From there, we go to Brent, and Dalton asks him to use his bounty-hunting skills to help us. He doesn't offer payment. That is implied, and even then, it'll have to be worked into a trade so Brent won't feel insulted.
We head to the marked tree just before noon. Jacob is already there and waiting. I tell him about Nicole.
"But how? Did she go into the woods again? I know she wanted to walk the dog but--"
He stops short of saying anything that could sound like an accusation.
"She was taken from her bedroom," I say.
"And, yeah," Dalton says. "She had a nurse, a guard, heightened patrols--"
"I'm not saying--" Jacob begins.
"We are," I say with a weak smile. "Trust me, we're saying it."
"This guy came right into Rockton, though? That's..."
"Ballsy," I say. "We know. Then the storm hit, and we lost their trail. We were wondering if you could help."
"Of course. Just tell me what to do."
Dalton gives him a region he's familiar with, and Jacob nods, and then says, "We'll find her. It might seem like this forest goes on forever, but someone's going to see something. This guy won't kill her. If he wanted to do that, he'd have done it in town, right?"
When I nod, Jacob seems relieved, as if he hadn't been stating a fact as much as posing a question.
"She's tough," he says. "She knows we're looking for her, and she'll stay alive. That's how she'll beat him. She'll stay alive until we find her."
I hope so. I really hope so.
On the way back for lunch, we meet up with Anders. We're walking and talking, heading toward the station.
"I'll round up a hot lunch," Dalton says. "You two..." He trails off as he sees Jen parked on the station front steps. "Fuck."
"Why don't I go get lunch?" Anders says.
"No, I--"
"I insist."
"I'll go with--" I begin, but Dalton's hand lands on my shoulder.
I sigh, and we walk over to Jen.
"This isn't a public rest stop," Dalton says. "It's also not the way to get yourself hired."
"Huh," she says. "You sure? I kinda thought that making myself useful and helping your halfwit detective might be the way to prove myself."
Dalton says nothing, just stands there, looking at her. Finally she rises and says, "What?"
"I'm waiting for you to rephrase that without an insult attached. Though I suspect that might be physically impossible."
"I was just--"
"Reflexively insulting Casey. The way you do to everyone. Because everyone needs to be knocked down a few pegs, and that's your job. Which means you aren't ever getting a job here, Jen. As militia, you'd need to show both of us basic respect. That's how policing works, just like in the army."
She crosses her arms. "Do you want my tip or not?"
"Come on inside," I say. "And if you really feel the need to insult me, at least do better than 'halfwit.'"
Dalton stays outside. Because at ten below freezing, it's really just too warm to be indoors. Jen plunks into the chair behind the only desk in the station. My seating options then are to kick her out of it or take another chair, as if I'm the witness and she's the cop. I stay standing.
"What's the tip?" I say.
"I'd like a coffee. Black. Cookies, too. I know lover boy smuggles in chocolate chips for you."
"Leave."
"That wasn't an insult."
"It actually was. Nicole has been kidnapped--by the psycho who kept her in a cave for a year, after he murdered two other women. Making me take time to fix you coffee insults everyone in this town who actually gives a damn."
Her lips tighten. "I've been out there, pulling double shifts on the search parties--"
"Because we're paying you."
"For one shift. The second is volunteer. But I want a hundred credits for my tip."
"We don't pay for tips."
"Time to start."
"No, it's not, because that would set a precedent. The payoff is that I use your tip to catch a killer, which helps everyone. It's a community effort."
"Fuck community. I want credits."
"And you honestly expect to be hired as militia with that attitude?"
"My attitude is adjustable. You know what adjusts it? Money. You don't want to 'start a precedent' by paying me for this tip? Hire me now. Then I'm on the payroll, and I'll do my damn community service."
My palms thump onto the desk, cutting her short. "You are wasting my time, Jen, and I'm starting to think that's your end goal. Stall my investigation so you can tell everyone what a shitty job I'm doing."
"I wouldn't do that," she says, her voice tight as she straightens. "I have a valid tip. I'm just not sure you're competent enough to use it."
