"She did say you didn't want her going."
"Right." He catches my look and groans. "Is this that shit about me treating her different because she's a woman? I told her I don't let anyone go into the woods that soon after they arrive. It was weeks before I let Will on patrol, and no one came better equipped to handle himself in a bad situation. The problem was that he wasn't accustomed to that situation. The forest."
He walks a few more steps, grumbling under his breath. "I never know what to do with that shit. I can say gender has nothing to do with it. I can give examples to prove my point. But with someone like Val, I just can't win."
"You can't. I'm sorry. If it's any consolation, it's not you."
"It's her?"
"No, it's every man who did push her back because she's a woman. You're just the poor guy who has to deal with the accumulated hostility and prejudice. But in this case, you were right not to want her going into the forest. Look what happened. Your concern was justified. Then you responded appropriately, taking all measures to find her. So why was she acting weird about it?"
"Weird how?"
"She brought you into the narrative, and when I asked if you or your actions had any bearing on what happened, she said no. Repeatedly no. But in a way that said yes, if you know what I mean."
"Holding something back."
"Right."
He exhales. "Fuck. I..." Another exhale. "I have no idea, Casey. I really don't. I told her not to go. I wasn't with the patrol party. She's not claiming that anyone lured her from the path. She saw her attackers--and they weren't me. She's not questioning the steps I took to find her, which--if anything--were over and above because she's the council rep and she already didn't like me. I was up all night with the search party. Even the damned council thought I was allocating too many resources to finding her."
"You say she didn't like you before that."
"Yeah, but it was mostly just the sense that she thought I was some dumb redneck, too young to be sheriff. Dismissing me rather than outright hating my guts, like she does now."
"When did that change?"
He walks in silence, thinking. "After she got back. Not right away. At first, she was grateful. She apologized to me. Told me I'd been right to want her to stay out of the forest and thanked me for putting so much effort into finding her when it was her own stupid mistake. I said everyone underestimates the danger out here, and it's so easy to get turned around in the forest. Everything seemed fine. And then it wasn't."
"When did it go wrong?"
"Maybe a week or two after that? I remember she'd taken a few days off, and we still seemed to be okay, and then she started making excuses for skipping our meetings--they were daily back then, me giving reports. I figured it was trauma. Isabel agreed. We decided to give her space, but it only just got worse after that. I never tried figuring out what changed her mind about me. I just thought..." He shrugs. "I thought it was me. Our styles clash, I was too rough around the edges, she wasn't accustomed to men like me. Whatever the reason, I sure as hell wasn't going to change to make her comfortable."
"It wasn't you," I say. "Something more happened. After she got back."
"I see that now. I just wish I had a clue what it was."
*
As we walk, I ask Dalton more about the relationship between Rockton and the "locals." I know the basics, of course, but now's the time to hammer those down to specifics--before I meet Cox and say anything I shouldn't.
The issue, of course, is that Rockton might be hidden from the air, but on the ground, it's not exactly shielded by an invisibility barrier. Well, it kind of is, given the architecture. Sutherland passed out fifty meters from town without realizing how close he was.
The problem is that we don't stay in town. We come out to hunt, to fish, to gather berries, to chop trees, and just to get out and move around. When you're in a region with so few people, a passing stranger is going to get your attention.
So how big a secret is Rockton? If you live in the immediate area, you know there's a settlement. You just don't know what kind of settlement it is. If you ask Jacob or Brent, they'll pretend it's a commune or wilderness retreat, but the Yukon isn't the kind of place where people like answering questions, so most don't ask. Their own wild imaginings are far more entertaining. Even Brent has a list of conspiracy theory explanations for Rockton, and no real interest in learning the truth.
What about those from Rockton? Men like Tyrone Cypher. Cypher hadn't run away. He'd just said "fuck this" and walked out. His "fuck this" had been directed mostly at the new sheriff--Gene Dalton. Like Dalton, Cypher hadn't been above throwing his weight around. Unlike Dalton, he didn't need an actual excuse to do it. Also, as Jacob said, he was crazy. So the council demoted him to deputy and Gene to sheriff. After a few years, Cypher stormed off, declaring he'd rather live among "savages" than the so-called civilized folk of Rockton.
