This Fallen Prey (Rockton #3)(113)

That is bullshit.

Strip away my mask of civility, and you get someone who would shoot a man who left her to be beaten to death . . . and then blamed her for it. Someone who would have shot Wallace or Brady—not caring which was innocent—if it saved a friend.

What I saw in Wallace was more than my brand of darkness. It was evil.

When faced with danger, he pulled an innocent bystander into the path of the bullet.

Does that mean Wallace has done what Brady claims?

He could have. For now, I’ll only say that. He is entirely capable of it.

As for Brady . . .

A theory. That’s what I have. Now I need the man himself.





60





It’s easy enough to sneak up on Brady. He hasn’t transformed into a master woodsman. The problem has always been simply getting close enough to find him in this endless wilderness. Once I am, I can hear him, stopped to catch his breath. Those gasps cover my approach. Then I grab his broken wrist, still bound by my handcuff tie. He lets out a shriek, half pain, half surprise.

When he sees me, he deflates.

“Oh, come on, Detective,” he says. “I’m starting to feel like that guy in Les Miz, chased by the cop who just won’t give up, even when he knows the poor guy is innocent.”

“Javert didn’t know anything of the sort,” I say. “And neither do I.”

“Seriously?” He slumps, shaking his head, like I’m a patrol officer who pulled him over for speeding. Just a pain-in-the-ass cop, wasting the taxpayer’s money trying to pin some silly little misdemeanor on him.

“I’m going to ask you again,” I say. “How far do you think you’ll get with your hands tied behind your back?”

“Does it matter?”

“Sure it does.” I walk in front of him, my gun lowered. “A few years ago, I went to a party where they played a game called Would You Rather. It’s supposed to be two equally shitty choices. Except the host didn’t quite get the point and kept giving choices where there really was no choice at all. Like ‘Would you rather take a bullet to the head or die of slow starvation in the forest?’ Whatever fate you’d suffer out here is much worse than what your stepfather would do to you.”

“Uh, did you miss the part where he’s a fucking psychopath? He didn’t shoot those people in the head. He tortured them.”

“Yes, I’m sure being tied up and beaten wasn’t—”

“Tied up and beaten? Is that your idea of torture? He cut them. He burned them. He pulled out their fingernails. Their teeth. He did the kind of things you see in movies, when they’re trying to get spies to talk. Only he didn’t want these people to talk. He wanted them to scream. To cry. To beg. To break.”

“You got a good look then, at that boy you caught him with.”

A heartbeat’s pause before he plows on with, “Yes, yes, I did, Detective.”

“And he molested you as a child.”

A glimmer of relief as I move on, and he nods, “Yes.”

“Tell me about that.”

“What the hell is this? A therapy couch?”

“No, it’s an interrogation room. You have accused your stepfather of molesting you. I’ve dealt with victims of that. I’ve had to interview them, lead them through it, and it was a horrible part of my job, but it was necessary to properly prosecute the offenders. So I know the stories. I know all the reactions a victim gives. Go on, Oliver. Convince me.”

He starts to rage that he won’t give me the satisfaction. That he won’t play this bullshit game. Rage. Deflect. Rant.

I’m lying, of course. I have dealt with those victims. I have interviewed them. But there is no way in hell that I can tell a real accusation from a false one just by speaking to the accuser. Every response is different. I just want Brady to believe I can do it. He does, and so he says not one word about the abuse. He just rages at me until he finishes with, “You want me to talk about that? Put me in front of a real professional.”

“With a lie detector?”

“Fuck you. My stepfather is a sadistic bastard, and whatever he did to me pales in comparison to what he did to his other victims.”

I ease back. “I don’t know. One could argue otherwise. I’m sure a defense attorney would. Gregory may not have molested you, but turning you into a killer? That’s some seriously bad parenting.”

“What? No. He’s the killer. He’s the one—”

“Yes, I suspect he is. You both are. Partners in crime, who turned on each other. How did it happen, Oliver? Not how he lured you into it. You’re right—that’s a story for a therapist, and I don’t really care. I’m curious about the schism. The break. How did it come to this? Former partners, each desperately trying to pin the crimes on the other.”

It takes three long seconds for him to say, “What the hell are you talking about?,” and with that I know I’ve hit on the truth. The reason I couldn’t pick a side. The solution that makes so much more sense than all the ones they’ve spouted.

Not a man trying to steal his stepson’s inheritance. Not one trying to shield his wife from her son’s horrible crimes. Not a young man who stumbled over his stepfather’s horrible crimes.