The ending beep comes, and Phil’s hand swings back to smack the receiver. Dalton catches it, and they exchange a look.
There is no doubt that beep came sooner than the last. Meaning someone—no, not someone—Tamara is on the other end, listening and deciding she’s having none of whatever nonsense we’re pulling.
I say, “Her orders must be to ignore communications from Rockton. They’re presuming we’ll pull a stunt to stall the closing.”
“You may be giving her a little too much credit there,” Dalton says. “But whatever the reason, they aren’t going to get our message.”
“Then I don’t know what to do,” Phil says. “Except hope Tamara realizes what will happen if someone is hurt after we tried to warn them. While I don’t expect her to feel guilty, she will lose her job and that is a serious threat, presuming she is in the same position I am.”
“There’s one more thing we can do,” I say, looking at Dalton.
“Follow that plane?” he says.
“Exactly.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
Phil argues the entire way to the hangar. Surely, Tamara will pass along our message. She might have initially cut him short, but she’ll reconsider and pass it along, blaming technology for the truncated message.
We are taking a risk here. That’s what really concerns him. The council expects us to fight the closing of Rockton. If we defy orders and follow that plane, and they decide we’ve concocted this whole scenario as an excuse, we will pay the price, like children who sneak out after being grounded.
What is Gloria going to do on a plane, anyway? That’s Phil’s argument. Is this really about stopping a viable threat? Or is that just an excuse because we cannot drop the matter? Because I cannot drop this. I’ve solved this crime, and I’m going to make damned sure everyone knows it, whatever the cost.
We’re in the plane now, buckling up, when I say to Dalton, “What if he’s right?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Yes, it does, Eric. I do believe Conrad could be in danger, but that wasn’t my original concern. I just didn’t want Gloria thinking she got away with it.”
He flips switches, starting the plane. “Then they should have answered that damned call. Taken the fucking message.”
He’s been calm, but anger sparks from his words. Anger and outrage and insult. Shutting down Rockton so quickly disrespects him and every sheriff who has come before him. The way they treated us before the shutdown was bad enough. Now we’ve gone from disinterest and disrespect to outright mockery and contempt.
Dalton is furious. He stood by and let them close us down. Shut his mouth and did his job. Watched residents kicked out after we’d promised them sanctuary. This is his breaking point. The council is refusing to listen, refusing to treat him like the exemplary employee he has been, and so he will take matters into his own hands. He must.
Phil doesn’t try to stop us from leaving. He’s registered his concerns, and he can only hope we’ll bear them in mind. I will.
The plane left over twenty minutes ago. Dalton can track it. His plane is equipped for that. The council made sure it had the best radar possible, because Dalton needs to know when there are other planes in the vicinity.
It’s a larger plane, heavily weighed down with passengers and supplies. Yet their head start makes it unlikely we’ll catch up, and even if we do, what then? I presume Dalton would attempt to hail them. I suppose he can only get within range. Otherwise, though?
Otherwise, we are following them to their final destination. To where the council is holding them. We can say that we haven’t been forbidden to go there, but we both know they do not want us there.
That’s our real fear with this expedition, even if we haven’t voiced it. If we need to go all the way to wherever they’ll be taking the residents, it will look like spying. Checking up on them. Not trusting them to do the right thing by our residents.
All of that is true. More fears left unsaid, pushed aside by the sheer volume of work needed to decommission Rockton.
The council said residents will be moved to a private location, a northern resort they’ve taken over for the next few months. That was the carrot to get the residents to come along nicely.
Yes, your stay is being cut short, but not only will we reimburse part of your payment but you’ll be moved to far more luxurious accommodations. Hot showers! Baths! Electricity! Running water! Even Wi-Fi with some restrictions. Most of the comforts of down south living provided while you prepare to re-enter modern life.
More than one resident had grumbled about why they weren’t given that from the start.
Phil says the council will follow through on about seventy-five percent of their promise. It won’t be the luxury resort residents expect. More like an abandoned one hastily aired out and patched up, with decent solar power and well water.
Do we believe Phil? I know he believes it. I’m even reasonably sure he’s right, though the accommodations may be rougher than he imagines. After all, if it’s too good, won’t residents ask to spend the rest of their stay there? The council would rather have them eager to return home.
Still, we are afraid that we are sending our residents off with no way of checking on them. Washing our hands of our responsibility in our eagerness to be done with old Rockton and on to the new one.
Yes, we may be hoping to see where the plane ends up. This provides a good excuse for doing so. Yet it also comes with the risk that the council will see it as distrust and punish us for it.
Dalton flies west. The plane headed that way. Not surprisingly. West takes you closer to Dawson City and Whitehorse. Closer to Alaska and the west coast.
We don’t speak. I stare down at the endless forest to keep from straining to see a plane I know I won’t spot.
“Got it!” Dalton says.
I look over as he taps the radar. I’ve been trying not to look at that either. He knows what he’s doing, and I can’t be pointing out every blip. There have been blips, tiny ones that I presume are bush craft. Now he’s pointing to a larger dot heading due west.
“Can you radio them?” I ask.
He makes a face, and that says he doesn’t want to try just yet. We have closed part of the gap between us, but only enough for them to appear on the radar.
“They’re still … out,” he says, intercom static swallowing the rest, and I presume the missing words tell me how far away they are. To a non-pilot like me, the exact distance would be meaningless anyway. He’s only saying what I already realized. He wants to get closer before hailing them. Now that we see them, we can.