As Anders said, getting to the station is easy. The fact that I made two wrong turns may have more to do with the ATV ride itself. Dare I say it was fun?
My first boyfriend had a dirt bike. He’d lend me his sister’s so we could ride into a nearby gravel pit. I encouraged those gravel-pit trips, which gave his ego a much-needed boost. I just never admitted it was more for the ride than the make-out sessions that followed.
When my parents found out, they grounded me for three months. Not because I was sneaking off with a boy. I was fifteen, and they trusted I was smart enough not to jeopardize my future by getting pregnant. It was the dirt bike that disappointed them; I’d showed a distinct lack of judgment. My mother gave me medical files from horrific motorcycle accidents and then quizzed me afterward to be sure I’d read them. The world is a dangerous place. You don’t add to it by doing crazy things like riding dirt bikes. Or fighting back against gangbangers in an alley.
Sometimes, though, taking risks is the only way to feel alive, and that’s what I feel as I whip along those wooded trails, purposely missing my turns. I want to keep going, to ride into the forest and see what’s out there, lose myself in that emptiness. But that’s where embracing risk becomes irresponsible, one lesson my parents did manage to drive into my brain like an iron spike. Never be irresponsible. People are counting on you.
The scenery—like that on the drive up—is breathtaking. As Dalton said, the town is in a valley between two mountains, but they’re distant enough that they don’t cast shade. One is partly bare on this side, and when I see it, I think, I wonder if I could climb that? And I laugh to myself, imagining what my parents would say.
The police station is on the edge of town. Like all the other buildings I can see, it’s a basic wooden box raised off the ground. There’s a rear deck with a single Muskoka chair and a tin can full of beer caps. The can is rusted, as are the caps below a layer or two. Someone bringing the occasional beer onto the deck, not someone regularly getting loaded on the job. Good to know.
Inside, it’s dark and cool and smells of men: spicy deodorant laced with a thread of sweat. The main room is the size of my apartment bedroom. There’s one desk, a couple of extra chairs, a fireplace with a hanging kettle, and filing cabinets. That’s it. Two doors lead to other rooms. I open one, expecting to see the sheriff’s office. It’s the bathroom. The other reveals a tiny holding cell.
I look around. One desk for three cops? This should be interesting.
The filing cabinets are all locked, and not flimsy jobs that can be pried open with a butter knife. So much for advance case study.
I look at the desk. The top is clear, without so much as a paper clip to play with. And the drawers? Yep, locked.
Anders told me to poke around. That’s taken exactly five minutes. I scan the room again and see one thing I missed: a bookshelf. It’s mostly empty, the space being used for office supplies instead. I count five books. The first one I pull out is a history of the Mongol tribes. I flip through, expecting to find it contains hidden information. Nope, it’s actually a history of Mongol tribes. I walk to the desk, plunk myself in the chair, and start to read.
About twenty minutes pass before the front door opens. A thirtysomething guy rolls in on a wave of sawdust. He’s muscular in a top-heavy way. Longish hair that looks like it’s been raked back with a hand covered in wheel-grease, leaving a streak of it on his cheek. Shirtsleeves pushed up to show off overdeveloped arms.
My first thought is uncomfortably like my thought on seeing someone in a prison—I wonder what he’s in for. That’s not fair, of course. Not here, where most are like Diana, running from a problem that isn’t their fault. And Dalton has already warned that I’m not entitled to a resident’s backstory unless he deems it pertinent to a case.
“Hey, there,” the man says. “You must be the new girl.”
“Detective Butler,” I say. “Casey. If you’re looking for the sheriff or Deputy Anders, they’ll be back in an hour or so.”
“Left you all alone on your first day? Typical Eric. Well, I’m Kenny, and I’m with the local militia, so I’ll take over as the welcoming committee. We can grab lunch, and I’ll show you around a bit.”
A hand reaches from nowhere and lands on his shoulder. “Down, boy.”
