A Stranger in Town: a Rockton novel
Page 1
Praise for Kelley Armstrong
“Armstrong is a talented and evocative writer who knows well how to balance the elements of good, suspenseful fiction, and her stories evoke poignancy, action, humor and suspense.”
The Globe and Mail
“[A] master of crime thrillers.”
Kirkus
“Kelley Armstrong is one of the purest storytellers Canada has produced in a long while.”
National Post
“Kelley Armstrong is one of my favorite writers.”
Karin Slaughter
“Armstrong is a talented and original writer whose inventiveness and sense of the bizarre is arresting.”
London Free Press
“Kelley Armstrong has long been a favorite of mine.”
Charlaine Harris
“Armstrong’s name is synonymous with great storytelling.”
Suspense Magazine
“Like Stephen King, who manages an under-the-covers, flashlight-in-face kind of storytelling without sounding ridiculous, Armstrong not only writes interesting page-turners, she has also achieved that unlikely goal, what all writers strive for: a genre of her own.”
The Walrus
A Stranger in Town
a Rockton novel
Kelley Armstrong
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without the written permission of the Author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
Copyright © 2021 K.L.A. Fricke Inc.
All rights reserved.
Book cover design by RockingBookCovers.com
ISBN-13 (print): 978-1-989046-32-6
ISBN-13 (ebook): 978-1-989046-31-9
For Jeff
Also by Kelley Armstrong
Rockton thriller series
City of the Lost
A Darkness Absolute
This Fallen Prey
Watcher in the Woods
Alone in the Wild
A Stitch in Time gothic series
A Stitch in Time
Standalone Thrillers
Wherever She Goes
Every Step She Takes
Past Series
Cainsville paranormal mystery series
Otherworld urban fantasy series
Nadia Stafford mystery trilogy
Young Adult
Aftermath
Missing
The Masked Truth
Darkest Powers paranormal trilogy
Darkness Rising paranormal trilogy
Age of Legends fantasy trilogy
Middle-Grade
A Royal Guide to Monster Slaying fantasy series
The Blackwell Pages trilogy (with Melissa Marr)
Contents
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
More Rockton To Come
About the Author
Introduction
If you’re new to the Rockton series—or if it’s been a while since you’ve read the last book—here’s a little introduction to get you up to speed. Otherwise, if you’re ready to go, just skip to chapter one and dive in!
Welcome to Rockton, a hidden town in the Yukon where people go to disappear. Residents come here under false names and false histories, and they must stay a minimum of two years. Extensions can stretch that to five years, but those extensions are becoming increasingly difficult to get. The town is changing, and not for the better.
Rockton was born in the fifties as an exercise in idealism. A place for people who needed refuge, and in those earliest years, it was often their ideals that brought them here, fleeing McCarthyism and other political witch-hunts. When the town struggled in the late sixties, a few wealthy former residents took over management and organized regular supply drops. That’s when the town began evolving from a commune of lost souls into a for-profit institution. Yes, there are still people here who genuinely need sanctuary, but there are also white-collar criminals who’ve bought an escape hatch from the law. There are also an increasing number of hardened criminals that the council sneaks in to increase the profit margin.
The council runs Rockton from afar. We don’t see them. We only speak to a council liaison on a satellite phone. There’s a board of directors, too, including Émilie, one of those “wealthy former residents” who still believes in the philanthropical ideal of the town. We believe in that ideal, too. We’re the people of Rockton.
There are just under two hundred of us in Rockton, living off the grid, with no access to the outside world. No roads. No phones. No internet. We’re cut off from the world, and we need to stay that way to keep everyone here safe. You won’t find Rockton on any map, and we stay that way with the help of camouflage, both structural and technological. That’s easier than it seems when you’re in the Yukon—a northern Canadian territory the size of Texas with fewer than forty thousand people.
Of those two hundred people, there are a handful of key residents. I’m Casey Duncan—now Casey Butler—the lone detective. Eric Dalton is the sheriff and my common-law husband. We also have a deputy, Will Anders, and honorary canine officer, Storm, my Newfoundland dog, trained in search and rescue.
That’s local law enforcement. The town’s council representative is Phil, who used to be our liaison before he was exiled here, and he’s still adjusting to that. Technically, Phil and Eric are the town leaders, but really, the most powerful person here is Isabel, who runs the local bar—the Roc—which doubles as the local brothel.
