Tori was not looking forward to this confrontation. The sheriff… how would he take it?
In the light of morning, after a recovery of sleep in the local motel, she nursed a coffee—black. The caffeine would have to do its work. It would also have to distract her—she could hardly help herself. Her hand shifting to her phone, itching to continue her search into Sammy… Looking for leads in her hometown.
But no… No, one case at a time. It wouldn’t do anyone any good if she distracted herself.
Gravel crunched underfoot as Tori and Javi approached the squat, brick building that housed the sheriff's office. The mountain air nipped at them with unforgiving teeth of frost, carrying the scent of oil and metal. They found the sheriff, a man more accustomed to the weight of a badge than a wrench, hunkered down by his pickup. With the truck's hood propped open, he fiddled with the jumble of wires and machinery, tools arrayed like soldiers on the pavement beside him.
Tori's boots left imprints in the thin dusting of snow as she made her way over, Javi trailing a step behind. The sheriff glanced up, his face ruddy from the chill, eyes squinting slightly as if the mere act of greeting was an offense against his solitude.
"Morning, Sheriff," Tori said, her voice cutting through the stillness as her breath misted before her.
"Agent," he replied, gruff as the gravel under their feet. His greeting was a simple nod.
A silence stretched between them, thick enough to feel tangible in the frigid air. It was as if the quiet itself was a living entity, pressing down on them with the gravity of unasked questions and unsaid suspicions. Each second ticked by, measured by the intermittent clink of the sheriff's tools as he resumed his work, a metronome to their tension.
Tori cleared her throat, a faint cloud dissipating into the sharp morning air. "How's the old Ford holding up?" she asked, eyeing the splay of wrenches and ratchets.
"Runs better than most things around here," the sheriff grunted, not looking up from the engine bay. "What brings you out in this cold? Don't tell me you missed my company."
Her gaze flickered to Javi, who remained silent, his stance wary. She turned back to the sheriff, steeling herself for the conversation ahead. "Actually, we've stumbled upon something... troubling."
"Troubling doesn't usually bring the Feds down. Spit it out."
She hesitated for a fraction of a second, reading the intent etched into the lines of his weathered face. "We found plastic explosives. They were rigged on the fireworks found at Serena’s scene."
The sheriff's hands stilled momentarily before resuming their work, his movements deliberate, measured. "Explosives, you say?"
"Plastic explosives," Tori emphasized, the words heavy, as if laden with the gravity of their implications. "And whoever set them up had a solid understanding of detonators. It suggests... expertise."
"Expertise?" The word hung between them like smoke, dark and irritating.
"Potentially someone familiar with law enforcement techniques or military-grade materials. Someone who may have had access to those materials." Tori watched him closely, searching for a flicker of recognition, an involuntary twitch—anything.
The sheriff's expression remained impassive, his focus unwavering as he reached for a socket wrench. "That's a serious accusation, Agent. You suggesting one of my men is involved?"
"Only that we can't rule out the possibility," Tori replied, her voice steady despite the tension coiling tighter within her.
"Because of some plastic explosives?" The sheriff’s tone was flat, skeptical.
"Because whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing," she said, pressing on. "It's more than just knowledge—it's precision, skill. We need to consider all angles."
The sheriff nodded slowly, the weight of her words settling over the scene like a shroud. "I'll cooperate, of course," he murmured, though it was clear the gears turning weren't just those of his truck's engine.
"Good," Tori said, exhaling a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "Because we're going to need all the help we can get. Do you mind if we step inside for a minute? We can get some names and start ruling people out.”
For a moment, the sheriff’s shoulders bunched, and the man practically bristled where he stood, leaning over the engine block. Then, he adjusted his grip, wordlessly setting to some other task under the truck’s hood that Tori couldn’t quite make out.
She waited for a moment, hesitating and unsure if the sheriff was just coming to a stopping place before joining her and Javi. But then that moment stretched, the silence becoming stiff and awkward, and she looked under the hood, trying to see if she could identify what the hold up was.
