We both raise our fingers for that. Then Brent hands me the figures. Up close I see the detail, the hours spent carving them. I thank him, and we talk for a little more. He's flagging, and I tell him we'll build that platform and put him in his beloved Canadiens hockey jersey. And I say we'll get Brady for him.
"I'm sure you will," he says, "but I
'm not too worried about that. I'm just glad you came. Not a bad way to go. Good Scotch. Pretty girl."
I squeeze his hand and bend to kiss his weathered cheek as his eyes close.
"Eric?" he whispers, voice barely audible.
Dalton bends by Brent's head.
"I figured it out," Brent says. "The secret behind that town of yours. This is what it's for, isn't it? Harboring the worst criminals. The ones the government wants to make disappear. Save folks the expense of a trial and hide them up here, let their sorry asses rot." His eyes half open. "I'm right, aren't I?"
"Took you long enough."
Brent smiles and his eyes close again. A few more breaths, and then he goes still.
27
I make Brent comfortable. I know exactly how ridiculous this is, but I do it anyway, arranging his body on his sleeping mat and pulling up a blanket, as if tucking him in for the night. Dalton doesn't say a word.
Then I stand and march to the exit. "I'm going to find Brady. I'm going to find him and put a bullet through his gut and leave him out there. Let him drag his ass to shelter so he doesn't get eaten by a pack of damned wolves. I will watch him drag his ass, and I will pray that the wolves come. Wolves or a wolverine or ravens. I hope it's ravens. I hope they find him, gutshot, and they rip out his . . ."
I don't go further. Dalton knows what I mean, and he doesn't need to hear the details.
I stoop for the passageway, and Dalton grips my arm.
"Casey . . ."
"I'm going to find him."
"You will. But Brady's not waiting outside this cave."
I wheel on him. "You think I don't know that?"
"It's been twelve hours."
"I need to process the scene."
"Twelve hours."
The crime scene isn't going anywhere. That's what he means. He glances back at Brent's body.
"No," I say. "We're not doing that right now. We need tools."
"He has everything."
"Later. He's fine. He'll be . . ."
Fine. He'll be fine.
Brent is not fine. Brent is dead, and I don't want to lay him to rest because it feels like acknowledgment. Feels like acceptance. Feels, too, like I'm stalling when I need to be acting.
"We need to--" I stop myself.
Find Jacob. Warn Jacob. That's what I want to say, and that's where I must draw the line. I can't remind Dalton his brother is in danger, as if he doesn't know that, as if he's not holding himself back from running out to find him.
It has been twelve hours. Another hour won't matter. Not for finding Jacob. Not for examining the crime scene.