“You prefer bump keys or jumping the engine?”
He smiles. “Been a while since I actually jacked anything, but at the time, it was bump keys.”
I hope my expression doesn’t change. You don’t jack a car with a bump key. Or by “jumping the engine”—whatever that means.
Sebastian leans back, getting comfortable. “One thing you won’t find on my records is violence. I’m sure Sheriff Dalton can confirm that. I hurt people. I don’t deny that. When you steal their stuff or sell them drugs, you’re hurting them. But I’ve never physically assaulted anyone.”
“Do you know why the victim was in Rockton?”
“I heard he was a marshal. That rules me out too—I don’t even own a passport.” He looks at Dalton, who nods.
Sebastian continues. “It caused me some trouble getting in. No passport. No driver’s license. But I didn’t lead the kind of life where I’d be going on vacation to Disney World anytime soon. Didn’t have the kind of family who’d take me, either. As for driving, well, they weren’t my cars, so I didn’t see the point in getting a license.”
“What about your drug crimes?”
“Possession with intent. That’s it. I never hit the big leagues. I guess that’s a good thing. I can honestly say that whatever trouble I got myself into, no one is coming up here after me. My rap sheet might be long, but it’s penny ante charges.”
“Which brought you up here?”
He hesitates. It’s only a split second before he shrugs, but I notice that pause. “Like I said, it was a long sheet. I pissed off some people. No one who’d have the brains to find this place, though.”
I glance at his shirt again. “What did you want to take at Western?”
His eyes light up. As we’ve been talking, he’s been calm, relaxed. Distant, though. Like talking to a guy interviewing for a job he’d like, but if he doesn’t get it, well, there are others.
When I ask about the university, it’s as if I’ve finally hit the internal switch that engages him.
“Law,” he says. “I wanted to get an undergrad degree at Western, double major, criminology and ecomonics, and then go to Queens for law.”
“Good plan,” I say.
He shrugs. “It was. It still is. I just need to get through some things first. Clean up my life and get it on track.”
We chat more about his plans, and Dalton keeps shooting me looks. He knows I’m going somewhere with this, but he can’t see it. Finally I end the interview and thank Sebastian for his time.
Once we’re away from the house, Dalton says, “He’s never stolen a car, has he?”
“He might have,” I say. “But only if the keys were in the ignition.”
“What about the rest? The questions about where he wanted to go to university, what he wanted to take?”
“I was following a hunch,” I say. “He seemed very well-spoken. Polite. Intelligent. At ease. Confident.”
“Yeah . . .”
“Like Abbygail when she arrived, right?”
Dalton snorts.
“Would you have called her well-spoken?” I ask.
“Fuck, no.”
“Extensive vocabulary? Good diction?”
Another snort. “If we’re talking profanity, yeah, she had an even better vocabulary than me. But that wasn’t her fault. School wasn’t exactly a priority in her life. She was barely literate when . . .”
He looks at me. “He doesn’t fit his background.”
“Sebastian is not a kid from the streets. Trust me. You can get some who are well-read, self-taught like you, but that’s rare. You can get some from middle-class backgrounds, good educations, but that’s not the story he gave. Did Abbygail come to Rockton wearing a university shirt? Knowing what degrees she wanted? Where to get them?”
“Fuck no.”
“He could be faking it. Inventing a future for himself. But that was the one time he lit up. The one subject he engaged on.”
“Yeah, I noticed that. Until then, it was like he was reading lines for a role he studied. That last part, though, that was real.”
“And I think it’s the only part that was.”
THIRTY-TWO
According to our plans, the moment the sun breaks over the horizon, we’ll be in the plane, rolling down the runway, taking April to Dawson. There’s a good chance it’ll be hours before anyone realizes we aren’t just at home, sleeping in while leaving Anders on duty.