"Oh, for god's sake." I stride to the door and grasp the knob. "Get out."
"You don't want my tip?"
"Yes, I do, but it's obvious I'm not going to get it. I can't pay you. I can't hire you. I can't even convince you I'm competent--apparently solving a quintuple homicide wasn't enough."
"If you'd solved it faster, Mick would still be alive."
I go still. Completely still. Then I say, as quietly as I can, "Get out."
She rises. "You couldn't save him. Just like you couldn't protect Nicki. You--"
"Get out!" I roar, and she stumbles back.
The door flies open, and Dalton is there.
"Yes," Jen says. "I've upset your little girlfriend. Bad, bad Jen. Fine. You want the tip? You were right about Val. She dreamed up her intruder. I investigated. There's nothing to suggest anyone was at her house that night. I delivered her breakfast today, and when I asked about the intruder, she got all flustered. I'm thinking it was a repressed-chick wet dream. She woke up while fantasizing about Dalton, flipped out, and made a mistake. There wasn't an intruder."
I'm not sure this qualifies as a tip, but I need to get to work so I just say, "Okay."
"With Nicki gone, it might seem like it was the same guy and Val could shed more light on it. But it's a whole separate thing. You can skip Val's story. Concentrate on the rest."
"Thank you." I struggle to say that as sincerely as I can. I'd already requestioned Val and put to rest any worries that she really did have an intruder. But Jen doesn't know that and seems to have honestly been trying to help. I'd just wish I could have gotten that without the ridiculous preamble.
I tell Jen to add an extra hour on her militia time card.
"An hour?" she says. "I spent half a day on that."
"Consider it volunteer work," Dalton says. "Part of your application for a position."
"Fuck you, asshole," she says and stomps out.
When the door closes, I say, "I can't learn my lesson with her, can I?"
He walks in and stokes the fire. "There used to be this feral cat that'd come around. Must have lived with settlers at one point. It knew people. It'd slink about, and folks would feed it, try to coax it inside. If you walked past, it'd meow and roll, like Storm does when she wants attention. It'd even rub up against you, purring. But if you reached down, there'd be bloodshed. Every goddamned time. Folks knew that. You think they stopped?" He shakes his head.
"Did you try?"
"Fuck, no. I wasn't falling for her bullshit."
I smile. "Which makes you the smart one. But I suppose it's not really about intelligence. It's ego. We want to be the special one. The one that breaks through. The cat might attack everyone else--but me? I'll be different."
"Some people, yeah, it's ego. Others? It's a genuine desire to help."
"Only the cat doesn't want help. It wants bloodshed. To lure you in and then lash out and punish you for trying."
"Yep."
A commotion erupts outside, and we hurry out to hear voices.
"Get that fucking gun out of my face or you'll eat it," a voice booms. "I'm here to see your fucking sheriff, and if you stop me, you'll find out why that's a fucking bad idea."
We see Anders is on his
way back with lunch, and he stops short and looks toward the porch, as if Dalton is somehow projecting his voice down the road.
True, the profanity is classic Dalton. As is the second threat. But the booming voice and the first threat clearly aren't our sheriff's style. I know who it is, though, and Dalton winces as he realizes it, too.
Dalton heads down the steps. He's not rushing but not dawdling either. That could be dangerous for whoever gets in the newcomer's way.
We round the station to see Tyrone Cypher striding into town. Paul follows with his gun still out, as if trailing a bear, waiting to see if it'll need to be put down. It's an apt analogy. Cypher looks like a massive grizzled brown bear stalking in from the forest. People spill out of homes and businesses to watch, and from the way they stare, I wonder how many thought the "people in the woods" stories were fairy tales meant to keep them inside town borders, those wild men no more plausible than the trolls and witches of the brothers Grimm.
"Finally," Cypher says when he spots Dalton. "Would you tell this fucking yahoo to put his gun down or I'll stick it where he ain't ever going to get it unstuck." He wheels on Paul. "And inform him that's no idle threat."
"It's fine, Paul," Dalton says. "He's a former resident."
"Former fucking sheriff, you mean," Cypher says.
