We leave Harper about a kilometer from town. Dalton tells her to explain everything to Edwin and let him know that we had to hightail it back to Rockton, in case the killer heads there. He promises that we'll come by later to discuss the situation. By "later" he means "after we catch Brady."
We don't return for our tent and sleeping blankets. We'll get them another time. Right now we do need to hurry back to town. Jacob doesn't seem to be with Brady, and we'll willfully interpret that to mean Jacob is safe. We must return to Rockton, regroup, and organize a full manhunt for Oliver Brady . . . before he does circle back to Rockton, once he realizes that escape isn't a simple matter of a half-day hike to the next town.
As we near Rockton, I hear a sound that must be an audio hallucination. I've been working through the case as we ride, and I was analyzing the beginning to figure out what we could have done better. Then I hear the very sound that started this whole mess. Therefore, I am imagining things. Or so I tell myself until Dalton says "What the fuck?" and I glance back to see him squinting up at the midmorning sky . . . as a prop plane flies into view.
Once again, we reach the landing strip just as the plane touches down. Cricket hears the racket and declares she's not going a step closer, and if I insist, then she'll send me there by equine ejection seat. Even Blaze flattens his ears and peers at the steel monster with grave suspicion.
We leave our horses and walk down the airstrip just as the passenger door opens. Out steps the kind of guy who'd seem more at home on a private jet. He's tall and trim, in his late fifties, with silvering dark hair. He has a magazine-cover smile that's dazzling even from fifty meters away. Dressed in pressed khakis and a golf shirt, he looks around with the grin of a big-game hunter, ready for his first Yukon adventure. When he spots us, the smile only grows, and he strides over, hand outstretched.
The pilot climbs from the cockpit. He looks like the passenger's personal assistant, a guy maybe my age, dark-haired and chisel-jawed, wearing stylish glasses that I suspect don't contain prescription lenses. He is not smiling. Instead, he bears down on us like we're about to contaminate his boss with our dirt-crusted hands.
"Sheriff Dalton," the younger man says. "Detective."
I know that voice. I can't quite place it, but it's one I've heard. . .
It clicks. Yes, I have heard this voice many times, and I've imagined the man it belongs to so often that I'm sure I'm misidentifying him now. In my head, the voice belongs to an older man, maybe fifty, another middle manager, like Val. A fussy little man with a potbelly and a comb-over.
The younger man passes the older one and puts himself slightly in front, as if shielding him from necessary interaction. Then he extends a hand--to me.
"Phil," he says. "It's good to meet you, Detective."
Phil. The council's spokesperson.
He takes my hand in a firm but perfunctory shake. And for Dalton? A curt nod. Then he turns to the older man.
"This is--"
"Gregory." The silver-haired man steps past Phil. "Gregory Wallace. I've come to see my stepson."
41
I glance at Dalton.
Gregory catches the look and says wryly, "Yes, I suspect I'm not your favorite person right now, which is why I'm here. I insisted Phil bring me to see what can be done to make Oliver's stay less taxing."
"Yeah?" Dalton says. "You know what would make it less taxing? If it never happened."
Phil makes a noise in his throat, one manicured hand rising in the gesture you'd give a child, telling him to calm down before he embarrasses you in front of company.
Dalton continues. "I don't know what the hell your understanding of the situation up here was, Mr. Wallace, but we were not equipped to deal with a prisoner of any variety. This town is for victims. It is safety. It is sanctuary. It is not a fucking maximum-security prison."
"What Sheriff Dalton is saying--" Phil begins.
"Oh, I believe he's saying it just fine," Wallace says, and while he's smiling, the steel in his voice warns Phil to silence. "Please continue, Sheriff."
"We were not equipped for this," Dalton says. "We were not warned in time to become equipped. Your stepson was dropped off with a fucking bag of coffee. Here's a serial killer. Please take care of him for us. Oh, and enjoy the coffee."
"I don't think this is productive," Phil says.
Dalton turns on him. "You want to talk about productive? How about giving me a damned method to communicate with you when everything goes to hell up here?"
Phil straightens, bringing himself to Dalton's height and looking him square in the eye. "You have a method, Sheriff. Valerie is--"
"Dead."
A moment's pause. Then Phil says, "What?"
"Val is dead." Dalton waves at Wallace. "His stepson took her hostage. Killed her. Dumped her in a river. Casey almost died trying to retrieve her body 'cause a proper burial seems the least we can do. Oliver Brady also murdered Brent, one of our key scouts and local contacts. Gutshot him and left him to die. Then he massacred three settlers, including an old woman trying to escape. Her granddaughter managed to avoid the carnage, though not without witnessing her grandmother's bloody corpse. We escorted the kid home, but we didn't dare take her inside the settlement and explain what happened, or we might not have walked out alive, considering the killer was one of ours." Dalton pauses. "That's our day so far. And yours?"