The next morning, though, I have trouble getting April moving. My ultra-efficient sister dawdles enough that I start wondering if something’s wrong. To be honest, though, “dawdling” isn’t the right word. Fussing is better. After I pick her up, she insists on stopping by the clinic to check on Kenny, and then she begins fretting.
“April,” I say. “We know what to do for him. You practically wrote us a book.”
“This isn’t right,” she says. “You need a full-time doctor.”
“Are you volunteering?”
“Of course not. I’m saying that you cannot have a patient in this condition without proper medical care.”
I sigh. “We’ve been over this. The council needs to wait for a doctor to apply for entry. If you think I just haven’t fought hard enough, you’ve never seen me fight. And you’re sure as hell never seen Eric fight.”
“I know. It’s just . . .”
“Do you have any suggestions?”
She shakes her head and opens the door into the exam room, where Kenny is awake.
“You need a doctor,” she says to him.
“You volunteering?” he says.
She doesn’t snap at him. In fact, I swear her cheeks flush.
“I can’t,” she says. “I have a job and responsibilities that I cannot ignore.”
“I’m kidding, April,” he says. “I know you’re busy. No one expects you to stay.”
She fusses with the bedside tray. “I meant that you need medical care in a place that is equipped to provide it, which this town is not. If they cannot bring you care, then you must go out and get it. While I am very busy, I would, under the circumstances, offer to accompany you to Vancouver. I’m sure the town council could arrange transport.”
“No, April,” he says, his voice low. “We’ve been through this. If I leave, they won’t let me back in.”
“You were leaving,” she says. “Your time is up.”
“My minimum time is up,” he says. “I realize now that I didn’t want to leave.”
“So you’ll stay, despite the fact that inadequate medical care might cost you your mobility.”
“We’ve been through—”
“That is ridiculous,” she says. “You cannot make these decisions while you’re on painkillers.”
“Which is why I made you stop giving them to me yesterday, and it didn’t change my mind.”
“Because you were in pain then and therefore still not thinking clearly.”
“April?” I cut in. “I understand that you’re upset—”
“I am not upset. I’m frustrated and annoyed by the patient’s illogical reasoning.”
“Kenny,” he says. “I have a name.”
“I am aware of that,” she snaps. “And if the patient would act in a mature manner, I would address him by his name, but in this context, his key identifying trait is that he is a patient, one who required medical and therapeutic care.”
“April?” I say again. “We need to go. Either we leave, or you don’t.”
“I’ll be fine,” Kenny says.
She turns to snap at him again and then throws up her arms and stomps out.
“Goodbye?” Kenny says after she’s gone.
“Sorry,” I say.
He smiles and shakes his head. “It’s fine. That’s her way of saying goodbye. At least she cares what happens to me.”
“She does,” I say.
“I know. Now get her home before the council finds out she’s leaving.”
* * *
Dalton has the plane
ready. He grumbles when we walk in late, and April lights into him, starting up all over again about Kenny. Dalton arches his brows and tries taking her bag, but she wrests it from him, stalks over and throws it through the open hatch.
“Huh,” Dalton murmurs to me. “Actual emotion. That’s a switch.”
“Hmmm.” I raise my voice. “April? Would you like to sit up front? It’s a better view.”
“I don’t want a view. The sooner I’m out of this godforsaken forest, the better.”
She starts climbing into the rear seats.
“I’m afraid I can’t let you do that,” says a voice behind us.
We turn to see Phil.
“Fucking hell,” Dalton mutters as he bears down on Phil.
I step between the two men. “Hey, Phil. You’re up. Good. I went by your house to talk to you, but it was dark. Not surprising at four in the morning. We’re running April to Dawson, and then we’re going to do a bit of online—”
“No, you are not.”
“We’ll be quick,” I say. “We just need to look up a few things—”
“You know that’s not what I mean, Detective. You are not taking your sister home.”
“We’ve discussed this,” I say. “I promised she’d be back in Vancouver for work tomorrow. She’s been fully debriefed, just like any departing resident.”
“Your sister is a suspect in this crime.”
