"And I'm not?"
"You're a whole different kind of pain in the ass."
"I'll take that as a compliment. He is your expert with Oliver Brady. You need me for another sort of advice: how and what to tell the general population. That is going to be the truly tricky part."
4
I pace behind the butcher shop.
"The answer is no." Mathias's voice floats out the back door. "Whatever you are considering asking, the answer is no."
"Good. Thank you," I say. Or Bien. Merci. Mathias's English is perfect, but he prefers French, and I use it to humor him. Or placate him. Or charm him. Depends on the day, really.
"Wait," he calls after me. "That was too easy."
"You're imagining things," I call back as I keep walking.
A moment later, he's shed his butcher's apron and caught up. "This is a trick, isn't it? You wish my help. You know I will grumble. So you pace about, pretending you have not yet decided to ask me, and then you leave quickly when I refuse. My interest piqued, I will follow you of my own accord."
"You got me. So, now, knowing you've been tricked, you should go back to your shop and not give me the satisfaction of victory."
"I could learn to hate you, Casey."
"Sure, you could. You could even find someone else to speak French to you. We're mostly Canadians here, so almost everyone knows rudimentary French. It's a little rusty, but I'm sure they--"
"Death by a thousand cuts would be less painful. As will whatever fresh torture you've dreamed up for me. I presume we have a rash of phantom chest pains in the wake of Sharon's demise, and you want me to assure them they are not about to die. William would be better suited to the task. He will tell the truth."
Mathias may be the town butcher, but he was a psychiatrist, which means he has a medical degree. He's just never practiced--the medical part, at least.
"No phantom chest pains." I glance around. Even if we are speaking rapid-fire French, I want to be sure no one is nearby. "We had a delivery today."
"I heard the plane."
"They dropped off a new resident."
"And he is ill?"
"In a manner of speaking."
I pass over the letter that accompanied Brady. As Mathias skims it, his eyes begin to glitter. By the time he finishes, he's practically beaming.
"I think I love you," he says.
"Fickle man."
"We all are. So, what does Casey Butler wish me to do? Assessment? Or assassination?"
"I haven't decided yet."
After talking to Mathias, I walk to the hangar. Inside, Kenny and Paul stand on either side of Brady, watching him so intensely I suspect they literally haven't taken their eyes off him.
"Hey," I say to Kenny. "You didn't need to be here. Your ride out of Rockton might be delayed, but you are officially retired from duty."
"Hell, no," he says. "As long as I'm here, I'm working. Especially something like this."
"We appreciate that, but for now, you can both head back to town. I've got this."
Paul looks over my shoulder. "Where's the boss?"