Brady's brows furrow. Dalton nods. He understands my verbal shorthand. This gun is from Rockton. That suggests our shooter is also from Rockton. On the surface, that's alarming, but what's the alternative? An external sniper would mean someone sent to kill Brady. Someone who came from Brady's world.
The two situations are equally dangerous.
Most pressing right now is Dalton's arm. Jacob and I are both hovering as Anders works. I see Brady watching, and I want to pull back, tug Jacob with me, but that's pointless. One glance at Jacob, and Brady can tell he's Dalton's brother. And if Brady hasn't figured out that Dalton and I are lovers, he's going to soon.
Dalton's injury isn't as serious as I feared, but it's still a bullet wound. It will be temporarily debilitating. Or so it will seem to a guy who agreed to stay in bed with the flu only when we warned he could infect others. It's his left arm, which is a problem.
When I say, "Good thing you're right-handed," there isn't even a moment of confusion. Instead, Dalton exhales, and says, "Yeah," and Anders agrees. Jacob looks up but covers his surprise fast. Having our prisoner realize that our sheriff has lost the full use of his dominant arm is the last thing we need. It really is.
In town, Dalton strides straight for Val's place. I catch his good arm. My gaze shoots to the station. He hesitates but nods, and we follow Anders and Nicole with Brady. When they head inside, though, we veer off to the supply shed.
The shed isn't part of the station--our building is too small to have the militia tramping in and out all day. Inside the supply building is
a secure gun locker, which I examine for signs of tampering. There are none.
We have two sets of keys for this locker. Dalton carries one. Anders has the other. The militia use handguns on patrol, and they typically just pass their weapon on to whoever takes over their shift. Otherwise, they need Anders to open the locker. He never just hands over his key. Neither does Dalton.
Dalton reaches into his pocket with his left hand--force of habit--and then winces. With that wince comes a growl of frustration.
"As tempting as it is to play the tough guy," I say, "please remember that every time you do that, you pull at the wound, and it's going to take that much longer to heal. I'm going to suggest--strongly suggest--that you let me put your arm in a sling, if only to remind you to keep it still."
"Fuck."
"Yes, but it'll heal faster."
He nods. Then he switches his key to his right hand. When he fumbles to get it into the hole, I resist the urge to do it for him. The key goes in, and the cabinet opens, and sure enough, one of our rifles is missing.
I read the log. "It hasn't been checked out since last weekend, when we took the rifles for hunting."
"It was here yesterday, when I had to grab a gun for Kenny. So how the hell--?"
"Someone picked the lock," Anders says as he walks in. "That's the only explanation."
"Agreed," I say. "But it's not a standard lock. Whoever did this has some serious skills."
"So we go to the council and demand . . ." Dalton begins, and then trails off, grumbling under his breath.
"Yeah," Anders says. "You can demand to know if we have any thieves in town, but they aren't going to tell us."
"Do you know, for a fact, that there are only two keys?" I ask. "I'm guessing you didn't install that locker yourself."
Dalton shakes his head.
"So there could be a third key floating around . . . or the council has always had one."
Anders looks at me. "You think the council brought in a sniper?"
"I'm afraid to even start considering the possibilities. We'll need to report the attempt, but I'm going to suggest we don't mention finding the gun or realizing it's missing. If the council is responsible, their sniper could have brought his own weapon. Using ours suggests they wanted to frame us. By admitting it was ours, we set ourselves up to take responsibility if they succeed next time."
12
"I don't understand," Phil says after I explain what's happened.
"Someone tried to shoot Oliver Brady," I say.
"Yes, I understand that's what you're telling me, Detective, but I'm not sure I follow your reasoning. You presume Mr. Brady was the target."
"If Eric hadn't pushed him down, he'd have been--"