“He seems sincere, but Ty was certain he knew where it came from. That kid really doesn’t want us getting closer to their settlement. I’m not ready to drop this on his say-so.”
“Agreed.”
* * *
We follow the young man at a distance. According to Dalton, he’s heading toward the settlement. Moving quickly, too.
We start closing the gap between us. It’s better to catch up with him on the outskirts, where it’s too late to blow us off again, yet it’s clear we aren’t trying to ambush his settlement. I spot smoke rising over the trees ahead when Dalton grasps my arm. His hand drops to his gun, and I pull mine.
Dalton pivots. “Step out. There’s a gun trained on each of you.”
His gaze flicks in the other direction, and I turn that way, my gun rising.
Silence.
“Look,” Dalton says. “I don’t want to pull this shit. We’re walking to your village. We talked to a kid from it, but we need more information, and he didn’t seem the right person to give it. We appreciate your caution, but our guns do a helluva lot more damage than your bows, and they work a helluva lot faster. Also, you’re making our dog nervous.”
As if on cue, Storm growls.
“Just step out please,” Dalton says. “Then we’ll all lower our weapons and talk.”
No answer.
“Fuck,” Dalton grumbles. He turns to me and says, loud enough for them to hear, “Don’t you just get tired of this shit?”
“I do.”
“Do people pull this crap down south?”
“No, but we have cell phones. We can call before we show up.”
“Well, that’s what we need. Cell phones. Can we get a few of those?”
“Sure. First, you need a cell tower.”
“Fuck.”
“Or we could do it the old-fashioned way,” I say. “Ring their doorbell.”
“Hell, yeah.” He raises his voice more. “You guys got a doorbell? No? How’s this?” He raps his knuckles on the nearest tree. “Sheriff Eric Dalton, of Rockton, calling with my wife, Detective Casey Butler, also of Rockton. May we come in?”
A man appears from Dalton’s direction, shaking his head. “I suppose you’re trying to be funny,” he says, no rancor in his voice.
“Yeah,” Dalton says. “I make a better asshole than a comedian, but I’m trying a new tactic.”
The man’s lips quirk as he walks over. “Might want to keep working at it, but I appreciate the effort.”
He’s in his mid-forties, a tall, rangy man with weathered skin. He’s dark-haired and round-faced, and his countenance reminds me of the young man’s. A relative, I’d guess.
The other man comes into view but stops short as he sees me. “Tomas?”
“Yes?” the older man replies.
“You get a look at the girl? She’s not from Rockton. She’s Edwin’s.”
Tomas turns his gaze on me and frowns. He takes in my clothing. Then he looks at the other man. “Just because she’s partly Asian does not mean she’s related to the only Asian person you’ve met.”
“I’m not,” I say. “I know Edwin, but I’m no more likely to share ancestry with him than with you.” I glance at Dalton. “Or with him, which would be really awkward.”
Tomas chuckles. The other man’s eyes stay narrowed in suspicion.
Tomas stretches his hand to me and then to Dalton. We shake it. The other man stays where he is.
“We met a young man a few minutes ago,” I say to Tomas. “Maybe late teens? He bore a resemblance to you. Your son?”
“Nephew,” Tomas says. “But my wife and I have been raising him the last few years. We saw you tracking him and got concerned.”
“I apologize for that,” I say. “We have some questions. We found a…” I hesitate. “A body. A woman dressed in clothing that we were told came from the Second Settlement. But your nephew didn’t recognize it. He said no one’s missing, and he obviously wanted to leave it at that but … We need to find out where she belonged. Even if she’s not yours, any help would be appreciated. I understand you prefer not to have contact with Rockton.”
“Eh,” Tomas says with a shrug. “We’re not exactly hiding behind a wall with archers and a moat. We do keep to ourselves, but we’d like to help you find this poor woman’s people. That’s only right.”
The other man snorts and stalks off. Tomas shakes his head with a wry smile. “While not everyone here will be so helpful, they won’t object to me speaking to you.”
