A heartbeat's pause before he plows on with, "Yes, yes, I did, Detective."
"And he molested you as a child."
A glimmer of relief as I move on, and he nods, "Yes."
"Tell me about that."
"What the hell is this? A therapy couch?"
"No, it's an interrogation room. You have accused your stepfather of molesting you. I've dealt with victims of that. I've had to interview them, lead them through it, and it was a horrible part of my job, but it was necessary to properly prosecute the offenders. So I know the stories. I know all the reactions a victim gives. Go on, Oliver. Convince me."
He starts to rage that he won't give me the satisfaction. That he won't play this bullshit game. Rage. Deflect. Rant.
I'm lying, of course. I have dealt with those victims. I have interviewed them. But there is no way in hell that I can tell a real accusation from a false one just by speaking to the accuser. Every response is different. I just want Brady to believe I can do it. He does, and so he says not one word about the abuse. He just rages at me until he finishes with, "You want me to talk about that? Put me in front of a real professional."
"With a lie detector?"
"Fuck you. My stepfather is a sadistic bastard, and whatever he did to me pales in comparison to what he did to his other victims."
I ease back. "I don't know. One could argue otherwise. I'm sure a defense attorney would. Gregory may not have molested you, but turning you into a killer? That's some seriously bad parenting."
"What? No. He's the killer. He's the one--"
"Yes, I suspect he is. You both are. Partners in crime, who turned on each other. How did it happen, Oliver? Not how he lured you into it. You're right--that's a story for a therapist, and I don't really care. I'm curious about the schism. The break. How did it come to this? Former partners, each desperately trying to pin the crimes on the other."
It takes three long seconds for him to say, "What the hell are you talking about?," and with that I know I've hit on the truth. The reason I couldn't pick a side. The solution that makes so much more sense than all the ones they've spouted.
Not a man trying to steal his stepson's inheritance. Not one trying to shield his wife from her son's horrible crimes. Not a young man who stumbled over his stepfather's horrible crimes.
Shared crimes. Shared blame. Equally shared? I don't give a damn.
"I've taken Wallace into custody," I say. "I'm doing the same with you. Eric will fly you both back down south and tie you up in a hotel room and place an anonymous call to the police."
"Sure, do that," Brady says. "And we'll tell them all about you and your town. Do you think you haven't given us enough information to pass on to the authorities? I know your name, Detective Casey Butler. I know his, Sheriff Eric Dalton. I know the names of a half dozen people in your town. I know I'm in Alaska--I've been here before, and I recognize the terrain. They will track you down and . . ."
He trails off, and I smile.
"Can't even finish that threat, can you?" I say. "They'll do what? We've given them two serial killers. You tell them that you were turned in by some secret prison camp in Alaska? Why would they care? And why would you presume they don't already know about us?"
He blinks at me.
"Turn around," I say. "And start walking--"
"Not so fast, Casey," a voice says behind me.
It's a familiar voice, but on hearing it, my heart skips.
Not possible. That is not . . .
I turn, and I see Dalton. But it wasn't his voice I heard. It was a woman's. Then I see Dalton's hands on his head, as he's prodded down the path by a woman.
"Hello, Casey," Val says. "You look surprised to see me."
"I--I saw your . . ." I don't finish. I will sound like a fool if I do, and I already feel the sting of my mistake.
But how was it a mistake?
I saw the bloat of her corpse. I know she was not alive.