When I tell the others what I think happened, Anders stares at me. Then he looks at Lowry and Dalton. After a moment, Dalton says, “Yeah.” Anders looks at the body again. Then he’s in the next room, puking in the sink. It only takes a minute, then he’s storming back into the autopsy room, wiping his face on his sleeve.
“You knew about this,” he says to Dalton.
The sheriff grunts.
“Cannibals?” Anders stalks over and plants himself in front of Dalton. “You’ve got fucking cannibals in the forest, and you didn’t see fit to tell me?”
“Did you read the files?”
“What?”
“The files I gave you. The town’s background. What we have out there.”
“I went through them.”
“Flipped through them. Didn’t actually read them. Or you’d have known that we’ve found evidence of cannibalism before. Been a few years and, yeah, it’s questionable. But the possibility has always been there, in the files. Not my fault you did a half-assed job reading them.”
“Cannibals, Eric? Fucking cannibals, and you can’t be bothered—”
“Telling people everything that might be out there? Yeah, I’m just lazy that way.”
“I don’t mean—”
“Folks don’t argue when we insist on escorted hikes and hunts, because they know ninety percent of the danger out there. The other ten? That’s the fine line between scaring people and shoving them into outright panic.” He waves at the corpse. “This would be panic. So it’s need-to-know, and if you didn’t read the goddamn files, then I guess you don’t need to know too badly.”
“Um…,” I say. “Cannibals? Can we talk about—”
“Read the files.” Dalton heads for the door. “Then we’ll talk.”
“Where the hell are you going?” Anders says.
“To think. You stay for the autopsy. Beth? The report goes to Detective Butler.”
Anders mutters under his breath. Dalton gets as far as the next room. Then, “Butler?” Curt. Impatient. As if I should know I’m supposed to follow him. I take one last look at Powys, and then I leave.
* * *
We get three steps out of the clinic, and Dalton says, “Beer?”
I jog to catch up. “What?”
“You drink beer?”
“Uh, no. There are a few things we need to talk about, Sheriff, and beer definitely isn’t on the—”
He wordlessly turns into the Roc. There are more people there, and the bar has been cleaned up since the fight. Isabel’s at a table, talking to a patron. She says, “Sheriff,” when Dalton walks in. He strides behind the bar.
“What do you drink?” he asks me.
“Tequila, but I don’t need—”
He pulls out two bottles. “Which one?”
I hesitate before pointing to the cheap brand. He snorts, puts that one away, and takes the other to the door.
Isabel blocks his exit. “Help yourself, Sheriff.”
“I did.”
“From your pissier-than-usual mood, I’m guessing that you didn’t find anything on Jerry. Can I bar him from my establishment now?”
“No.”
“I’d like—”
“Too bad. I want him to keep coming here,” Dalton says. “It’s the place he’s most likely to screw up.”
“And what do I get in return?”
“My grudging tolerance of your establishment.”
“You can’t shut me down, Eric.”
“Not officially, but I can sure as hell find a way to make you decide to shut your doors.” He moves her aside. It’s not a shove, but it’s not a gentle nudge, either.
As we pass, she calls after him, “You know what, Eric? I bet you’d be a lot happier if you did more than grudgingly tolerate my establishment. I don’t believe I’ve ever met a man more in need of—”
He turns on her so fast she jumps.
“I was teasing you, Eric,” she says, her voice softening.
“You want to make me happier? Stop complaining about Hastings and help me pin something on him, so we can get these drugs out of our town.”
“I know,” she says. “I’m sorry.”
He grunts.
She moves closer. “About Powys … I know you don’t like answering questions on open cases, Eric, but I heard … it was bad.”
“He’d been in the forest for a week. Course it’s going to be bad.”
She studies him. “And if anyone asks, that’s what I tell them. Until you’re ready to say more.”
“Yeah.”
She nods and he starts walking.
She calls after him, “Keep the bottle, okay?”
“I planned to.”
“Asshole,” she says, but there’s no venom in it.
Dalton walks half a block and then lifts the bottle of tequila. “One shot.”
“I don’t really need—”
“One shot on the job. Off the job? Three max.”
“I don’t drink more than two shots. Ever.”
He glances over. “You got a problem?”
“You mean, am I an alcoholic? No. It’s a personal choice.”
He studies me, in that way that makes me struggle not to squirm. Then he grunts and turns away.
“Stick to it,” he says. “I catch you drunk? Twenty-four hours in the cell. I catch you high? I’ll march you down to Beth for testing, and if it comes back positive, you’re on maintenance duty for the rest of your stay.”
“All right.”
He stops, eyes narrowing. Then he notices we’re being watched by a half dozen locals, and he marches silently on to the station. As soon as we get inside, he closes the door and says, “I’m serious, Detective. I don’t make idle threats.”
“The last time I was drunk, I wasn’t even legal drinking age. The last time I got high was on pot at eighteen, and it made me throw up. I don’t drink, and I don’t do drugs, and I’m not going to start because the job’s rough or I get bored. But if somehow I do, then you can throw me in your cell or fire me. I wouldn’t say ‘all right’ if it wasn’t, and I don’t appreciate being growled at for agreeing with you.”
