“No, you did not. The difference is that I killed a direct threat to Eric. Oliver Brady was in custody, and no threat to anyone.”
“No threat?”
“If you’re saying he could have escaped again—”
“No, I’m saying he didn’t need to escape to be a threat. What would have happened if you brought him back alive?”
“Phil would have taken him into custody, on behalf of the council.”
“Exactly. The council would have whisked Oliver Brady away. And Rockton doesn’t trust the council. I’m sorry, Casey, but you and Eric—and others—have made sure of that.”
“Excuse me?”
She sidesteps past me and walks further into the room. “You have reason to mistrust them. The situation here has been mismanaged. No one is arguing that. But the upshot is that the town trusts you, and they do not trust the council. People wouldn’t trust them to properly handle Brady.”
“Whatever issues we have with the council, we don’t broadcast those to the town.”
“You don’t need to.” She sits on the edge of the desk. “Your contempt is clear.”
“That’s—”
“Fine. Forget contempt for the council. Forget mistrust of the council. Forget paranoia of the council. Let’s pretend people trust the council to take Brady back to face justice. The fact remains that Oliver Brady hated us. He had every reason to want to destroy Rockton and all it stood for. What was to stop him from doing exactly that once he left here? He could not be allowed to leave.”
“If you believe that, then say so. Just don’t tell me that you acted alone, spurred by your conscience to kill a man for the greater good.”
“Would that be so wrong?”
“Not wrong, just very unlikely, especially given your impassioned defense of the council.”
The door opens, cutting off Petra’s reply. Sam slips inside and stops.
“Is this, uh, a bad time?”
“No,” I say. “It’s perfect timing.” I glance at Petra. “You want to see the difference between what you did and what I did?” I turn to Sam. “I shot Val.”
“Okay . . .” he says.
“She had a gun on Eric,” I continue. “She would have killed him. I couldn’t see another solution. So I shot her.”
He nods. “Okay.”
I appreciate that Sam will never see me in a worse light for what I’ve done. But that nod tells me Sam has never had to kill anyone. And I hope he never needs to.
“So what’s the problem?” he says, with genuine confusion.
“I want people to know what I did. I don’t want them whispering and guessing. I take responsibility.”
“Okay.”
“The council already knows. I’d rather you didn’t tell anyone right now—there’s too much going on—but as soon as the rest is settled, I will tell them that I’m the one who killed Val and why.”
He nods. “Sure.”
I turn to Petra. And I wait.
She shakes her head. “It’s not that easy, Casey.”
“Of course it is. Just try.”
She says nothing as Sam watches in confusion. After a moment, he says, “Is this about that Garcia guy?”
I look over at him.
“If you’re hinting that I need to take responsibility for him escaping, I do. I totally do.”
“I know,” I say. “This is something else, between Petra and me. You already accepted responsibility for Garcia, and I don’t blame you for his escape. He’s a professional, and it was bound to happen.”
Which is the truth. That’s the problem with our militia. Very few people with law enforcement experience pass through here, so it’s comprised of amateurs.
Sure, there are plenty of residents who harbor a secret power fantasy of being a cop. Dalton doesn’t want them near a gun. That means our militia didn’t grow developing skillsets that qualify them for this work. That’s the price we pay for not having a town of redneck militia, ready to shoot the first person who won’t let them cut in the dinner line.
I reassure Sam that it’s fine. We’ll review the situation, and we’ll use it as a training example.
“If you came here to talk about that,” I say, “that isn’t necessary. If your leg is fine, we really need you out there, making sure Garcia doesn’t sneak back.”
“I know. It’s just . . . Well, if—when—Eric catches him, you might need long-term lodgings. Something other than this.” He nods toward the cell in the next room.
“We might. Fortunately, we have the place we built for Brady.”
“So you want Roy back in here?”
“Roy?” It takes a moment to even place the name. “Shit. I forgot about Roy.”
Sam manages a smile. “Yeah, I think we all did. Or we tried to. Someone’s been feeding him and whatnot. But Eric wanted him in the new place.”
