Phil's eyes narrow, as if he's waiting for the punch line.
"I don't like the council," Dalton says calmly. "Never made any secret of that. But, yeah, accusing them of that went too far. So I apologize. Good?"
"No, Eric, it is not good. When I said I wanted an apology, I meant for this." He gestures to the bruise on his jaw.
"Fuck no," Dalton says. "You deserved that."
Phil's sputtering as the door swings open.
"Good, you're still here," Wallace says as he walks in. "I was afraid I'd been left behind. So, when do we start searching for Oliver?"
Dalton does not want to take Wallace into the forest. He argues. Vehemently. Profanely. Loudly. He is overruled by Phil. Both Wallace and Phil are coming along, and there's nothing we can do about that.
We fill thermoses with coffee and grab breakfast-to-go at the bakery. I think Dalton's hoping that our speedy departure will change Wallace's mind. It doesn't. Within the hour, we're deep in the forest, with the two men and Storm.
Dalton takes the lead with the dog. I hang back with Phil and Wallace. That's deliberate, allowing our trackers to work. I chat with Wallace. Phil tries several times to pull Wallace's attention his way, with topics I can't possibly address--American election issues, a stock-market roller coaster--but Wallace only answers politely and then steers conversation back to include me.
Phil surrenders with a sniff and once-over of me, as if suggesting Wallace is only paying attention to me because I'm female. I get no such vibe from the older man, though. Wallace is just politely keeping conversation on things I can discuss, like the forest itself. When Phil falls back, I warn him to please stay close, but he dawdles just enough that I need to keep shoulder-checking to be sure he's with us.
When Wallace realizes both Dalton and Phil are almost out of earshot, he lowers his voice and says, "I would like to speak to you about something." He pauses. "Or perhaps not so much a discussion as a confession."
"Hmm?"
"About Oliver. I know how this looks from your viewpoint. You are a detective. You're supposed to catch people like my stepson and put them in prison. That is what should have happened to Oliver. And yet it did not. Why? Because we're rich. We can afford alternatives, and the alternative I chose resulted in the death of five more people."
"Yes."
He gives a strained chuckle. "Not going to sugarcoat that for me, are you?"
"I grew up with money. Not your tax bracket, but my parents had very successful careers, and we enjoyed all the privileges that come with that. So I won't rage about the inherent evil of the upper class. But nor do I agree with anyone using their money and their privilege to keep a serial killer out of prison."
We walk in silence for a few minutes. Then he says, "I told myself I was doing the right thing. The responsible thing. I'm embarrassed to say that now, but it's true. I thought that by incarcerating Oliver, I was saving my country that expense. Doing my civic duty by removing him from the population while not charging the taxpayer for our mistakes."
"It doesn't work like that."
"Oh, I know. The truth is . . ." He exhales. "I love my wife. I wanted to protect her--not only from a trial, but from ever knowing what Oliver did. As soon as the police started questioning, I hired an investigator. I found evidence and confronted Oliver. When I threatened to turn my evidence over to the police, he confessed. So I whisked him away and told my wife that he was innocent, but we couldn't trust the justice system. I said they'd convict him on the grounds of being a spoiled, rich white boy. But my wife wasn't the only reason I did that. I wanted to avoid the business ramifications of having a serial killer for a stepson. It was a sound business investment. Whatever this costs, it is not nearly the blow my finances would suffer if Oliver was arrested."
Storm barks, and I tense. It's just a quick bark, though, with a response from Dalton. I can see them through the trees around the next curve, and while I can't make out what Dalton's saying, there's no alarm in his voice.
Wallace has gone quiet, and I think he's waiting for me to respond. This is, as he said, a confession. A safe one, too--it's not as if I can tell the newspapers what he's said.
If he wants absolution, he has to look elsewhere. I do, however, credit him for the confession, which is why I just stay quiet.
