I’ve ordered Nicole to stop by the bakery for a takeaway care package before she goes, on my tab. Same for the general store. Get what they need, and we’ll settle up with fur and meat trades later.
Dalton will tell them the same and probably strong-arm his brother into the shop to be sure he takes advantage. Jacob might hesitate; Nicole will not. She’ll make sure it’s accounted for and repaid, but she knows that anything they remove from the store will be replaced, and so they should avail themselves of the opportunity.
Once I’ve said my goodbyes, I’m in the station with the note Conrad’s attacker used to lure him into the forest.
I appreciate what you did with Deputy Anders. I have more stories for you if you want them. Meet me at fishing site 2 at 8pm tonight. Tell no one, please. If anyone finds out I have this, my life would be in Danger.
Fishing site two. I’d seen that earlier when I read it, and my brain has been idly turning it over. We’d found Conrad about fifty feet from fishing site two. His attacker must have met him there and led him to the clearing. The significant part of that only creeps into my consciousness now. His attacker knew site two. Conrad also knew it. But for his attacker to know Conrad knew it suggests they’d been in a fishing party together.
We keep records of all trips outside town. Part of that is in case of contact with anything toxic. Part of it is so we know the experience level of the participants. If someone volunteers for a hunting expedition and says they’ve been on two fishing trips, Dalton wants proof.
I bring the logbook to the desk. As I do, I see the note again. It’s written in block letters, nothing distinctive, but it keeps bringing to mind a sign. Apparently, after the one accusing Anders, I have signs on the brain. This lettering is nothing like that one.
I flip through the logbook and insert stickies on pages with fishing trips to site two. I find six trips there this year. Obviously a popular spot. Six trips, with between six and ten residents per outing. Of those, Conrad went on four.
Damn. That is not as helpful as I might have hoped.
The door slaps open, and I glance up to see Dalton entering with two steaming boxes.
“Tell me that’s lunch,” I say.
“Tell me you ate lunch at lunchtime.”
“Uh…” I look at my watch. It’s nearly six. I glance up. “Thank you for dinner. Also, did you let Conrad go on extra fishing trips?”
He frowns, trying to make sense of that segue.
I lift the book. “I have reason to believe his attacker joined him on a fishing excursion. However, he’s been on four since May, which seems excessive.”
Dalton sighs and sets down the food. “Yeah. He was whining about the dentistry thing, and Phil decided to give him extra fishing privileges as a bonus. Easy way to shut him up. With fewer residents, we don’t often have a full group. Guy likes his fishing. Shitty at it, according to Brandon, but he likes it.”
Brandon—Isabel’s bartender—is in charge of fishing excursions, having taken over from Sam. I write out a list of everyone who was on the same trips as Conrad and add “talk to Brandon” to my list. I don’t know whether Conrad would have interacted with his future attacker on the trips, but it’s worth knowing whether there was any animosity.
“Is this the note Conrad’s attacker sent?” Dalton says, picking up the evidence baggie from my desk.
I nod and keep jotting in my notebook.
“I’ve seen this writing before,” he says. “On a sign, I think?”
I look up at him.
“Not that sign,” he says. “Another one. Around town.” He lifts the note higher into the light. “It’s not a distinctive hand, but it looks familiar.”
“If I gave you a weird look, it’s because I thought the same thing. That it reminds me of a sign. I just figured I had signs on the brain.”
Dalton unpacks dinner, and we eat as we talk. I still have more evidence I hope to process tonight: the footprints and the shovel. First, I want to speak to Brandon and see if he remembers Conrad being particularly chatty with anyone on the excursions to fishing site two.
Once we’re finished eating, Dalton pulls on his hat. “I’m going to do a round looking at handwritten signs. It might be long gone, but the surroundings could jog my memory. Mind if I take this?”
“Go ahead.” I check my watch. “I’ll swing by the Roc and see whether Isabel will let me steal her bartender for a chat.”
* * *
I’m outside the Roc. It’s open for the evening, and people are streaming in. If they see me on the porch, they nod, the degree of friendliness telling me how they feel about the current situation.
I gaze up at the sign announcing I’ve arrived at the Roc. There’s a painting of a bird, which is supposed to be a mythical roc but is actually a rook. That’s what happens in a town without internet to double-check these things. Of course, it’s not like the average person knows their rooks from their rocs anyway.
A few months ago, Dalton admitted the bar name is entirely his fault. Back when he was a kid, the place was known as the Rockton Arms. A lightning strike split the sign at the K. The bar owner wanted to fix the K and call it the Rock, but Dalton told him about rocs, and the guy decided to go with that, either to humor the kid or because—as I would agree—it’s a much cooler reference. So the bar becomes the Roc, and the next owner decides to paint the bird on it. Dalton offered to help, but no, the guy knew what he was doing … and painted a rook.
“You still thinking about asking Petra to fix that?” says a voice behind me.
I turn to see Dalton and Storm.
“No, just looking at it,” I say, as Storm lumbers onto the porch and begins snuffling around.
He steps up beside me and leans down to my ear. “We’ll get her to paint a new one for the new town.”
Tears prickle at my eyes, and I blink them back. The new town. Our backup plan. It seemed so obvious when I first arrived. If we were forced out, we’d create our own Rockton. Only now, as that possibility looms, have I realized why Dalton didn’t do it years ago. It’s a Herculean undertaking. While we are making plans for that possibility, I fear that it’s like children making plans to run away, entertaining impossible and naive dreams.
A couple pauses to check the sign at the door and be sure it’s a non-brothel night. When I first came to Rockton, it was always brothel night. Oh, sure, many of the customers came just to drink, but the presence of sex workers kept other women away, fearing uncomfortable conversations with would-be johns. Isabel didn’t see the problem, because Isabel is the kind of woman no one approaches with that mistake. She just figured women preferred the Red Lion.
We originally instituted pre-brothel “early hours.” Now it’s alternating days, and more women show up even on brothel nights as men learn that a woman drinking there is not necessarily a sex worker.