Phil stares at him.
"What Eric means--" I begin.
"Please, Casey. There is no alternative interpretation you can come up with to explain that away, however embarrassing I'm sure you find it."
I bristle. "I don't find it--"
"The sheriff's exposure to our culture is limited largely to his books and videos. Dime-store novels and fantasy television shows."
"That's not--"
"And from those, he clearly has a distorted view on the world, one that someone has exploited by feeding him ridiculous stories. Black-market organ sales are the stuff of pulp fiction and urban legend, Sheriff. Whoever told you Harry Powys did such a thing was pulling a prank."
"Look it up," Dalton says.
"What?"
"Harrison Powers. That's his real name. Google it. You'll find news articles--legitimate news articles--about a doctor suspected of exactly what I said. A warrant was issued for his arrest. He disappeared. Check the dates. Check the photograph. Compare it to Harry Powys."
Silence. Three long pulses of it. Then Phil says, "Whoever told you they found this online--"
"I found it. I'm not illiterate, you pompous jackass. I can use the fucking internet and read the goddamn evidence, which I verify against alternate sources."
Dalton steps closer to Phil. "You let a man like that into my town. For profit. And he murdered Abbygail. They chopped up her body and scattered it for scavengers. That's who you let in here. Because it was profitable."
"I'm sorry, Sheriff. I don't know how you came across this information, but it is wrong. Completely and utterly--"
Dalton hits him. A right hook to the jaw. Phil flies off his feet. Dalton steps away. Then he follows me into the house, leaving Phil on the ground outside.
45
We're upstairs in our bedroom. Phil is gone--I checked out the balcony window. I've let Storm upstairs, only because it would be more upsetting to keep her out and listen to her cry. Dalton is in the chair by our bed, and she's at his feet, her muzzle on his boots, which he's forgotten to take off. I bend to untie them, and he removes them silently. Then he says, "I fucked up."
"Yes."
He looks at me.
"This is the one time I'm not going to argue," I say. "You opened a hornet's nest that we should have left alone."
I take his boots and set them outside the door. "It was going to happen sooner or later. Probably best that it happened when it's just Phil, without the council listening in. That will make it easier for us to control the damage."
"Our word against his?" He makes a face, and I know he hates that. It's underhanded and dishonest.
"No, I have another idea. But first I have to ask if you want this damage controlled. Or is this scorched-earth time?"
He exhales and leans forward, both hands running through his hair. Then he shakes his head. "There's part of me that says 'fuck, yeah.' Just throw it all out there and end this. Pack our things and go. But that's me being pissy."
"Which you'd regret about twelve hours later."
"Yeah. As much as I'd like to confront the council, what good does it do? They
'll pull a Phil--pretend they don't know what I'm talking about, treat me like a delusional idiot. Then they'll shut me up. Exile me. Exile you. Or worse. So, no, this isn't scorched-earth time. This is 'Casey fixes Eric's fuck-up' time. And you have an idea about how to do that?"
"I do."
After Dalton is asleep, I slip over to Anders's place to ask him to take first search shift this morning. I know he's only been to bed for a couple of hours--and me waking him doesn't help--but when I explain what happened, he offers before I can ask. Then it's back home to make sure the blackout blinds are closed, reset the alarm, and ease into bed.
When the alarm sounds at nine and I admit my subterfuge, Dalton grumbles . . . until I point out that I would much rather not trick him and just be able to ask him to stay in bed until he's rested enough to search properly. He agrees. Even apologizes. Whether he'll voluntarily sleep in when I ask is another matter. I can't say I'm any better, though.