“No phantom chest pains.” I glance around. Even if we are speaking rapid-fire French, I want to be sure no one is nearby. “We had a delivery today.”
“I heard the plane.”
“They dropped off a new resident.”
“And he is ill?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
I pass over the letter that accompanied Brady. As Mathias skims it, his eyes begin to glitter. By the time he finishes, he’s practically beaming.
“I think I love you,” he says.
“Fickle man.”
“We all are. So, what does Casey Butler wish me to do? Assessment? Or assassination?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
After talking to Mathias, I walk to the hangar. Inside, Kenny and Paul stand on either side of Brady, watching him so intensely I suspect they literally haven’t taken their eyes off him.
“Hey,” I say to Kenny. “You didn’t need to be here. Your ride out of Rockton might be delayed, but you are officially retired from duty.”
“Hell, no,” he says. “As long as I’m here, I’m working. Especially something like this.”
“We appreciate that, but for now, you can both head back to town. I’ve got this.”
Paul looks over my shoulder. “Where’s the boss?”
“Busy.”
Paul opens his mouth to question, but Kenny shoulders him out, saying, “See you back in town.”
They leave, with Paul casting regular glances my way. I wait until their boots tromp down the well-used path. Then I walk to Brady. His hands are still bound, feet chained.
I lower myself in front of him. He’s watching me carefully. Analyzing the situation and struggling to hide his confusion.
I don’t cut the most intimidating figure. I’m barely five foot two. A hundred and ten pounds. I just turned thirty-two, but the last time I was in the US, I got carded in a bar. My mother was Filipino and Chinese, and physically I take after her more than my Scottish father. In other words, absolutely nothing about me screams threat.
When I reach out, Brady draws back. Then he steels himself, shame flooding his eyes, as if he’s been caught flinching from a Pomeranian.
I tug down his gag.
“I didn’t do it,” he says.
I shove the gag back up, and his shame turns to outrage. He doesn’t move, though. Not one muscle. Still considering. Still analyzing. Still confused.
“Never been in prison, have you, Oliver?” I say.
He doesn’t respond.
“If you’d like, you can blink once for yes, twice for no, but nodding and shaking will be easier. In this case, it’s a rhetorical question. Guys like you don’t go to jail. That’s why you’re here instead. But having probably never even spent the night in a drunk tank, you need some advice. Telling the guard you didn’t do it is pointless. He doesn’t care, and even if he did, he can’t help you. No one here is your judge or jury. We’re all just guards. Now, let’s try this again.”
Gag down.
“My goddamn stepfather—”
Gag up.
“Your escort was right,” I say. “Best to leave that on.”
His eyes blaze hate. Hate and powerlessness from a guy who has never known a moment of either in his life.
“Do you have any idea where you are?” I ask.
He doesn’t respond.
“Nowhere,” I say. “No place that exists. No place that falls under any law or jurisdiction. If I shoot you, the sheriff’s just going to say, Oh hell, another body to bury. We buried three this morning. Our winter dead. And sure, it’s easy enough to reopen the mass grave and toss your ass in, but I wouldn’t do that. None of those people deserves to share their final resting spot with thrill-killing trash.”
His mouth works behind the gag. He so desperately wants to tell me he didn’t do it. I don’t look forward to six months of hearing how this is all a big mistake. Could be worse, I suppose. Could be six months of him regaling us with the details of his crimes.
“My job here is to protect people,” I say. “And you threaten my ability to do that. Yet killing you seems problematic. I’ll have to give it more thought. I haven’t worked out all the factors.”
“In other words, don’t give us an excuse,” Dalton says as he strolls in.
“I wasn’t going to say that.”
“It’s the truth.”
“Far too Clint Eastwood for me.”
“Which is why I’m the one who said it.” He stops in front of Brady. “Did you take off the gag?”
“Twice. I got ‘I didn’t do it’ and cursing about his stepfather.” I turn to Brady. “Get up. We’re taking you to town.”
A press conference in Rockton is a strange thing. First, we don’t have a press, which may make the entire endeavor seem rather pointless. Instead, it only makes it all the more critical. Without official media, the only way to disseminate information is word of mouth, and as anyone who’s ever played telephone can imagine, that’s a dangerous game when you’re dealing with a matter of public safety.
In a Rockton press conference, I am the physical manifestation of the printed page. I climb onto the front porch of the police station, give the news, and take questions. Dalton stands off to the side, arms crossed, his expression warning that those questions better not be stupid.
Brady is safely ensconced in the station cell. We brought him in through the back door. So no one has seen him yet as I stand on that porch and tell them that the council has asked us to take custody of a dangerous criminal. I get that much out, and then I wait, knowing exactly what will come.
“How dangerous?” someone asks.
The first time I spoke to a community group, my sergeant told me not to give details. They don’t need to know, he said brusquely, and I bristled at the implication that a frightened community didn’t deserve to know the exact nature of the predator in their midst. Which wasn’t what he meant at all. It wasn’t patronizing; it was protective.
I must know what Brady has done to fully understand what I am dealing with. That’s the nightmare I must welcome into my head so that I can do my job. No one else needs that.
Even Dalton, who’d insisted on listening earlier, now shifts behind me, porch boards creaking, that subtle movement screaming his discomfort at the memory. Whatever Dalton has seen, whatever tough-guy face he puts on, I know his overwhelming thought on Brady’s crimes.
I don’t understand.
I cannot fathom how one person could do that to another.
I don’t either, but I must stretch my imagination there as much as possible.
For the town, I provide the roundabout blather of the bureaucrat, words that seem like an on-point answer.
He’s dangerous.
Murderously dangerous.
While I understand that you may wish more, you must also understand that he comes to Rockton as a prisoner, to await a decision on his fate, which means we are not at liberty to discuss his exact crimes, for reasons of security.
Words, words, more words, spun out until I see nods of understanding. Or, at least, of acceptance.
I continue talking, imparting data now. He will be here six months. He will be confined for the duration. He is being held in the station until we can construct a special building to house him.
“How long will that take?” someone asks.
“We’re assessing the feasibility of constructing a new versus retrofitting an existing one,” I say. “We’re aware that the holding cell is far from ideal. That’s why we want to move quickly on an alternative.”
“Can’t we just free up a house? Guard the exits?”
“No,” says a voice from the crowd. Everyone follows it to Nicole. When they see who has spoken, a murmur runs through the assembled. They remember what happened to her.
“We understand that whatever this man has done, he is due his basic human rights,” I say.
I feel that creak of the boards, Dalton recalling what Brady did and not convinced he concurs. I would agree. As far as I’m concerned, Brady can get comfortable in that cell. But that isn’t an option, because the people of Rockton would not allow it without hearing the extent of his crimes.
I already see the crowd pulse in discomfort. I could tell them what he has done. Do not let yourselves be concerned on his behalf.