"I wanted to be clear that I understand my position here," Wallace continues. "I am the interloper who brought this on your town. I realize now what I've done, and I'm sorry it took five deaths for me to understand that." Another few steps in silence. "I really did believe this solution was a valid one. But the hard truth is that anyone who comes into contact with Oliver is at risk. The only truly viable solution is one that doesn't put him into contact with anyone. Ever."
Execution. That's what he means, and I stiffen, fearing he's hinting that we should resolve this with lethal action. But his gaze is straight ahead, distant.
Jail is no longer an option. We both know that. It ceased to be an option as soon as Brady came here. Put him into custody, and he'll cut a deal any way he can, including talking about Rockton.
I don't know where to go with this, what to say, so after I glance back for Phil, I change the subject with, "You say it'd be a blow to your personal finances, but Oliver claims your family money comes from his father--from a business he started."
Wallace nods. "Yes, that's his version of history, and it's our fault. His mother's and mine. We wanted to keep his father alive for him. Honor him with a legacy of success."
"And the truth?"
"I worked for Oliver's father. At one time, we were partners, but when we formed the business, the money came from his family, so his name went on it. That seemed fair. The problem was that while David was an incredible inventor, he didn't have a lick of business sense. I lacked the clout to overrule him, and at the time of his death, the company was floundering."
"You brought it back."
A sharp laugh. "There was no place to bring it back from. We had investors--David's ideas were incredible--but we'd been scrambling to stay afloat from the start."
"With Oliver's father gone, though, you turned it around."
"Oliver's mother and I did. Together. Yet David's name remains on the company, and we have allowed Oliver the fiction of his brilliant inventor father who launched a billion-dollar corporation. Which led, unfortunately, to Oliver beginning to demand more than a trust fund. When his mother had enough, she showed him the financial records from the year of his father's death. He accused us of forging them. By that point . . ."
He shrugs. "By that point, I knew there was no arguing with him. He was never happy, never satisfied. Everyone was conspiring to keep him from his due."
I check for Phil again and--
The path behind us is empty. Then I spot him, stopped off the path with his back to us. It's obvious from his stance what he's doing.
I turn to give him privacy and call, "Eric? Hold up." I have to shout--he's too far ahead to see on the winding path. Then I say, "Phil, please let us know if you are stopping. The absolute last thing we need--"
At a rustle behind me, I turn. But it's not Phil. It's a man holding an old rifle, trained on me. Two men armed with knives step out in front of Wallace. Behind them, Phil stands frozen, staring at the men. Their backs are to him, and I tear my gaze away before they spot him.
One glance tells me these men are settlers, not hostiles, and I relax at that. I'm cautious, though, gauging the distance to my gun, ready to pull it if that rifle barrel swings out of my way.
I open my mouth to speak. Then I hear:
"Let them go."
As I turn, Dalton appears at knifepoint, his hands on the back of his head. Two men and a woman follow at his rear. The woman holds Storm's lead. My gaze drops to the dog.
"Take Storm and our friend there back to Rockton, Casey," Dalton says. "I've got this under control."
If my heart wasn't thudding so hard, I'd laugh. He said the same thing when Jacob had a knife on him. His brother was drugged
and ranting and threatening . . . and Dalton's biggest concern was reassuring me that he could handle it. They'd talk it out. Yeah, just talk it out. No big deal.
"We are not letting your girl go," one of the men says.
"She's my wife," Dalton says, "and if Edwin has one drop of respect for me, he will let her walk away with our guest and the dog, and I will come willingly and answer any questions you have."
Edwin. Questions.
The First Settlement. The massacre.
Oh, shit.
"The girl comes," the man says. "That is what Edwin says. He wishes to speak to the girl."
I swear Wallace snorts softly. He's already realized that, given the choice, everyone prefers to speak to me instead of Dalton.
"All right," I say. "Let Eric take our guest and dog home to Rockton. I'll talk to Edwin."
Dalton mouths Fuck no, his jaw setting in a way I know well. But before he can speak, the man says, "Edwin will talk to the girl, but he says to bring Steve's boy. That was the order. Do not let him leave. If he tries"--he looks at Dalton--"shoot him."
