I turn to the other prints. These are boots. Rockton boots. We don't exactly have a shopping mall of sele
ction in town. Dalton finds a couple of styles that fit his criteria--good for outdoors, readily available, durable and reasonably priced--and that's what you get. These are the type I wore until I went down to Whitehorse with Dalton and bought a pair better suited to my small feet.
I flash back to last month, in the station, waterproofing my new boots. Anders came in with Kenny and picked up the boot I'd already done.
He whistled. "Nice."
"Yep, I'm spoiled. Perks of sleeping with the boss."
"You mean compensation for sleeping with the boss."
Kenny chuckled at that and took the boot from Anders. "These are nice. Good arches. That's the problem with mine. Not enough support for high arches. Hurts like a bitch after a daylong hunt."
"How long have you been here?" Anders said. "And you're just telling us now?"
Kenny shrugged. "I didn't want to complain."
It'd been too late to get him special boots, and when Dalton said we had a stash of other ones--different designs for those who couldn't wear the usuals--Kenny had brushed it off. That's how he was. Never wanted to make waves. Never wanted to ask for anything special. Like the bullied kid who found his way into the cool clique and just wanted to ride that out, behave himself in case the others decided he was a pain in the ass and kicked him out.
Which is why helping Brady doesn't--
I rub my neck. Stop making excuses. My flashback does prove something: that I know Kenny left Rockton wearing boots like these.
Dalton moves his foot beside one print without prompting. It's smaller than his. Smaller enough to be noticeable, and yet significantly larger than my ladies' size five. A men's seven maybe.
I remember Anders joking that Kenny should try on mine--that they might fit. Which suggested Kenny's feet were small.
"Casey?"
I nod and straighten. This is the worst part of community policing--investigating a crime when the person responsible is someone I know, someone I like. I need to remind myself that beyond the few people I associate closely with, I don't really know anyone in Rockton. I cannot know their pasts. Even people without that past can come here and commit horrible crimes.
I grieve for the loss of the Kenny I thought I knew. I'm deep in my thoughts, following Dalton, and--
"Stop right there," a voice rings out. "Hands on your head, you son of a bitch, or I swear I'll--I'll fucking shoot you and drag your . . . fucking ass back to Rockton."
I know that voice. I even know the diction--a poor imitation of Dalton by a guy who wants to be him.
"Kenny?" I whisper. I was just thinking of Kenny, and therefore I must be mishearing or--
Dalton is running. Doubled over, running full out. I'm taking off after him, my gun out as he pulls his. We pass a tree, and ahead I see Kenny holding a gun at Jacob's back.
51
"Turn around," Kenny barks.
Jacob says something I can't hear, his voice low, words calming. He turns, and Kenny gives a start.
"Eric?" Kenny says to Jacob.
Jacob lowers his hood.
"Who the hell are--?" Kenny begins.
"Kenny!" Dalton thunders.
Kenny wheels, gun lowering, the perfect opportunity for Jacob to grab it, but he just stays with his hands on his head. Kenny realizes he's lowered his weapon and corrects his stance, but Dalton sees that gun go up, trained on his brother, and he lets out a roar. When he snarls "Drop that fucking--" he doesn't even need to finish. Kenny literally throws the gun aside.
The gun hits the ground hard enough that I half expect it to fire, but it only bounces into the undergrowth as Dalton knocks Kenny flying.