It might be not yet five in the morning, but the sun is rising, and up here, it is as if we adopt the old ways of adjusting to the seasonal light pattern. In winter, people routinely get ten hours of sleep. Now, the bakery opens at seven to a lineup.
This is one time when I wish—I really wish—people slept in. I can hear raised voices at the edge of town, anger and confusion and fear, and I know what it is. I hope I’m wrong, but I know, and I wish it were 2 A.M., everyone too deeply asleep to know what is happening.
I’m telling people it’s okay, go back inside, but more doors open. That’s when I channel Dalton, snapping, “Inside! Now! Stay in your fucking houses!”
As doors slap shut, Diana snickers and says, “Nice.”
I hear running footsteps behind me and snarl over my shoulder, “Get back—!”
“That doesn’t apply to me, Detective,” Jen says. “Or it better not.”
“Keep people inside,” I say. “If that fails, just keep them away. Please. Diana? Take Storm and go with Jen.”
“I don’t need Blondie—” Jen begins.
“Diana, go with her. Jen, put Diana to work. Keep people back.”
I can see the situation ahead, and it is exactly what I feared. Garcia stands on a front porch near the town border. It’s a duplex, with both residents outside, demanding to know who the hell he is and what the hell he’s doing in Rockton. A few others are gathered around, which tells me this isn’t the first house Garcia has tried.
As I jog, a young man leans over a second-floor balcony. “Everything okay, Detective Butler?”
It’s our newest resident. At twenty-o
ne, Sebastian is also our youngest, and he looks even younger tonight, watching the scene ahead with obvious dismay, as if thinking this place isn’t nearly as safe as he’s been told. Great.…
“It’s fine,” I say. “Go back inside.”
He does. I keep jogging and shout, “Marshal! Get the hell out of our town.”
Garcia ignores me and strides off the porch. “I have my job, ma’am, and if you won’t help me do it, I’ll do it myself.”
My heart pounds so hard I can barely breathe. I’m panicking. Honestly panicking. Every face he sees is a face we have sworn to keep hidden. I’m also keenly aware of the dilemma I’ve been trying not to think about.
A stranger knows about Rockton. A stranger can tell the world about us if he does not get what he wants. He can tell them even if he does get his quarry. He’s seeing face after face, and he knows they could all be fugitives, could all have a price on their heads. If he’s a bounty hunter, this is his Klondike gold.
What the hell are we going to do about that?
What am I going to do about this?
Handle it.
I run to the next porch he’s climbing. I shoulder him aside, and I slam my back against the door, and I take out my gun.
“You don’t want to do this,” he says.
“Whoever is inside?” I say, raising my voice. “Do not come out. We have a situation.”
I continue raising my voice until it echoes through the still morning. “There is a stranger in town. He tells us he’s looking for a fugitive, and that he will take that person when he finds them.”
“Hey!” Garcia says.
“We do not trust this man,” I shout. “Remain in your homes. The sheriff and the militia are on their way.”
“You’re—” Garcia begins.
“Making a mistake?” I say. “Yes, this time, I think you’re right. Letting you walk away was a mistake.” I aim my gun. “One I should probably rectify right now. How about you give me the excuse?”
“You’ve got balls—”