There are three levels of occupancy here in Rockton. At the top is having your own house. At the bottom is apartment living—bachelor-style apartments. In the middle, you get the full level of a house, which still only nets you about six hundred square feet. Yes, we aren’t exactly living in mansions here. We can’t afford the energy costs or the footprint.
Kenny has a ground floor. Which means it was very easy to sneak out the window while his guard was watching at the front.
And his guard? Jen.
“Which is why you should have put a guy in charge of him,” she says. “Someone who can stand in the bathroom while he takes a shit.”
“Yeah, not even the guys are going to do that,” Dalton says. “But next time someone’s in there that long? Knock. Ask if he needs medical care.”
“He took a book. I knew it was going to be a while.”
“A book from the library?” I say.
“Everyone does it.”
“Which is why I don’t read books from the library,” Dalton says. He stands in the bathroom and looks at the window. “Fuck.”
“Eloquent as always, Sheriff,” Jen says.
“Yeah, well I’m saving time on a lengthy response.” He strides for the door. “Time better spent catching his ass before he rendezvouses with Oliver Brady and gets his fool throat cut.”
I join the search for a while, with Storm. The problem? Kenny knows what Storm can and cannot do. Which means he runs straight to the nearest stream.
We lead Storm up one side of it for about a kilometer, as far as we figure he could walk in the icy water. Then we take her down the other side and another kilometer in the opposite direction. Either Kenny managed to steal waterproof boots and three pairs of wool socks or Storm misses his exit spot.
Dalton takes her on a wider circle in the area while I return to town. There are a few things I want to check, and with both Dalton and Storm hunting, I really am a third wheel.
I want to look for a note. Even with what seems like an obvious betrayal, I still can’t write Kenny off just yet. I find it much easier to believe he was duped by Brady’s protests of innocence rather than jumping at a huge bribe to help a serial killer. If so . . .
If so, I have an alternate theory for his disappearance. One that paints Kenny in a better light. One that fits better with the man I know.
I find the note in the station. Paul said Kenny came in here earlier, to return a flashlight that he claimed belonged to me.
I find the note in the drawer, along with a spare flashlight.
The note is addressed to me. And when I read it, I discover I was wrong. Very, very wrong.
Dalton comes home at three in the morning. From the kitchen, I hear the door open, the solid boom-boom of his boots stepping inside and then the skitter and scrape of Storm’s nails as she zips past him. After that double boom, his footsteps go silent. He’s looking for me in the living room. When he doesn’t see me, there’s a sigh, and his boots come off, thumping to the floor.
Steps move into the living room. Not the solid boom of his initial ones. Not even his usual purposeful stride. These are dragging and whispery, socks skimming the hardwood. Then the thud of him collapsing onto the sofa.
He doesn’t hear me come out of the kitchen, and I catch that first unguarded glimpse of him, forearms on his thighs, shoulders bowed, gaze empty as he stares at nothing. The floorboard creaks with my next step, and he looks over and his face lights in a smile.
I know he thought I’d gone to bed, and while he’d never complain about that, yes, he was disappointed. Now he sees me and smiles. Then he gets a whiff of the dinner I’m carrying, and his gaze goes to it.
“Don’t worry, I didn’t cook it,” I say. “Isabel wouldn’t let me.”
He shakes his head.
I take the plates of rewarmed dinner onto the back deck, and we eat in silence.
I wait until he finishes before I say, “Kenny left a note.”
Dalton’s head jerks up at that. Then he snorts and says, “What? Telling us we were fucking idiots for not keeping a closer eye on him?”
Which isn’t what he expects at all. He’s just bracing for the worst. This was a person Dalton trusted. He feels betrayed, and so he wants to believe Kenny was not the man he thought. It makes this easier than any of the alternatives.
Tell me he betrayed us. That he deserves whatever happens to him in that forest.
I hand him the note. As he reads it, I watch him, his cheek twitching, gaze skimming the first time through and then slowing to reread. When he finishes, he crushes the paper and whips it across the back lawn.
“God-fucking-damn-it, no,” he snarls, pushing to his feet. “Is he an idiot? Yes, obviously he fucking is. The biggest goddamn idiot . . .”
Dalton can’t even seem to continue, and he starts pacing instead. Storm scratches at the back door. I’ve left her inside, and I know she’s hurt and confused, certain we’ve accidentally forgotten her, patiently waiting for us to realize our mistake. Now she hears Dalton curse and she scratches, a tentative whine seeping through the wooden door.
Dalton wheels on me. “This is what I need. Exactly what we both need. Because clearly we’re not doing fuck-all here. Hey, why don’t I just take off into the goddamn forest and give you guys something to do. Or maybe no, we won’t chase him because we don’t give a shit. That’s why he had to take off. Catch this murdering asshole himself. Because we aren’t trying. So he’ll do it for us and prove he wasn’t Brady’s accomplice, because otherwise, we’ll just punish him and not bother with a fucking investigation.”
I let Dalton rant. Let him express my own frustration and my fear and my rage. I still recall every word of that note.
Casey,
I’m going to fix this. I’m going to find Brady and bring him back for you. It’s my fault he escaped and killed Val and your friend and those settlers. I didn’t help him. I swear I didn’t. But I’m going to bring him back. I’ll catch him, and he can tell you who was his real accomplice.
I’m sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused.
Kenny
“Trouble he’s caused,” Dalton says. “He’s sorry for the fucking trouble he caused, so the best way to fix that is to cause more. Poor Kenny feels guilty. Blames himself. Fucking awesome. Let’s share that blame. Let Jen have some when Kenny dies, for letting him escape. Let you have some for suspecting he was the accomplice. Let me have some for trusting him enough to let him out of that cell. Let’s all take another helping of the fucking blame pie, because it’s clear we haven’t eaten enough of it already.”
He spins on me. “What am I supposed to do here, Casey? I feel like we’re spending this whole damn case searching for people. Brady, Val, Jacob, now Kenny. I tell them not to go into the forest. I regulate every damn step out there until I feel like a paranoid parent. But they keep doing it. They walk out of this town, and they die. Do I need to build a fucking wall? A barbed-wire fence? Post armed guards? Shoot anyone who tries to leave? These are supposed to be responsible adults, but they come here and they act like fucking children, which means we have to be the fucking parents. No, not children. Teenagers. And we’re just obstacles standing between them and whatever shit they want to pull. Well, if that’s the way they want it, then fuck yeah, that’s what they’re getting. Prison guards.”
My gaze flicks from Dalton as I notice something to the side. A figure stands just around the rear corner of our house. Watching Dalton rage. Listening to him rant. Observing and judging.
I get to my feet. “Can I help you, Phil?”
Dalton spins with a “What the fuck?”
“I wished to speak to you both,” Phil says as he walks into the yard.
“It’s almost four A.M.,” I say. “We’re on our own time, and our own property. This is a private conversation.”