“Thank you.” I take the scrap from my pocket. “The person who sent us to you had a long-standing trade relationship with your settlement, and he was convinced someone there—maybe someone who used to live there—did the craftsmanship.”
“How is Tyrone?” Tomas asks, and I must look surprised, because he laughs. “Not many people have had that ‘long-standing trade relationship’ you mentioned. Tyrone was sheriff when my brother and I left Rockton, and I advocated for trade with him when he left himself. We had a change in leadership a few years ago and…” He shrugs. “Tyrone Cypher is an unusual man. He made our current leader nervous, and she decided to cut ties.”
“Ty’s fine, thank you,” I say. “And yes, he’s the only one who recognized this.”
I hold out the piece. The man frowns. He takes it and examines it, his frown growing.
“You don’t recognize it?” I ask.
“No, I certainly do. I was just wondering why Lane—my nephew—told you otherwise. But I shouldn’t wonder really. People here can be very secretive, and my brother always had a touch of paranoia, which is how the two of us ended up in Rockton in the first place. I apologize for Lane. He didn’t mean any harm. Yes, I definitely recognize this, because it’s my work. Well, the leatherwork is mine. The decorating is my wife’s.”
He smiles, his eyes warming. “She’s the artist. I just try to provide a canvas halfway worthy of her art.”
“It is gorgeous work,” I say.
“But you mentioned that you found it on a dead woman. No one’s missing from our village. While we do trade with former members, no one has left in years and the only woman we actually trade with—”
He trails off, and he blinks. When he speaks, his throat dries up, and he has to try twice before he says, “Could you … describe this woman?”
“Are you familiar with the hostiles?”
He pales. Then he forces a ragged laugh. “Haven’t heard that word in a very long time. We call them the wild people. But yes, it’s hard to live out here and not know them, as much as we might wish otherwise. This woman…” He swallows. “You asked that for a reason, didn’t you?”
“I did.”
“Ellen,” he murmurs.
I nod. “That was apparently her name.” I take out the leather anklet she’d worn. When I pass it over, he stares at it and sways, just a little. His eyes squeeze shut, and he nods, as if to himself, and says, in a small voice, “How did it happen?”
“She was shot,” I say.
He flinches. Then he says, slowly, “And this, Sheriff, is the truth of your earlier words. Why your guns are so much more dangerous than our bows. Yes, it is possible to accidentally shoot someone while hunting, but the chances of killing them are slight. We always hope that the scarcity of ammunition will decrease the use of firearms in these woods, but…”
His gaze rises to Dalton’s, meeting it. “That will not happen while Rockton has guns and ammunition, and the willingness to trade both.”
My brows rise.
Dalton says to me, “Yeah, under Tyrone, Rockton traded ammunition to help those who chose to leave. Giving them a higher chance of survival. Of course, another philosophy is that if you don’t trade, maybe they’ll see the light and come back. That’s what Gene thought. By the time he left, people had found other sources of ammo, and I’m sure as hell not giving them extra.”
He looks at Tomas. “I’d supply it in a matter of life or death. I’m not going to let anyone starve. B
ut personally, I’m on your side. I’d like to see a lot fewer guns. Fuck, I’d make our own residents use bows if that didn’t mean we’d be facing settlers and traders and miners with guns. Rockton hasn’t supplied weapons or ammunition in years. And, though you haven’t suggested it outright, we didn’t kill this woman. We found her on a camping trip.”
Tomas nods. “I wasn’t accusing you, but thank you for clarifying. I’m guessing that’s how it happened? A hunting accident?”
“It’s … difficult to tell,” I say. “The reason we’re pursuing it is that she had something … with her. Something that may be important to someone.”
I still want the chance to evaluate Abby’s parents before I return her. I know I may not have that right. Yet after meeting Owen and Cherise, I will place myself in this role, judging who does and does not deserve their child back.
If I need to justify that, I’ll do it with the reminder that Ellen could have rescued Abby from abandonment. If her parents were from the Second Settlement and hid the pregnancy, they won’t want their fellow settlers knowing what they did. If the Second Settlement was complicit in the abandonment, they won’t want her back. Either way, the settlement might lie and take the child to save face.
