This Fallen Prey (Rockton #3)(48)

“Okay,” I say. “Just rest and—”

“I’m not resting, Casey. I’m helping you catch my killer. And drinking. Heavily. If it starts spilling out my guts? Don’t tell me.”

He takes a deep drink. “I was down the mountain, shooting grouse at twilight. Kid got the jump on me, the fuck—” He stops. Apologizes to me for swearing, as always. “He got me dead to rights. I was picking up my game, had put my gun down. He wanted to know where to find Jacob.”

“Jacob?” Dalton tenses.

“Relax, Eric. You think I told him?” Brent slurps more Scotch. “Said he wanted to hire Jacob. As a guide. Get him out of here. I said I could do it. He said no, had to be Jacob. That’s when I knew something was up.”

“He didn’t just want a guide,” I say.

“Right. So I confronted him, and he told me that story about being a prisoner in your town, falsely accused. Says he needs Jacob as a guide and as insurance, but he won’t hurt him. Offers to pay me to take him to Jacob. I say no. He threatens to shoot me in the shoulder. I go for the gun. We fight. I get gutshot instead. Maybe that was an accident, but the bas—the jerk put his fist on my gut and pushed down. Made me howl, I’m ashamed to say. But I got the gun away from him. Fired a shot. He took off. I hauled ass back here. Lost the damned gun on the way, pardon my French. But I made it. Holed up with my rifle, in case he came back.”

“He didn’t?”

“Nah, ran and kept running. Little pri—prat.”

“Was there anyone with him? Any sign of a hostage?”

Brent shakes his head. “He was alone. Never mentioned anyone else. It was all about him. How everyone done him wrong.” Brent coughs and then gasps in pain with the movement. “Damned country song, he was. You don’t need to worry about Jacob, though. I don’t even know where he’s camping right now. Left his last spot a couple of days back.”

“So he’s gone duck hunting,” Dalton says.

“Not yet. Came by to say he was holding off—he was tracking a bull caribou and wanted to get that first. And he was trying to decide if he should ask that girl from your town to go duck hunting. Came to me for advice.” Brent gives a weak laugh. “Like I’d be any help. I faked it, though. Told him yes, he should do it.”

“So he’s mobile right now?”

Brent nods. “Until he gets that caribou.”

I help him lift the glass to his lips. His hand is trembling. He takes two big gulps. When he speaks again, his words are slurring, exhaustion and alcohol mixed.

“Eric?”

“Right here, Brent.”

“You gotta bury me in my jersey, okay?”

“The Maple Leafs one?”

Brent raises his middle finger. Then he drinks more Scotch with my help. “You know how I want to go, right?”

“I do.”

“Up in one of those platforms. Like the Indians used to do it.”

“I know. I’ll do it just like you wanted.”

Brent’s eyelids flutter. Then they open. “Almost forgot. Eric? You gotta get something for me.”

His words are slurring badly now, and it takes a while for Dalton to interpret his directions and bring what he wants. It’s two carved wooden figurines.

“Give it to me,” Brent says. “You’ll do it wrong.”

He takes the figures and arranges them on his palm. It’s a woman in a ponytail, kneeling in front of a rolling ball of fur.

“That a bear cub?” Dalton says.

Brent raises his middle finger again.

“It’s me and Storm,” I say. “When she was a puppy.”

“First time you brought her here. I remember you two playing in the grass. Been a long time since I heard a girl laugh like that. I wanted to capture it. She’s not so little anymore.”

“Yeah, Casey, gotta watch what you’re eating.”

We both raise our fingers for that. Then Brent hands me the figures. Up close I see the detail, the hours spent carving them. I thank him, and we talk for a little more. He’s flagging, and I tell him we’ll build that platform and put him in his beloved Canadiens hockey jersey. And I say we’ll get Brady for him.

“I’m sure you will,” he says, “but I’m not too worried about that. I’m just glad you came. Not a bad way to go. Good Scotch. Pretty girl.”

I squeeze his hand and bend to kiss his weathered cheek as his eyes close.

“Eric?” he whispers, voice barely audible.

Dalton bends by Brent’s head.

“I figured it out,” Brent says. “The secret behind that town of yours. This is what it’s for, isn’t it? Harboring the worst criminals. The ones the government wants to make disappear. Save folks the expense of a trial and hide them up here, let their sorry asses rot.” His eyes half open. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

“Took you long enough.”

Brent smiles and his eyes close again. A few more breaths, and then he goes still.





27





I make Brent comfortable. I know exactly how ridiculous this is, but I do it anyway, arranging his body on his sleeping mat and pulling up a blanket, as if tucking him in for the night. Dalton doesn’t say a word.