“These tourists aren’t our responsibility, but we need to figure out what happened,” I say. “As much as I hate to say it, rescuing potential survivors isn’t as important as identifying the perpetrators and convincing the council to help us resolve this.”
“Yeah.”
“And I really hate to say this but…”
“Injured tourists help our cause.”
We’ve been looking for the spark that will light a fire under the council’s ass and force them to admit the hostiles are a problem we must resolve. Having us attacked by hostiles last year didn’t do it. Having Maryanne tell us her story of kidnapping and brainwashing didn’t do it. Having hostiles murder a First Settlement resident last month—and their leader, Edwin, blaming Rockton for “riling them up”—didn’t do it. Maybe this finally will: tourists who could report wild people in the forest and return with law enforcement and camera crews.
“I need to just get off my ass and go find Jacob,” Dalton says.
“Sorry, yeah, you kinda do. And…” I take a deep breath.
“I need to do it alone because you’ve got a victim in critical condition. A victim you need to keep questioning.”
“I’m not sure she can give us any more.”
“She’s been delirious. She might be easier to speak to later. You need to stay.”
“While you run around the forest alone, after what happened to these people.”
Now I’m the one venting. The hostiles have always been there, and they’ve always been dangerous, and if they’ve been worse lately, that means Dalton will be even more careful than usual, and he’s already the most cautious person I know.
“I’ll take Storm,” he says.
“Thank you. She’ll help you track Jacob, too.”
“I know. I’ll pack, and you go do that other thing.” He quirks a smile. “The one I’m leaving town to avoid.”
“Telling the council that we have a Danish tourist in our infirmary, and three more Danes—dead or alive—in the forest.”
“You got it.” He claps a hand on my knee. “I would love to help, but like you said, I gotta get off my ass and find my brother.”
“Pretty sure you said that.”
“Just reading your mind. Now let’s go find Phil.”
* * *
We don’t need to find Phil. We’re at the station door when it flies open, clipping me in the nose. I stumble back into Storm, and Dalton catches my arm, snapping “Can you fucking knock?”
“I believe this is a public building, Sheriff,” Phil says as he walks in. “So, no, I will not knock. I will instead apologize to Casey for opening the door too abruptly.”
When I came to Rockton, Phil was a disembodied voice on the radio, and I formed a very vivid picture of our council liaison. Early fifties, short and balding, supercilious and prissy, a man who’d spent his career being passed over for promotions and now had to make the most of this limited source of power.
Then he showed up here to solve a problem and turned out to be the romance-cover version of a businessman. Thirty-one. Model-handsome. Tall, fit, and trim. The kind of guy who wears glasses to be taken seriously. That doesn’t mean he isn’t fussy or supercilious or even prissy. I had the personality right. I just made the unforgivable error of stereotyping the appearance that went along with it.
Today, Phil wears business-casual attire. Considering he’d dressed in a shirt and tie for the first few months, this is progress. He isn’t wearing his glasses, and I’d take that as a sign of progress, too … if not for the misbuttoned shirt and sleep-tousled hair that suggests he’s forgotten his glasses because he’s been roused from Isabel’s bed.
“We have a problem,” he says.
“Yes,” I say, “and I’m sorry you weren’t notified. I went by your house around two this morning, but you weren’t there. I can’t inform you if you’re not where we expect you to be.”
Actually, he was exactly where we expect him to be, but as long as he continues to pretend he isn’t sleeping with Isabel, then I’m justified in rapping on his door and moving on.
“I … have a feeling we are not discussing the same urgent situation,” he says. “I also have a feeling that, after you tell me what happened at two in the morning, my situation will suddenly be far less urgent.”
I wave for Phil to come in and sit. Dalton hesitates, and I tap his arm, saying, “Go find Jacob. I have this.”