Watcher in the Woods (Rockton #4)(66)

“How careful were they about that before you? Could one have been left behind? Stuck under a floorboard?”

Dalton shakes his head. “Ty and Gene were just as careful as I am. The sheriff before Ty fucked up once. He let a deputy leave, saying his sidearm was under the bed. No big deal. Except a half dozen people heard him say that, and by the time the sheriff went to get it, the gun was gone.”

“It was used to shoot someone, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, the moron who took it.”

“He killed himself with it?”

“Not intentionally.” Dalton’s grip relaxes on mind, finding his rhythm as his mind moves away from the misidentified bullet. “The guy who took it was militia. They’d never let him carry a rifle. Didn’t trust him with it. For good reason, it seems. He swiped the deputy’s old sidearm, and two weeks later, he’s dead in the forest. He was out doing target practice, gun jammed and he blew his face off trying to clear it.”

“Ouch.”

“It gets worse. The only reason the guy was on the militia was because the council insisted. He was the son of some rich asshole paying a shitload of money to keep him here. Rich asshole wanted his money back after his kid shot himself. The council repaid it to shut him up. When a random resident dies in an accident, the council doesn’t give a fuck. But if it costs them money? That changes their perspective. Since then, sidearms are tightly regulated, and our asses are on the line if we screw up. When you came in, they found out in advance what kind of gun you wanted. It arrived in Dawson City, and I picked it up when I brought you in. Same went for Will. Before he arrived, I was the entire police force for a few months. When my previous deputy went home, I had to take his sidearm with us to Dawson and drop it off at the usual spot. We can’t even keep them on site. So right now, we have four handguns in Rockton. Yours, Will’s, mine and Garcia’s.”

“Five.”

He looks over. Before I can say anything, he curses. “Petra.”

“Yep. That was a handgun. And I have no idea what calibre it is, because we haven’t gotten that far. The bodies are still lying in the forest, waiting until we have a moment to breathe and bury them. After we dig out the bullet.”

“Fuck.”

“The to-do list gets longer. Question is where do we start?”

“Interviews,” he says. “We’ve got the advantage of daylight. Talk to Roy and Sebastian. Then get our asses out to fetch that bullet.”





TWENTY-EIGHT

We tackle Roy first. Dalton comes along for moral support. And, I suspect, protection, though he knows better than to actually say that. I’ve already kicked Roy’s ass. Dalton’s still fuming over Roy attacking me, and so I suspect he tags along in hopes Roy will try something, and he’ll get a chance for some retributory ass-kicking. Of course, the fact that the sheriff is with me means Roy won’t so much as posture. He’s a stereotypical bully. He’s tough when he’s got hangers on backing him up. He’s tough when his only adversary is a woman literally half his size. Strip him off his posse and put him up against a younger, fitter male opponent, and he shuts up fast. Well, no, “shutting up” is too much to ask for when it comes to guys like Roy. With Dalton around, though, he’ll only run his mouth off, as if he totally could kick our sheriff’s ass . . . he just doesn’t feel like it today.

“The moron left the fucking door open?” Roy says after we explain. “Figures. That’s your entire militia right there, Sheriff. Bunch of pussies. The toughest ones you’ve got actually have pussies.” He shakes his head. “You want a decent force? Try hiring real men.”

“The men I have are just fine,” Dalton says. “I’d rather have them backing me up than the assholes who think they’re tough guys. Loudmouths who can barely throw a punch, swagger in here and try to sign up for militia duty. All they want is a gun in their hands, and they probably aren’t even sure which end to hold.”

Roy’s face reddens. From day one, he’d been negotiating for a militia spot. Not offering to join. Not asking if he could. Trying to sell his services—I might be persuaded to join, Sheriff, but you gotta make me a sweet offer. Dalton told him he wasn’t interested. He’s been telling him the same thing weekly, when Roy comes into the station, seeing if Dalton’s changed his mind.

“My militia is my business,” Dalton says. “You know what Detective Butler’s business is? Solving this murder.”

“What the hell does that have to do with me? I’ve been locked in this damned cell the whole . . .” He trails off. “Oh hell, no. You’re telling me that moron left the door open while someone shot this FBI guy?”

“U.S. Marshal.”

“Whatever.” He turns to me. “You’re framing me, Detective. I took a few shots at you, and now your feelings are hurt, and you want me gone. Typical chick.”

“Happened before, has it?” I say.

His face darkens, which tells me I’m guessing right—that he’s smacked around a woman or two in his life, and then rolled his eyes when she had the audacity to complain.

“I’m not out to get you, Roy,” I say. “I kicked your ass. I kinda like having you walk around with that story trailing after you.”