"I won't know about Val until I retrieve her body," I say. "I saw no signs of trauma that couldn't have been inflicted by a fall. As for the settler massacre, I believe someone else was responsible."
"Some other random killer roaming the woods?" Wallace says. "I'm sorry, Detective. I realize Oliver is an attractive young man, and he can be charming--"
"Stop right there," I say.
Brady gives a harsh laugh. "Yeah, no, Greg. Don't even try that. She hates my fucking guts, whether I'm guilty or not. The only reason she isn't shooting me is that she's actually a damn fine cop, one who gives a shit about--"
"You, too," I say. "Enough. I don't want patronizing bullshit from him or bootlicking flattery from you."
"She's right," Diana says. "I've known Casey half my life. Don't insult her. Don't flatter her. She'll see through that crap and stomp you both like bugs."
"Just give me my stepson," Wallace says. "That's all you need to do. Hand him to me, and I will lead you to your deputy, and we'll all walk back to town. It's not as if I can hijack the plane and fly out on my own."
"He can do exactly that," Brady says. "He has a fleet of small planes, and he insists on flying them himself, like he insists on doing everything himself. Including murder."
Wallace sighs. "And here is the problem, Casey. Lies. His endless lies. I don't know how to fly. I don't own any planes. If I did, why would Phil have brought me? Oliver is spouting nonsense. He'll say whatever it takes to make you doubt me."
And so they go, accusing one another and protesting their innocence, leaving me feeling like the therapist for the most dysfunctional family ever.
Except I'm not their therapist. I am their judge, jury, and, yes, executioner.
I can end this now. Decide who is lying and shoot him. I have Brady pinned under me, and Wallace is barely even bothering to hold the knife on Diana, too caught up in defending himself against his stepson's accusations.
All I have to do is decide who is telling the truth. Who is the real killer. Which is impossible, when I have nothing to go on but their say-so.
Maybe after all my years as a detective, my gut should tell me which one is guilty. But right now, it wants me to shoot both of them. It says they're both full of shit, and I don't think it's wrong. Neither is being completely honest. But one is a ser
ial killer, and the other is just a garden-variety dangerous son of a bitch. One deserves death. One does not. And I have no idea which is which.
I catch Diana's eye. She's looking straight at me, tuning out father and son as she waits for me to resolve this, like I always do.
Casey to the rescue. Just trust Casey.
See how well that worked out for Val and Kenny.
I failed them. I will not fail Diana.
I could signal to her that she can jump aside and get free of Wallace, but that's a risk.
No more risks. No more being a homicide cop. I need to channel Dalton here. I am the guardian of those under my protection, and they are all that matters.
"He's yours," I say to Wallace.
Brady screeches, "What?"
"You'll escort him back to town," I say, "and I don't really give a damn what happens then."
Which is a lie. I have every intention of getting to the bottom of this. I just can't do it out here, with them raging at each other, drawing the attention of everyone around. And not while Anders lies unconscious and Kenny is in desperate need of medical attention. Just let me get them to town, and I'll figure out my next move there.
I haul Brady to his feet. When he resists, I squeeze his broken wrist. He howls . . . and a bullet hits the tree right beside Wallace's head.
Wallace spins. But he doesn't dive for cover. He grabs Diana, yanking her in front of him. When she tries to pull away, the knife flashes and blood sprays, and I forget Brady.
I run for Diana. Wallace holds her like a human shield. I knock her in the side, shoving her away. Wallace grabs my upper arm and yanks me into Diana's place. When I see the look on his face, I know what he is.
I finally know.
I swing my gun up. The idiot has forgotten I have it. He slashes with the knife, the blade aiming for my face. I wrench from his grasp.