Add another grenade to my juggling pile. Roy’s a new resident who has been troublesome from the start. Then Brady came along, and Roy tried to lead a damn lynch mob. He’d been in custody ever since, mostly because we haven’t had time to decide what to do with him.
I’m about to say I’ll let Dalton handle this when I see Petra still standing there.
“Leave Roy where he is,” I say. “Put Petra in this cell.”
Sam laughs.
“I’m not joking.” I turn to Petra. “You’re under arrest for the murder of Oliver Brady.”
“Casey . . .” she says. “Don’t do this.”
“I gave you the chance to talk to me, as a friend. You refused. This is the next step. Do you want to get in the cell yourself? Or does Sam need to escort you?”
She walks into the cell room.
“Lock her in please, Sam, and I’m going to ask you to be in charge of her care. Hourly checks. If anyone asks why she’s there, refer them to me. I’m hoping to handle this situation without a public announcement.”
He still looks confused but nods. “Sure.”
“There’s one other thing I need you to do. Find Phil. Take him aside and tell him I’ve arrested Petra for shooting Oliver Brady. Tell him that I want the council to know that immediately. If he makes excuses, come see me. The council must be notified. Okay?”
He nods again. I grab my cookies and head out to keep juggling.
TEN
It doesn’t take long for me to hear that Phil “needs to talk to me about Petra.” I ignore the summons. I have cast my die, and I will wait to see how it plays out.
It’s nearly ten PM when I’m back in the station to grab my flashlight. I’m opening the drawer when the rear door creaks open. I riffle through the drawer, listening to the slow footfalls, and then I spin, gun raised . . . to find it trained on Dalton.
“Shit,” he says. “That was stupid of me. Sorry.”
I set the gun down, pat Storm and then put my arms up for a hug from Dalton. He practically collapses against me and I say, “Long day?”
He chuckles and straightens, his hands looped around my waist. “Yeah. Fucking long day.”
Then, in answer to my unspoken question, he says, “Not a damned trace.”
I arch my brows.
He shrugs. “Okay, a few traces. But they didn’t lead anywhere. Even if he’s not a U.S. Marshal, he knows how to throw someone off his trail. He headed straight for rock. Waded through a couple of streams on the way. I kept thinking having Storm would help . . .”
“Not for sneaking up on him. And you’re going to need to sneak up.”
“Yeah.”
“We’ll have to teach her stealth, too. Which won’t be easy with her size.”
He sighs. “I didn’t really think it through. Getting a Newfoundland.”
I put my arms around his neck again. “You got me my dream dog, Eric. I’m not trading her in for a bloodhound, so don’t even ask.”
He chuckles. “A bloodhound would be fucking useless in the winter anyway. As for Garcia, I give him three days before he comes knocking on our door again, wanting to cut a deal.”
“I give him one night out there.” I move back to perch on the desk. “Speaking of nights, I hope you’re calling it one.”
“Yep, just picking up my bed buddy first.”
I glance down at Storm.
Dalton laughs. “No. She snores and drools and sheds. So do you, but not as much.”
“Thanks. I’ll be there in a few minutes. I just have a couple more things—”
“Nope.”
“I just need—”
“Nope. If you don’t stop working, I won’t either.”
“Damn.”
“Yep, that works better than ordering you to quit.” He’s about to say more when a noise from the cell room stops him. Before I can explain, he says, “Petra?”
“Uh . . . yes. How’d you know?”
“Educated guess. She pissed you off, huh?”
“She wasn’t taking me seriously. Putting her in there, though, is about testing a theory. One that I would prefer to discuss after you’ve gotten a good night’s sleep. But I really do have a few more things I need to do.”
He sighs. “All right. I’ll rest my eyes while you finish up. Just sit with me for a minute first.”
He leads me to the fireplace bearskin rug. Rockton is full of hide rugs and blankets. It adds a nice “wilderness lodge” touch, but it really is about conservation—using as much as possible of any animal we need to kill.
