Watcher in the Woods (Rockton #4)(67)

His face goes even darker. “You caught me off guard.”

I don’t even answer that. There’s no point. However he may be spinning this in his head, I know—as does every witness—what really happened.

“Paul—” I begin.

“—is a loser. A wuss. A cowardly, sniveling cubicle monkey.”

“Brian,” Dalton says.

Roy spits out a stream of homophobic slurs.

“Huh,” Dalton says. “Interesting. Isabel?”

A couple racist slurs, plus “stuck up bitch,” though he uses a word other than “bitch.”

“Huh,” Dalton says. “You don’t even need to feed him quarters.”

Roy’s broad face scrunches up. “What? If you’re telling me those two claim they saw me do anything—”

“Nope. I was just listing random names. Seeing if it works. It does.”

“If what works?”

“You’ll spit back insults like a goddamn vending machine. Life really sucks for you, doesn’t it, Roy?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Just an observation.” Dalton leans forward. “We’re going to play a game. Call it reverse vending machine. Instead of me feeding you quarters, you’re going to donate them to the town picnic.”

“What the hell are you—?”

“Every time you insult someone in my hearing or Casey’s or Will’s, you will donate one credit to the town fund. We’ll include profanity, too, just for fun.”

“Does that last one apply to you?” I ask Dalton.

“Fuck, no. I’d go broke.”

“I’m glad you two find this so damn amusing,” Roy says.

“One credit,” Dalton says. “And, yeah, knocking assholes down a peg is always fun. Penalty still stands, though. You know why? Cause it’s our fucking town. We own your ass while you’re here. You signed away whatever rights and privileges you had down south. Willingly signed them over. I can make up whatever stupid fucking laws I want. No one will stop me. So, you’re down one credit. Considering you’re incarcerated and only earning the base amount, I’d suggest you consider each fucking word that leaves your mouth. Understood?”

Roy glowers at him.

“Casey?” Dalton says.

“Marshal Garcia is dead—” I begin.

“And it wasn’t me. I’m Canadian. No U.S. cop gives a rat’s ass about what I did.”

“Robbing people of their retirement savings?”

He crosses his arms. “That’s what I was accused of. I never said I did it. I was a legitimate investment professional specializing in high risk, high reward ventures. Some of my clients ignored the ‘high risk’ part. When they lost money, they went crying to the securities commission. I was under investigation, and I knew where that would lead. Prison. People hear stories like mine, and they never give us the benefit of the doubt. It’s the rich asshole robbing little old ladies. The one percenters strike again. It’s a bad time to be a rich white guy.” He looks at Dalton. “Bad time to be a white guy altogether. You wouldn’t know anything about that, but if this town was down south, I guarantee you wouldn’t be sheriff. It’d be her.” He points at me. “Or the black guy. Oh, sorry, African-American. African-Canadian? Who the fuck knows.”

“Two credits,” Dalton says. “And the answer is Will.”

“What?”

“You were wondering what to call him. Will works. Or Deputy Anders. I don’t think he answers to ‘Hey, black guy.’”

“Roy,” I say. “Not being American—or guilty of a federal offense in the U.S.—only gets you off the hook if our dead man was actually a marshal. Paul said you were speculating on that. Maybe suspecting he wasn’t . . . and if he’s not, he could be here for you. One of your clients could be looking for revenge and sent a bounty hunter to bring you back.”

“Yeah? Logical flaw there, Detective. In order to hire a bounty hunter, my former clients would need money. That’s the problem. They don’t.”

“Because you cleaned them out.”

“Right.” He pauses. “Wait. No. I didn’t—” He cuts himself short. “Don’t put words in my mouth. They made the investments. If they got greedy and risked all their savings, that’s not my fault. I’m an investment manager, not a financial advisor.”

“That doesn’t mean someone didn’t find the money to send a bounty hunter.”

“Well, if they did, I’d expect you guys to protect me. That’s what I paid for. Safety. I’m paying a damned fortune to be here. And yeah, I swore. Another credit. Fuck it, make that two more. If you’re trying to frame me, you’re going to need to do a better job than saying Paul left the door open. Try finding someone who saw me out of my cage. You won’t. You know why? I never left. I don’t check the door when your militia morons leave. What’s the point? Where would I go? Run into the forest to be eaten by bears? I’m not an idiot.”

And that is where we must—with deep, deep regret—leave this conversation. Dalton walks to the door, throws it open and says, “Go.”

Roy looks at me.