Sutherland lunges.
FIFTY-THREE
Anders tries to back away, but he slips in the snow again and falls flat on his back. Sutherland raises the knife. I fire. The bullet whizzes past Sutherland, but it's enough to startle him.
"Yes," I say, as I keep advancing. "That was a warning shot. You won't get a second, so put down that knife."
He's heaving breath, blood dripping down his face, and my mind shoots back to high school, reading Lord of the Flies. Is this what we truly are? Always one step away from this. From cracking. From losing whatever keeps us from attacking anyone who comes between us and what we want.
Standing over a man with a knife. Walking up to a man with a gun. It's all the same really. For some, that barrier is harder to crack. Not with me.
I say, "I'll shoot you, Shawn. If you even twitch in Will's direction, I will shoot you," and that's no idle threat. I will. I must.
"It's okay, Casey," Anders says. "Everything's under control."
"No," I say. "Everything will be under control when he drops that knife. Throw it toward me, Shawn. Or I will shoot."
"Shawn?" Dalton calls behind me as he runs up. "Do as she says, okay? Will was just trying to help."
Sutherland doesn't see us. Doesn't hear us. Not really. All he sees is the deputy who tried to stop him, and that makes Anders a threat.
"Drop the knife," I say. "On the count of five, you will drop that knife, or I will fire."
"No one wants to hurt you," Dalton says. "Drop the knife and step away from Will."
Sutherland only adjusts his grip on the knife, his gaze fixed on Anders.
"Five," I call. "Four--"
Anders kicks Sutherland in the leg and rolls fast as his attacker drops, knife stabbing down, hitting the ground right where Anders had been.
Dalton and Cypher are both on Sutherland in an instant. He slashes, catching Cypher in the sleeve, but they get him down, spread-eagled, as Anders pulls the knife from his grip.
"You're lucky," I say to Anders. "That could have gone all kinds of wrong."
Anders shrugs. "Worth a try. I didn't want you shooting him."
"I wouldn't have aimed to kill."
"I don't give a shit about him. I didn't want you having to shoot." He squeezes my shoulder with his free hand as he jogs over to the man on the ground.
Dalton says, "Just get him out of my sight," presumably to Cypher about Sutherland, as I run with Anders to the downed man.
"You said I couldn't do it," Sutherland says, his voice rising. "You said I couldn't, and I did."
"Fuck," Cypher mutters. "Me and my big mouth."
"Is this Roger?" I ask Cypher.
"Yeah."
"I did it," Sutherland says. "I got the guy. It's him. Casey, look at him."
I am looking at Roger. What I see is blood. So much blood. I glance at his face in passing, assessing the worst injuries as I drop beside him. Yes, it is the man from behind my house, the one I saw the night Sutherland escaped back to Rockton. And I don't care. There are bigger issues to worry about. Namely the fact that his chest is perforated with stab wounds.
"It's him," Sutherland says as Anders and I scramble to get Roger's jacket off. "It's the guy. He took me. He took Nicole."
"And if you killed him?" Dalton says. "Then you killed her, too."
"What? N-no. I ... I..." Sutherland trails off in a stream of babble. There might be actual words in it. I don't hear them. I'm completely focused on Roger, and even if he's our killer that doesn't matter because, as Dalton said, he is also the only one who knows where to find Nicole.
Dalton lowers himself beside me to help. "Fuck. He's a mess. Fuck." He inhales. "And that's not helpful. Tell me what to do."
"Roger's in shock," Anders says. "I need to get him stable and get him out of here. The first step is to stop the bleeding, which right now ... shit, I'm not even sure where to start." He inhales. "No, I've got this. Get his shirt off. We need to assess and triage."
Between the three of us, we manage to peel off Roger's blood-sodden shirt, and when we see the extent of the damage, Dalton lets out a fresh curse.
Anders freezes. He's crouched in the snow over Roger's prone body, hands gloved with blood, more dripping down his arms. Roger's chest slick with blood and stippled with gore. It's slashed open, muscles and intestine poking through. I've seen photos of servicemen ripped up by shrapnel, and that's what it looks like, and Anders stares at his blood-covered hands and this man's blood-soaked torso, red seeping into the snow around us.