Tori watched as the sheriff's hands, large and calloused, worked the wrench with mechanical precision, his attention seemingly anchored to the stubborn bolt under the hood. The silence drawing out second by second, the only sound the metallic clinks and the occasional gust of frigid wind that swept through the barren parking lot. Her breath formed clouds in the cold air, mirroring the unresolved tension.
"Did you hear me, Sheriff?" Tori said, at last, her voice slicing through the stillness, a shard of urgency laced within. "This isn't just speculation. The explosives were rigged by someone experienced and we need to start looking at who might have had the access or opportunity."
Sheriff Reynolds didn't so much as glance her way, his movements remaining unhurried. Another turn of the wrench, another moment passed without acknowledgment. The air grew heavier, suffused with the scent of motor oil and the unspoken.
Finally, he straightened, the wrench clattering to the ground. His face, creased from years of squinting into the sun and wind, twisted as he rounded on her, a screwdriver pointing in her direction like an accusation.
"I told you, I'll cooperate. But you have to wait on me, alright? These are my men—my precinct. I’m not going to have you over my shoulder, drawing targets on their back. I’ll cooperate. But that doesn’t mean I’ll throw my men under the bus. In fact, leave it to us. Or internal. This doesn’t have to grow into something it’s not.”
“Lives are a stake,” Tori said, feeling a flush of impatience in her chilled body.
“I know that, but listen here, agent," he growled, his voice a low rumble of frustration. "I know every single one of my deputies. They've got families here, they've got honor. They're trustworthy. I’m not going to passively dole out permission to pick apart their lives like some common criminals on a watch list."
Tori held his gaze, her own eyes a stormy mix of resolve and concern. The tempest within her mirrored the chaos of the case—clues scattered like leaves in a gale, patterns elusive as the shifting snowdrifts.
"Trust can be a luxury we can't afford right now," she retorted, her tone even but firm. "Someone is using high-grade explosives—restricted materials—to place death traps—"
The sheriff's arm dropped to his side, the tool hanging limply. "Duty and obligation," he interrupted with a sharp mutter, almost to himself, the lines on his forehead deepening. "But suspicion can tear a community apart just as surely as any bomb. Especially this small town. You ever been in a small town before? You big city folk don’t get it."
Tori didn’t mention the Midwest town she’d grown up in. Getting into a pissing contest wasn’t about to get her anywhere. Her breath formed icy clouds in the bitter air as she pressed on.
"The explosives, Sheriff. Precision like that—it doesn't just happen. It requires expertise."
He wiped greasy hands on a rag, his movements methodical and slow, a stark contrast to the urgency in her voice. "We were all at base when Serena died," he said, deflecting with an ease born of years policing his town. "No one from my team could've rigged those fireworks for her murder."
She exhaled a weary sigh that fogged the space between them. The chill wasn't just from the winter clime; it was the cold reception of a small-town lawman set in his ways. She recognized the futility of hammering the same point home.
"Fine. But what about accomplices? Someone who wasn’t there but may have helped? Any officers with a troubled past?" Tori shifted her stance, the crunch of frozen gravel underfoot breaking the silence. "Internal investigations, complaints?"
His eyes, hard as the ice outside, met hers briefly before returning to the engine's innards. "I told you, they’re accounted for.”
“Just doing my due diligence.”
“This isn't the city, Agent. We handle things differently here."
Javi approached the truck where the sheriff stood, enamel chipped and rust creeping along the edges, much like the man himself—weathered but enduring.
"Need this?" Javi extended a socket wrench towards the stubborn bolt that had resisted the sheriff's earlier attempts.
The sheriff grunted, reaching for the wrench, but as he grabbed hold with hands calloused from years of labor beyond his badge, Javi didn’t let go. For a moment the two men were bridged by their grip on the socket wrench, the sheriff looking up and meeting Javi’s eyes as he stared intently back.
“I know you trust you men,” Javi said, his voice low and firm. “But we follow the evidence. And this isn’t over. Whoever did this will strike again. Getting the wrong man gets us nowhere. Getting the right one saves a life, maybe several lives. And I don’t believe that your loyalty to your men means you’d look the other way if one of them did this. I believe you’d do the right thing.”
