He does. He’s been quiet. Past the point of denials. Past the point of anger. Just exhausted and resigned to whatever his fate might be.
Earlier, I patted him down for weapons and found only Kenny’s knife, which I have returned. Brady claims he had a stick, too—he’d sharpened it with the knife, as a spear, and he’d been proud of his ingenuity in that. He’d been unable to find anything to eat out here, but at least he had a sharp stick. Or he did until we crawled into that cave and he had to abandon it outside.
Now I more thoroughly pat him down, and he has nothing but crumbs in his pocket. Apparently Devon had delivered cookies to Val while she sat with Brady, and before Brady escaped, he shoved them into his pocket. A survival plan as pathetic as that sharp stick.
Those crumbs clearly came from sugar cookies rather than our protein bars, and Brady seems as weak as one might expect after three days. That does not mean I accept that Jacob made a mistake about seeing him with another man, eating our old bars. I’m just not sure how to reconcile that, so I’ve put it aside.
The lack of food isn’t ironclad proof that he didn’t kill the hunting party. Yet there is also the most damning evidence for a homicide detective. His clothing.
Brady is wearing what he left Rockton with. Right down to his socks and boxers. As filthy as his clothes are, I see no more than a smear of blood on his shoulder, as if he’d wiped a bloodied nose after fighting Brent.
Whoever killed the settlers had slit one man’s throat. Stabbed another. Brutally murdered a woman. That much blood won’t come out by rinsing your shirt in a mountain stream.
I would not take this evidence before a court of law—not unless I was a defense attorney, desperate to get my client exonerated. Brady might have taken off his shirt for the attacks. He might have hidden whatever food and supplies he stole from the settlers.
But I cannot continue to say he even makes a good suspect.
Which leads to a very uncomfortable admission. That he might actually be telling the truth . . . about all of it.
Brent’s death was manslaughter, rather than murder. As for Val, I don’t know how she died. I wasn’t able to recover her body to autopsy it. I wasn’t even able to get to her body for a closer look. I can only say that she was dead in that river, with no obvious signs of trauma.
Yet there are other things that don’t fit.
Who did Jacob see in the forest, if not Brady? I trust Jacob implicitly, and I can’t imagine he was mistaken, so what is the alternative? If it was Brady, wouldn’t he come up with an excuse? Why, yes, I did meet someone on the trail—a stranger who took pity on me and shared his stash of protein bars.
Who the hell shot at us? Executed the two wounded hostiles? Tried to kill the rest of us?
It makes sense that it was the same person who shot at Brady a few days ago. Was Brady really the target, though? He was nowhere in sight when the sniper executed the hostiles and opened fire on us.
There are too many loose ends that “Brady is innocent” does not explain.
Yet none stamp him as guilty either.
We’re missing a piece of the puzzle here. A huge one. And I’m starting to think I know what it is—or at the very least, I know where to begin this trail.
A few words from Brady, dismissed as the rantings of a killer, determined to lay blame anywhere he could.
Words that could have come straight from the serial killer handbook.
I’m being set up.
Why?
Because I know a secret.
56
“We’re taking you to Edwin,” Dalton says to Brady as we leave the scene of the settler massacre.
“Who?” Brady says.
“We need to get Gregory back,” I say.
“Greg—? My stepfather? He’s here?” Genuine fear spikes Brady’s voice.
“He’s being held hostage,” I say. “In exchange for you.”
“What?”
“You massacred three people from a settlement out here. They wanted a guarantee that we’d hand you over. Your stepfather volunteered.”
“Volun . . . ?” He stares at us. Then he laughs. “Oh, that’s funny. I know you don’t mean it to be. You’re trying to scare me into thinking you’re handing me over to these crazy mountain men. I don’t know why you’d bring Greg into this, but telling me he voluntarily turned hostage in exchange for me?” He shakes his head. “That bastard wouldn’t voluntarily piss on me if I were on fire. He doesn’t do anything for anyone except himself.”
“Well, he did. Unless you’re suggesting the guy we left as a hostage is an imposter.”
I describe Gregory Wallace, and Brady’s ashen complexion answers for him.
“No,” he says. “That’s not—He has an agenda. Goddamn it, no. He’s up to something and . . .”
“And what?”
“And I have no idea what it is, but I can promise you—Wait. Hell, yes.” He wheels on us so fast he startles Storm. “What are you about to do?”
I glance at Dalton.
“Didn’t you just say you’re taking me to trade for Greg?” Brady says.
“No, we’re taking you to work this out,” I say. “We aren’t going to turn you over for execution. That’s not—”
“But it’s what Gregory expects. That in order to get him back, you’ll need to hand me over. Which means he doesn’t need to kill me. You guys handed me over. Some crazy mountain men killed me. Not his fault.”
“So he wants you dead.”
Brady stares at me, eyes bugging. He blinks. Stares some more. “Have you listened to a word I’ve said since I got here? Yes, Greg wants me dead. Why the hell did he send a sniper to shoot me? Why did he show up himself when that failed? To make sure—one way or another—that the job gets done.”
“For the money.” I turn to Dalton. “Seems a little overcomplicated, doesn’t it?”
“Just a little,” he drawls.
“Hell,” Jacob says. “I’ve never even been down south, and that sounds crazy to me. Accuse you of killing a bunch of people, ship you off into the wilderness, and then execute you?”
“Gotta be easier ways of killing an inconvenient heir,” Dalton says.
“At the risk of sounding like a rich prick lecturing the local rednecks, it’s not that easy to get rid of me. My mother loves me more than she trusts Greg. If I died down there, she’d suspect him. In a few months, he’ll tell her the so-called truth. By then, he’ll have fabricated all the evidence he needs to convince Mom that her darling boy was a psychotic serial killer. Then he’ll show her all the steps he took to keep me safe . . . only to have me die in these woods, through no fault of his own.”
“There must be more to it,” I say.
Brady growls under his breath. “I don’t want to call you stupid, Detective . . .”
“Then don’t. And please remember that I am a detective. Your story stinks. Back at the start, even you said there was more to it. A secret you knew, about your stepfather.”
“It doesn’t matter. What matters is—”
“Eric, can you cuff him? We really need to get him back to Edwin. We may need to find a gag, too.”
Brady wheels . . . to find my gun pointed at his face, Dalton’s at the side of his head.
“Hands behind your back,” I say.
“You think you want my secret, Detective? Actually, you don’t. Because if there’s any doubt in your mind that I’m a lying son of a bitch, this will erase it. The only person who gets to hear it is my stepfather. One final card I can play to beat him at his game. It’s my ace in the hole, and I’m not letting you take it away from me.”
“Then I guess you’re going to get the chance to play that ace very soon. Put your hands behind your back.”
We are marching Brady to the First Settlement, and I’m trying to figure out what the hell to do about that. He’s called my bluff, and right now, the only solution I can think of involves showing him it’s not a bluff. Handing him over to Edwin and seeing what Brady plans to do about that. Which is a shitty, shitty plan.
It shouldn’t come to that. Brady’s smart enough to realize that no secret is going to fix this solution. His leverage is with Wallace, who has no power here.
So how does Brady think he’s going to get out of this?