Did he talk about Rockton after he left? Maybe. But Dalton figured anyone who spent five minutes with the guy wouldn't have believed a word that left his mouth. Whatever Cypher has said, it's never come back on Rockton. The Yukon wilderness is a nest of interlocking secrets, and if you go after someone else's, they might retaliate by digging up yours.
As we walk, Dalton follows Jacob's landmarks and points them out to me, part of my ongoing survival education.
See that ridge? If you can count two points, you're heading northeast. Three, you're heading east. One? Due north. You want to head back to Rockton? Over your shoulder, you'll see the ridge as two peaks, the smaller one to the left.
There's a lightning-struck tree right up here. Take a good look at it. It's a white spruce, like the lightning-struck spruce over by the lake, but see how this one's split? Right down to the base. That's how you tell the two apart.
This is the language I'm learning. The little things that are, to him, as natural as saying, Head up to the Tim Hortons, then swing a left at the light and keep going until you hit a one-way street.
I'm in the lead and have been for a while, my instructor letting me take the wheel. Keep an eye out for crisscrossed felled pines and then make a left, forty-five degrees.
When I don't quite get it right, he prods my shoulder blade, steering me. This time, though, his hand falls and grips, and that's my brake.
"We're getting close," he says. "There's a clearing to the right, and I'm going to guess that's where Cox built his shelter. Which means we need to watch for traps."
"Booby traps?"
"That's common for those who hunker down someplace alone and exposed. We had them when Jacob and I were growing up."
That's how Dalton words his past life--"when Jacob and I were growing up" or "when I lived out here." Never "when I lived with my parents." Maybe that's too confusing when he has two sets. But I think it's more that the two sets are confusing to him.
After the Daltons brought him into Rockton, he waited for his parents to rescue him. When they didn't, the only way he could deal with that was to reject them and accept what everyone told him--how lucky he was to have been "rescued."
Then he grew up and realized he'd actually been kidnapped. And he still has no idea why his birth parents didn't come for him. If he's ever asked Jacob, his brother didn't have an answer.
I want to help him reconcile this. At least, I want to help him confront his confusion and anger and the scars left behind. But I don't know where to begin. I get chances like this, when he mentions that life, but when I've tried prodding further, he slams that door and moves on.
So I only say, "What kind of traps?" and he resumes walking, up beside me now. "Could be bear, but that's rare. More likely ... Well, let's see."
We reach the edge of a semicleared area. The ground shows evidence of old fire damage, where sporadic shrubs have managed to take root and a few trees have established a fresh foothold. Almost dead center I see a log cabin, small but decently constructed. Dalton stops me on that clearing edge and eyes the shelter. Then his gaze sweeps the
clearing. He motions to a section where the snow dips, no tall vegetation poking through.
"Pit trap," he says. "It'll be covered in brush, but that hollow is a giveaway. There's another one. Can you see it?"
I take a moment. Then I point and say, "About five meters left of that black spruce."
"Good."
"There's another low spot over there, closer to the cabin, but it looks completely cleared from this angle."
"Yeah, that'd be a work area, maybe fire pit. Gotta be careful of the hollows and the dense undergrowth, which could be hiding a snare. Snares are particularly hard to see. I say don't even try--just lift your feet when you walk, so you don't drag through one. Even if you do, it's easy enough to get out of. Most of these just are to warn Cox of trespassers."
"But aren't snares more likely to be set off by animals?"
"Yep. Which means dinner."
"Ah."
We've gotten about halfway to that cabin when Dalton catches my shoulder again.
"Around here, walking up and knocking is not considered neighborly. Get your gun out but keep it lowered."
I do, and he calls, "Silas Cox?"
A noise from inside the cabin.
"Cox?" Dalton shouts. "We want to talk to you."
The door swings open. There's no one behind it. Then a voice calls, "What do you want?"
"We'd like to talk."
"Well, you're talking."
"Face-to-face."
A shuffling sound. Then, "Tell your boy to step away from you and put his hands up."