In that momentary pause, Sheriff Reynolds’ jaw tightened beneath the stubble. He glanced at the wrench as if weighing it in his mind.
“You’re thinking of a name,” Javi said quietly. “Who is it? A troublemaker? Someone who’s maybe had to be protected already?”
The sheriff growled and jerked the wrench, pulling it out of Javi’s hands. Shaking his head furiously, he bent back over the open truck hood, the metal rattling as he aggressively seated the socket over the bolt. For a moment, Tori thought he may just go back to ignoring them. Instead, the man paused, and then his shoulders slumped.
"Leo Faulkner," the sheriff muttered, almost to himself, as though the name left a sour taste. "Could've been one of us, trained for it, but the resort waved their dollars and he followed." He turned the wrench with decisive force, the bolt yielding with a metallic groan.
"Leo Faulkner?" Tori repeated, her voice piercing the cold air with unexpected sharpness.
"An asshole, through and through," the sheriff said, not looking at her, his focus still on the exposed engine. "He's the type who finds trouble, or trouble finds him—like when he beat his wife senseless. And that incident with the neighbor's dog..." His words trailed off, but the implication was clear: Leo Faulkner was capable of violence, a violence that knew no bounds.
Tori absorbed the information, a spark igniting behind her stoic facade. The chill that wrapped around them now seemed less pervasive, the heat of potential breakthroughs thawing the icy barriers of doubt.
Tori's gaze narrowed, locking onto the sheriff with an intensity that mirrored the steel in her voice. "This Leo Faulkner," she began, the question implicit, "you have his full name for me?"
The sheriff wiped an oily hand across his brow, and for a flickering second, his eyes met Tori's before skittering away. "Leonard Arthur Faulkner," he grumbled, the reluctance in his tone betraying an undercurrent of unease. "Not a damn soul calls him Leonard, though."
"Thank you, Sheriff." Tori's words cut through the wintry air, crisp and resolute. She turned to Javi, quirking an eyebrow. She shot a look towards the wrench and flashed a wink.
Javi acknowledged with a tight-lipped smile, his own determination settling into the lines of his face.
“So Mr. Faulkner had training then?” Tori asked.
The sheriff finally turned, smoothing his moustache under his upraised hood, and leaving a streak of oil on his cheek. He reached back, snatching a rag and rubbing at his face, the tension in his features revealing the weight of unspoken truths. "Leonard, yeah," he replied, a note of resignation laced in his tone. "Trained enough to know his way around weapons and tactics. We were sure he was going to join the force. He has family that—it doesn’t matter. Just small-town problems. The point is, he's capable. That’s why the resort hired him. Head of security. They’re a tight crew. Law in their own right…” he muttered angrily, suggesting these words had left his lips before.
"Where can we find Leonard Faulkner now?" Tori's voice sliced through the frosty air, her gaze unwavering as she locked onto the sheriff's troubled expression.
The sheriff straightened, his shoulders squared with a resolve that mirrored Tori's own. "He's up at the resort's main building," he answered, a flicker of apprehension crossing his face before he masked it beneath a veneer of gruff authority. “But like I said, those resort types stick together. Couple of them beat the tar out of a local couple months back. They’re like thugs—rove in gangs.”
He was scowling again, rubbing at his hands with the rag.
Tori absorbed the sheriff's words, her mind already formulating a plan of action. She knew they had to move fast before Faulkner caught wind of their suspicions.
"Javi, we need to get to that resort building immediately," Tori commanded, her voice leaving no room for argument. She turned back to the sheriff, her eyes piercing and resolute. "Thank you for your cooperation. We'll handle it from here."
With a nod, Javi and Tori headed towards their SUV, the crunch of snow under their boots a stark contrast to the tension that hung thick in the air.
She hesitated as they pulled away, wondering if she should’ve asked the sheriff if resort security was armed.
But then, she thought better of it.
“Of coursetheare,” she muttered under her breath, her chest tightening, and her hand moving to the weapon holstered at her hip.