’s very proud of him, and she definitely has a soft spot for him. You can use that to your
advantage.”
“Got it.”
“Otherwise? Don’t underestimate her. She’s old. She’s a woman. She isn’t physically intimidating. She uses all that to her advantage.” Petra slides a glance my way. “As someone who meets those last two criteria, though, I suspect you’re prepared for that.”
“She flew a plane out here on her own. I would not make the mistake of underestimating her.”
“Good.”
We change the subject once we reach the bakery. It’s almost closing time, meaning pastries are half-price, and there’s a line. I feel gazes on me, people wanting to ask questions, but Petra keeps up a running patter that no one dares interrupt.
Once we reach the counter, I know I need to say something. Devon is watching me. He’s a baker and one of the town … I won’t say “gossips.” To me, that implies malicious intent. Devon fills the role of news source in a town without public media. His partner—Brian—bakes in the back, and Devon interacts with people. Conversation will naturally turn to current events, and he’s happy to discuss them. So when he watches me with that look, I know he’s waiting to see whether I have anything to pass on.
“Lots of talk, I’m guessing,” I say.
“Talk and speculation.”
“Mmm.”
The latter is the problem. The less we say, the more people make shit up to fill in the blanks. Let it go too long, and there’s no point correcting them. What they’ll remember is the speculation.
“Tell people I’ll call a meeting first thing tomorrow,” I say. “We have someone here from the council, and I can’t speak until I’ve run it by her.”
“A woman from the council?” Devon says.
I nod. “Petra is taking her in.”
“What about Phil?”
He means why not have her stay with Phil, but as soon as he says the name, I mentally smack myself. Émilie is here, and no one has told Phil.
Shit.
* * *
Earlier, I’d had a mini-meltdown, overwhelmed by everything after Sophie attacked Jay. Now I’m tempted to have another. Not so much a meltdown as a short-circuiting, my brain pulled in too many directions at once. So many things to do, and it’s already dinner hour, and I’m torn between needing more hours in my day and feeling like it should be midnight already.
Instead of ticking items off a to-do list on this endless day, I seem to be adding a dozen an hour. Juggling more and more balls only to be reminded, every now and then, of the ones I’ve dropped. Like telling Phil about Émilie.
I’m halfway across town when I see the man himself … walking with Dalton in the direction of Petra’s house. Dalton catches my eye and gestures something between a shrug and an exhausted shake of his head. He’s picked up this particular dropped ball then, having told Phil about Émilie, and now Phil is insisting on speaking to her and Dalton doesn’t have the energy to argue.
We reach Petra’s house at the same time. Phil marches straight inside, door banging in his wake.
“He’s taking it well,” I murmur as we follow.
“This is unacceptable,” Phil says as he strides into the living room, where Émilie sips tea.
“Hello, Phil. You look good. The fresh air obviously agrees with you.”
He stops in the middle of the room. “All visits by board members must be sanctioned by the council, with ample time provided to prepare for such a visit.”
Émilie frowns. “Are you certain? I don’t recall such a rule. Of course, at my age, my memory can be—”
“Do not even attempt that with me. Your memory is fine.” He glances back at us, his face hard. “The council insisted on a full psychological exam last year, when they had reason to doubt her faculties. She passed with flying colors.”
“Reason to doubt my faculties?” Émilie snorts. “They wanted to doubt my faculties. When Bruce was diagnosed with dementia, it gave them an idea. They hoped I would fail so they would have reason to oust me.”
“I thought you two had never met,” I say. “That’s what you told us last year, Phil.”
“We have since spoken, and I have launched inquiries. Her mental faculties are in perfect working order.”
“Excellent,” Émilie says. “Then you will have no excuse to ignore my advice.”
“And you have no excuse for being here.”
“Well, I could say that I came to help translate, but I don’t actually need an excuse. I am an original board member, and my husband and I were the largest early contributors to Rockton’s financial health. As such, we are grandfathered from all restrictions later placed on the board, which is why I was able to contact you last year without fear of censure.” She meets Phil’s gaze. “Section 9.3.2.1 of the policies and procedures manual.”
“I will check that. I have a copy in my lodgings.”
“I’m just surprised you haven’t memorized it.”
Phil rocks back on his heels. “I did not foresee the need before my tenure here, but I have been working on it.”
“That was a joke, Phil. Sit down. Have a tea. Try to relax. Whatever rules I have or have not broken, no one will blame you.”
“That is not my primary concern.”
“Then it seems Rockton has worked her magic on you, too. I’m glad to see it.”
