This Fallen Prey (Rockton #3)(26)

“Yeah, okay, sure. I trust . . .” He stops. “Fuck. I just stepped into it, didn’t I?” He sighs. “Where is this leading?”

“I’d like you to deputize Ty for a few days. I need information I can only get from the internet, and the only person who can fly out of here is you. It’s a lousy time for you to leave, but I think the need outweighs the danger. I’d like you to take an overnight trip to Dawson City, with a list of what I need researched. I’ll stay here and Ty can help guard Brady.”

Dalton snorts. “Because he’ll scare the ever-loving shit out of Brady?”

“Possibly.” I smile. “Ty won’t buy Brady’s stories. He might even be able to give us some insight into how likely it is that he committed these murders. Mathias knows one side of killers. Tyrone knows another.”

“It’ll take a day or two to find Ty. By then, Brady’s permanent residence will be done so I won’t mind leaving. What do you want online?”

“Everything you can get on these crimes he supposedly committed. Including whether they actually exist.”

“Actually exist?” He looks at me, his mental wheels turning fast. “Fuck.”

“Yep. I need information on the San Jose shootings, information on the Georgia murders, plus anything that can help us figure out whether Oliver Brady is responsible for either.”





15





It’s the next afternoon. Val has conveyed Dalton’s message to the council. They’re “considering” letting him go to Dawson.

I’m the sole officer on duty right now. Dalton and Nicole have gone into the woods to get Jacob’s message and look for Cypher. An hour ago, someone from the logging party came running back to say there’s been an accident. Nothing serious, but a hatchet injury always requires immediate attention, so Anders has left with his first-aid kit.

I’m on Brady duty, all of our militia having been repurposed into construction workers. That’s fine—Brady’s cell is secure, and it’s not as if he’s going to ever talk me into letting him out for a walk. Still, Petra has come over to keep me company, and we’re on the rear deck.

I haven’t accidentally left Brady unattended. I’m testing him. He knows Dalton and Anders are gone. He knows the militia are doing construction. And now his sole guard has just wandered outside to chat with her friend. I want to see what he’ll do. So far, the answer is “Nothing.”

Petra has her sketchbook out. She was a comic-book artist down south, and up here, she draws art as a sideline—people buy it to decorate their homes.

“Looks like someone’s hungry.” Petra nods at a raven, who keeps circling to the deck railing and then pulling up before landing. “That’s yours, isn’t it?”

“It’s not really—”

“Yeah, yeah,” she says. “Wild animals are not pets. I once made the mistake of asking Eric if I could adopt a bear cub. I was kidding. I still got the lecture. Since he’s not within earshot, though, this is your raven, right? The one you’ve trained.”

“It is.” I take a piece of muffin from my pocket. “It won’t come close to Storm, so you’ll need to hold her.”

“Have you thought of training them?”

The raven swoops past, but it knows better than to snatch the muffin chunk from my hand.

Petra puts her sketchbook aside. “I grew up rural. We had chickens, and we had dogs that we didn’t want devouring the chickens. You can train them both. Teach Storm not to go after the raven, and teach the raven that the dog is safe.”

Petra explains how to start, and then she puts her hand on Storm’s collar, while I set the muffin on the railing.

The raven lands at the far end and begins inching along, while croaking at me, telling me to move it farther from the dog.

I start to pocket the muffin chunk. The raven lets out a loud squawk.

“Oh, she doesn’t like that,” Petra says with a laugh.

I put the muffin down again, and the raven waddle-walks as fast as it dares—

The station front door slams, and the raven flies off. Storm growls. Petra glances through the rear door and pats Storm.

“Good baby,” she says. “Excellent instincts.”

The back door slaps open, and Jen barrels out.

“What the hell?” Jen says. “You’re leaving him unguarded now?”

“We’re on the back porch,” Petra says. “And he’s locked in a cell. We aren’t concerned.”

“I see that. I guess maybe he’s not such a dangerous criminal, huh?”

“Jen?” I say. “Don’t.”

“Why? Because you’re busy chatting with your buddy and playing with your dog? Are you even trying to find out whether this guy is guilty?”

I don’t answer that. I remember a time when I’d check out online article for crimes I was investigating. I’d read the comments section, in hopes of getting a lead or a fresh angle. Instead all I got were complaints. The cops are lazy. The cops are incompetent. The cops are corrupt. Why can’t they just run DNA? Why can’t they arrest the guy everyone knows did it? I’d log in under a fake name and try to explain, but those commenters didn’t want explanations. The same goes for Jen.