“Nordic studies,” I murmur. “He claimed his mother was Danish, but I guess his specialty explains the real reason he knows the language.”
“Yes, he is fluent in several Nordic languages. He volunteered that information and offered any necessary translation services, though at the time, we assured him everyone admitted to Rockton spoke English.”
“I hate to say it, but that helps our case. The council knows he was willing to translate.”
“As for family, he has an ex-wife and no children. He did not list his ex as an emergency contact. His mother is deceased. His father is not in the picture.”
“Again, I hate to say this, too, but please tell me that means he’s essentially on his own.”
“He is. A lack of close family ties is not unusual for our residents, and Jay fit that pattern. There is no wife or long-term girlfriend or child or parent waiting for his return. If he must be moved to a hospital, though, he has sufficient funds to cover any care over and above his provincial health insurance.”
“Anyone else who might come looking for him? Something to explain that healthy bank account? I’m not asking why he came here, but if he cheated someone out of money…”
Phil shakes his head. “His bank account is healthy due to a tenured position and presumably frugal habits. He is here due to issues with a female student.”
“Ah.”
“He was briefly involved with a graduate student from a different department. When the relationship dissolved, she reported him. He claimed a consensual relationship and says she targeted him in retribution. Whatever the truth, the university granted him a two-year sabbatical, which he wished to take in Rockton to distance himself from the young woman. He paid the higher entrance fee required for nonvital cases, and so he was granted access as a low-risk, high-return resident.”
It’s good that he doesn’t have close family, in case he doesn’t survive his coma. It’s good that he has a nest egg, in case of long-term brain damage. It’s very good that he offered to act as a translator. Otherwise, Jay is exactly what he seemed—an ordinary man who otherwise would have passed through his two years without a ripple.
“That’s Jay,” I say. “Now, though, we have another problem.”
I tell them about the bullet.
SEVENTEEN
Émilie has a plan. And, by this point, I’m really only in the proper mental state to process step one, which fortunately is the only step that matters right now. Her suggestion? That we take no further steps tonight.
It’s too late to contact the council. They’re on eastern time, and it’s midnight for them. Insisting on notifying them at this hour suggests an emergency. Well, I suppose a dead body and a comatose resident does qualify as an emergency, but there’s nothing they can do. Sophie isn’t a resident, and the resident is stable. Notification can wait, and if anyone questions that, it was Émilie’s decision and her authority supersedes ours.
I try going to check on Jay, but Dalton threatens to physically block the clinic door. April will notify us of any change in his condition. The next step is dinner. He sends one of the militia to fetch us a hot meal and deliver it to our home, one of the perks of being the guy in charge. We curl up on the sofa to wait for it and …
And the next thing I know, I’m waking on the floor, under a blanket, still curled up with Dalton, who’s asleep. Storm dozes on my other side. It’s dark outside, and I can faintly smell dinner, but there’s no sign of it. Just me, my guy, and my dog, napping by a smoldering fire.
Dalton has stripped down to his boxers—raised up here, the man is not good with heat—and I slide the blanket off his shoulder to admire the view, the hard curve of lean muscle, the smooth skin with only a few faint scars, so much different from my own marred canvas. I touch his chest, too lightly to wake him, and run my hand up to the bristle of his stubble.
I trace a finger along his jaw as my gaze traces the curve of his lips, and heat sparks deep inside me, the urge to kiss those lips and run my hands down his body and—
And the poor guy is getting some much-needed sleep, which I will not disturb even if, come morning, I’ll confess this urge and he’ll assure me he never needs sleep that badly. I chuckle under my breath and press my lips to his with just enough pressure that I hope the touch wends its way through his dreams.
When one gray eye opens, I smile and murmur, “Sorry.”
“Looking for your dinner?” he murmurs back.
“Not … exactly.”
His lips curve in a sleepy smile. “Hungry for something else?”
“You could say that.”
The smile grows, and he rolls onto his back, arms folded behind his head, blanket pushed down over his hips.
“All yours,” he says.
I pause a moment to enjoy the view. Then I roll onto him.
* * *
Sex and then dinner, which we eat on the floor, naked in front of the fire. We don’t talk. Talking right now would be police work, so we eat in companionable silence. When we’re done, Dalton shifts closer, leg hooking over mine, both of us on our stomachs.
“How are you doing?” he asks.
“Scared,” I say, and the word comes with a jolt, as if someone has pushed it out of me. I shake it off with a ragged laugh. “I don’t know where that came from.”
He looks over, his expression calling me a liar.
I shift uncomfortably and shrug. “I’m feeling overwhelmed right now, but I’ll be fine.”
“You sure?”
“I can manage this, Eric.”
“Not doubting that. I mean are you sure it’s just feeling overwhelmed? Not feeling like there’s a boulder over our heads, rocking there, ready to fall? ’Cause that’s how I’m feeling.”
“I hoped it was just me.”
“Nah, sorry.”
He flips onto his back and puts an arm out, and I slide onto it, letting him tug me half onto him.
