The door flies open, and Dalton is there.
“Yes,” Jen says. “I’ve upset your little girlfriend. Bad, bad Jen. Fine. You want the tip? You were right about Val. She dreamed up her intruder. I investigated. There’s nothing to suggest anyone was at her house that night. I delivered her breakfast today, and when I asked about the intruder, she got all flustered. I’m thinking it was a repressed-chick wet dream. She woke up while fantasizing about Dalton, flipped out, and made a mistake. There wasn’t an intruder.”
I’m not sure this qualifies as a tip, but I need to get to work so I just say, “Okay.”
“With Nicki gone, it might seem like it was the same guy and Val could shed more light on it. But it’s a whole separate thing. You can skip Val’s story. Concentrate on the rest.”
“Thank you.” I struggle to say that as sincerely as I can. I’d already requestioned Val and put to rest any worries that she really did have an intruder. But Jen doesn’t know that and seems to have honestly been trying to help. I’d just wish I could have gotten that without the ridiculous preamble.
I tell Jen to add an extra hour on her militia time card.
“An hour?” she says. “I spent half a day on that.”
“Consider it volunteer work,” Dalton says. “Part of your application for a position.”
“Fuck you, asshole,” she says and stomps out.
When the door closes, I say, “I can’t learn my lesson with her, can I?”
He walks in and stokes the fire. “There used to be this feral cat that’d come around. Must have lived with settlers at one point. It knew people. It’d slink about, and folks would feed it, try to coax it inside. If you walked past, it’d meow and roll, like Storm does when she wants attention. It’d even rub up against you, purring. But if you reached down, there’d be bloodshed. Every goddamned time. Folks knew that. You think they stopped?” He shakes his head.
“Did you try?”
“Fuck, no. I wasn’t falling for her bullshit.”
I smile. “Which makes you the smart one. But I suppose it’s not really about intelligence. It’s ego. We want to be the special one. The one that breaks through. The cat might attack everyone else—but me? I’ll be different.”
“Some people, yeah, it’s ego. Others? It’s a genuine desire to help.”
“Only the cat doesn’t want help. It wants bloodshed. To lure you in and then lash out and punish you for trying.”
“Yep.”
A commotion erupts outside, and we hurry out to hear voices.
“Get that fucking gun out of my face or you’ll eat it,” a voice booms. “I’m here to see your fucking sheriff, and if you stop me, you’ll find out why that’s a fucking bad idea.”
We see Anders is on his way back with lunch, and he stops short and looks toward the porch, as if Dalton is somehow projecting his voice down the road.
True, the profanity is classic Dalton. As is the second threat. But the booming voice and the first threat clearly aren’t our sheriff’s style. I know who it is, though, and Dalton winces as he realizes it, too.
Dalton heads down the steps. He’s not rushing but not dawdling either. That could be dangerous for whoever gets in the newcomer’s way.
We round the station to see Tyrone Cypher striding into town. Paul follows with his gun still out, as if trailing a bear, waiting to see if it’ll need to be put down. It’s an apt analogy. Cypher looks like a massive grizzled brown bear stalking in from the forest. People spill out of homes and businesses to watch, and from the way they stare, I wonder how many thought the “people in the woods” stories were fairy tales meant to keep them inside town borders, those wild men no more plausible than the trolls and witches of the brothers Grimm.
“Finally,” Cypher says when he spots Dalton. “Would you tell this fucking yahoo to put his gun down or I’ll stick it where he ain’t ever going to get it unstuck.” He wheels on Paul. “And inform him that’s no idle threat.”
“It’s fine, Paul,” Dalton says. “He’s a former resident.”
“Former fucking sheriff, you mean,” Cypher says.
Anders falls in beside me and whispers, “Oh, this explains so much.”
“This is Tyrone Cypher,” Dalton says. “He was the sheriff before my father took over and a deputy after.”
Cypher’s lips tighten, annoyed by the reminder of his demotion, but Dalton continues as if he was just being thorough with the introduction. “Ty is permitted in Rockton, but only if I’m informed of his arrival.” He looks at Cypher. “And only if he remembers he’s no longer the sheriff.”
Cypher snorts. “You like that, don’t you, jungle boy?”
I step up to Cypher and say, under my breath, “No.”
He raises his brows.
I meet his gaze and say again, “No.”
There’s a moment where he studies me. Then he claps me on the shoulder and says, “Get your back down, kitten,” and turns to Dalton with “Eric, I’ve got something for you.” He emphasizes Dalton’s name, telling me he understood my message and might even comply.