We sit on the rug, Storm taking a spot beside it. Then Dalton stretches out and tugs me to lie beside him. I prop up on my elbow. He kisses me—a long, slow kiss that washes over me like a warm bath, and I relax into it, feeling the pull of my exhaustion. When he lowers his head to the rug, his eyelids are flagging. He keeps me there, though, his hand on my hip.
“So,” he says. “How was your day?”
I laugh at that and shake my head. “Long. It felt like running in place while juggling hand grenades, so the best I can say is that I didn’t drop any.”
“That’s the main thing.”
“Progress would be nice.”
He shrugs. “Move too fast, and you’ll drop a grenade. Then you won’t need to worry about making progress.”
“True. Slow and steady just isn’t my style.”
“I know. But I gotta say, it made a difference, knowing I didn’t need to worry about what shit was happening back here. Knowing you’d be on top of it.”
I hesitate and then say, “So I shouldn’t ask to go with you tomorrow.”
One nearly shut eyelid opens. “Is that what you want?”
“For a while, if I could. Will can handle the grenades. None are in imminent danger of exploding. I know you’re fine out there but . . .”
“You worry about me.”
“Sorry.”
“Hey, if you get a little concerned for my safety, then I won’t feel so bad when I completely overreact about yours.”
I smile. “True. So may I join you?”
“You may. You can bring the coffee. Got a feeling we’re going to need . . .”
He trails off, eyes closed, and I think he’s joking, proving the point about needing coffee tomorrow. But his next breath comes deep as his face goes slack.
“Not tired at all, were you?” I say with a smile.
I lean down and press my lips against his and then cuddle in beside him, closing my eyes, just for a second . . . and the world darkens.
* * *
I wake once in the night, rousing just enough to feel soft blankets, where someone has draped them over us. The station smells of wood fire, someone setting it to ward off the night chill. Storm is pressed up against my legs, a furry hot water bottle. Dalton sleeps so soundly he’s snoring, and I can’t summon the energy or the will to wake him and go home. I’m back asleep in moments.
I wake again to the smell of coffee, a mug wafted under my nose, Dalton crouching beside me. I reach out, and he starts to hand it to me, and then kisses me instead. When we part, I smile and says, “Good morning.”
“Now just give you your damn coffee?”
My smile grows. “I’d never say that.” I take the steaming mug, and he passes over the box of cookies from yesterday. “Saved them for you.”
“I’m spoiled.”
“It’s my detective-retention program. In return for sticking with a shitty, shitty job, you get fresh coffee and chocolate chip cookies delivered to your bedside. Also, sex. The last one’s a sacrifice, but I really need a good detective.”
I laugh and grab his shirtfront, pulling him into a kiss. The door opens. I don’t let go of Dalton. I just look over, hoping whoever it is sees that they’re intruding, backs out and lets me have a few quiet minutes with my coffee and my guy before the day implodes.
It’s Phil. He stands there, looking at us, bewildered, as if he’s walked into the wrong movie theater.
“I need to speak to you both,” he says.
“Of course you do,” I say. “Because it’s four AM, the sun is peeking over the horizon, and God forbid we get to enjoy our morning coffee in peace.”
“I’ll . . . come back in a few minutes.”
“Don’t bother,” I say. “Sit down. Have coffee. Behave, and I’ll share my cookies. Not sharing my rug, though. Or my sheriff.”
Phil blinks at me.
Dalton snorts a laugh as he goes to pour another coffee. “She’s in a good mood, Phil. We both are. Roll with it. Under the circumstances, it’s not going to last.”
He holds out the coffee. Phil looks down as if checking for cyanide.
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Dalton mutters. “Do you prefer us in a pissy mood?”
I stand up, take the coffee and hold it out to Phil. “Eric’s right. We’re in a good mood. Neither of us cares to start our day off with a confrontation, so I’m going to be more bluntly honest than usual. This is your turning point, Phil. Your moment of reckoning. You are stuck in Rockton. Hopefully, it’s temporary. We both know it might not be. So you have the same choice Val did when she arrived. You may become part of this town, however much you hate it.”
