As we continue along the foothills, I drink in the scenery. Most of the trees are evergreens, but there are enough deciduous trees changing color to remind me of home. It’s a perfect autumn day, crisp and clear.
“Given the many, many dangers of the forest, I’m presuming you guys don’t do a lot of activities out here.”
He shrugs. “Nah, we do. Some of us, anyway.”
“Any rock climbing?” I say, gesturing at the craggy face of the mountain.
He nods. “Anders is into it. We go out sometimes with a few of the others. Caving, too. Former resident was into that. Mapped out caves. Taught me. We go sometimes—Anders, me, few others. Only those who can handle themselves out here.”
“So that’s a no, then?”
He frowns back at me.
“You’re subtly telling me not to ask to join you.”
He snorts. “If you think I’m capable of being subtle, you aren’t very perceptive, Detective.” He peers over. “You want to come out with us?”
“I might.” I shrug.
I’m trying for nonchalance. I don’t want to sound like I’m brown-nosing. Nor do I want to jump in like an eager kid. But his thoughtful look vanishes, he turns away and grunts something I don’t catch, and I’ve made a misstep.
Before I can try again, he points and says, “Gonna have to do a bit of rock climbing now. We need to get there.”
I follow his finger to see what looks like a crack high in the rock face.
“What’s up there?” I ask.
“Cave. Like I said.”
“I expected something bigger.”
“If the opening was bigger, there’d be something bigger in it. Like a bear. And it is bigger on the inside.”
“Like the Tardis?” As I say it, I mentally kick myself—pop culture references make him uncomfortable—but he makes a noise suspiciously like a chuckle and says, “Yeah, except no time traveling.”
He catches my expression, shakes his head, and says, “Ever heard of those amazing devices called DVDs?”
“Sure, but what do you play them on up here?”
“Tree stumps. If you carve them out just right and get ground squirrels to run around them really fast, you can project moving pictures on a wall.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“We have a DVD player,” he says as he starts up the slope. “We hook it up to a screen and generator for movie nights. As sheriff, I have a laptop and access to the generator for charging. I also have an income that I can spend down south on shit like DVDs. You want to watch something? Ask me. My collection is limited, though. Right now I’ve got Doctor Who, The Walking Dead, and Game of Thrones.”
By now I know enough not to even wonder if he’s joking.
“Also have Deadwood,” he says. “That makes more sense to me than most of your so-called dramas. Otherwise, I stick to the fantasy stuff.”
My foot slides on a particularly steep part. Dalton only glances back to make sure I don’t tumble to my doom.
“I might borrow The Walking Dead,” I say. “I haven’t seen that.”
“Good show. Also reminds you that no matter what kind of shit we have in these woods, at least it’s not zombies.”
“Yet. And you do have cannibals.”
He sighs. “I never said we definitely have them. I said the evidence suggests it’s possible. Even if we do, they’re not charging out of the woods like a zombie horde.”
“Yet.”
We reach the cave. The opening is a gash in the rock, maybe three feet wide by eighteen inches high. When I catch the smell of a wood fire, I go still and scan the area. Dalton hunkers down to the opening and yells, “Brent! You home?”
“Depends on who’s asking,” a voice replies.
“Your ex-wife sent me. Something about you owing her money.”
“You’re gonna have to be more specific than that.”
“I’m coming in, and I’m bringing company.” Dalton hands me his backpack. “Pass this through to me.” Before I can reply, he’s on his stomach and crawling through the space. Then his hands appear. I give him the bag. After another thirty seconds, gray eyes peer out.
“You need an invitation, Detective? Sure as hell hope you don’t need instructions, because you should have been watching.”
I get down on my stomach. The gap turns out to be wider than I think. I slide through easily … and nearly fall onto my head.
Dalton catches me and helps me get upright, and I see we’re in an open area that’s more like I expect from a cave. Dalton walks, hunched over, to a slope heading down into darkness.
“You gonna turn on the porch light?” Dalton yells.
The hiss of a lantern. Then a wavering light that does little to illuminate what I’m presumably about to climb into.
Dalton grabs a rope on the side and lowers himself down the slope. This time, I pay careful attention. Then I follow. At the bottom, the light is disappearing as a man carries it along a passage. Even I need to crouch to get through this one. Then the man pushes at what looks like a door. It swings open. Flickering light and the smell of wood smoke pours out and I see a fire, the smoke rising into a hole in the top of what I’m guessing is called a cavern. It looks like one of those bomb shelters from the fifties, though. There’s a bed, a table and chairs, and shelves—lots of shelves, with goods from books to canned food. Dried meat hangs from the ceiling along with dried roots and other flora that I presume is edible.
