This Fallen Prey (Rockton #3)(74)

The pilot climbs from the cockpit. He looks like the passenger’s personal assistant, a guy maybe my age, dark-haired and chisel-jawed, wearing stylish glasses that I suspect don’t contain prescription lenses. He is not smiling. Instead, he bears down on us like we’re about to contaminate his boss with our dirt-crusted hands.

“Sheriff Dalton,” the younger man says. “Detective.”

I know that voice. I can’t quite place it, but it’s one I’ve heard. . .

It clicks. Yes, I have heard this voice many times, and I’ve imagined the man it belongs to so often that I’m sure I’m misidentifying him now. In my head, the voice belongs to an older man, maybe fifty, another middle manager, like Val. A fussy little man with a potbelly and a comb-over.

The younger man passes the older one and puts himself slightly in front, as if shielding him from necessary interaction. Then he extends a hand—to me.

“Phil,” he says. “It’s good to meet you, Detective.”

Phil. The council’s spokesperson.

He takes my hand in a firm but perfunctory shake. And for Dalton? A curt nod. Then he turns to the older man.

“This is—”

“Gregory.” The silver-haired man steps past Phil. “Gregory Wallace. I’ve come to see my stepson.”





41





I glance at Dalton.

Gregory catches the look and says wryly, “Yes, I suspect I’m not your favorite person right now, which is why I’m here. I insisted Phil bring me to see what can be done to make Oliver’s stay less taxing.”

“Yeah?” Dalton says. “You know what would make it less taxing? If it never happened.”

Phil makes a noise in his throat, one manicured hand rising in the gesture you’d give a child, telling him to calm down before he embarrasses you in front of company.

Dalton continues. “I don’t know what the hell your understanding of the situation up here was, Mr. Wallace, but we were not equipped to deal with a prisoner of any variety. This town is for victims. It is safety. It is sanctuary. It is not a fucking maximum-security prison.”

“What Sheriff Dalton is saying—” Phil begins.

“Oh, I believe he’s saying it just fine,” Wallace says, and while he’s smiling, the steel in his voice warns Phil to silence. “Please continue, Sheriff.”

“We were not equipped for this,” Dalton says. “We were not warned in time to become equipped. Your stepson was dropped off with a fucking bag of coffee. Here’s a serial killer. Please take care of him for us. Oh, and enjoy the coffee.”

“I don’t think this is productive,” Phil says.

Dalton turns on him. “You want to talk about productive? How about giving me a damned method to communicate with you when everything goes to hell up here?”

Phil straightens, bringing himself to Dalton’s height and looking him square in the eye. “You have a method, Sheriff. Valerie is—”

“Dead.”

A moment’s pause. Then Phil says, “What?”

“Val is dead.” Dalton waves at Wallace. “His stepson took her hostage. Killed her. Dumped her in a river. Casey almost died trying to retrieve her body ’cause a proper burial seems the least we can do. Oliver Brady also murdered Brent, one of our key scouts and local contacts. Gutshot him and left him to die. Then he massacred three settlers, including an old woman trying to escape. Her granddaughter managed to avoid the carnage, though not without witnessing her grandmother’s bloody corpse. We escorted the kid home, but we didn’t dare take her inside the settlement and explain what happened, or we might not have walked out alive, considering the killer was one of ours.” Dalton pauses. “That’s our day so far. And yours?”

Phil’s face hardens. “Your insubordination—”

“Fuck my insubordination. Go tell the council I was rude to you, Phil. See which of us they declare the more valuable asset.”

I turn to Wallace. “I’m sorry we don’t have your stepson. Despite the fact we weren’t prepared, we do accept responsibility for his escape. I’m also sorry if you were misled about the appropriateness of this solution to your problem.”

Wallace rubs his chin. He looks sick, and it takes him a moment to regroup.

“The blame, I’m afraid, is as much mine as anyone’s, Detective,” Wallace says. “I failed to properly warn you about exactly the sort of monster you were dealing with. I erred on the side of caution, fearing the truth would limit my options drastically. And in doing so—” He inhales sharply and then shakes his head. “Let’s get someplace quiet, where we can come up with a solution.”



We ride the horses to town, letting Phil and Wallace walk the short distance. When we’re out of earshot, Dalton mutters, “Fuck,” and I agree, and that’s all we say, all that can be said. This wrinkle is the absolute last thing we need to deal with.

When we enter Rockton, Anders and Isabel are striding toward us.

“Did we hear another plane?” Anders says. He notices the two men behind us. “What the hell?”

I jump off Cricket and call Storm over. Dalton wordlessly reaches for my reins, and I hand them over.

“The younger guy is Phil,” I say when Dalton leaves for the stable.