“But you don’t like that explanation. You think something happened to her?”
I chew as I think. Rory gurgles, bouncing on Anders’s knee. I smile over at her and then turn back to Yolanda. “If something happened to her—such as also being attacked by whoever killed Blake—that complicates things in ways I don’t want to consider. The tidy solution is that she killed him and left. The untidy part is that she’ll need to tell the authorities.”
“You’re worried they’ll come here?”
“Not specifically here. If she killed him, she’ll lie about where he fell. But she may get searchers into the broad vicinity, and that’s still an exposure threat.”
“We’ll need to lock down,” Dalton says. “As of tonight. We’ll keep looking for Gretchen and also looking for signs of a search plane.”
Anders clears his throat. “I hate to mention another—and more alarming—possibility, but what if she fled and she’snotthe killer?”
I grimace. “Yep, that’s an alternate solution. Someone else killed Blake, she witnesses it, and she runs for help. Eric and I discussed that. Of all the scenarios, that’s probably the most dangerous.”
“Because she’ll bring authorities to thecorrectspot,” Yolanda says. “Teams of people looking for both her dead husbandandhis killer. She’ll also report that she met you two. You’ll need to talk to Gran asap.”
“I’ve already messaged saying we’d like a call tonight.”
“Good.” Yolanda takes a bite of venison. “She’ll handle it. Whichever way this goes, she should be able to give us aheads-up when Gretchen returns to civilization. Gran has a full warning system ready for this sort of thing.”
The warning system being people on Émilie’s payroll who work in some capacity where they’ll be notified of anything unusual in this area, including a woman reporting her husband missing or murdered. We just need to tell Émilie what’s happened so she can put out the word.
To contact Émilie, we use a sat phone with texting. My call with her is scheduled for ten tonight. She’s at a benefit gala on the east coast, and she doesn’t expect to get away early.
Dalton and I debate what to do with our remaining couple hours of daylight. Ultimately, we overcome the urge to resume the search. It’s not enough time, and we really need to organize internally. Hold a meeting with the militia and arrange patrols, while extending that meeting to include Isabel and Phil because we’re about to go into lockdown.
We’re already unofficially locked down, having canceled any excursions, but now it’ll be complete, including a strict curfew. The restaurant will close at seven. The Roc will do the same. After that, everyone is to be home, with minimal noise and minimal light. We’ve drilled for this, but this will be our first live run, and I do not expect it to go smoothly.
Anders and Dalton handle the militia meeting. Dalton takes Rory to that, making up for lost baby time. My job is to inform the town of the curfew. Yolanda helps. We call a town meeting, and we explain that hikers were seen two days ago and we have reason to believe they may not have left the area.
We aren’t overly concerned, we tell them, but we’d like to take the opportunity to test our curfew system. This will notbe another drill. Violations will result in a warning for first offenses and penalties after that. Of course, when I give the talk, I avoid copspeak like “violations” and “offenses” and even “penalties.” If someone “forgets” the curfew rules, we’ll let them know and we really hope that will be enough.
I go over the rules. Then I open it up to questions. I’m braced for complaints. That was life in Rockton, where I came to regret instituting town meetings because it became a place for people to air their grievances.
But Haven’s Rock is different. The staff is more relaxed, and that translates into more relaxed—and more trusting—residents. All I get are questions and clarifications, mostly from those who are concerned about accidental penalties, where they get in trouble for using a flashlight to walk to the bathroom. I answer all of those patiently, until Yolanda finally says, “Look, no one’s going to give you shit for making an honest mistake. Stop stressing, get to your residences, and lock the hell down.”
The questions dry up after that. I’m about to dismiss the group when someone speaks up. It’s Arturo, who’s been with us for about a year and works in the greenhouse.
“So those of us whose shifts start before dawn don’t start until it’s light out.”
“That is correct,” I say. “As I said, the restaurant and coffee shop won’t open until ten, to give that staff time to get in. No shift will begin until nine, and we ask you not to leave your residence until eight thirty.”
“Casey already went through this,” Yolanda says.
Arturo says, “So what happens to those lost hours? Do workers need to make them up?”
“No,” I say. “Hours lost at the beginning and ends of shifts are free time, in compensation for the inconvenience. Now, if everyone could proceed—”
“But I don’t start until ten normally, and I’m done at three, which means I lose out on that free time.”
“You only work a five-hour shift,” Yolanda snaps. “Stop nitpicking.”
“But it isn’t fair. Some people will get extra time off—”
“We will work it out,” I say.
“The hell we will,” Yolanda says. “Who’s tracking that and adjusting future shifts? The staff is already going to be working round the clock on the lockdown.” She turns to the residents. “Show of hands. How many of you willnotbenefit from shortened hours?”
Half the hands go up.
