What Kenny wanted to be was one of the cool kids. For a guy like him, cool meant tough. Except he lacked that edge and wasn’t terribly invested in finding it. So he settled for hitting the gym and joining the militia. He became the guy he wanted to be. And now he’d been about to leave his new life. Had he panicked at that? Worried he’d end up back in a job he’d hate because his new skills wouldn’t pay the bills? Had he been an easy target for Oliver Brady? I desperately want to say no. But the evidence must be acknowledged.
When we walk in to question Kenny, the first thing he says isn’t I didn’t do it or Guys, come on, you know me.
“I know how bad this looks.”
“Good,” Dalton says.
We pull up chairs outside the cell. Kenny has one inside. We’ve granted him that, in recognition that he’s had to wait a very long time for this interview.
“Your knife was found with the prisoner,” I begin.
He starts to speak, but Dalton says, “Be quiet and listen.”
“Brady used that knife to cut his bindings,” I continue. “He used it to take Val captive. You were his guard at the time—and you were in charge of the guarding schedule.”
“I—”
A look from Dalton silences him again.
“You assigned yourself to that time slot. You abandoned your post. The prisoner was left unguarded, with a weapon, while a fire brought everyone else running. A fire set in the lumber shed, which you know very well. It was a delayed-start fire, giving you time to go on guard duty.”
“I—”
“You brought Brady his breakfast. You offered to bring it. We realize now that it was poisoned—not to kill him, but to get him out of that cell. So Brady is in the clinic with his wrists tied and under guard. Fire breaks out. Everyone runs . . . including his guard. He is left with a knife and the perfect hostage.”
He slouches in his seat. “Shit. I’m not even sure where to start.”
“Well, that depends,” Dalton says. “If you’d like, you can start with explaining why you were the one bringing that food tray.”
“I took it from someone. She was in a hurry and complaining about her workload, and I wanted to be nice.” He lowers his voice to a mutter. “Even if she’d never do the same in return.”
“Jen,” I say.
“I’d rather not name names—”
“You have to,” Dalton says. “But in this case, you don’t need to. That description says it all.”
“So you volunteered to take the tray,” I say. “Then you volunteered for guard duty at the clinic.”
He shakes his head. “I was scheduled for guard duty with Brady here at the station. Will asked me to make up a twenty-four-hour schedule, with me and Sam alternating four-hour shifts. Will picked us two for it.”
He pauses and then hurries to add, “Which made sense. Paul’s in the doghouse right now, and Will wanted his best two guys. His two most experienced. That’d be me and Sam.”
“And the knife?” I say.
“After I offered to help you open that can, someone asked to borrow it, and I said sure, just leave it on the sawhorse when you’re done. When I went back to get it, it wasn’t there.”
“Who borrowed it?”
“I’m not even sure. I was cutting wood, and someone asked behind me. I never turned around. I barely heard him over the saw.”
“Tell me about leaving your post.”
“I heard the bell. I went outside, and someone said it was a fire. I ran back in. Brady was sound asleep. Val was doing one of her algebra puzzles. I’d talked to her earlier about it, said I remembered giving those to my students. She assured me this one was much more advanced.”
An eye roll and a slight smile. “You know Val. Anyway, when I came in, she was absorbed in that. I said there was a fire at the shed, and I should go, and she said, ‘Yes, yes.’ Those were her exact words. ‘Yes, yes.’ She never even looked up. I double-checked Brady’s restraints, and told Val I’d send someone to take my place. But then I saw you coming, Casey, so I thought it was covered.”
Kenny shakes his head. “I made a mistake. A big one. But my mistake was leaving my post. Not helping Brady escape. I’d never do that.”
28
We place Kenny under Dalton’s version of work release. He’ll do the lumber-shed repairs during the day and spend his nights in Brady’s new residence, as we give his cell to Roy instead. As for our suspicions with Kenny, we will say nothing to the council. As far as they’ll know, we are punishing him for letting Brady escape on his watch.
Kenny will be leaving as soon as this is over, and we will let him go, even if that means he’s going to collect a reward down south for helping Brady. Otherwise, if the council knows, we cannot trust he’ll survive the trip south, and whatever mistake he’s made, it doesn’t deserve the death penalty.
We spend the next day combing the forest for Val and Jacob. Dalton’s trying not to freak out about that. There is no sign that anything has happened to his brother, and this is how Jacob lives. He moves with game and the seasons and whatever whim strikes him.
Jacob’s life, though, means Dalton can’t pick up a phone and call to warn him about Brady. Jacob comes and goes, and that stresses his brother out at the best of times. The fact we can’t find him means absolutely nothing. It’s just driving Dalton crazy.
We take an ATV out the next morning. We have three of them—two smaller ones that can take a passenger on the back and a side-by-side that only travels on the widest trails.
I’ve been trying to talk Dalton into dirt bikes for getting deeper into the forest. In fact, when the council told us we’d get a windfall from Brady, that’s what Dalton said to me, trying to find an upside—we’ll get a couple of those bikes you’ve been talking about. Which apparently isn’t happening now.
We’re riding one of the smaller ATVs. I’m on the back. We’ll switch at some point—Dalton knows there’s no way I’m taking the bitch seat for the whole trip.
Storm runs along behind us. We aren’t going that fast, and we don’t really have a destination in mind. We’re just covering ground and making a lot of noise doing it, in hopes that if Jacob is around, he’ll pop out. Or that Val will come stumbling from the forest, having been abandoned by Brady three days ago.
We’re zipping along a straightaway. I have my visor open as I scan the forest. Dalton’s turning to say something just as a massive shaggy shape tromps onto the path.
“Bear!” I yell.
Dalton hits the brake. The figure in front of us shouts, “Bear? Do I look like a fucking bear?”
The man is over six feet tall. Massive shoulders. Grizzled shaggy hair and beard. Dressed in a brown jacket that he’s pieced together from skins and fur.
“A fucking bear, no,” I say as I hop off the ATV. “A standing one? Absolutely.”
“Ha!” Cypher jabs a finger my way and says to Dalton, “See, boy? That is what we call a sense of humor.”
“You get our note?” Dalton says.
“Good to see you, too,” Cypher says as he bends to pet the dog. “I’m fine, thank you for asking. Weather’s been clear. Hunting’s good.”
“We have a problem.”
Cypher plunks his ass down right on the path and then pulls a kerchief full of jerky from his jacket. One piece goes to Storm. He holds out another for me.
“I said—” Dalton begins.
“That you have a problem. I was hoping you’d say something new and original. You want to know how to solve your endless problems? Take your girl here and leave that piece-of-shit town. I did not get your note. I haven’t been to the cabin in days. I heard the ATV and thought I’d say hi. Beginning to regret that.”
“Brent’s dead,” Dalton says.
Cypher stops. He looks at me, as if checking whether he’s heard wrong.
“He was shot by a prisoner who escaped from Rockton,” I say. “Gutshot. We found him the next morning. He lived long enough to confirm who killed him.”
“Fuck.” A moment’s pause. Then, “Fuck.” Another pause, this one followed by a knitting of his brows as he looks up. “Did you say prisoner?”
When we finish explaining, he says, “You let the fucking council—”
“We didn’t let them do anything,” I cut in. “You know how it works.”
“Yeah, which is why I got the hell outta Dodge. You couldn’t stop them from dropping off that guy, but you didn’t need to accept the delivery.”