“At that volume, no, I don’t think it is.”
There’s more judgment in his voice, and I want to snap at him, but I only say, “Then I’ll repeat that we are on our own time. We’ll speak to you in the morning.”
Phil walks over as if I haven’t spoken. “I take it you didn’t find Kenny?”
“No,” I say, as evenly as I can. “We will resume the search tomorrow.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary.”
“Excuse me?” Dalton says.
“I understand you suspected him of being Oliver Brady’s accomplice.”
“We did,” I say. “The evidence fit, but it was all circumstantial. That’s why we let Kenny out of the cell on work duty. If you wish to debate that decision, I’ll suggest it’s unnecessary. We already realize that might not have been wise.”
“I don’t care what choice you made regarding Kenny’s incarceration. My point is that the only reason to pursue him is in hopes he’ll lead you to Oliver. That is unlikely. Oliver has staff, not partners. He conned this man into helping him, and now he will have abandoned him as unnecessary. Otherwise, Kenny would have fled with him. Correct?”
He doesn’t even wait for a response before continuing. “Kenny left because he realized his guilt had been uncovered, and it was only a matter of time—”
“No,” Dalton says.
Phil sighs. It’s a familiar sigh, one I’ve heard countless times underscored by the feedback from a radio receiver. “I know you—”
“He left a note.” Dalton points at the wadded paper on the lawn. “He blames himself for Brady escaping and wants to bring him back. Kenny accepts responsibility because he left his post. Not because he was in cahoots with Brady.”
Another sigh, the sort a supercilious teacher gives a student he considers not terribly bright. “Just because Kenny claims that doesn’t mean it’s true, Sheriff. Of course he’ll defend himself. My point is that he isn’t your concern. He has made his choice. He might hope to find Oliver. Perhaps even kill him, to cover his own crimes. But he’s unlikely to succeed. His flight proves his guilt and therefore, whatever justice the forest metes out . . .” Phil shrugs.
“It saves the council from doing it?” Dalton says.
There’s a warning note in Dalton’s voice, but Phil only says, “Yes, it does. Casey no longer needs to waste time proving his guilt, and you can both focus on Oliver instead. Take this as a reprieve; do not turn it into a cause for extra effort.”
“A reprieve?” Dalton says. “Extra effort? Kenny was a valued member of my militia, and whatever you might think of what he’s done, he deserves my—”
“He deserves nothing. If you feel guilty, take this as an order. You may not search for this man. If you happen to find him, all right. Do what you must.”
“Do what I must?” Dalton says, his voice lowering. “Kill him, you mean?”
“Of course not. Bring him back.”
“If I must. Because, you know, the alternative is to just let him die out there. Which is worse than killing him. And it’s not like, if I bring him back, he’s going to live much longer anyway. Maybe I should just kill him.”
I see where Dalton’s heading, and I try to get his attention and cut him off, but before I can, Phil says, “What are you talking about?”
“Sure, yeah, let’s pretend you don’t know.”
“Eric . . .” I say.
Dalton advances on the other man. “Tell me, Phil, what happens if I bring Kenny back and put him on your plane. What happened to Beth after I dropped her off?”
“Beth Lowry is fine, and to suggest otherwise only proves you are exhausted and need—”
“What if I want her back? We need a doctor. Let’s bring Beth back for a while. Can we do that, Phil?”
“Certainly not. After what she did—”
“Forget about bringing her back. We have medical questions. How about the council hires her for satellite consultations?”
“We cannot—”
“Do you know where she is, Phil?”
“I don’t care, and neither should you. But she is alive. We are not executioners—”
“No? Then tell me about the deal you tried to make with Tyrone Cypher?”
Phil’s face screws up. “Who?”
“The sheriff before Gene Dalton.”
“That is long before my time, as you well know.”
“The council tracked him down in the forest. Tried to cut him a deal. Ty says he knows what it was, because he has one real talent. His former occupation. A hit man.”
Phil bursts into a laugh. “Is that what he told you? I’m sure whatever this Cypher man did in his past life, he was not a hired killer. The council would never put such a man in Rockton.”
“No? Then tell me about Harry Powys.”
“Eric,” I say sharply.
“No, please, Casey,” Phil says. “It seems the sheriff has a few things to get off his chest. If you are suggesting Harry Powys was a hired killer—”
“Worse,” Dalton says. “He was a doctor who drugged illegal immigrants and removed their organs. Sometimes they lived; sometimes they didn’t. Being in the country illegally, though, it wasn’t like they could complain.”
Phil stares at him.
“What Eric means—” I begin.
“Please, Casey. There is no alternative interpretation you can come up with to explain that away, however embarrassing I’m sure you find it.”
I bristle. “I don’t find it—”
“The sheriff’s exposure to our culture is limited largely to his books and videos. Dime-store novels and fantasy television shows.”
“That’s not—”
“And from those, he clearly has a distorted view on the world, one that someone has exploited by feeding him ridiculous stories. Black-market organ sales are the stuff of pulp fiction and urban legend, Sheriff. Whoever told you Harry Powys did such a thing was pulling a prank.”
“Look it up,” Dalton says.
“What?”
“Harrison Powers. That’s his real name. Google it. You’ll find news articles—legitimate news articles—about a doctor suspected of exactly what I said. A warrant was issued for his arrest. He disappeared. Check the dates. Check the photograph. Compare it to Harry Powys.”
Silence. Three long pulses of it. Then Phil says, “Whoever told you they found this online—”
“I found it. I’m not illiterate, you pompous jackass. I can use the fucking internet and read the goddamn evidence, which I verify against alternate sources.”
Dalton steps closer to Phil. “You let a man like that into my town. For profit. And he murdered Abbygail. They chopped up her body and scattered it for scavengers. That’s who you let in here. Because it was profitable.”
“I’m sorry, Sheriff. I don’t know how you came across this information, but it is wrong. Completely and utterly—”
Dalton hits him. A right hook to the jaw. Phil flies off his feet. Dalton steps away. Then he follows me into the house, leaving Phil on the ground outside.
45
We’re upstairs in our bedroom. Phil is gone—I checked out the balcony window. I’ve let Storm upstairs, only because it would be more upsetting to keep her out and listen to her cry. Dalton is in the chair by our bed, and she’s at his feet, her muzzle on his boots, which he’s forgotten to take off. I bend to untie them, and he removes them silently. Then he says, “I fucked up.”
“Yes.”
He looks at me.
“This is the one time I’m not going to argue,” I say. “You opened a hornet’s nest that we should have left alone.”
I take his boots and set them outside the door. “It was going to happen sooner or later. Probably best that it happened when it’s just Phil, without the council listening in. That will make it easier for us to control the damage.”
“Our word against his?” He makes a face, and I know he hates that. It’s underhanded and dishonest.
“No, I have another idea. But first I have to ask if you want this damage controlled. Or is this scorched-earth time?”
He exhales and leans forward, both hands running through his hair. Then he shakes his head. “There’s part of me that says ‘fuck, yeah.’ Just throw it all out there and end this. Pack our things and go. But that’s me being pissy.”