There’s a man, too. And he also fits the scene perfectly, looking like a guy who retreated to his bomb shelter fifty years ago and just popped his head out now. He’s about seventy, with gray hair in a ponytail, pale, wrinkled skin, and eyes that peer against the light. Right now, they’re peering at me.
“Now that’s a deputy,” he says. “Much prettier than your last one.”
“Ms. Butler is a detective.”
“Really?” Brent’s wire-brush brows shoot up. “Women do that nowadays?”
“Women do everything nowadays,” I say.
He grins. “Except piss standing up.”
“Oh, they can do that, too. It’s just messy.”
He laughs like this is the funniest thing he’s heard in years. Then he ushers me to a chair—sorry, the chair—and pours me a glass of water from a collapsible pouch.
“Are you a police detective?” he asks. “Or a private eye?”
“Police,” I say.
“I was in law enforcement, too.”
“Brent was a bail bondsman,” Dalton says.
“Bounty hunter, please. It sounds sexier.” Brent turns to me. “Shitty job. Paid well, but do you know the problem with people who jump bail?”
“They don’t want to be caught?”
He cackles a laugh. “Right you are. And they are highly motivated. Got shot three times and stabbed five, and I have the scars to prove it. Here, let me show you.”
“Another time,” Dalton says.
“Hey, I bet I’ve got the best damned body she’s ever seen on a man my age. Living up here? Climbing in and out of this place? Take a look at—” He starts pulling up his shirt.
Dalton stops him with “save it for a special occasion.” He looks at me. “Brent chased a guy up here. Fellow ambushed him with sulfuric acid. He will not show you the scars to prove that, but it made him decide to give up chasing bad guys and just stay.”
“In Rockton?” I ask.
“Fuck no,” Brent says. “Pardon my French. Do you know what that place really is?”
“Brent is a conspiracy theorist,” Dalton says. “He’s got a dozen of them for Rockton. Next time we come out, ask him to tell you the one where it’s a test facility for biological warfare. That’s his best.”
“You think so?” Brent says. “I like the alien ones better.”
“The alien ones are shit.” Dalton hefts the knapsack he brought. “Got some stuff for you, presuming you have goods and intel to trade.”
“Both for you, Eric. Always. Did you bring me that Canadiens jersey?”
“Couldn’t find it. Picked up a Maple Leafs one instead. That’s okay, right?”
Brent spends the next minute telling Dalton why it is not okay in a diatribe only a true hockey fan could appreciate.
Dalton only shrugs. “Stupid fucking game anyway.”
He gets another minute of fan ranting for that. Then he pulls out a Canadiens jersey and tosses it to Brent, who takes it and mutters, “Asshole.” Then he turns to me. “I played for the Habs, you know.”
“One season,” Dalton says. “He warmed the bench.”
“Asshole,” Brent mutters.
“Keeping you honest.” Dalton lowers himself to the floor in front of the fire and makes himself comfortable. “What do you have for me, Brent?”
Brent gives him a rundown on everything he’s seen in the past week or so. The camp we’d spotted below was trappers—two men and a woman who are apparently part of a tiny community of former Rockton residents now living about ten kilometers east. Dalton knows them and grumbles because they were supposed to “check in” when they were in the area, so his militia didn’t mistake them for bears.
Speaking of bears, Brent spotted two grizzlies, a “sow” and a young “boar”—I make a mental note of the terms. Dalton knows the female and wonders if the male is her son from a few springs back, and they debate that, rather like trying to figure out the parentage of a local kid based on whom he resembles.
Brent also spotted a feral dog that has been giving them both trouble. He shot at it with his bow. “Lost the goddamn arrow,” he says. He saw signs of a hostile, too, but that was way out, when he was on an overnight hike. It was a woman, who only watched him. Dalton suggests she might have thought he looked like good husband material and razzes him about that, but otherwise seems unconcerned.
I listen, saying nothing, fascinated by what I’m hearing. It is all so far outside my realm of experience. And yet it isn’t. Take out the details, and it sounds exactly like me dealing with a confidential informant. Brent lets Dalton know what is going on in the area, in return for goods like clothing and coffee and other items impossible to come by for a guy living in a cave.
