"Busy."
Paul opens his mouth to question, but Kenny shoulders him out, saying, "See you back in town."
They leave, with Paul casting regular glances my way. I wait until their boots tromp down the well-used path. Then I walk to Brady. His hands are still bound, feet chained.
I lower myself in front of him. He's watching me carefully. Analyzing the situation and struggling to hide his confusion.
I don't cut the most intimidating figure. I'm barely five foot two. A hundred and ten pounds. I just turned thirty-two, but the last time I was in the US, I got carded in a bar. My mother was Filipino and Chinese, and physically I take after her more than my Scottish father. In other words, absolutely nothing about me screams threat.
When I reach out, Brady draws back. Then he steels himself, shame flooding his eyes, as if he's been caught flinching from a Pomeranian.
I tug down his gag.
"I didn't do it," he says.
I shove the gag back up, and his shame turns to outrage. He doesn't move, though. Not one muscle. Still considering. Still analyzing. Still confused.
"Never been in prison, have you, Oliver?" I say.
He doesn't respond.
"If you'd like, you can blink once for yes, twice for no, but nodding and shaking will be easier. In this case, it's a rhetorical question. Guys like you don't go to jail. That's why you're here instead. But having probably never even spent the night in a drunk tank, you need some advice. Telling the guard you didn't do it is pointless. He doesn't care, and even if he did, he can't help you. No one here is your judge or jury. We're all just guards. Now, let's try this again."
Gag down.
"My goddamn stepfather--"
Gag up.
"Your escort was right," I say. "Best to leave that on."
His eyes blaze hate. Hate and powerlessness from a guy who has never known a moment of either in his life.
"Do you have any idea where you are?" I ask.
He doesn't respond.
"Nowhere," I say. "No place that exists. No place that falls under any law or jurisdiction. If I shoot you, the sheriff's just going to say, Oh hell, another body to bury. We buried three this morning. Our winter dead. And sure, it's easy enough to reopen the mass grave and toss your ass in, but I wouldn't do that. None of those people deserves to share their final resting spot with thrill-killing trash."
His mouth works behind the gag. He so desperately wants to tell me he didn't do it. I don't look forward to six months of hearing how this is all a big mistake. Could be worse, I suppose. Could be six months of him regaling us with the details of his crimes.
"My job here is to protect people," I say. "And you threaten my ability to do that. Yet killing you seems problematic. I'll have to give it more thought. I haven't worked out all the factors."
"In other words, don't give us an excuse," Dalton says as he strolls in.
"I wasn't going to say that."
"It's the truth."
"Far too Clint Eastwood for me."
"Which is why I'm the one who said it." He stops in front of Brady. "Did you take off the gag?"
"Twice. I got 'I didn't do it' and cursing about his stepfather." I turn to Brady. "Get up. We're taking you to town."
A press conference in Rockton is a strange thing. First, we don't have a press, which may make the entire endeavor seem rather pointless. Instead, it only makes it all the more critical. Without official media, the only way to disseminate information is word of mouth, and as anyone who's ever played telephone can imagine, that's a dangerous game when you're dealing with a matter of public safety.
In a Rockton press conference, I am the physical manifestation of the printed page. I climb onto the front porch of the police station, give the news, and take questions. Dalton stands off to the side, arms crossed, his expression warning that those questions better not be stupid.