Phil's face hardens. "Your insubordination--"
"Fuck my insubordination. Go tell the council I was rude to you, Phil. See which of us they declare the more valuable asset."
I turn to Wallace. "I'm sorry we don't have your stepson. Despite the fact we weren't prepared, we do accept responsibility for his escape. I'm also sorry if you were misled about the appropriateness of this solution to your problem."
Wallace rubs his chin. He looks sick, and it takes him a moment to regroup.
"The blame, I'm afraid, is as much mine as anyone's, Detective," Wallace says. "I failed to properly warn you about exactly the sort of monster you were dealing with. I erred on the side of caution, fearing the truth would limit my options drastically. And in doing so--" He inhales sharply and then shakes his head. "Let's get someplace quiet, where we can come up with a solution."
We ride the horses to town, letting Phil and Wallace walk the short distance. When we're out of earshot, Dalton mutters, "Fuck," and I agree, and that's all we say, all that can be said. This wrinkle is the absolute last thing we need to deal with.
When we enter Rockton, Anders and Isabel are striding toward us.
"Did we hear another plane?" Anders says. He notices the two men behind us. "What the hell?"
I jump off Cricket and call Storm over. Dalton wordlessly reaches for my reins, and I hand them over.
"The younger guy is Phil," I say when Dalton leaves for the stable.
"Our Phil?" Anders says.
"Yep."
"Huh. Not what I expected."
"But a not unpleasant surprise," Isabel murmurs as she gives Phil the kind of look I haven't seen her give any guy since Mick died.
"The other one might be more your style," Anders says.
She gives him a look. "More my age you mean?"
"Nah. I know you like them young."
He gets a glower for that. Wallace is looking about
Rockton, his gaze here and there, taking everything in. I can almost see his thought processes--looking for electricity lines, noting the piles of lumber, checking the construction of the buildings and the layout of town and nodding throughout, as if intrigued and impressed. Phil glances about in mild horror, and I can read his thoughts even better. Dear God, I had no idea it was this bad.
"And the older gentleman?" Isabel says, her voice lowered as the men approach. "Judging by his attire, clearly a man of means. An investor, I presume."
"You could say that. He's Gregory Wallace. Oliver Brady's stepfather."
"Oh, hell," Anders mutters.
"Yep."
The men draw close enough for me to say, "Phil? Mr. Wallace? This is our deputy, Will Anders, and one of our local entrepreneurs, Isabel Radcliffe."
Isabel's eyebrows lift at the introduction. I mouth, Brothel owner?, asking if she'd prefer that introduction, and she rolls her eyes and extends her hand. Phil accepts it with a perfunctory shake, having seen and dismissed her in a heartbeat. Wallace's gaze lingers, and he smiles, as if she is much more than he expected out here.
"Gregory, please," he says, taking her hand and then Anders's. "Detective? If I might speak to you alone, I believe Phil would like to talk to the sheriff."
Phil gives him a clear What the hell? look, but Wallace only smiles and says, "I believe you and the sheriff have a few things to discuss. Or he has a few things to discuss with you. Detective . . ."
"Casey," I say.
He nods. "Casey and I will be at the police station."
I leave Storm with Anders. As Wallace and I enter the station, he says, "You are correct that I didn't know where I was sending Oliver. I understood the basics, of course. A remote, northern community. Hidden. Untraceable. Designed to conceal and contain those who need concealment and containment. That seemed enough. I made the mistake of presuming this was for people like my stepson."