He doesn’t. He really is calling my bluff, and he expects me to cave.
Okay, fine. Forget the hostage exchange. Let me take you back to town, and we’ll work this out.
I already know his secret. I’ve figured that one out. But if I confront him with it, I lose ground.
I need him to tell his secret. Break down and confess. Hand me that ace in his pocket. Give me what he thinks is his power.
I need it before we reach the First Settlement.
I look at Dalton, walking behind me, but he’s deep in thought, also trying to see a way out of this predicament.
I pause to let him catch up. We need to talk. I’m not sure how but . . .
Dalton stops. He’s looking to the side. I go still and listen. I don’t need to focus very hard to hear the distinct clomp of boots on hard ground. Kenny’s looking over, too. Brady opens his mouth, but at a sharp wave, he shuts it. Dalton motions for Jacob and Kenny to take Brady and Storm, and for me to follow him.
The boot steps continue along the path. There’s no attempt to be stealthy or to avoid the path. That makes me hopeful—hopeful that as we sneak up through the trees, I’ll see Anders. Or any familiar face from Rockton.
Instead, I catch the guttural tones of a settler.
Dalton lifts a hand, sees I’ve already stopped, and grants me a nod of apology. We both go still as we listen.
“We’ll split up here,” a man says. “You go left. I’ll take right.”
“Edwin said to stay together.”
“We’re tracking a southerner. An unarmed southerner.”
“Didn’t stop him from almost killing Martha.”
“But he failed. He couldn’t even take down a woman. He’s soft. Old, too.”
“He didn’t seem that old. And he still got away. He’s smart—”
“Not as smart as us.”
Gregory Wallace has escaped the First Settlement. There’s no other way to interpret this, but I still mouth the words to Dalton. He nods—he’s come to the same conclusion.
I creep back to Brady, who’s looking the other way, gazing into the forest. I slip up to him, put my gun to his chest, and whisper, “One word, and I pull this trigger.”
His glare is icy rage. He hates me. I don’t know if he would have hated me no matter what the circumstances. I don’t know if my actions thus far have led to this. But whether he’s a killer or not, I suspect that if Oliver Brady got hold of a gun, his first bullet would go between my eyes.
We wait until the settlers are out of earshot. Then we wait a little more, before Dalton nods, telling me they are gone.
“There is no exchange,” I say to Brady, and he smirks.
Called your bluff, Detective.
“There’s no exchange because your stepfather has escaped.”
His lips form a curse, quickly swallowed.
“He’ll return to our town,” I say. “Which is where we’re going. We’re done with this bullshit. We’ve lost two friends, and I don’t care if you murdered them or not, they would still be alive if you hadn’t shown up. This ends now. We are taking you back to your stepdaddy, and we’re putting both your asses on the plane. Eric will fly you within a day’s walk of the nearest town. He’ll point you in the right direction. He’ll give Gregory a gun. What your stepfather chooses to do with the gun is up to him.”
Brady’s eyes widen, his mouth opening.
“You say you have a secret for his ears only?” I whisper. “You’ll have plenty of time to confront him with it, after Eric kicks you both off that plane. Until then? You’re gagged.”
“No,” he says, and there isn’t any defiance in it. Only fear. “You can’t—”
“Can. Will. You may say you aren’t a killer, but people die a little too often around you, Oliver. So we’re terminating the contract that brought you here. This is family business. Yours, not ours.”
“I didn’t kill—”
“Like I said, we don’t care. We did, once upon a time. But then you went and escaped, which led to the whole ‘two dead friends’ issue.”
His face hardens. “You had no intention of listening to me—”
“You never gave us a chance to dig deeper. So off you go. Tell Gregory your secret. Maybe you two can work this out.” I pause. “Unless it’s a secret you plan to threaten him with . . . when the two of you are alone in the forest, and only one of you has a gun. That would be inconvenient.”
I lift my gaze to his. “Yes, flare your nostrils at me, Oliver. Give me that look that says you’re considering all the ways you could kill me. Relishing the options. In fact, why don’t you just tell me what you’d like to do? Get it off your chest.”
“I have done nothing.” He can’t even unclench his jaw to speak clearly. “I made mistakes out here, and your friends died. But that was desperation. I did not kill those people in Georgia. If you can prove otherwise, you would. You can’t. So go ahead and put me and Greg on a plane. Let us go in the forest. But I want a gun, too. I deserve a fighting chance.”
“Like those people you shot in . . .” I frown and look at Dalton. “Wait, did he just say Georgia?”
“Yeah,” Dalton says. “Weird. I coulda sworn he said he was being blamed for a shooting in San Jose. You slip up there, Oliver?”
Another nostril flare. “No. I’m cutting through the bullshit. You know he’s not accusing me of the San Jose shooting. He’s saying I murdered five people in Georgia. Fucked-up, psychopath serial killings.”
“Which you did not commit.”
“No, I did not.”
“Yet you know who did. Who would do . . . ? Wait. Don’t answer. Let me guess. Could it be . . . your stepfather?”
Brady jerks forward. Dalton’s gun barrel slams into his temple. Brady reels. Dalton catches him by the arm and presses his gun against the young man’s forehead.
“You gonna call Casey a lousy detective now?” Dalton says.
“So you figured out Greg is the real killer,” Brady says. “Fine. Now you see—”
“I see you’re a desperate man,” I say. “Desperate enough to accuse your own stepfather of the crimes you committed.”
A string of obscenities follows, his face contorting with rage. “This is exactly what I knew would happen. See? See?”
As his voice rises, I say, “Do you want that gag? Or do you want the chance to keep talking?”
“Why bother? This is how it is. How it will always be. You want me to play nice, Detective?” He leans toward me. “I don’t know how. Never learned the skill. Or maybe I lack the genes. You look at me, and you see a spoiled brat. Self-centered. Entitled. An unpleasant son of a bitch. And you know what? You aren’t wrong.”
He eases back. “I’m an asshole. But that doesn’t make me a killer. I’m probably not a good person. But that doesn’t make me evil. I don’t think that’s such a difficult concept for you to understand, Detective. You’re a stone-cold bitch. Doesn’t mean you aren’t good at your job. Doesn’t mean you don’t care about your people. The sheriff here doesn’t bat an eye when you threaten me, and it doesn’t stop him from looking at you like the sun shines out of your ass.”
He locks gazes with me. “I am responsible for your mountain-man friend’s death. Court of law would lock me up for manslaughter. I accept that. I am also responsible for Val’s death. I promised you’d get her back, and you didn’t. But those murders back home? Those were committed by a guy who makes me look like a saint.”
“Gregory Wallace.”
“You liked him, didn’t you? Of course you did. Everyone does. Let me guess how it went. He showed up, apologized for all the trouble he put you through, promised to compensate you for it, while being clear he knows money won’t fix this. Am I close?”