"I don't see any bubbling," I say. "That means his lungs may be okay. There's nothing near his heart either. So the first thing we need to do is--"
"Yes," Anders says, snapping back to himself. "I've got this. Eric? I need the first-aid kit. I put my pack down over there. Casey? Hold this right here. We can't worry about internal injury. This is triage. You can stitch, right?"
"I can."
"Then help me with these two worst ones, and then we'll divide the rest. Get him stable and pray he survives long enough to tell us where to find Nicki."
*
We're back in Rockton. I have no idea what time it is, only that it's dark and has been dark since long before we returned. We found a makeshift sled at Roger's tent and managed to get him here alive, which is a massive accomplishment. Keeping him alive will be an even tougher one. We've been working on that for hours, Anders and Mathias and I, with Dalton and Diana ready to grab whatever we need.
We have to reopen some of the stitches to access what we couldn't mend in the field. That's probably the last thing Roger's system needs, but we have him doped up on enough morphine that he's out cold, and we hope that forfends shock. There's no sign of serious internal injury ... which only means no one attending him has the know-how to make that call unless one of his systems fails. And if it does? Well, he's screwed, because we don't have the know-how to fix it either.
If there is any saving grace, it is that Sutherland stabbed wildly, his blade often slicing only through the skin. Roger's chest is a mess, and maybe that in itself will prove too much, but by the time we're done, he's stable and resting.
Anders goes next door for a shower. I stay in the clinic, sitting on the cleanest piece of floor I can find. Dalton's quietly mopping up, giving me room to breathe.
"We need to get him to a doctor," I say.
"I know."
"Is that possible? What's the contingency plan here?"
He hands me a glass of water. "Val contacted the council. They're 'considering the matter.' Which means we do need a contingency plan, in case they say fuck it and tell us to let nature take its course, considering he's probably a killer."
"And Nicole?"
"I made that clear. We're not asking to keep a killer alive for humanitarian reasons. We need him alive to find out where he's put Nicole."
"If he hasn't already killed her."
Dalton lowers himself onto the floor. "Jacob's right, Casey. There's no point in taking Nicole only to kill her. He'd have saved himself the hassle and killed her in bed. A big 'fuck you' to us."
"What if it wasn't her captor who took her? What if it was someone else?"
"Someone else?"
I close my eyes and lean back against the wall. "Ignore me. I'm tired and rambling."
He moves closer, until his legs brush mine. "No, you're not. Something's going on in that head of yours. It's been going on for a while, and now it's clicked."
"I've just been ... I don't know. Trying to figure out where the hostiles come from. Whether there's a connection to the council. How coincidental is it that Val was attacked after they encouraged her to go on patrol? Then they covered up what happened, so you couldn't investigate."
"You think they did what they accused me of? Orchestrated it?"
I rub my face. "It doesn't matter. Not right now. Hostiles didn't take Nicole. It just made me wonder what else the council could do. What would they do, if it's to their benefit? Tyrone said it's a good thi
ng we didn't let Nicole leave. He seems sure they'd have killed her. Except she wasn't threatening to tell anyone about Rockton. I made it up. I thought I was so damned clever, beating them at their own game. What if I...?" I look at him. "What if I did this? I made them think she was a threat so they took her and attacked Shawn to convince us it was our guy?"
"But Nicole wasn't an exposure threat, Casey. She was staying here."
"Maybe the council couldn't take that chance. If she raised enough fuss, you might fly her out. If we discovered injuries we missed, you might fly her out. Regardless of what they said, you might fly her out. They can't trust you. You'll put the residents first."
He's quiet, face drawn, eyes clouded with worry, and that's not what I want. I want arguments.
I continue, "Jacob was surprised that Nicole's captor would dare come into Rockton and take her. Tyrone was, too. It is ballsy. Incredibly ballsy. Especially for someone who isn't from Rockton, doesn't know how the town works, what the house layouts look like, how to get in and out, how to access our drug supply. Roger wouldn't know any of that. He's a second-generation settler."
"But he was asking about law enforcement."