When Brent finishes with the basic report, Dalton asks specific questions about Powys and Hastings. Brent never saw the former, hasn’t seen the latter. He’s a little annoyed by the question, too.
“If I spotted one of your people out here alone, you don’t think I’d tell you?”
“Depends. Last time we had a runner, you admitted you saw him and never told me.”
“I would have as soon as I saw you again.”
“Could come by the town.”
“I wasn’t in a sociable mood.”
“If you see anyone, will you come by?” Dalton pauses for at least ten seconds before adding, “Please.” Brent sobers at that, as if the please tells him how serious this is.
“Everything okay, Eric?” he asks.
“That first guy I mentioned turned up dead with his legs cut off. There were signs he’d been butchered.”
“Jesus.” Brent pales. “You’re serious?” He doesn’t even wait for an answer before saying, “Course you are. Sorry. I just…” He looks like he wants to sit, and I rise, but he waves me back down. “Butchered? You’re sure?”
“Am I sure someone cut off parts and ate them? No. Am I sure someone wanted it to look that way? Yeah.”
Brent exhales. “Okay. Right. I just … The cannibalism thing … I’ve had some damned hard winters, but no matter how bad it gets, even if I stumbled over someone who was already dead…” He shudders. “No way. No fucking way.” He glances sheepishly at me. “Sorry.”
“Like I said, women do everything now. Even swear.”
The smile grows, just a little, and they continue talking. Then they barter goods, and I’m not sure how much use Dalton has for the fur and cured meat, but he bargains hard, as if he does.
Before we leave, Brent says, “Hold on a sec. Got something for the little cutie-pie here.”
“Her name’s Casey,” Dalton says.
Brent grins. “Please tell me you had a dog named Finnegan.”
“Sure did,” I say. “When I was five. He was a brown dog, just like the one on the show. He only existed in my mind, but he was the best imaginary pet ever.”
Brent lets out a whoop of laughter, and I say to Dalton, “It was a kids’ show. Mr. Dressup. There was a puppet named Casey—”
“Who had a dog named Finnegan.” He offers a brief smile and a nod. “Got it.”
“Well, that tells me what present to pick for you, then.” Brent disappears into a dark corner of the room and hunkers down by an opening into what must be like a closet for him. He rattles around inside it and brings back a fist-sized woodcarving.
“Fox,” he says. “I don’t have a dog, but this is close.”
“It’s gorgeous,” I say, and it is—so intricately carved that I can feel the fur under my fingers. “Did you do this?”
He nods with a gruff, “Lots of free time in the winters.”
I thank him and ask if I can come back with Dalton sometime.
“Anytime,” he says, and looks genuinely pleased.
We go to leave. I climb out first. When I’m nearly at the top, I hear Brent say, in a low voice to Dalton, “You seen Jacob?”
Dalton’s reply comes quickly. “No. Why?”
“We were supposed to go hunting together three days ago. He never showed.”
“What?”
“Nothing to worry about, Eric. It’s not like he can call my cell phone if he has to cancel. I did see him the next day. Just caught a glimpse of him as I was coming down the mountain. I tried to hail him, but he didn’t seem to hear.”
“But you definitely saw him.”
“I did. Sorry. Didn’t mean to spook you.”
I continue out through the cave entrance, and their voices fade behind me. A few moments later, Dalton passes out the backpack.
All the way down the side of the hill, he says nothing. Then, at the bottom, he looks over to see me admiring the woodcarving, and I can feel that laser gaze drilling into me.
“You don’t need to go back,” he says.
“Is that your way of telling me I shouldn’t?”
Frustration flashes in his eyes. “If I was telling you not to—”
“Then you’d tell me not to. Sorry. I’m still new at this, Sheriff.”
He nods. Then we take a few steps before he says, “Brent has some problems. Beth says he might be mildly bipolar. You know what that is?”
“I’m a city cop. I need to know what that is.”
“He’s never been a threat, but he makes Will nervous. I’m not sure if it’s the mood swings or just the idea of someone living like that. Which is the long way of saying that if you aren’t comfortable going back…”
“Then I’d never have offered. He’s interesting. His situation is interesting, too, living out there. Which isn’t to say that I’m looking at him like some kind of freak, either.”
“All right, then.”
After a few more steps, he glances over. I’m behind him and he looks out over his shoulder rather than directly back at me.
“You were kind to him.” A moment’s pause. “I appreciate that.”
I nod, and we continue on to the ATVs.