Their eyes lock, and Phil stiffly lowers himself onto a seat. Dalton and I sit on the floor—unless you have one of the chalets, your place isn’t big enough for group entertaining, and Petra’s job at the general store doesn’t qualify her for better. I’m sure she could get top-notch accommodations with Émilie pulling the strings, but Émilie doesn’t seem the type to do that, and Petra certainly isn’t the type to accept it. Their privilege is the sort that only greases wheels that undeniably need greasing.
Petra sets out a platter of cookies. As I reach for one, she pulls it away with, “Everyone else, take yours fast, or they’ll be gone once Casey gets her hands on them. I’ve never seen a woman eat so many cookies without an extra ounce to show for it.”
“We work it off,” Dalton says as he takes a cookie.
Both Émilie and Petra sputter laughs.
“I bet you’re very helpful that way, Eric,” Émilie says. “Keeping Casey in shape.”
He hesitates, cookie to his mouth, and spots of color bloom on his cheeks. “I meant the job. It keeps us busy, which is the reason for this meeting.” He glances over, his eyes begging me to change the subject.
Before I can, Petra pushes the plate my way and looks at her grandmother. “If you want to get in Casey’s good graces, these are the key. Cookies. Preferably with chocolate. Chocolate chip, peanut butter with chocolate, oatmeal with chocolate … The bakers have learned to incorporate chocolate into at least one batch of every cookie they make. They know Casey’s weakness.”
“Nah,” Dalton says. “It’s not a weakness. It’s a trick. People think they can get on her good side with cookies and chocolate, and she lets them believe that so she gets all the cookies and chocolate she wants. No one actually benefits from it except Casey. And me. I’m the exception, right?”
He looks my way.
“Absolutely,” I say. “Just keep telling yourself that, and keep the chocolate coming.” I glance at Phil, who has finally relaxed.
“So, to bring everyone up to date…” I say, and I explain what happened this afternoon, for Petra and Phil, who’d only known the basics.
“Unfortunately, you’re going to need to throw Jay to the wolves,” Petra says.
When we all look at her, she wipes a crumb from her mouth and says, “I should be careful. Up here, that could be taken literally. What I mean is that I know Casey’s first impulse will be to downplay his responsibility. The poor guy is in a coma. No one wants to suggest it’s his own damn fault but…” She looks at me. “It is.”
“I’m not convinced he was aware of the risks—”
Dalton cuts me off. “He was, Casey. I know that. Diana knows it. April knows it. He knew Sophie was an outsider. He knew
her companions had been killed. He knew her head injury and infection left her confused and periodically violent. What the hell was he thinking untying her?”
“He was being kind.”
“Yep, and it may have gotten him killed. Petra’s right. Blaming the poor bastard is shitty, but it’s not a lie. We’re telling the true story, one everyone involved can verify. Sophie seemed calm but was distraught over the restraints. Jay went to remove them. Diana told him not to, but before she could call you in, Sophie had Jay on the floor. In the ensuing struggle, he was strangled with the IV cord, and you and Will were forced to shoot Sophie to save him. He is currently in a coma. That’s the story for the town, too. The truth. If you want me to tell it, I will.”
I shake my head. “It should come from me—and Will if he wants. I just struggle with telling people that we let a brand-new resident become involved in a dangerous situation.”
“Because he offered. He offered because he had a unique skill you needed. It was not a dangerous situation until he removed the damned restraints.”
“I barely knew the guy. I don’t want to eulogize him. I just…” I glance at Dalton. “Does he have anyone at home? Family?” I pause. “Sorry. I shouldn’t ask that.”
Émilie shakes her head. “Under the circumstances, I think you should have that information, as we may have some difficult decisions to make. Phil and Eric already have it, and I can get it easily enough.”
Petra rises. “But I don’t need to hear it. I’ll take Storm for a walk.”
No one stops her from leaving. When it comes to resident background, nobody tries to overhear anything they shouldn’t. If they were the subject of the discussion, they’d want equal care to be taken.
Once Petra’s gone, Dalton looks to Phil, letting him take the lead. Also covering his ass against any charges that he shared privileged information. Phil takes it as a sign of trust, possibly even a ceding of authority, straightens, and pulls out his cell phone.
“You have a cell phone?” Émilie says.
“To be used as a secured PDA rather than a communication device. The council has allowed me the use of the generators to charge it in return for access to my files on request.” Phil taps icons. “Jay came to us as a professor of Nordic studies from a Canadian university. The name of the university is, I believe, unnecessary. His credentials were validated.”
A Stranger in Town Page 14