I expect a snapped reply, but instead he seems to contemplate this. Then he walks to the bookcase, takes a mug, and pours a rough shot of tequila in it. I consider telling him—again—that I don’t want it, but after what I saw and heard at the clinic, I wouldn’t mind that shot. I’m just wondering if he’s testing me. After he pours my shot, though, he takes a beer from the icebox. So I down the shot before he can uncap his beer. His brows lift. I put the mug on the table.
“Can I see those files?” I ask.
“That’s what we’re here for. I thought you could use a drink while you read them.”
“It’s tequila. You don’t sip it.”
He grunts and, beer still in hand, unlocks a file cabinet and flips through, pulling files. Then he passes the stack to me. I look around at my choice of chairs, but before I can pick one, he says, “Weather’s good,” and motions me to the back deck.
I start toward it. He says, “Grab a chair.”
“I’m fine.”
We go outside. He takes the Muskoka chair. I lower myself to the deck. He looks at me.
“Get a chair, Butler.”
“I’m fine.”
His lips move in a “fuck,” and he shakes his head. I feel like there’s some expectation here, and I keep falling short, and I’m not quite sure why. I’ve been in town only a few hours, and I’ve already held my own in a bar fight. I didn’t complain when he roughed up a local. I didn’t puke over a grisly corpse. I figured out that the council is taking kickbacks for letting in criminals, and I determined what happened to that corpse. Yet what does make an impression—the wrong one—is when I decide I don’t need a chair. There’s a code here, and I can’t decipher it yet, so I just settle in with the files.
* * *
Two hours pass like that. I’m reading the files, and Dalton is thinking. Or I presume that’s what he’s doing. For two entire hours he sits, sips his beer, and stares—just like Anders said—into “that damned forest.” At first I think he’s there to answer my questions, but several times I look over expectantly, even clear my throat. He ignores me.
I read the files. I do some thinking of my own. Then I go inside and get my notebook, and I come back out and make notes, and Dalton never even glances my way. Finally, when I’m done, I say, “Can we talk? About this?”
He doesn’t even look over, just says, “Tomorrow. It’s getting late.”
While it’s barely past six, the sun is dropping fast. I walk to the front railing and sit on it, not directly in front of him but no longer behind him, either.
“I’d like to meet the council,” I say. “I know they don’t live here—I mean meet them by satellite phone or however Val stays in touch. I don’t want to question them or confront them—I just think it’ll help me get a better handle on things.”
He shifts, as if it takes genuine effort to turn and look at me. “They won’t talk to you. They barely talk to me. You have to speak through Val, who’s just their hired spokesperson. I’d suggest you ignore her. I do.”
“Is she involved in…?”
“Green-lighting criminals?” He shrugs. “Doubtful. Does she know about it? Maybe. But if she does, I bet she figures they’ve committed crimes a whole lot lighter than murder. I can’t see her hanging around if she thought there were hardened killers in our midst.”
“Exactly how many murderers do you suspect are here? After everything Diana’s been through, I sure as hell didn’t expect her to be trapped in a town with—”
“What about you?”
“If you’re pointing out that her best friend is also a murderer—”
“Would you tell me you’re different?”
“No, I would not.”
That should be the right answer. But his jaw sets, as if this isn’t the response he wants.
“Your friend is safer here than she is down south,” he says. “Our murderers aren’t psychopaths or serial killers. Powys is the closest thing I’ve found, and in his case it was all about profit; there’s no illegal organ trade up here. The last two murders we had were alcohol and frustration and a basic lack of self-control … by people who came to Rockton legitimately. That doesn’t mean I want these other sons of bitches here. Anything I can do to kick their asses out, I will.”
I’m processing that when he rises and says, “Time to show you your quarters. Best to get an early night.” As we walk inside, he says, “I’m going to insist on that early night. Once you’re in, you’re in. Someone will have dropped off basic supplies and dinner. I’ll come by at eight tomorrow to collect you.”
“I’m under house arrest? What have I done to deserve that?”
“You arrived in a town full of bored people looking for novelty. And you arrived on a day one of our residents was found murdered.”
“I’m accustomed to dealing with the press and nosy neighbors, Sheriff. I’ve worked on high-profile cases.”
He looks at me as we walk to the front door. “Do you want to go out?”
“I’d like to see Diana, obviously.”
“She’s free to come to you. Otherwise, do you want to go out?”
When I don’t answer, annoyance crosses his face. “So you’re just arguing for the sake of challenging my authority?”
“I—”
“This isn’t how you’re used to working or living,” he says. “I get that. But you forfeited your civil liberties when you came up here. That was made very clear. You want to get on my bad side? Whine about your rights, like Hastings this afternoon. This isn’t a democracy. It’s a police state, and you’re the police, so start acting like it. If you want to go out tonight, then I’ll arrange something. But don’t argue for the sake of arguing. We’ll find plenty of real issues to fight over up here.”
He doesn’t give me time to agree, just locks the front door and leaves out the back, expecting me, as usual, to follow.