“Or you can say ‘fuck that,’” Dalton says. “Fuck making the best of it. Hole up in your house. Come out when necessary. Fight us every step of the way. And hope that works out for you.”
“Hope I don’t shoot you,” I say.
Dalton winces and glances my way. “I didn’t mean that.”
“I know. But it’s true.”
Dalton turns to Phil. “I fucked up with Val. I didn’t understand her. I couldn’t relate to her. The first time we met, I could feel her contempt and I don’t have the patience for that. I gave as good as I got. That was my mistake.”
“Mine was the opposite,” I say. “I thought I did understand her. Or I tried to. I reached out. I wanted to help bridge the rift, mostly for Eric and Rockton, but partly for her, too. She saw that, and she had just as much contempt for me. In my case, she hid it. Right up until the end.”
“When she left you with one choice,” Dalton says.
I shrug, gaze shifting to Phil’s mug.
“One choice,” Dalton repeats. “Val made her choice, and she pushed us to ours, and the upshot of that is that Val Zapata was a bitch. A fucked-up, narcissistic, homicidal bitch. That’s who the council gave us as their representative.” He meets Phil’s gaze. “You’d have to work hard to be worse. Wouldn’t have to do much to be better. Bar’s set pretty low. But ultimately, it’s your choice.”
Phil takes the mug from me. Then he looks around and very gingerly lowers himself to the floor as we join him on the rug.
I pass him the cookies.
* * *
And so, in the wee hours of breaking dawn, Dalton and I share cookies and coffee with Phil, and we all come to a better understanding of one another’s position, and we leave committed to working together for a better Rockton.
Yeah . . .
That is my fantasy version every damn time I sit down with someone who’s locking horns with us, whether it’s debating the gender politics of bro
thels with Isabel or dealing with Jen’s Greek-chorus critique of my every move. Yet none of my attempts to broker peace approached my efforts with Val. None approached the degree of success I enjoyed with Val. In light of how that turned out, I should really stop trying.
I don’t think I’ll extend myself that way again. At least, not for a very long time. I’d say “once burned,” but it’s not the first time.
I reach out, I get slapped back, and I keep reaching out. Sometimes, I do make inroads, but right now, I’m about ready to do exactly what Dalton did with Val. To look at Phil and say, “You don’t want to help us? Fuck you, too.” Except Dalton’s approach didn’t resolve the Val problem either.
One problem with having Dalton and me in leadership roles is that we’re both stubborn as hell. And we stubbornly hold onto the notion that the average person is good—or can be, at least, like Mathias, an ally in our cause, whether he believes in it or not.
Another thing we both have in spades? Pride. Which means there is no way we’ll beg Phil for help. We can’t even pretend that we need his assistance. We will meet him halfway and nothing more.
We don’t reach that midpoint during this meeting. To be honest, if we did, I’d suspect Phil’s motivation. What we do manage is a civil conversation.
Phil agrees that getting Garcia is our priority. He agrees that any fallout over bringing in April can wait until we have Garcia. Regarding Petra’s shooting of Brady, he’s utterly confused. Or so he pretends to be, as does the council. Both are convinced we’ve make a mistake. When I tell Phil that Dalton and I both saw Petra do it, he tries coming up with alternate explanations. I cut him off—we have a search to conduct. We can resume this conversation once we have Garcia. Until then, Petra remains in custody.
* * *
We haven’t dallied long with Phil. We’re the first search team on the ground, out as soon as the sun fully crests the horizon. Others are still mingling in the town center, where volunteers pass out coffee and egg sandwiches. Dalton and I drop off Storm and then grab food. I say a few words to the assembled searchers, like “Thank you for your time—we really appreciate you getting up at this hour,” and then I run to catch up with Dalton, who’s already in the forest.
“Water,” Dalton says as soon I fall in beside him.
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