"So there's no one in particular you'd suggest we focus on?" I say.
He hesitates, then says, "Ty Cypher and Silas Cox maybe. Cypher's from Rockton originally. Eric will remember him. He used to be sheriff. He stays pretty deep in the woods. Hates Rockton, so he steers clear. But he gets around. And he's nuts. Not like mentally ill. Nuts like one of these feral dogs."
"And Silas Cox?"
"He's from down south. I used to hunt with him after he arrived, maybe five years back. He seemed okay at first. Just a guy who wanted to live wild. Only one night, we were drinking--he got a bottle of rye from a miner who trades, in season. So we're drinking, and he started talking about ... women. Bad stuff that he..."
"Things he'd done to them? Things he wanted to do?"
"Things he wanted to do, I think. He brought it up like it was just regular conversation, something guys talk about, and I'm pretty sure it wasn't. I mean, the stuff he talked about..." Jacob's cheeks redden again. "It didn't seem like normal ... relations. He sounded like ... like a guy who might put a woman in a cave."
&
nbsp; "Fantasies about unwilling partners? Holding women against their will?"
Silence. Then he blurts, "Ropes. And stuff."
I say, as matter-of-factly as possible, "He talked about restraining women for sex. Was it mutual? Partners playing along for fun? Or actual restraint?"
The look on Jacob's face is sheer horror. "Playing along?"
"So, not mutual. He talked about restraining women against their will."
"Yes."
"Holding them hostage?"
"We ... didn't get that far. He started talking about women, ones he'd worked with down south, who wouldn't go out with him, and what he wanted to do to them, and I ... I honestly thought I was misunderstanding, on account of the rye. I'm not used to drinking. But misunderstanding or not, I didn't want to continue the conversation, so I got out of there fast and decided Silas wasn't the kind of person I should associate with."
"When's the last time you saw him?"
"A couple of months ago. I was way over by the big lake, shooting duck. I'd been camping there a couple of days. He came by. Started asking questions about Rockton. I did my usual thing, played dumb, said I'd never seen a town, and he said Roger--" He pauses. "Wait, Roger. You should talk to Roger."
I scan my list. "A trapper, right? Lives here year-round."
"I told Eric he might make a good contact. He'd be someone to talk to about this. He knows both Cypher and Silas better than I do. Brent likes the caves, too. If anyone has seen someone in that system, it'd be him."
"Excellent," I say. "So I've got a list of ten settlers and hostiles--"
"Hostiles? No, that doesn't include hostiles. I don't have anything to do with them."
"Because they're hostile?"
I smile when I say it, but his gaze moves out into the forest.
"I just don't," he says. "No reason to."
"Okay, that's understandable. I'm trying to figure out more about them."
"You want to know about the hostiles. When that woman drugged me--how I acted, what I did? That's a hostile. Except they're like that all the time. Their minds don't work right. They're rabid animals. Like me when I--when I attacked you."
"Could they do something like this? Are they smart enough, sane enough to plan it? Take and hold someone captive?"
He rocks on his heels. I'm reminding him of what he did to me, and he's agitated, so I say, "It's okay. I can talk to Brent."
"No," he says. "They couldn't do this. It's not a hostile. Stay away from them."
I nod, but it must not be sincere enough, because he says, "It's not a hostile. Can't be. Just ... just leave them alone. If you see one, run. Or shoot. Just shoot."