"I'm not a boy." I pull off my hat and then tug out my ponytail band. Dalton hisses under his breath, but I know what I'm doing--getting Cox's attention.
"You brought a girl?" Cox calls. A moment of silence, and I glimpse a head as someone peers out at me. "You Injun, girl? Fuck. You come to tell me this isn't my land? Hell yeah, it's mine, and--"
"We aren't here to discuss territory. Can we just speak to you, Mr. Cox? Please?"
"Tell your buddy to take off his hat, too," he says. "Let me get a look at him."
Dalton does. Silence stretches.
"Step closer. You, boy, not the girl. And put your hands over your head."
Dalton obeys, pocketing his gun first. Cox doesn't seem to notice--or care--that I have one. Dalton takes three steps and says, "There, now--"
Cox cuts him off with a whoop. "Well, look at that. If it ain't the jungle boy, all grown up."
Dalton tenses. "That you, Tyrone?"
"Anybody else call you that these days?" Tyrone Cypher steps into the doorway. He's well over six foot, a big bear of a man. Too big to be the man in the snowsuit? That's impossible to say. He definitely has the dark hair and beard.
Cypher leans against the doorway. "The boy who was raised by wolves. I remember when your daddy brought you to Rockton. You looked like the kid from that cartoon, covered by more dirt than clothes. Always thought the Daltons were fools, taking you in. Shoulda brought you down south instead, put you in a sideshow, made a bit of money."
Dalton's eyes narrow before he throws it off. "Good to see you too, Tyrone."
"Oh, listen to you, boy, talking like a regular person. Put the ape in proper clothing, teach him proper el-o-cu-tion, and he can pretty near pass for human. He even brings along his little Injun Jane."
"That's Tarzan," I say.
Tyrone squints at me, as if the trees have spoken. "What?"
"The jungle boy who was raised by wolves is Mowgli. The book is by Rudyard Kipling. Jane belongs with Tarzan. Raised by apes. Books by Edgar Rice Burroughs. And if I look Aboriginal, you need glasses. Also cultural-sensitivity training. But I suppose they don't offer a lot of that..." I look around. "Here."
"Got a mouth on you, huh, girl?" I wait for the inevitable offer to show me other ways to use it, but he doesn't go there.
"Where's Silas Cox?" Dalton asks.
Cypher screws up his face in fake confusion. "Silas's what?"
"Where is Silas Cox?"
"Still can get jokes, can you, boy? I'll talk to your girl instead."
"Silas Cox," I say. "This is his cabin, and we're looking for him."
"Well, then you've found him. Close by, anyway. He's hanging out over yonder." He hooks a thumb behind the cabin.
"Call him for me," Dalton says.
"Well, now, I don't think that'll work. I can try. But I'd be damned surprised if he answered."
I glance at Dalton. His jaw is set, eyes narrowed in a look that says he doesn't quite know how to handle this. I've dealt with enough guys like this that I step forward and say, "Did you kill Silas Cox for his cabin?"
"What? This old thing?" He pounds the wall. "Hardly worth killing a man for, don't you think?"
"Did you kill Silas Cox? Regardless of the reason."
"Nope. I'm a mite insulted you'd ask that."
"So Silas Cox is over there." I gesture. "Is he dead or alive?"
"Alive last time I saw him. But I got the feeling the condition wasn't permanent."
"If you did something to cause his death, that's still murder."
"Oh, look at you, getting all technical about it."
"Take us to Cox," Dalton says.
"What? Hell. I was just settling in with a nice cup of tea and a novel. Was getting to the good part too, about some skinny kid, comes swaggering around, thinking he's all grown up, gonna take on the big bad bully and show him what's what." He rubs his chin. "On second thought, I don't need to read it. I know how it ends. The bully shows the boy he's still just a swaggering kid, sends him crying back to Daddy. How is your daddy, anyway? He make you deputy yet?"
"He's retired. I'm sheriff in Rockton."
Cypher bursts out laughing. Then he looks at me. "Please tell me you're the deputy. Because that's the only thing that would make this story better."
"I'm the detective."
"Nope, I lied. That made it better. All right, kids, let me take you to ol' Silas Cox."