When I say this, being cagey, Tomas’s gaze drops to the bracelet, still in his hands.
“Not that,” I say. “If anyone in the settlement knew Ellen well, we’d love the chance to speak to them. I’m trying to piece together her final days.”
The corners of his lips rise in a strained smile. “You really are a detective then.”
“I am.”
“Well…” He trails off, and I can see him thinking. Considering his options.
Finally, he says, “My wife was close to Ellen. They were friends. I would appreciate the chance to speak to Nancy—my wife—first, if you don’t mind. I’d like this news to come from me.”
“We understand.”
“I’ll go into the settlement and tell people what has happened. They won’t be thrilled at you being here, but with a death involved, they will understand. Many were fond of Ellen. This will be difficult.”
I nod. He starts to leave. Then he looks down at the bracelet. He stares at it a moment before clearing his throat, his expression unreadable as he says, “May I ask…” Another glance at the bracelet. “I’d rather not show this to anyone yet. It was … very personal.”
Dalton and I exchange a glance. I agree, and Tomas pockets the bracelet before heading toward the village.
THIRTY-ONE
It takes a while for Tomas to return, but we expect that. We take off our snowshoes and packs, drink some water, share another protein bar, and play with Storm. Or Dalton plays with her. I lie on my back in the snow. Just making snow angels, really. Not collapsed from the exhaustion of snowshoeing all day.
When Tomas returns, he’s alone, and I’m braced for “Sorry, but you can’t come in,” but he waves for us to follow. After a few steps, he says, “Nancy is … taking it hard, as you might expect. She’ll speak to you, but she asks for a few minutes to gather her thoughts.”
“Of course.”
As we approach the village, I expect a loose cluster of buildings, like the First Settlement. Instead, there are a few small outbuildings clustered around two large ones that remind me of Indigenous longhouses.
“Communal living,” I murmur. I think I’ve said it low enough, but Tomas hears and smiles.
“Yes. It’s more economical for heating and food. Everyone works together, whether it’s cooking or child-rearing.” He glances to the side and his smile grows. “Speaking of child-rearing…”
A little girl, maybe five or six, comes racing over and throws herself into Tomas’s arms. He swoops her up and swings her about as she squeals. I notice a boy a year or two older eyeing us. Tomas waves him over.
“These are my children,” he says. “Becky and Miles.”
“Eric,” Dalton says. He shakes the boy’s hand. The girl just giggles, but when I introduce myself, she shakes mine. They aren’t really interested in us, though. Both pairs of eyes are fixed on our furry companion. I introduce Storm and have her sit while the children pet her.
“Can you guys do me a favor?” Tomas asks. “Your mom is busy right now, so I’d like you to stay with us. We’re going to speak to the elders.”
“And if you can keep Storm company while we do that, we’d appreciate it,” I say. Then to Tomas, I add, “She’s very well trained, and we’ll be close by.”
He nods and charges the children with “watching” the dog, which really means just walking along beside her and petting her while we all enter the first longhouse.
A campfire within is the main source of light, and it takes a minute for my eyes to adjust. As I look around, I remember once going to a park with re-created Iroquois longhouses. That really is what this reminds me of. Down the center is a workspace, where women sew and children play and men whittle. Bunks line the walls, three high. Drying herbs and vegetables hang from the ceiling.
At the back sits a group that I’m guessing are the “elders,” since they’re talking, rather than working. The eldest is in her sixties. That makes sense, given that the Second Settlement launched in the seventies.
At the First Settlement, we’re always met with a combination of curiosity and hostility, emphasis on the latter. It’s saber-rattling. They want us to know how strong they are, how well defended. A pissing match that we must engage in, or we’re the submissive wolf rolling over to show our unprotected belly.
In the Second Settlement, we get curiosity tempered by caution. While Tomas’s daughter ran out to see us, her brother held back, and that’s what many of the adults do. They withdraw, physically and emotionally, stepping backward to let us pass, their faces blank. Even in their caution, though, there is politeness rather than aggression. You are welcome enough here, but please don’t stay long.