He continues. “I just feel like all this…”
“Might be the last straw? With the council? That, at the very least, this mess with the hostiles makes a good excuse for clamping down? And by clamping down I mean doing something drastic.”
“Like firing me? Sending you away? Separating us so we can’t cause more trouble?”
I nod.
He exhales, a long hiss of breath. “I was really hoping it was just me being paranoid.”
“It’s probably both of us being paranoid. Separation is our biggest fear, and it makes sense from their point of view. You were always a thorn in their side, but put the two of us together and…”
“Double the pain in their asses?”
“More than double, I think. I provide you with the justification you need to push harder. They can no longer blame your lack of formal education or your lack of experience in the world. Likewise, you give me the nerve to fight harder. I feel you at my back, and I don’t waver the way I did on the force, always worried about my job security, worried about coming off like a bitch.”
I shift. “It’s like in school, sometimes two kids who were only mild troublemakers before get into the same class and they play off each other. First thing the teachers will do is separate them.”
“But we have a plan. We always have a plan.”
I try not to hesitate before I nod, but he catches that extra split second.
“You don’t think we could pull it off?” he says. “Starting a new Rockton? That was your suggestion.”
When I’m slow to answer, he tugs me on top of him.
“Seems tougher now, doesn’t it?” he murmurs. “Easy to say when you were new here, when you didn’t really see how much it takes to run a place like this. The work, the resources … You’re having second thoughts.”
“No.” I meet his eyes so he’ll know I’m telling the truth. “But you are right. It wouldn’t be as easy as I once thought. That’s what scares me. In the beginning, it was like…” I consider and then say, “Kids often threaten to run away from home. It seem
s easy, until you’re older and you realize exactly how difficult that would be.”
“You realize that things need to be really, really bad before you’d attempt it.”
I nod. “But we could do it. If we had to.”
“We just hope we never have to.”
I nod again and snuggle down against his chest as his arms close around me.
* * *
The next morning starts with a town meeting. Yesterday, Brian had offered to start work early to “cater” the event, which really just meant that I could start as early as I liked, without hearing grumbles that I was trying to avoid a crowd by holding it before people even had their first coffee.
I took him up on that, and he passed on the news. Town meeting, 6 A.M., coffee and pastries provided credit-free, in acknowledgment that it was hellishly early but the local police were busy and had to squeeze it in where they could. And, yes, it also means that half the town doesn’t show up. They might have intended to, but then the alarm goes off at five thirty and damn, that’s early. Hit snooze a few times and soon you just give up and reset it for seven. Someone will tell you what’s said at the meeting.
I explain the situation exactly as Dalton suggested. A simplified form of the truth.
We found a woman injured in the forest. We’re still investigating the cause of those injuries. She didn’t speak English, and Jay offered to help with translation. Her mental state meant she was restrained, but he thought she might communicate more freely if he removed those restraints. She attacked, her fevered mind mistaking us for captors. In the ensuing standoff, Anders and I were both forced to shoot her to save Jay—our resident’s safety coming first. The fact that we shot simultaneously proved that it had been absolutely necessary. Jay is unconscious but stable. As we continue to investigate the cause of the woman’s injuries, we’re suspending forest work details and doubling town patrols.
I also introduce Émilie, as a member of the board of directors—and former Rockton resident—who came to ensure the woman we found doesn’t present a security risk. Émilie takes over and greets everyone and plays up the sweet little old lady routine, which serves the dual purpose of distracting people from Jay’s situation and alleviating any concern over council intervention. If the council sent someone her age, obviously they don’t really see a problem here.
When I open it to questions, almost all are about the restrictions. Will that affect next week’s bonfire party? Will there be any wood rationing? What about harvests? We need to collect spring greens before it’s not spring anymore.
This might make our residents seem self-centered—forget the deaths, how does this impact me?—but it really is a sign of trust. They acknowledge there’s a problem, but trust us to resolve it so everything can go back to normal. It helps that Jay had only been here a few days. I had to explain who he was, and then watch people turn to their neighbors, whispering, “Did you know him?” Few did.
Post-meeting, Anders and I load up coffee and leftover pastries and head to the station. Phil, Dalton, and Émilie join us there, where we discuss the itinerary.
Anders’s job is simple. He’s the police force again today while Dalton and I are gone.
As for the big to-do on our list—speaking to the council—I have agreed to cede it to Émilie. That wasn’t easy. Dalton and I spent an hour talking about it last night. She offered, and my first reaction was “hell, no.” But as Dalton argued, we had things to do, namely his meeting with Cherise, which I wanted to attend.
The question wasn’t whether we trusted Émilie. We don’t. Not yet. The real question was whether we trusted Phil, who’d be there, too. The answer was “not entirely.” Yet at some point we need to test that. He wants us to trust him. Here was his chance. He’d facilitate the call between Émilie and the council, and if we find out he misreported anything, we’ll have our answer.
By eight, we were walking to our meeting with Cherise, three kilometers from Rockton. The distance conveyed a message: This is as close as we want you to our town.