“That is ridiculous,” April says, getting out of the plane. “I was in the clinic with witnesses at the time we received word that Casey was bringing Marshal Garcia, wounded. I followed the first responders and arrived on the scene with them.”
“After them,” he corrected. “You arrives shortly after them. Even if you were not the shooter, that doesn’t address the allegation that you led Marshal Garcia here. That he was following you.”
April starts to sputter.
“The possibility of that is extremely low,” I say.
“Low?” April says. “I am not a criminal—”
“Extremely low,” I repeat. “How Mark Garcia arrived here is something we plan to investigate in Dawson. Eric has a theory.”
“As long as there is any chance your sister led him here, she cannot leave.”
“If she led him here, why would she want to leave?” I say. “If she was somehow, very coincidentally, in danger when I just happened to offer her safe haven, why would she leave now?”
“She is not leaving,” Phil says. “Until the council agrees to her departure, she must remain in Rockton. That is the price you pay for bringing her in behind their backs. They are not letting her leave the same way. They warned me to watch for this, and when I saw you both heading toward the hangar at daybreak, I knew what you were doing.”
“Great,” I say. “So you tried to stop us and failed. Tell them whatever story you want. We will fully support it. This is entirely our fault. You did the right thing. We’re the ones who disobeyed. Now, we’ll be back before sundown—”
Phil pulls a gun from his pocket and points it at Dalton. Dalton’s eyes narrow, and he advances on Phil.
“Is that how we’re playing things?” Dalton says. “Every time you want us to do something, you’re going to pull that fucking gun? Is that how you do it down south, Phil?”
“I—”
“No, it’s not. You wouldn’t dare. Down south people deserve basic respect. Up here we’re just a bunch of savages who need a gun waved in our faces before we’ll listen to you.”
I’m holding myself still, heart slamming into my ribs, barely able to hear Dalton’s words as he walks straight toward that gun.
Please don’t do this, Eric. Step back. I know you’re making a point, one you need to make, but please, please don’t.
The only thing that stops me is seeing Phil’s index finger, held far from the trigger. I see that, and I see the gun, and a safety switch flicks on in my head, allowing my thoughts to zoom down another track.
Dalton stops in front of Phil. “There? Does that help? You wouldn’t want to miss your target when you shoot me for doing my damn job.”
“I—”
“That’s what I’m doing, Phil. The council is fucked. You’re here, and Val’s dead, and the council hasn’t gotten its shit together, and it seems in no hurry to do that. When we ask to speak to someone, we get some old lady who doesn’t even seem to have the power to make an executive decision. Meanwhile, we have a dead U.S. Marshal and a resident with a bullet in his fucking back—a bullet fired by your goddamned predecessor. So what am I doing here? Disobeying orders? No. The damned council hasn’t even told me what your position is, so I’m sure as hell not taking orders from you. I’m returning this doctor to the south—as promised—and I’m helping my detective pursue this case. That’s my fucking job. So if you want to kill me for doing it . . .”
“I’m not going to kill you, Eric.”
“You’re holding a fucking gun on me!” Dalton booms, loud enough to make Phil jump. My heart stops as I watch Phil’s trigger finger. That finger doesn’t move, though. If anything, it shifts further back.
“The intention of that weapon is to kill me,” Dalton says. “If you pull that trigger, it won’t matter if you’re shooting my shoulder or shooting over my shoulder, you are a dead man.”
Phil’s mouth opens. Then he follows Dalton’s gaze to me, standing with my gun pointed.
“If you fire, she fires,” Dalton says. “She’s not going to wait until she sees where you aimed.”
“Just ask Val,” I say.
Dalton winces at that, but it has the desired effect. All the blood drains from Phil’s face.
“You do not aim a gun unless you intend to shoot,” I say. “I will shoot. You know that.”
“Eh, don’t worry about it, Phil,” Dalton says. “Ignore that loaded gun aimed at your chest, like I’m supposed to ignore the one you’re pointing at mine. No big deal, right?”