Others are more like Tomas and his daughter, the friendliness outweighing any reserve. They smile, and they nod as we pass, and I do the same in return. Storm’s presence lures a few of the children closer, especially when they see Tomas’s kids petting her. I get her to sit a few feet from where the elders wait, and the children surge in, with adults supervising.
There is another thing I notice as we walk. Signs of … well, the words I consider and reject are “religion,” “faith,” “ritual,” “belief.” It’s not as if I’m seeing crucifixes or dharma wheels or anything I recognize, yet my brain still identifies them as signs of a ritualized faith. There is what appears to be an altar built of stones and filled with dried grasses that add a sweet, pleasant scent to the campfire smoke. Other stones line the walls, each carved with an unfamiliar symbol. I see ones that look like stylized versions of wind and rain and snow. I also spot animal carvings, too many to be mere toys. And the sleeping berths bear more carvings, some symbols and some animals.
I struggle not to draw conclusions from what I’m seeing. Take in the data and store it for processing once I have more information.
I don’t get more information on this by speaking to the elders. Well, I do … and I don’t. It’s not as if they extend a ritual greeting or ask that we all bow our heads in prayer before we speak. But there is a calm here that reminds me of a church, a hush and a peaceful contentment, and a reverence in the way Tomas addresses the elders. I may not see religion and ritual, but I feel it.
The conversation itself is a ritual I know very well. We have been presented to the leader—Myra—and she welcomes us, and we extend our greetings and explain our purpose. She expresses sadness at our news, gratitude for our attempts to find this woman’s people, and promises of cooperation. It’s like when I’d dealt with crimes involving an organization of any kind, social or political or business. “Yes, this is a terrible crime, and of course, we’re here for anything the police need to solve it.” Honest intent or empty promises? That’s always the question, and if I was to hazard a guess, based on my experiences, I’d say that
the Second Settlement isn’t going to actively block my investigation, but they’re not going out of their way to help it either. Ellen isn’t theirs, and since she’d been shot—and they forbid guns—her death isn’t theirs either.
The meeting lasts about fifteen minutes, and it’s nothing more than a formal exchange of information and promises. As we leave the longhouse, the women at the cooking pit press food into our hands, fresh stew in beautifully carved wooden bowls and hunks of warm bread. They give some to Tomas, too, for himself and his wife, and we all thank them as we depart.
When we’re out of the longhouse, Tomas quietly offers to switch bowls with us.
“In case you’re at all concerned about the contents,” he says. “I spent a lifetime with my paranoid brother. I would understand if you’d prefer to eat what they gave me.”
We assure him we’re not worried, and he passes his bread to the kids, who trail along after us with Storm.
“I’m going to ask you two to go back into the big house,” he says to the kids. He looks at us. “May they take the dog?”
“Of course,” I say.
The girl starts to give Storm her bread, but Tomas pulls her hand back. “Never feed an animal anything that she might not normally eat. It can upset her stomach. Ask Josie if they have bones instead. Big bones, from caribou or moose. The dog will like those better.”
I motion for Storm to go with the kids, and she gives me a careful look, as if to be sure she’s understanding. Then she lets them lead her back into the longhouse.
Tomas takes us to what seemed like a storage building, small and round. As we approach, I see smoke rising from it.
“As much as we believe in communal living, we also understand that sometimes, privacy is required, and in the winter, we can’t just head into the forest to find it. This is our alone-hut, for individuals and”—he winks—“couples. Nancy will meet us in here.”
It’s a hide-covered structure, and he pulls back the flap. We have to duck to go inside. It’s brighter than the longhouse, though. There’s a fire and a hanging lantern. A woman sits on the floor. She’s about my age. Tears streak her face, but as soon as the flap opens, she jumps up to greet us. Tomas waves her back inside. We enter, and he hangs back, as if uncertain. She tugs him in, and his face relaxes with relief. She takes one bowl from him and sets it down on the ground, and they sit, her hand entwined with his.
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