When we arrive, I greet Cherise while Dalton assesses their reactions. Her attention will be on me—it always is, as if she knows no other dynamic than a female-led relationship. Owen’s is also on me, though I never know whether that’s genuine interest or him just goading Dalton. Meanwhile, Dalton studies them for signs of apprehension. Do they seem nervous? Concerned by what we might have found in examining those bodies?
I pull out the coffee and a bulk box of condoms. She lifts the latter and peers at the item count with a smirk. “That’ll keep us going for a month or two.”
“I couldn’t get the money just yet,” I say. “We don’t keep much cash in town. Eric uses the bank machine in Dawson.”
That’s a lie. There’s a safe filled in town so we don’t leave an ATM paper trail. They don’t need to know that.
When Cherise opens her mouth to protest, I take five twenties from my pocket. “Here’s a hundred. And we have something to offer in potential trade for the rest.”
From the bag, I pull out a gun case and two boxes of ammunition. I open the case to reveal the spare 9 mm from our locker.
“Holy shit, yes,” Owen says, reaching for the case. “Come to Daddy, baby.”
Cherise smacks his hand, as if he’s a misbehaving child.
“Oh, come on, babe,” Owen whines. “That sweet piece of steel would make me a very happy man.”
“And what will you use it for? Strutting around like him?” She waves at Dalton. “If you want to play sheriff, I’ll buy you a hat.”
“His gun is a revolver,” Owen says. “Like something out of the fucking Wild West. Antique piece of shit. That”—he points at the box—“is a fine piece of modern weaponry.”
He’s right on one out of four here. Yes, Dalton carries a revolver, but it’s hardly an antique and certainly not what they’d have used in the Old West. As for the Smith & Wesson I’m pretending to offer, if Owen thinks it’s the latest in handgun technology, he’s been up here far too long … or knows very little about guns. From the way he’s salivating, I’m going with option two. I’ve seen that look on far too many guys down south when they saw my service weapon.
“Again, I ask, what the hell would you use it for?” Cherise says.
“Hunting?”
The inflection at the end makes her snort.
“The only thing these hunt is people,” she says. “You just want one because you want it, and the answer is no. The deal was for two hundred and fifty dollars more, not a gun we can’t use, with ammunition we don’t stock.”
I hold up the boxes of ammo.
Cherise shakes her head. “Sure, let me take that gun. Owen can go shoot some birds and bunnies, and when he’s out of bullets, you can find something else to trade for more, overcharging me so my husband can amuse himself with a toy.”
She turns to Owen. “Remember that knife you liked in Dawson? With the fancy handle? I said no because it’s just a knife, and I can get them a whole lot cheaper. It’s yours on the next trip.”
His eyes light up. “Seriously?”
“You aren’t a child, Owen. I don’t promise you things to quiet you down and hope you’ll forget later. You found the bodies.” She hands him the hundred dollars. “Yours. For that knife or whatever else you want … as long as it doesn’t require special ammunition. I’ll give you fifty more after Casey pays it.”
She shoves the gun back at me. “Because Casey is going to pay it, with ten dollars interest for every week she delays.”
“You’ll get it after our next trip to Dawson,” I say.
I try not to glance at Dalton as I put away the gun. Our first question has been answered. They don’t have a handgun, meaning they didn’t kill the settlers, which is a relief. There’s manageable trouble, and there’s the kind of trouble I don’t want to get near.
“So you found the bodies,” I say, turning to Owen.
“Yep,” he says as he pockets the money, the gleam still in his eye.
He shrugs. “Not much to tell. I was out hunting. Shot a bird, went to fetch it, and the bodies were there. Cherise wasn’t far off, so I called her over.”
“The family was in their camp?”
He nods. “Looked as if they’d been eating when they were attacked.”
I take a pad of paper and pencil from my bag. “Since the scene no longer exists, I need to draw it from your memory. I’ll put the campfire here, and this arrow points north. Now, tell me where the tent was.”
“Uh…”
Cherise snatches the pad and pencil and a few minutes later passes the pad back with a complete drawing of the crime scene.
“She’s good, ain’t she?” Owen says with pride. “Could be a real artist.”
Cherise huffs and shakes her head, but I can tell she’s pleased even as she says “It’s a sketch, not a work of art.”
True, but it’s hardly an X for a tent and stick figures for bodies, which is pretty much what I’d have done. In a few deft strokes, she’s depicted the scene as well as any crime-scene artist. Basic figures, all clearly identifiable.
While I examine it, she fingers the pencil. It’s only as I look up that she seems to realize she’s still holding it and thrusts it back at me. I reach out, but Owen lifts a hand, blocking her from returning it. Then he pulls a twenty from his pocket.
“We need the pencil,” he says. “And the book after you’ve taken the page. I’ll give you this for it.”
Cherise opens her mouth in protest, but he cuts her off with a firm “We need it.”
They don’t “need” it. He noticed her reluctance to part with that pencil, and he’s buying it for her, along with paper to draw on.
I don’t understand their relationship. I’m not sure I want to. But with this, I realize I should not mistake it for a purely functional partnership. There is genuine affection here.
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