Phil lowers his weapon. I do the same.
“There,” Dalton says. “Now we’re back to square one, where I tell you I’m leaving, and you tell me I’m not, and this time, I’ll ask if the council has spoken on the matter.”
“No, but they consider Casey’s sister a suspect. You’re putting me in a very difficult position here, Eric.”
“Yeah, get used to it. All the positions up here are difficult. All the choices are tough. We don’t wave guns around to get our way. If you ever see me doing that, feel free to take my badge. If you want, I can clock you.”
“Clock me?”
“Hit you. Jaw’s best. It’ll leave a mark, and we’ll tell everyone that’s what I did when you tried to stop me. Not your fault. I’m just an asshole.”
“I am not letting you hit me.”
Dalton snorts. “No, but you were willing to shoot me. You got a strange sense of priorities there, Phil. Fine. Play it your way. If you can stop me without resorting to gun-fire, you’re free to do so.”
“I’ll stay.”
The voice comes from behind me. I turn to see April, the source of this argument, forgotten by everyone. She steps forward.
“I understand your predicament,” she says. “Casey and Eric promised I could leave, and they are attempting to make good on that promise. However, if they do so, they risk both disobeying this council and placing Phil in an even more precarious situation. Casey did attempt to warn me about the circumstances here. I thought she was exaggerating. I see now that she wasn’t, and furthermore, that no one could have foreseen this collision of events—my arrival coinciding with the arrival and murder of this U.S. Marshal. The timing of those events makes me a suspect, and if I were at home in this situation, I’d be told I cannot leave town until the matter is resolved. The same applies here.”
“You have commitments,” I say. “You’re needed In Vancouver.”
“Which makes this inconvenient, but emergencies happen. What I will ask, Phil, is that you allow Casey to go to Dawson to conduct her research and, at that time, she can mak
e the appropriate calls, with excuses that will permit me another week here. I know I’m not guilty of any crime, and I’m sure a week is all you’ll need to determine that.” She looks at Phil. “Is that acceptable?”
“I need to check with the council.”
“Fuck the council,” Dalton says. “You know they’ll waffle, say they can’t guarantee anything. She’s asking for a promise, Phil. From you. She’s staying here, for what you and I both know is no damned good reason. She’s putting her professional reputation on the line to save your ass. We all know you’re screwed here. The sad truth is that Casey and I can’t afford to give a damn. April is throwing you a life jacket, but you’re going to need to swim a bit to grab it. You want to swim? Or just keep paddling and hope you stay afloat?”
Phil’s jaw twitches, but after a moment, he says, “One week. I will not update the council on this matter, and they will likely forget April is here. She may leave on the weekend.”
“Great,” I say. “Now, hand over the gun.”
“What?”
“This is the second time you’ve pulled it,” I say. “You’re a cop’s worst nightmare. The dude who carries his handgun to the grocery store and pulls it on the guy who cuts him off in line.”
“That is—”
“True,” Dalton says. “One hundred perfect true. You’ve got the gun, so you yank it out, with no idea what that means. You’re going to get yourself shot. Give it to Casey. We’ll lock it up.”
Phil slips the gun under his jacket. “No.”
“Is that in your waistband?” I say. “Please tell me you are not carrying a loaded gun in your waistband.”
“The gun is mine, Detective, to do with as I like.”
“And you like shooting your balls off?” Dalton looks at me. “It would be wrong to make a crack about him not having any to shoot, wouldn’t it?”
“Totally wrong. Phil, I’m giving you one last chance to hand over the gun. It is against town rules for anyone other than law enforcement to possess a firearm. In light of what happened with Val, I would strongly suggest this is not a rule you want to break.”
“The gun is for my personal protection, Detective, and as you’ve pointed out, I have no official role in this town. Therefore, I will continue to carry it.”
Watcher in the Woods: A Rockton Novel Page 23