"And not getting any answers. Not enough to let him break in and take her." I run my hands through my hair. "I'm not saying Roger couldn't have done it. But we know the council has people here. Spies. The only one we can identify..."
Dalton shakes his head. "It's not Will. Yeah, I know, consider all options. Not Will, though."
Anders is indeed one of the council spies. Planted to keep tabs on Dalton, but he abandoned that long ago, his loyalty firmly with his sheriff.
"Will was at home and in bed moments after Shawn was attacked," I say. "Whoever did this can't be anyone we'd roust to help with the search, not if he had to get Nicole out of Rockton."
"The boot prints..."
"They were roughly the same size as Nicole's captor's. But in that kind of snow, it wasn't possible to say the tread was a match."
We go quiet. Then Dalton says, "The plan with Nicole--telling the council she might be an exposure threat--we agreed on that. You came up with it, but we all agreed. Not one of us thought it could put her in danger. You never said Nicole threatened to expose us, only that you feared she might report the crime, which could endanger Rockton. That's pure conjecture. And what about Diana? She is an exposure threat, but they haven't taken any action except making her finish her term." He looks at me. "You had no reason to think your suggestion would endanger Nicole."
I don't answer.
"For now, focus on Roger," he says. "We need to wake him up and speak to him."
FIFTY-FOUR
Roger is awake. Awake and yet not alert, floating in that semiconscious state where he can respond to questions but isn't fully aware of what's happening. Not aware enough to formulate a lie. Questioning him in that condition violates his rights, but no one here gives a shit.
The only problem with Roger's condition is that he isn't entirely coherent either. We're left sifting through the flotsam and jetsam his muddled brain throws out.
"He attacked--he attacked--he attacked--" That's how it begins, when I ask Roger what he remembers. He gets stuck there, like a record unable to complete a revolution.
"He attacked you," I say. "Do you know why?"
"Girl. The girl." He finds my face, and his scrunches up. "You? Yes, you. In the forest."
"You saw me in the forest. During the storm. You attacked me."
"Attacked? No. The storm ... Yes. But not then. After. With him."
I struggle not to put words into his mouth. "Where were you when you first saw me?"
"In the forest. During the storm. You had her. His girl."
"Whose girl?"
"His."
"You saw me during the storm."
"Yes. You. With him." He nods toward Anders. "You had her. You'd found her. In the cave."
"Did you see me later, during that storm? Alone?"
He shakes his head. "Went home. Needed to sort it out. What I heard. What I saw."
"What did you hear and see?"
"You two. With her. In a cave. He put her in a cave."
"He? Who is--?"
"You got her out. You two. Saw you."
"And the next time you saw me?"
"Behind the village. In the forest. With a dog. A puppy."
"What were you doing there?"
"Chasing him."
"The man you were chasing?" I word it carefully. "When's the last time you saw him?"
His face screws up. "When he attacked me. You were there. I heard you. Saw you."
"That's the man you were chasing?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"To catch him."
A grunt of frustration from Anders. I nod, echoing the sentiment.
"Why were you trying to catch him?" I ask.
"Because he took that woman. Kept her in a cave. I saw him in the storm. Running from you and him." He glances at Anders. "Then he disappeared, and you found the girl. The one he took. I heard you say she'd been kept in a cave. So I knew that's why you were chasing him."
My heart sinks as I realize what's happened. I say, "And then you chased him. From where?"
"The forest. I went looking. For him. To help you. I saw him. He ran."
"You chased him here?"
He nods. "He was already heading this way. By accident. So I helped. I'd asked around. I knew that was the right thing. You'd handle it here. You have police here. This is where he needed to go."
"Shit," Anders murmurs.
Shit, indeed.
I keep interrogating Roger, but after that brief spurt of semilucidity, he fades fast. I try to ask if he was the one in my house that night. I try to ask if he has a dark snowmobile suit. I try to ask every damned question I have, but he falls into drugged confusion, mumbling about someone named Benjamin and, yep, that's where I lose any hope of getting something sensible from him. I'll have to wait until tomorrow.