THIRTY-SEVEN
Dalton is fuming. As we tromp through the forest, he gives no outward sign of it, but I swear I smell smoke as Cypher strolls this way and that, saying, "Is he over...? No, wait, I think he's ... Or maybe..."
I roll my eyes at Dalton, trying to ease the tension. He keeps fuming.
In Rockton, people get the chance to reinvent themselves. Dalton has done that. He needed it. He was the boy from the forest, and while I know Cypher is exaggerating how primitive he'd been--Jacob is hardly a loincloth-clad Neanderthal--Cypher is actually being very clever in his insults. He's not mocking the way Dalton had been, but the way Dalton might have felt.
No one in Rockton these days knew Dalton as a boy. Everyone from then is long gone and has done him the kindness of not passing on his story to newcomers. So for years, he has truly been Eric Dalton. A child born in Rockton, who grew up there. Even that is uncomfortable, knowing people see him as an anomaly--an "anthropological study" he calls it when he's in a good mood, a "freak" when he's not.
He has not been the boy from the forest in many years. With Cypher, he's thrust into that past, reminded of a time when he probably did feel like Mowgli. It bothers him, and he fumes because it bothers him. He's like any of us cast back into an uncomfortable childhood role, struggling to remind ourselves we aren't that person anymore, aren't that powerless anymore.
"You know what the problem is?" Cypher says. "Trees. The forest is full of them, and after a while, they all start to look alike. I know ol' Silas is here somewhere, but damned if I can find him with all these trees." He skirts past a spruce. "I have an idea. Why don't you find him, boy? Your daddy used to say you were better than a hunting dog."
"Silas isn't here, is he?" I say.
"I said he was. That means he is. I am a man of my word. Didn't your daddy used to say that, boy? Ty Cypher might be a crazy son of a bitch, but he's as honest as old Abe Lincoln."
"Really?" I say. "Okay, how about telling us why you were in Rockton in the first place?"
"Well,
now, that's a story. Something about a dog and a woman, and three men who didn't take kindly to my treatment of either."
I glance at Dalton, who only shakes his head as if he's heard this before. "Okay, I'll bite." I say. "What did you do to the dog and the woman?"
"Not a damned thing, and that was the problem. See, these three men hired me to take care of a situation. That's what I did for a living. Took care of situations."
"With a gun, I presume?"
"Hell, no. That wouldn't be sporting. I work with my hands. Old-fashioned physical labor. So I took this job, and they neglected to tell me that my targets were this woman and her dog. I said fuck no, and I warned the woman, who grabbed her dog and hauled ass. These three guys took exception to that so I hauled ass up here."
"They came after you for warning her?"
"Well, not entirely. See the woman was married to one of the guys, and when I told her what was going on, she was awful grateful. And for some reason, this guy--who wanted his wife dead--didn't like me messing around with her. So that's why I was in Rockton. For screwing clients and screwing a woman. But I didn't screw the dog. Just to be clear on that."
"Uh-huh."
"For all my faults, I am an honest man. If I say Silas Cox is here, he is. Less than fifty paces away, I reckon."
"On the ground," Dalton says.
"What?"
"I said get on the ground. Searching for Cox means putting my back to you. My father did say you never lie, but that doesn't mean you're honest. He made the mistake of presuming a man who speaks honestly acts the same. I remember what you did after they fired you."
Cypher grins. "But I was honestly pissed off. And your daddy was honestly a sanctimonious ass. And honestly kind of stupid, not to have seen that one coming. But I'll give you credit for being a smarter man than him." He plunks himself on the snow-covered ground. "Good enough?"
"Is that how you used to leave suspects?" Dalton says.
"You remember that, huh? Good boy."
He gets into a casual downward dog, poised on his hands and feet. I actually have seen Dalton do this--when he doesn't have handcuff ties, the idea being that he'll see or hear the person scrambling to get upright.
As Dalton searches, I take a few steps in the other direction, one eye always on Cypher. I've gone maybe five when a breeze passes, bringing with it a scent that stops me.
Dalton notices, and when I glance over, he motions for me to pursue it as he watches Cypher.
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