46
We walk to the First Settlement. They were willing to let Wallace go, but he refused.
"I don't know my way back," he said.
"Just follow--" I begin.
"Somehow, it seems safer to stay with you two. I've heard quite enough about this forest."
As for Phil, he's gone. Fled without ever being spotted.
I try to talk to the settlers. Defuse this situation. But they have been warned not to speak to us, and they are already wary. So I fall to silence, walking beside Dalton, armed settlers in front and behind.
We're nearing the First Settlement when the men in front of us turn and point their guns.
"Hands behind your back," one says, taking out a length of rope.
"Fuck no," Dalton says.
The woman steps forward. "Get your hands behind your back, boy, or we'll put a bullet through your damned skull."
Dalton wheels on her. "Excuse me?"
"Enough." One of the men turns to Dalton. "We are not letting you walk into our village after what happened. You will be disarmed. You will have your hands bound. People are angry. If we bring you in like guests, there will be trouble."
Dalton grumbles, but puts his hands behind his back, and then lets them disarm us. Wallace silently follows our lead.
The woman glowers at Dalton's grumblings. "You're lucky we don't shoot you and drag your bodies through the settlement."
"What the hell?" Dalton says.
She steps up to him. "Albie. Nancy. Douglas."
"The people who died," I say. "Yes, we take full responsibility for letting their killer escape."
"Escape?"
"What do you expect?" one of the guys says. "They're going to blame this on someone else."
"No," I say carefully. "We acknowledge the killer was one of ours."
"So now you're blaming some innocent person from Rockton?" the woman says. "Was that your plan? Bring us a body and say 'There's your killer'?"
"Or is it him?" The man turns to Wallace. "Are you forcing this old man to take the fall?"
"What the hell are you talking about?" Dalton says.
The woman steps right in front of him and spits up in his face.
I move between them fast. "We don't know what's happening here--"
"Harper told us who killed our people," the woman said. "Your husband. She saw it, and she barely escaped with her life."
47
We cannot even begin to speculate on what's happened here, which doesn't keep Dalton from demanding answers. But our captors are not talking.
We enter the village at gunpoint. The First Settlement is composed of about ten cabins, spread over a couple of acres. As people emerge from homes, the palpable weight of their rage pulses through the air.
If I had any idea what they thought we'd done, I'd have fought our captors. Allowing a dangerous Rockton resident to escape was one thing. We could have handled that, though. Made promises. Made apologies. Made concessions. Now . . . ?
I glance at Dalton. His face is taut, gaze straight ahead, jaw set as if he's outraged, but the vein throbbing in his neck tells me he is afraid.
"In here." One of our captors prods Dalton toward a dilapidated building.
When I see Harper, I try to catch her eye, not accusing but confused, concerned. I gesture that I would like to speak to her, but she's pretending not to see me. She circles to a man behind us and says something. He shakes his head. She gestures my way and I think it's at me, but then I realize she's pointing at Storm. The man shakes his head and reaches to squeeze her thin shoulder, but she throws him off and stomps away.
Dalton's captor prods him again.
"Yeah, no," he says. "I'll wait here for Edwin."
"You aren't talking to Edwin." The man nods at me. "She is."
"Fine, then I'll sit my ass down right here and wait."
The man points at the building. "You will wait there. She will wait at Edwin's."
Dalton opens his mouth, but I shake my head. He hesitates, and I know this makes him nervous--it makes me nervous, too--but we cannot give them any excuse for using those weapons to force us to obey.
Dalton stalks off toward the building, muttering the whole way. Our captors prod Wallace to follow Dalton. I let them take me to Edwin's place. They open the door, and I walk in, as calmly as I can, as if this is an obvious misunderstanding that I know will be cleared up.
Edwin isn't there.
I turn to ask where he is, but they've shut the door behind me.
I take a deep breath and sit on the floor. Storm lowers herself beside me, leaning in hard, panting with nervous tension. I pat her and tell her it will be okay, it will all be okay.