A woman steps around him. She’s probably in her early forties. Wearing a business-smart dress that shows off an admirable figure. Dark eyes. Dark hair laced with silver. A very attractive woman, even without makeup, which is one of those “nonessential” items we have to skip up here.
“I saw you boys hanging around out front,” she says to Kenny. “Finally figured out she slipped in the back, did you? How much did you pay the others to let you come in first? Or was it a coin toss?”
Kenny grumbles. Her hand tightens on his shoulder and turns him toward the door.
“Head thataway, Kenny boy. If Eric catches you horndogging on his new detective, he’ll dunk you in the horse trough again. At least it’s not winter this time.”
She pushes him toward the door. After he trudges out, she looks at me for the first time. It’s a thorough once-over, as if she’s sizing me up for a bikini.
“Oh, my,” she says. “Good thing you didn’t come in the front door, sugar. Kenny would have needed to put his buddies down before they’d let him get the first hello. Your friend is cute, but you … Did Eric bring a bodyguard to keep you company? Because otherwise, that boy is in for some trouble.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“He did mention the male-female ratio in this town, didn’t he?” she says.
“I’m accustomed to working in a male-dominated environment.”
She throws back her head and laughs. “Ah, sugar. You have no idea what you’ve walked into. But we’ll discuss that another time. Right now, I need local law enforcement at my establishment, and it seems you’re it. Ever break up a bar fight?”
I check my watch. “Not before noon.”
“Welcome to Rockton.”
* * *
As we walk, the woman introduces herself. Isabel Radcliffe, owner of the Roc.
“Used to be called the Rockton Arms,” she explains, “until we lost most of the sign in an ice storm. Did Will tell you about the Roc? I’m not going to ask if Eric did. Our local sheriff is a lot better at communicating with his fists. Luckily for us.”
I glance over to see if she’s being sarcastic. She catches my look. “Again, welcome to Rockton, sugar. Whatever you think you know about keeping the peace? It doesn’t apply here. This place does something to folks. You just met Kenny. Any idea what he did down south? His occupation?”
“Construction worker? Carpenter?”
“Try high school math teacher. When he arrived eighteen months ago, he’d never have worked up the courage to talk to you. People come here, and it’s a clean slate. A chance to be whoever they want for a while. Fantasy land for grown-ups. Which leads to a whole lotta trouble for the local constabulary, because nothing folks do up here will follow them home.”
As we walk down the main street, I can’t shake the feeling I’m being tailed by acrobats and a marching band. People spill out of doors to get a look at the new girl. Every half dozen steps, a guy saunters our way. Isabel raises a hand. She doesn’t say a word. That hand goes up, and it’s like casting an invisible force field. They turn back. When one whines, “I’m just being friendly, Iz,” she says, “You want to set foot in the Roc this month? Turn your ass around.” He does.
She waves me to a building that looks as nondescript as the police station. From the end of the second-story balcony hangs a sign announcing it as THE ROC. A wooden sign under that depicts a bird that is probably supposed to be a roc, but the artist has confused the mythical creature with a rook.
I don’t hear any trouble within. Is the fight over? Or is this some kind of local welcoming ritual? I decide to play dumb and follow Isabel inside.
The main floor is twice the size of the police station. There’s a bar along one end. Tables fill the rest. It’s not nearly as run-down as Kurt’s place, but there’s still that sense of basic utility, the one that says you’re here to drink and nothing more.
The bartender is a few years younger than me. A burly, dark-haired guy, he looks quite capable of handling any fight, but he’s currently reading a novel, as is a pencil-necked guy in the corner. Another man is drinking a beer and so engrossed in his thoughts that he doesn’t even look over when we walk in. The last two patrons are a couple in their late thirties, sharing a half pint of wine. Both are nicely dressed. Average-looking. They could be any long-married couple out for a lunchtime tipple.
“I’m not seeing the fight,” I say.
