“Yeah,” Dalton says. “It really helps those who think we’re mistreating him.”
There’s a pause, and Phil manages to sound borderline sympathetic when he says, “I can see that would be a problem. It will need to be dealt with very carefully.”
Dalton snorts.
Phil continues, “Back to the issue, while I will agree that Mr. Brady could hire someone to do this, I don’t see how he would carry it out. We were exceedingly careful with transport, funneling him through multiple handlers, none of whom knew the situation or the destination or had any experience with Rockton.”
“None knew the situation?” I say.
“That is correct. They were told only that they were transporting a dangerous prisoner. We advised leaving the gag on, and we said they could not trust any story he told if it came off. The warning wasn’t really necessary. For those we hired, this would go without saying.”
“The woman who brought him here was ex-military,” I say.
“Most were.”
“Any with sniper training?”
He pauses. “I have no idea, but I will look into that, particularly with the woman who delivered him. That would be the only scenario I see working here—that he communicated with her and she agreed to help. She knew where he was being held. And she is a mercenary. Excellent deductive reasoning.”
Or, maybe, just an excuse he can utilize. Why, yes, Detective, it turns out she was trained in distance shooting, and we cannot track her current whereabouts. Good job, Casey. Gold star. Case solved. Move on.
“What about the stepfather?” I say. “Does Gregory Wallace know where Oliver is being held?”
“Not specifically. And I can’t imagine why he’d pay us to keep the young man safe . . . and then hire an assassin to kill him. That’s hardly cost effective.”
Actually, it would be very cost effective. If Oliver Brady is innocent, that will be proven when someone else is accused of the same crimes. Even if that never happens, his mother might begin questioning. It’s far more convenient for Brady to be dead. I’m so sorry, darling—I tried to keep him safe for you, and I couldn’t.
If Brady is guilty, there’s still a reason to assassinate him. How long will Wallace want to pay to keep his murderous stepson safe? Whatever the scenario here, killing Oliver Brady is both efficient and cost effective. The only reason Wallace wouldn’t have done that right away is his wife. Better for her to think Wallace tried to save her boy, no matter what crimes he’s committed.
I talk to Phil for a while longer, but there’s nothing more to get. Before we sign off, he says, “Sheriff?”
“Yeah.”
“I know we’ve put you in a bad position.”
“The word you want,” Dalton drawls, “is ‘untenable.’ ”
There’s a long pause, and then an almost reluctant “I’m not sure that’s the proper term,” as if he’s loath to correct his uneducated sheriff, when the poor guy is trying to expand his vocabulary.
“Yeah,” Dalton says. “It is. Untenable. A position or argument we cannot defend. We have a killer who has done seriously fucked-up things, yet I cannot explain that to people or they’ll revolt. But if I don’t tell them, they’ll think we’re mistreating a common criminal. Or that he didn’t commit a crime at all. Maybe we’re afraid they’ll discover the truth if we take off that gag. An untenable situation.”
Another long pause. Then, “You’ll work it out, Sheriff. I just need you to understand, particularly in light of this shooting, how important Mr. Brady is to Rockton. The cost of hiding the town against modern technology is skyrocketing. We need to take advantage of opportunities like Oliver Brady.”
“Bullshit.” Dalton’s voice is low, nearly too low to hear, and there’s a note in it that has the hairs on my neck rising.
“I beg your pardon?”
“That’s bullshit, and you know it. You want to cover skyrocketing costs? Look at reducing your profit margin.”
Phil’s voice cools. “I don’t like your implication, Sheriff. Anytime you would like to see our fiscal reports, I will have a copy sent to Dawson City for you.”
Which wouldn’t do any good. It’s not the official income that counts. It’s the hidden profits, from those who buy their way in under a false story.
“Oliver Brady is your responsibility, Sheriff,” Phil says. “You only have to keep him safe for six months. I’m certain you can do that. If you can’t, we’ll need to find someone who can.”
13
It’s almost ten at night, and there’s still enough daylight for me to squeeze in an hour of training with Storm. She’s graduated beyond obedience lessons. We covered those as soon as she was old enough. We’ve passed manners training, too, which is particularly critical given her size. Greeting people by jumping on them ceased to be adorable about twenty pounds ago. By the time she’s full-grown, even leaning in for attention could topple people. Roughhousing is for playtime and only with a select few people. For the rest, she must comport herself with queenly dignity.
Tonight’s lesson is also critical for her breed: distraction and dominance training. She’ll weigh more than me in a few months, which means I will physically be unable to restrain her. I’m putting her through her basic paces—sit, stay, come—while Dalton sits on the porch and tosses her favorite ball in the air.
“Storm . . .” I say when she looks his way.
Her ears perk, but her gaze doesn’t move.
“Eyes on me.”
Her head shifts, just enough so she can see me out of the corner of her eye.
“Uh-uh. Eyes on me. Both of them.”
Her gaze shoots to me. Back to Dalton. He chuckles.
“Storm.”
She sighs, a deep one, her jowls quivering. Then she looks my way and keeps her attention there.
Dalton fake-fumbles the ball. As it thumps to the ground, her head whips toward him.
“Storm,” I say. “Eyes on me.”
Another sigh, as she looks my way with a glower, like a teen saying, Happy now?
“Stand.”
She does.
“Sit.”
She grumbles at that, having clearly hoped the stand meant she was about to be released.
“Down.”
She flounces to the ground. Dalton pitches the ball. It springs past us, and her muscles bunch.
“Stay.”
She hesitates, muscles still tense. Then she gives in and tears her gaze from the ball.
“Are you ready?” I say.
She whimpers, body quivering. But she doesn’t rise. Doesn’t look at Dalton. Keeps her gaze on me.
“Wait . . . wait . . . and . . . go.”
She leaps up and tears toward Dalton . . . and I see that sling on his arm.
“Shit!” I say. “I mean, no, wait—”
He falls on his ass before she can get to him. As she pounces, I’m running over with “Storm, no—”
“It’s fine,” he says. “We’ve got this.”
He sits on the ground and rubs her with his good hand as she dances on his lap. Then he raises his arm for me to toss him the ball. I do, and I retreat to the deck to watch them play fetch. Except Dalton has never actually known a dog, so his version of fetch is, well, unique. He throws the ball, and they both run after it, which usually results in a football tackle. That’s more his style, getting in there and working off energy, and Storm loves it, so I wouldn’t argue . . . if he didn’t have his arm in a sling.
When I try to intercede again, though, he waves me off, and he is being careful, so I settle on the deck. I watch him shrug off his day and become the guy he can be only in the relative privacy of our backyard. The guy who slides on the grass and tackles a dog and gets a faceful of fur and comes up sputtering and laughing and crowing in victory, too, as he waves a slobbery ball over his head.