*
We're in the Red Lion eating dinner. It closed nearly an hour ago, but when we walked in with no clue about the time, the staff insisted on staying to make us dinner. Now they've gone home and the three of us are alone in the restaurant, eating venison steaks by the light of a single flickering candle.
"So, it seems we have a tragic case of mistaken identity," I say as I cut into my meat.
Dalton grunts.
"Double mistaken identity," Anders says. "Roger sees us chasing Shawn and then later escorting Nicole. He overhears enough to know she was being held captive and jumps to the conclusion that's why we were chasing Shawn. Because Shawn must have taken Nicole. Then Roger spots Shawn escaping from Nicole's real captor and goes after him. Shawn figures Roger is his captor and keeps running toward Rockton, which is conveniently where Roger wants him to go. Roger figures he's saved the day, turning in a killer. And what does he get for it? Attacked by Shawn. Which leaves us..."
"Absolutely fucking nowhere," Dalton says. "The real culprit is still on the run. Nicole's still missing. And we still have--" He stops himself.
"No idea whodunit," I say. "A detective who's running in circles, ending up nowhere."
"No." He catches my look as I reach for my beer. "No."
"We've had a setback," Anders says. "That's all. What we need is another round of these"--he points at our beers--"and then a really good sleep."
*
I'm sitting on the deck off Dalton's bedroom. He's asleep inside. I managed to shore up my spirits after my pity party at the Lion. He kept watching for a relapse, but we finished the meal and the second round of beers and retrieved Storm, and if I seemed to have moved past that, he wasn't going to bring it up.
I hadn't moved past. I just don't do pity parties very well. So I fake-crashed into sleep, and once he'd drifted off, I crept out to the deck. Storm followed, and now we're huddled under a mountain of blankets, listening to the sounds of the forest.
Only about ten minutes pass bef
ore the door squeaks. I start to rise, but Dalton lowers himself beside me.
"We'll go inside," I say. "I just needed a minute."
He puts his leg over mine, keeping me in place. "Seems like you need a few more than that."
"I don't. I'm sorry. I hate whining and complaining."
"Yeah, you do a lot of that. It's hard to hear myself think, much less sleep. You gotta keep it down." He pushes against my hip, arm sliding behind me, leg still over mine, Storm adjusting to lie over both our laps. "Your idea of whining, Casey, is a split-second whimper, followed by five minutes of apologies for disturbing anyone."
"I feel like I'm whining."
"That's a whole different thing." He shifts closer, pulling me against him. "Back at the Lion, I was venting. You gotta let me do that without twisting it into criticism. You know it's not."
I nod.
"You ready to come inside?"
I hesitate, staring at the slowly falling snow.
"Yeah, okay," he says. "That's a good idea. You sleep better out here."
He starts rearranging the blankets into a bed and moves Storm to the foot of it. When she tries to sneak back up, a soft growl of warning makes her lie down, sighing. He lays a blanket over her.
I shake my head. "It's cold. You won't sleep."
"Then you'll just need to find a way to warm me up," he says and pulls me down under the covers.
*
I wake to someone banging on the front door, and I decide I don't hear it. I'm warm under the pile of blankets, curled up with my head on Dalton's chest, Storm draped over his stomach, my one hand on her, feeling her heartbeat as I listen to Dalton's. Even the bite of winter's chill on my nose is almost pleasant, as if reminding me how good I have it otherwise, snuggled up under these blankets.
The banging continues.
Dalton doesn't stir. Neither does Storm. And I decide that's proof enough, it doesn't exist. I've been woken twice this week by someone at the door. A third time is statistically impossible.
I bury my icy nose against Dalton, and his arms tighten around me. He murmurs in his sleep, no words I can make out, but it's a contented murmur. When I shift, Storm sighs but again, it's a contented sigh.
See? No one's at the door. I'm dreaming, and when I wake, it'll be morning, and I'll sneak inside to make coffee and start breakfast, and Dalton will smell both and come down to take over the cooking and let me curl up in front of the fireplace. I'll sip my coffee and warm myself by the fire with my puppy and watch my lover cook for me and marvel at what I could possibly have done in my life to deserve such good fortune.
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