“Yes, ma’am.” She looks around. “There is a detention facility out here, isn’t there? Some kind of ultra-maximum security?”
“Privileged information,” Anders says. “Sorry, ma’am. You know how it is. Same in the air force, I’ll wager.”
The woman smiles. “It was. And it’s no different in private security.” She nods at his tat. “Cross-border job shopping?”
“Something like that. I appreciate you bringing the prisoner. We weren’t expecting anyone new, so we’re a bit surprised.” Anders peeks into the cargo hold. “You wouldn’t happen to have any beer in there, would you?”
She laughs.
“No, sir.” She reaches in and pulls out a duffel. When she opens the zipper, it’s full of coffee bags.
“Just this,” she says.
“Even better,” Anders says. “Thank you.”
I look at the prisoner. He’s just standing there, with Dalton behind him, monitoring his body language as Anders chats with the pilot.
“Thank you for bringing him,” I say. “If you’re flying back to Dawson City, skip the casino and check out the Downtown Hotel bar. Ask for the sour toe cocktail.”
“There’s an actual toe involved, isn’t there?”
“It’s the Yukon.”
She grins. “I’ll have to try that. Thank you, ma’am.” She tips her hat and then motions to ask if she can pat Storm. I nod, and Storm sits as she sees the hand reach for her head.
“Well trained,” she says.
“At her size, she needs to be. She’s still a pup.”
“Nice.” She gives Storm a final pat. “I’ll head on out. You folks have a good day. And remember, keep that gag on for as long as you can.”
2
The bush plane has left, and we’re standing by the hangar. I’ve opened the letter, and Dalton is reading it over my shoulder while Anders guards the prisoner. Storm lies at my feet, her wary gaze on the stranger.
As usual, Dalton reads faster than me, and I’ve barely finished the opening paragraph when he says, “Fuck, no. Fucking hell, no.”
Anders leans over to see the letter—and the prisoner lunges.
Anders yanks him back, saying, “Yeah, it’s not that easy, asshole,” and the guy turns to see both Dalton and me with our weapons trained on him, Storm on her feet, growling.
“If you’re waiting for us to get distracted and let you run, you’ll be waiting a long time,” Anders says.
“It wouldn’t help anyway,” I say. “You’re hundreds of miles from the nearest community. Gagged. Bound. Your legs chained.” I turn to the guys. “Can we let him go? Please? Lay bets on how far he gets?”
“Nah,” Anders says. “Lay bets on what kills him. I vote grizzly.”
“Cougar,” I say.
“Exposure,” Dalton says.
I look at Dalton. “Boring.”
“Fine, rabbits.”
“But the rabbits haven’t killed anyone.”
“Yet.”
The prisoner watches us, his eyes narrowing, offended that we find his predicament so entertaining.
“On the ground,” Dalton says.
The guy lifts his bound hands and extends both middle fingers. My foot shoots out and snags his leg. He drops to his knees.
“Boss wants you on the ground, you get on the ground,” I say. “Practice your yoga. Downward dog. All fours. Ass in the air.”
When he doesn’t move fast enough, Dalton says, “Do you really think this is the time to challenge us? I just read that letter.”
The guy assumes an awkward downward-dog pose.
Dalton holds the letter out for me to finish. I don’t need to—my gaze snags of a few key words, and I skim the rest to be sure I’m not misreading. Then I look at Dalton.
“Fuck, no,” I mutter.
“That’s what I said.”
We’ve left our prisoner with Anders and returned to Rockton. As we enter town, I imagine bringing him back. Imagine how we might explain Rockton, how we’d pass it off. Wild West theme town would be our best bet. Seriously. That’s what it would look like to an outsider—a place where rich people pay far too much to pretend they live in a rougher, heartier time. Wooden buildings, all in perfect condition, each adorned with very modern, oversize quad-paned windows. Dirt roads swept smooth, not a scrap of litter or whiff of horse dung. People milling about in modern dress, because we wouldn’t want to take the fantasy that far. Living without electricity, cell service, and Wi-Fi is primitive enough, thank you very much.
We drop Storm off at the general store, where Petra will dog-sit. Then we head to Val’s house, which seems like old times, going to her and demanding to speak to the council. For my first four months in Rockton, I never set foot in Val’s house except on business. And I swear she never set foot outside it unless she had to.
Since then, Val has come to realize the council set her up, that they wanted their local representative isolated. She’s finally begun changing that, which means that when I say there was an unscheduled plane arrival, she doesn’t hesitate to make the call. Phil answers right away, as if he’s waiting.
“A serial killer?” Dalton says. “You sent us a goddamn serial killer.”
“For six months,” Phil says. “Not as a resident, but as your prisoner. You are free to impose any restrictions on him. We will not question your judgment. In fact, under the circumstances, we don’t want Mr. Brady to enjoy his stay in Rockton. That is the point.”
“The point?” I say.
“Yes, hello, Detective.” There’s relief in Phil’s voice as he realizes I’m there. I am the reasonable one. Classic good cop, bad cop: the hot-headed, profane sheriff and the educated, professional detective. It’s a useful fiction.
As Phil continues, his defensive edge fades. “Mr. Brady is in Rockton because he has refused other options.”
“Like jail?” Dalton says. “Lethal injection? Because he’s sure as hell earned those.”
“Possibly, but Mr. Brady’s father believes society is better served by saving the expense of a trial while removing him as a danger to the public. He wants to keep Mr. Brady in what we would consider luxurious isolation, on an island, with caretakers and guards. Mr. Brady has refused. Which is why he is temporarily yours.”
“So he’ll come to see the appeal of a permanent Caribbean vacation,” I say.
“Yes, and while we can argue that he deserves worse punishment, that isn’t our concern.”
“Your concern is how much you make from this arrangement,” Dalton says.
“No, how much you make. For your town, Sheriff.”
Phil proceeds to remind us how expensive it is to run Rockton, how the five-grand fee from residents hardly covers the expenses incurred during their two-to-five-year stays. How even the hundred grand they get from white-collar criminals barely keeps the town running.
Some white-collar criminals pay a lot more than a hundred grand, though, as do worse offenders. Rockton just never sees that money. The council keeps it. But with Oliver Brady . . .
“One million dollars,” Phil says. “To be used at your discretion, Eric. And twenty percent of that is yours to keep personally as payment for the extra work.”
Dalton glowers at the radio. “Fuck. You.”
“Detective?” Phil says. “I trust you will speak to your . . . boss on this. Explain to him the benefits of a nest egg, should he ever decide to leave Rockton.”
Explain it to my lover—that’s what he means. Convince Dalton he should have money set aside in case he ever wants to leave Rockton with me. This is a threat, too. A reminder that they can kick him out.
I clear my throat. “I believe Sheriff Dalton sees that two hundred thousand as a bribe for endangering his town. While we could use extra money for Rockton, I think I can speak for both of us when I say we don’t want it at the expense of endangering residents.”
“People don’t come here for feather pillows and fancy clothes,” Dalton says. “They come for security. That cash isn’t going to buy us a doctor, is it? Or radios that actually work?”
“We could certainly invest in better radios,” Phil says. “Though I’m not sure that would be a wise use of the money.”