“Oh, it’s coming. Wait right there, Detective. You might want to pull out your firearm. Just don’t shoot straight up. There’s a customer sleeping it off right above your head.” She nods toward the bartender. “That’s Mick. Former city cop. Former local cop, too. He’ll help out if you need it, but I’d just as soon keep him behind the bar.”
Because he’s extremely busy reading that novel. He gives me a nod, though, friendly enough.
Isabel walks to the couple. She stops beside the woman and stands there at least twenty seconds. The guy keeps glancing up, but the woman is making a concerted effort to pretend she doesn’t see Isabel.
“You aren’t welcome in here, Jen,” Isabel says finally.
“It’s a public place, bitch.”
The insult—and the venom behind it—startle me. The woman looks like she should be teaching third-graders.
“No,” Isabel says, more respectfully than I’d have managed. “My establishment is not communal property. I pay for that privilege. Now, go home, get clean, and then we’ll discuss you coming back.”
Get clean? I could say Isabel meant “sober up,” but I get the feeling this lady is careful with her word choices. I walk closer and size up Jen. I notice her pallor, despite the fact summer has just ended. Her pupils are slightly constricted. Her clothing hangs as if she was two sizes larger when she got it. It’s not proof positive of drug addiction. This is a restricted community. They may choose not to prohibit alcohol, but they sure as hell should be able to control drugs.
“What are you looking at, asshole?” Jen says. I think she’s talking to me. Then I see she’s addressing the guy sitting with her, who’s staring at me like I’m covered in chocolate and sprinkles. His eyes are glazed over, and my gut tells me it’s not from a half glass of Cabernet. Jen looks up at me, and her eyes narrow. “Fuck, don’t tell me you’re the new cop.”
“She is,” Isabel says. “And she’s here to escort you out.”
Jen snorts. “That itty-bitty girl? Fuck, no. And, you, asshole, stop gaping at her or—Hey, I’m talking to you!”
She lunges at the guy. Literally dives across the table, grabbing him by the shirtfront, screeching like a banshee. As I go after her, Isabel murmurs, “Well, that’s not how I expected it to go down, but the end result is the same. I’m going to have blood to clean up.”
I grab Jen. She takes a swing. I wrench her arm behind her back, and she howls. She keeps struggling, though, and I keep wrenching, until I’m about a quarter inch from breaking the bone. When she still doesn’t stop, I slam her against the wall. That’s when her companion decides some chivalry might be in order. He’s on his feet, telling me to let her go.
“As soon as she stops trying to hit me,” I say.
“Back off, Ted,” says Mick, who is walking our way, possibly having hit a chapter break.
“Sit and enjoy the show, Ted,” says the beefy guy with the beer.
Ted grabs for my arm. I see it coming, and a roundhouse kick puts him down without me needing to release Jen. The guy with the beer shows his appreciation by cheering while Ted dives for my leg and tries to bite it. Yes, bite. Another kick sends him flying and then Beer Guy is on his feet tackling Ted, and two other guys have come from God knows where, and they’re getting into it, and someone outside shouts, “Bar brawl!”
I don’t know exactly what happens after that. Not because I’m caught up in the chaos, but because I’m ignoring it. I have my job, and that job is getting Jen out of the bar.
I’m strong-arming her toward the door when the pencil-necked guy with the book decides to make a break for it. He elbows past us … and catches a right hook from a shape filling the doorway. I’m about to use Jen to power past the newcomer when I see his face. It’s Dalton. He ignores me and barrels down on Book Guy, who’s sprawled on the floor.
“He’s not part of it,” I shout over the chaos.
“The hell he’s not,” Dalton says, still bearing down on the poor guy.
“No, really, he—”
Someone tries to take Jen from me. I go to yank her back and then see it’s Anders.
“Ignore him,” he says, waving at Dalton. “Jen? Sheriff’s here, and you know how he feels about rydex. You got five seconds to—”
Jen’s already running.
“Good choice,” Anders says. “Now, let’s clear this mess. You know how to do it?”
“Stomp the bullies first.”
He grins at me. “You got it. Let’s have ourselves some fun.”