I hope it will be okay.
I've been there about ten minutes when I hear a noise in the next room. The door swings opens, and Harper stands there, an open window behind her, a knife in her hand.
"Put that down," I say.
"I just came here to talk."
"Good. Then you don't need a knife."
She shakes her head. I ask her one more time. Then I take it. She doesn't see that coming. She tries to slash, but I already have her by the forearm. I squeeze just tight enough to hold her steady. Then I pluck the knife from her hand. When I release her, she swings at me. I grab her arm, pin it behind her back, march her to the open window and drop the knife through it.
When I let her go, she backs off, rubbing her wrist.
"That hurt," she says, and there's genuine shock in her voice.
"You attacked. I defended."
She eyes me as if this calm response isn't what she expects. "It was my knife. I was defending myself."
"One shout will bring the guard to your aid. I only put your knife outside. I didn't keep it."
She's still eyeing me. She says, again, "That hurt," and there's a tremor of outrage, as if I should be ashamed of myself hurting a kid. But like she said the other day, she is not a child, not out here.
"What's going on?" I say.
I'm waiting for the look of worry, of guilt. The one that says they've made her blame us. Someone has forced her to make a false statement. Someone she respects. Someone she fears.
I'm waiting for her to apologize. To say she had no choice.
When she says, "I told the truth," my heart sinks. But I am not surprised.
"The truth?" I say.
"Eric killed them. I was there."
I could blame post-traumatic stress. Confusion. Even fear.
Instead, I say, "Why?"
"Why what?"
Now I'm the one eyeing her. Sizing her up. There's no point in Harper coming here to talk.
"What do you want?" I say.
I follow her gaze to Storm. "No."
"Yes."
"She's town property."
"She's yours," Harper says. "I heard Eric say that he got her for you."
"Are you sure?"
&nbs
p; Her face scrunches up. "That he got her for you?"
"No, that you overheard it. When? As you were running for your life? After Eric killed three of your people?"
"I want her."
She says it as if this is a simple matter. As if she is indeed a child, one too young to have realized that a wish is not a command or an obligation.
But I'm not sure it is childlike to her. Out here, it's a very normal thing, at least for some of the settlers and probably all of the hostiles. I want this thing. You have it. So I will take it from you.
I remember the young man--Albie--checking out our horses. Suggesting where we might camp, and Dalton being sure not to camp there.
You have this thing that I want, and I will take it from you, and that's nothing personal. It's just the way it is.
Harper steps toward Storm, who leans against me, whining.
The girl looks at me. "Tell Eric that you're giving me the dog, and I'll tell Edwin I made a mistake."
"Little late for that, isn't it?" I say.
"What?"
"How exactly do you tell him you made a mistake? Say that you hallucinated Eric murdering your people? Or that the event was so traumatic you forgot what happened and made something up? How will that make you seem?"
I see her mental gears whirring madly as she looks for the trap here. There must be a trap. Why else would I ever advise her not to rescind her story?
"You want a new husband," she says.
"What?"
She nods, satisfied. "You have met someone new in your town, and you want him. Or you never wanted Eric, but he is the leader, and you cannot say no to the leader."
"Yes," I say. "He is the leader. My boss. But if he's gone . . ."
"You want his job."
As she says that, I get a glimpse into the woman behind the girl's mask. When she speculates I simply want a new lover, she is dismissive. Now, as I claim it is ambition, respect flashes in her eyes.
"Can you help me?" I say.
"For the dog?"
I nod. "For the dog."
"What do I need to do?"
"Just stick to your story. Exactly to it. Can you do that?"
She nods.
"Tell me everything you told Edwin."
48
You can learn so much about a person by how they react to others. In the forest, my view of Harper was formed almost entirely by how she responded to Storm. I love my dog, and Harper found her fascinating, and that made me happy. It made me open up to her, engage her, see her as more than just some settler kid. I never suspected there was darkness in her.
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