Anders falls in beside me and whispers, "Oh, this explains so much."
"This is Tyrone Cypher," Dalton says. "He was the sheriff before my father took over and a deputy after."
Cypher's lips tighten, annoyed by the reminder of his demotion, but Dalton continues as if he was just being thorough with the introduction. "Ty is permitted in Rockton, but only if I'm informed of his arrival." He looks at Cypher. "And only if he remembers he's no longer the sheriff."
Cypher snorts. "You like that, don't you, jungle boy?"
I step up to Cypher and say, under my breath, "No."
He raises his brows.
I meet his gaze and say again, "No."
There's a moment where he studies me. Then he claps me on the shoulder and says, "Get your back down, kitten," and turns to Dalton with "Eric, I've got something for you." He emphasizes Dalton's name, telling me he understood my message and might even comply.
Dalton jerks his head. "We'll take it inside."
"We were just about to have lunch," I say. "Looks like we have enough for four."
I glance at Anders, which prompts Dalton to say, "This is Will Anders, my deputy. Will, Ty Cypher."
Cypher looks Anders up and down and then flicks a glance at me. "Can't escape that minority hiring quota shit even up here, huh?"
"Nah," Anders says. "After you, the council just got really skittish about hiring dumb-assed white dudes. It's actually just the dumb-assed part that was the problem, but you can't blame them for being overly cautious."
"See?" Cypher says to Dalton, pointing at Anders. "He knows how to make a proper comeback."
"I just have a lot more experience dealing with dumb-asses. And racists."
"Hey, who you calling racist?" Cypher points at the boxes of food. "I'm not the guy who sent the black dude to fetch his lunch."
"Actually, I volunteered--"
I cut Anders off with a wave. "Don't even bother. Tyrone is still convinced I'm Aboriginal."
Cypher screws up his face. "What?"
"First Nations," I say.
"First...?" He rolls his eyes. "Oh, fuck. Are you offended 'cause I called you an Injun? Fine. Are those the currently fashionable terms? First Nations? Aboriginal? I'll use those, then. Happy?"
Anders looks at me, one brow cocked. "Then I should warn you about lunch, Case. It's probably not something you've tried. Chicken chow mein. Chinese. But it's pretty good."
"I've heard that."
Dalton shakes his head and escorts Tyrone into the station.
FIFTY-ONE
Cypher has found Roger. Found his camp, at least.
"I'd have brought him in," he says as we eat. "But he knows something's up. He's hunkered down in an open patch right up against a cliff side. No way of getting close without him seeing me coming. I'm no fucking good at subtlety."
Anders snorts under his breath. Cypher doesn't catch it and continues, "I considered waiting for nightfall, but I figure I'm about as likely to spook him as to bring him in. If I spook him, he's gone. Seemed safer to just come and get you folks."
I thank him for that. Then Dalton and I exchange a look. While it's a sensible decision, it's also worrisome. I'd have kept my suspicions to myself. But Cypher isn't the only one in the room who lacks subtlety.
"You setting us up, Ty?" Dalton asks as he reaches for another helping.
"What?"
"You heard me. I appreciate that you didn't risk spooking him. It's the right move. Not a Ty Cypher move, though."
Cypher's eyes narrow. "You calling me stupid, boy?"
"No, but given that you'd get a bigger reward for bringing him in, I'd have expected you to try."
"Maybe because you knew a younger man, one a helluva lot more willing to wager good money on a shitty bet. I want my fucking coffee. I'm not going to risk that. I want supplies, too. We've got a bad winter coming. You spend time out in those woods, you learn that big gambles are the sure way to guarantee you won't spend much more time in those woods. That's something I'd expect you to know all about."
I make a noise in my throat, but Cypher doesn't push the jab further, just refills his mug and adds enough creamer to make my teeth ache.
"If you don't want Roger, that's fine," Cypher says. "But you still owe me for scouting him."
"You know I'll come with you. I'm just letting you know that I don't trust you, and I'll be bringing Will and Casey."
"You sure you don't want the full fucking militia? An honor guard to keep you safe?"
