This Fallen Prey (Rockton #3)(81)

He doesn’t even wait for a response before continuing. “Kenny left because he realized his guilt had been uncovered, and it was only a matter of time—”

“No,” Dalton says.

Phil sighs. It’s a familiar sigh, one I’ve heard countless times underscored by the feedback from a radio receiver. “I know you—”

“He left a note.” Dalton points at the wadded paper on the lawn. “He blames himself for Brady escaping and wants to bring him back. Kenny accepts responsibility because he left his post. Not because he was in cahoots with Brady.”

Another sigh, the sort a supercilious teacher gives a student he considers not terribly bright. “Just because Kenny claims that doesn’t mean it’s true, Sheriff. Of course he’ll defend himself. My point is that he isn’t your concern. He has made his choice. He might hope to find Oliver. Perhaps even kill him, to cover his own crimes. But he’s unlikely to succeed. His flight proves his guilt and therefore, whatever justice the forest metes out . . .” Phil shrugs.

“It saves the council from doing it?” Dalton says.

There’s a warning note in Dalton’s voice, but Phil only says, “Yes, it does. Casey no longer needs to waste time proving his guilt, and you can both focus on Oliver instead. Take this as a reprieve; do not turn it into a cause for extra effort.”

“A reprieve?” Dalton says. “Extra effort? Kenny was a valued member of my militia, and whatever you might think of what he’s done, he deserves my—”

“He deserves nothing. If you feel guilty, take this as an order. You may not search for this man. If you happen to find him, all right. Do what you must.”

“Do what I must?” Dalton says, his voice lowering. “Kill him, you mean?”

“Of course not. Bring him back.”

“If I must. Because, you know, the alternative is to just let him die out there. Which is worse than killing him. And it’s not like, if I bring him back, he’s going to live much longer anyway. Maybe I should just kill him.”

I see where Dalton’s heading, and I try to get his attention and cut him off, but before I can, Phil says, “What are you talking about?”

“Sure, yeah, let’s pretend you don’t know.”

“Eric . . .” I say.

Dalton advances on the other man. “Tell me, Phil, what happens if I bring Kenny back and put him on your plane. What happened to Beth after I dropped her off?”

“Beth Lowry is fine, and to suggest otherwise only proves you are exhausted and need—”

“What if I want her back? We need a doctor. Let’s bring Beth back for a while. Can we do that, Phil?”

“Certainly not. After what she did—”

“Forget about bringing her back. We have medical questions. How about the council hires her for satellite consultations?”

“We cannot—”

“Do you know where she is, Phil?”

“I don’t care, and neither should you. But she is alive. We are not executioners—”

“No? Then tell me about the deal you tried to make with Tyrone Cypher?”

Phil’s face screws up. “Who?”

“The sheriff before Gene Dalton.”

“That is long before my time, as you well know.”

“The council tracked him down in the forest. Tried to cut him a deal. Ty says he knows what it was, because he has one real talent. His former occupation. A hit man.”

Phil bursts into a laugh. “Is that what he told you? I’m sure whatever this Cypher man did in his past life, he was not a hired killer. The council would never put such a man in Rockton.”

“No? Then tell me about Harry Powys.”

“Eric,” I say sharply.

“No, please, Casey,” Phil says. “It seems the sheriff has a few things to get off his chest. If you are suggesting Harry Powys was a hired killer—”

“Worse,” Dalton says. “He was a doctor who drugged illegal immigrants and removed their organs. Sometimes they lived; sometimes they didn’t. Being in the country illegally, though, it wasn’t like they could complain.”

Phil stares at him.

“What Eric means—” I begin.

“Please, Casey. There is no alternative interpretation you can come up with to explain that away, however embarrassing I’m sure you find it.”

I bristle. “I don’t find it—”

“The sheriff’s exposure to our culture is limited largely to his books and videos. Dime-store novels and fantasy television shows.”

“That’s not—”

“And from those, he clearly has a distorted view on the world, one that someone has exploited by feeding him ridiculous stories. Black-market organ sales are the stuff of pulp fiction and urban legend, Sheriff. Whoever told you Harry Powys did such a thing was pulling a prank.”

“Look it up,” Dalton says.

“What?”

“Harrison Powers. That’s his real name. Google it. You’ll find news articles—legitimate news articles—about a doctor suspected of exactly what I said. A warrant was issued for his arrest. He disappeared. Check the dates. Check the photograph. Compare it to Harry Powys.”