This Fallen Prey (Rockton #3)(92)

Which is why helping Brady doesn’t—

I rub my neck. Stop making excuses. My flashback does prove something: that I know Kenny left Rockton wearing boots like these.

Dalton moves his foot beside one print without prompting. It’s smaller than his. Smaller enough to be noticeable, and yet significantly larger than my ladies’ size five. A men’s seven maybe.

I remember Anders joking that Kenny should try on mine—that they might fit. Which suggested Kenny’s feet were small.

“Casey?”

I nod and straighten. This is the worst part of community policing—investigating a crime when the person responsible is someone I know, someone I like. I need to remind myself that beyond the few people I associate closely with, I don’t really know anyone in Rockton. I cannot know their pasts. Even people without that past can come here and commit horrible crimes.

I grieve for the loss of the Kenny I thought I knew. I’m deep in my thoughts, following Dalton, and—

“Stop right there,” a voice rings out. “Hands on your head, you son of a bitch, or I swear I’ll—I’ll fucking shoot you and drag your . . . fucking ass back to Rockton.”

I know that voice. I even know the diction—a poor imitation of Dalton by a guy who wants to be him.

“Kenny?” I whisper. I was just thinking of Kenny, and therefore I must be mishearing or—

Dalton is running. Doubled over, running full out. I’m taking off after him, my gun out as he pulls his. We pass a tree, and ahead I see Kenny holding a gun at Jacob’s back.





51





“Turn around,” Kenny barks.

Jacob says something I can’t hear, his voice low, words calming. He turns, and Kenny gives a start.

“Eric?” Kenny says to Jacob.

Jacob lowers his hood.

“Who the hell are—?” Kenny begins.

“Kenny!” Dalton thunders.

Kenny wheels, gun lowering, the perfect opportunity for Jacob to grab it, but he just stays with his hands on his head. Kenny realizes he’s lowered his weapon and corrects his stance, but Dalton sees that gun go up, trained on his brother, and he lets out a roar. When he snarls “Drop that fucking—” he doesn’t even need to finish. Kenny literally throws the gun aside.

The gun hits the ground hard enough that I half expect it to fire, but it only bounces into the undergrowth as Dalton knocks Kenny flying.

Kenny babbles something from the ground. I reach them, but I still can’t make out what he’s saying.

Then Dalton has his gun trained on Kenny, saying, “Get your ass in the air,” and when Kenny doesn’t obey within 1.5 seconds, “Get your fucking ass in the air!”

Jacob says, “Eric . . .”

“You think I’m being an asshole?” Dalton snarls and then turns to Jacob. “This is the head of my fucking militia. The man who let Brady get away and then came out here to join him.”

“W-what?” Kenny says. “No. I mean, yes, I let him get away. I didn’t do my job right. I screwed up. But I didn’t come out here to—”

“Get in position,” Dalton says. “Now.”

Getting in position means assuming the position that’s like a downward dog, feet and hands on the ground, butt in the air. The first time I saw Dalton make a guy do it, I thought Dalton was trying to shame the guy, make him look ridiculous. And while it does, that’s just a bonus. The beauty of the position is that the average person cannot leap out of it and attack. If he tries to rise, a foot on the ass will put him down again.

It is also, as I later discovered, a trick Dalton learned from Cypher.

Kenny gets into position, saying, “Just listen to me, Eric. I left a note. Didn’t you get—”

“Yeah, Casey found it. Covering your ass, in case we found you alone. You weren’t alone a couple of hours ago, were you.”

“What?”

“You were seen with Oliver Brady.”

Kenny starts sputtering denials, which only pisses Dalton off, and Jacob is trying to interject until finally I step in, arms waving for silence. Dalton gets the last word, of course, but then backs down, a jerk of his chin telling me to handle this.

“Kenny?” I say. “Just be quiet and listen, okay?” I turn to Jacob. “Is this the guy you saw with Brady?”

“I didn’t get a look at the guy’s face,” Jacob says. “This could be him. That’s all I can say.”

“It wasn’t—” Kenny begins.

“Wait,” I say.

“He’s the right size,” Jacob continues. “Jeans. Boots. Jacket. All the same or close enough to what I remember.”

“Which is town-issue clothing,” I say, and Kenny nods, relieved.

“Eric? Can you give me one of Kenny’s boots?”

I train my gun on Kenny while Dalton removes a boot and hands it to me. It’s the one I expect. Town-issue. Same tread as the prints I saw with Brady’s.

“Have you been tracking Brady?” I say.

“I’ve been trying,” Kenny says. “But I’m not Eric. I made a lot of noise, and I figured maybe Brady would see me and think I looked like easy pickings, and then I’d get the jump on him. It was a stupid plan. I haven’t even heard anyone until this morning, and that was you guys.” He glances at Jacob. “You’re . . . one of Eric’s contacts?”