This Fallen Prey (Rockton #3)(76)

Wallace squares his shoulders. “That’s for later, and whatever needs to be done, it will not involve anyone in this town. I am truly sorry that this happened. I will make it up to you. I know the town was counting on the added income.”

“Income?” Dalton snorts. “That’s their concern.” He jerks his thumb at Phil. “We don’t give a shit. Not like we were going to see more than a fraction of it anyway.”

Phil bristles. “Of course you were. Beyond basic administrative costs—”

“Don’t,” Wallace says. “I have worked with enough foreign governments to understand the concept of ‘basic administrative costs.’ Roughly ninety percent, in my experience.” He looks at Dalton. “When we get Oliver, you’ll tell me what you need for this town. Supplies, infrastructure improvements, and any wish-list items that will make life here easier. I’ll pay your administrators a reasonable fee for their work, and I will personally take care of everything on your list. Plus I’ll pay you and your detective and deputy a bonus.”

“Fuck, no,” Dalton says.

“He means the bonus isn’t necessary,” I say. “We’ll take the rest, but we don’t need added incentive to find your stepson. What he’s done is enough.”

Wallace dips his chin. “I apologize if I implied otherwise.” He looks at Phil. “You can run along now. Fly back to the city, and leave me here with these people to find my stepson.”

Phil’s jaw sets. “I will be staying and helping.”

“Yeah,” Dalton says. “Because if you leave, you have to tell the council how badly you all fucked up. Then they’d just order your ass back here anyway.”

“If you’re staying, stay,” Wallace says. “But you damned well better make yourself useful. Now, let’s talk about how to get Oliver back.”





42





Our plans? We’re going to look really, really hard for Brady. What else is there to do? We can call in the Mounties with a full search team, blow Rockton’s cover to hell for the sake of stopping one killer, and it won’t ultimately achieve anything more than we can do on our own, which is, in short, frustratingly little.

I remember hearing once that Alaska is the serial killer capital of America—not for the number of active ones, but the number who have disappeared there. That is, obviously, an urban legend. It’s not as if serial killers leave behind a “gone to Alaska” note. Instead, the so-called fact is an acknowledgment that there are likely many people hiding there, who have done something terrible and then fled where they cannot be found.

The same goes for the Yukon. In Whitehorse, I’ve heard people joke that the most common question asked of newcomers is “So, what are you running from?” The answer for most is “Nothing.” People run to places like Whitehorse. They come on a job placement or a vacation and fall in love, like I have. Whitehorse is a city of transplants. Willing transplants. But yes, everyone knows there are people in the wilderness who are hiding. Asking questions is frowned upon, both for safety and as a courtesy.

We don’t know what—or who—might be in these woods. And we don’t really care to find out, because the point is moot. Modern tracking equipment can’t reliably locate hikers who wander off the Appalachian Trail. It sure as hell won’t locate fugitives up here.



We must find lodgings for our unexpected guests.

“I will take Casey’s old house,” Phil says. “I know it’s vacant.”

“Yeah, no,” Dalton says. “The guy paying the bills gets the house. Casey just needs to move something out first.”

“No need,” Wallace says. “I won’t disturb any of her belongings.”

“Thanks,” I say. “But there’s one item you’ll definitely want relocated.”

We take Phil and Wallace to my house with their luggage. I open the door and slip inside with a quick, “Give me a sec.”

A few minutes later, I emerge with a duffel bag and a sleepy cub.

Phil sees the wolf-dog and turns on Dalton. “We allowed special dispensation for a single canine. Casey’s dog, which is a working—”

“This isn’t a pet,” I say. “It’s the remaining cub from the wolf-dog we had to put down.”

“And so you brought it here? This isn’t a wildlife refuge, Detective.”

“This cub bit Eric. We feared it was rabid, and I needed to monitor it.”

Phil steps back so fast I have the very childish urge to dump the cub into his arms. I do hold it out toward him. I can’t resist that.

“It’s fine, see?” I say.

“Then why is it still here?”

“As opposed to dumping it in the forest? Or killing it?”

As he opens his mouth, I spot a familiar figure passing and shout, “Yo! Mathias!”

Mathias makes his way over and arches a brow. “Did you actually hail me with ‘yo’?” He speaks in French as his gaze touches on our guests, testing their comprehension. Wallace gives no sign of understanding. Phil squints, as if he recognizes French from long-ago classes.

“We have guests,” I say in English. “I’m sure you’ve already heard that.”