The two situations are equally dangerous.
Most pressing right now is Dalton’s arm. Jacob and I are both hovering as Anders works. I see Brady watching, and I want to pull back, tug Jacob with me, but that’s pointless. One glance at Jacob, and Brady can tell he’s Dalton’s brother. And if Brady hasn’t figured out that Dalton and I are lovers, he’s going to soon.
Dalton’s injury isn’t as serious as I feared, but it’s still a bullet wound. It will be temporarily debilitating. Or so it will seem to a guy who agreed to stay in bed with the flu only when we warned he could infect others. It’s his left arm, which is a problem.
When I say, “Good thing you’re right-handed,” there isn’t even a moment of confusion. Instead, Dalton exhales, and says, “Yeah,” and Anders agrees. Jacob looks up but covers his surprise fast. Having our prisoner realize that our sheriff has lost the full use of his dominant arm is the last thing we need. It really is.
In town, Dalton strides straight for Val’s place. I catch his good arm. My gaze shoots to the station. He hesitates but nods, and we follow Anders and Nicole with Brady. When they head inside, though, we veer off to the supply shed.
The shed isn’t part of the station—our building is too small to have the militia tramping in and out all day. Inside the supply building is a secure gun locker, which I examine for signs of tampering. There are none.
We have two sets of keys for this locker. Dalton carries one. Anders has the other. The militia use handguns on patrol, and they typically just pass their weapon on to whoever takes over their shift. Otherwise, they need Anders to open the locker. He never just hands over his key. Neither does Dalton.
Dalton reaches into his pocket with his left hand—force of habit—and then winces. With that wince comes a growl of frustration.
“As tempting as it is to play the tough guy,” I say, “please remember that every time you do that, you pull at the wound, and it’s going to take that much longer to heal. I’m going to suggest—strongly suggest—that you let me put your arm in a sling, if only to remind you to keep it still.”
“Fuck.”
“Yes, but it’ll heal faster.”
He nods. Then he switches his key to his right hand. When he fumbles to get it into the hole, I resist the urge to do it for him. The key goes in, and the cabinet opens, and sure enough, one of our rifles is missing.
I read the log. “It hasn’t been checked out since last weekend, when we took the rifles for hunting.”
“It was here yesterday, when I had to grab a gun for Kenny. So how the hell—?”
“Someone picked the lock,” Anders says as he walks in. “That’s the only explanation.”
“Agreed,” I say. “But it’s not a standard lock. Whoever did this has some serious skills.”
“So we go to the council and demand . . .” Dalton begins, and then trails off, grumbling under his breath.
“Yeah,” Anders says. “You can demand to know if we have any thieves in town, but they aren’t going to tell us.”
“Do you know, for a fact, that there are only two keys?” I ask. “I’m guessing you didn’t install that locker yourself.”
Dalton shakes his head.
“So there could be a third key floating around . . . or the council has always had one.”
Anders looks at me. “You think the council brought in a sniper?”
“I’m afraid to even start considering the possibilities. We’ll need to report the attempt, but I’m going to suggest we don’t mention finding the gun or realizing it’s missing. If the council is responsible, their sniper could have brought his own weapon. Using ours suggests they wanted to frame us. By admitting it was ours, we set ourselves up to take responsibility if they succeed next time.”
12
“I don’t understand,” Phil says after I explain what’s happened.
“Someone tried to shoot Oliver Brady,” I say.
“Yes, I understand that’s what you’re telling me, Detective, but I’m not sure I follow your reasoning. You presume Mr. Brady was the target.”
“If Eric hadn’t pushed him down, he’d have been—”
“And what proof do you have of that?” Phil cuts in, his voice edged with impatience. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Detective, but I am concerned that you are leaping to conclusions here. There is no way of telling that the bullet would have hit Mr. Brady. Even if there was, that doesn’t prove he was a target. It may have been simply a random shot fired by a settler.”
“The shooter was in a tree. That’s a targeted attack.”
“Perhaps because you were trespassing on territory the shooter considers his.”
“So it was a complete coincidence that we were walking the prisoner in the forest when someone fired a shot from a tree—which has never happened before—and that bullet just happened to seem aimed at our prisoner. Presuming it was a random attack—”
“—is like seeing a grizzly barreling in your direction,” Dalton says, “and standing your ground because there’s a chance he’s not actually charging at you.”
“A colorful analogy, Sheriff,” Phil says. “But I take your point. Obviously extra steps will be required to secure the prisoner.”
“Like what?” Dalton says. “Keeping him locked up six months with no exercise?”
“I do not have an issue with that. Nor does his stepfather.”
“Our residents will. They already think he’s being mistreated.”
“I’m sure you can handle that, Sheriff.”
“I can. What I can’t handle is the loss of respect they’ll have for me—and Casey and Will—for a situation that is not our fault. We don’t want Brady here.”
“And did you take steps to rectify that?”
“Excuse me?” I say.
“Yeah,” Dalton says. “We put one of our guys in that tree to shoot him. Stupid me forgot we planted the sniper and nearly got my ass killed trying to save the target. Whoops.”
“What I mean, Sheriff, is that you might have let your dissatisfaction with the situation be known, and one of your citizens decided to relieve you of the responsibility. Are all your guns accounted for?”
“They’re all in the locker,” I say. Which is technically true.
“Then I don’t know what to tell you, besides my suspicion that this was one of your forest people, and regardless of whether Mr. Brady was the target, you should reconsider walking him outside of town boundaries.”
“On another subject,” I say, “do you know anything about a shooting in San Jose?”
Silence. “A shooting . . .”
“In San Jose.”
“There are many shootings in America these days, Detective. To the point, sadly, where they begin to blur.”
“This was in a school playground, and the shooter is still at large.”
“That does sound familiar. But I fail to see what . . . Are you suggesting that has something to do with this shooting?”
“Brady mentioned it.”
“All right . . .” A long pause. “I’m still not seeing the connection. I seem to recall a sniper was involved in the playground incident, but I’m at a loss to even guess what the connection might be.”
“I thought it was odd that he brought it up.”
“Ah. What you’re saying is that it’s odd that he mentioned a sniper shooting . . . and then seems to be the target of one. You’re wondering if Mr. Brady himself had something to do with the attempt this afternoon.”
“Sure.” That wasn’t where I was going at all—I just wanted to verify that there had been a shooting in San Jose and see how Phil reacted to Brady mentioning it.
Phil continues, “You’re asking whether Mr. Brady knew where he was going. Or if he might have been followed there by a confederate.”
“Yes.”
“There was no indication of a partner in his crimes. However, Mr. Brady has the money to hire someone to do what you are suggesting—appear to shoot at him, in hopes of bolstering his claims of innocence. He is proclaiming that innocence, I presume.”
“To anyone who’ll listen, which is why we’re keeping the gag on.”
“A wise idea.”