"An honor guard is ceremonial. The term you want is 'security detail.' I don't need either. I want backup, and if you think mockery will make me say 'fuck that,' and come alone, you've got the wrong sheriff. Now pour that coffee in a thermos, and let's move while we still have daylight."
*
We've been hiking for maybe ten minutes when Cypher says, "Seems tense back in Rockton. Everyone running around with guns, jumpy as hell. A bit of professional advice. You're obviously thinking Roger is coming back for the girl. I'd say the chances of that are slim to none."
I think he's making a really bad joke, but when I look over, he's perfectly serious. He doesn't realize Nicole is gone. Those who escorted him in wouldn't have mentioned it, and we'd been too focused on Roger.
"It already happened," I say.
"What?"
"He came and took her two nights back."
"Came into Rockton?"
I nod.
Dalton says, "And before you ask, yes, she was under guard. A caretaker inside. A guard outside. Double night patrols."
"So he's a smart fucker. Not a hostile, then."
"On the surface, it seems like their sort of crime," I say. "But his captive says he was frighteningly normal, and the fact he took her again, from Rockton, suggests we aren't dealing with a madman. He even attacked another former victim to distract us."
Cypher looks over, brows rising.
I continue. "My guess is that he got Nicole into the forest but didn't dare take her far with the added security. He hid her and then went back to strangle the guy who escaped him. In the resulting confusion, he spirited Nicole off."
"He could have just been silencing a witness," Cypher says. "But yeah, the fact he failed to kill the guy--and that he must have grabbed the girl first--means it was likely a distraction. Smart. Not one of those freaks, then. Hostiles aren't big on planning. And they wouldn't think they could slip into Rockton unnoticed. The smell alone would give them away."
We walk a little more, and then I say, "Honestly asking your professional opinion, what else could we have done to make sure this didn't happen?"
"Stick that gal's ass on the plane and get her out of Rockton."
"Threatened suicide," Dalton says. "Even if we'd managed to force her out, she could have retaliated. The council agreed she should stay."
I expect Cypher to say it didn't matter what Nicole wanted--get her on that plane and let the council deal with the rest.
Instead he says, "Hell, yeah. If the council thinks she's a threat, nail her ass to Rockton."
"I'm not sure she would have actually--" I began.
"Doesn't matter what she'd do. What matters is what the council thinks she might. In those circumstances, if you put her on a plane, you sign her death warrant."
I look over sharply. "Have they done that?"
"Fuck if I know. But given what I did for a living, no one knows the low value of a human life better. Except maybe soldiers."
When Anders tenses, Cypher glances at him and says, "The army doesn't give a shit how many grunts die. Only person who cares is the guy standing beside you. To them, you're a person. To some government pencil pusher? You're a tool. An expendable one. That's what we are to the council. Only even less useful than tools. You ever hear those stories about rich people who leave all their money to their dogs or cats? Their heirs need to pamper the fucking animals, or they lose their inheritance. That's what we are. Those dogs and cats. If we're rich ourselves, then the council doesn't get the final payout until we make it home alive. If we're one of the charity cases, the real power behind the council--those folks who pay to keep Rockton running--don't like seeing their precious pets mistreated."
As he's talking, I'm thinking of Beth, and when he finishes, I can barely bring myself to ask. But I have to.
"What about those who get kicked out? For crimes?"
"They're threats, aren't they?"
Dalton shakes his head. "My father said the fact they've committed crimes is enough--it's blackmail material, should they ever become a threat. He says the council monitors them and, yeah, if they do something suspicious, maybe they act. Otherwise, no."
"Well, if your daddy said it, then it must be true."
Dalton's jaw tightens. "If you have any proof--"
"Proof? No. But I've got a brain in my head, and I know how people like the council think. Made my living working for their sort. All that matters to them is the bottom line. There was this one time they were going to send a guy back south, blamed for something I was sure he didn't do. So I took him into the forest, gave him supplies, and pointed him in the direction of the nearest town. Did he make it? Probably not. But I figure I gave him a better chance than he'd have had on that plane coming to pick him up. Hell, after I left Rockton, the council tried to recruit me."
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