My sister, April, is our local doctor. My former best-friend, Diana, is training to be her nurse.
Petra doesn’t have any such “essential” job in Rockton—she’s a former comic book artist who works in the general store. Or that’s her cover. She’s actually Émilie’s granddaughter and a former operative for an organization that shall never be named, for everyone’s safety.
Like Petra, Mathias holds a non-essential position—as the town butcher—belying the fact he’s a psychiatrist with an expertise in criminal pathology, both professionally and personally. His current project is Sebastian. At nineteen, Sebastian is Rockton’s youngest resident. He’s spent the last seven years in prison after killing his parents. He’s a certified sociopath determined to overcome his diagnosis, and we’re willing to give him that chance.
Kenny is our local carpenter and head of our militia, which also includes Jen, my self-appointed nemesis in Rockton. Devon and Brian are a couple who run the ba
kery—my favorite shop in town.
Those are the key residents of Rockton. Then there are the people who live outside our boundaries and our jurisdiction. When capitalism moved into Rockton, a group of residents moved out and formed the First Settlement, which is now in its third generation. The First Settlement is run by Edwin, one of the earliest settlers there. His granddaughter, Felicity, is expected to succeed him.
The next exodus from Rockton began in the seventies with nature-loving residents. They formed the Second Settlement, a more commune-like, nature-faith-based nomadic community.
There are also people who choose not to join a settlement, like Eric’s brother, Jacob and former sheriff Tyrone Cypher. They’re twenty-first century pioneers, living off the land. That group would also include a trading family, headed by Cherise, a woman younger than me. I’ve only recently met Cherise and her husband, Owen, and I’ve already decided I want as little to do with them as possible.
Finally there are the hostiles. People who have left Rockton and reverted to a more . . . I want to say primitive form. They are tribal. They are also ritualistic—painting and scarring themselves and setting out totems to mark territory. But in no way should they be confused with tribal societies. The hostiles are a grotesque stereotype of that, as if someone read too many National Geographics as a child. I used to think they’d lost what makes us human, but that implies they’re animalistic, and the hostiles’ capacity for violence is far more human.
Solving the mystery of the hostiles has become my personal mission in Rockton. We have a resident—Maryanne—who used to be one of them, and from her, I know that most didn’t join voluntarily. They were forcibly recruited and then drugged until they lost their will to leave. Where did the first hostiles come from? Where did they get their narcotic teas? These are the questions I’m trying to answer right now, both to protect our town and to rescue those who can still be saved.
1
As we hitch our horses to a lodgepole pine, shouts and laughter float over on the night breeze. Teenagers partying in the forest. At their age, I’d longed to be invited to a party like the one we hear. I didn’t yearn for the beer kegs or the drug buffet or the awkward couplings in the bush. What I’d wanted was something deeper: the fantasy of sitting on a log, a boy’s arm casually slung over my shoulders, the warmth of his leg against mine. A crackling fire filling the air with the smell of woodsmoke as it spiraled into a star-blazed sky. Charred, sticky marshmallow on my lips. The laughter of friends, telling stories I’ve heard a million times, and I don’t laugh because they’re funny—I laugh because they are a shorthand between us, warm and comforting.
Getting back to nature is at the core of that fantasy. Leave the world behind and connect with others on a level impossible to find in busy lives. Abandon the cell phones and the laptops and the tablets, and sit around a fire, drinking and talking and feeling heard. Finally feeling heard.
As a teenager, I might have fantasized about that lifestyle, but if asked to consider it for more than an evening party, I’d have laughed. By the end of the night, I’d be scratching my bug bites and blinking smoke out of my eyes and dreaming of a hot shower to wash away the grime.
Now, at thirty-three, I have lived that life for nearly two years, with no end in sight, and I have never been happier.
As I tie up my horse, Cricket, she nickers. It’s an idle complaint. They’re tied to sapling pines, easily broken, meant only to convey the message that they are not to wander. We would never secure them firmly in these woods. That’s staking out dinner for grizzlies.
I give Cricket an apple and one last pat. Then we’re off, and I’m walking toward the sound of laughter with a guy’s arm loosely over my shoulders, a mirror of that long-ago fantasy. Of course, what mattered even then wasn’t the pride of having a boyfriend but this feeling, like wearing a favorite pair of jeans, a perfect fit, deeply satisfying and comfortable.
In my teen fantasy version, there would also be a dog. I was never allowed pets growing up, so if I pictured that bonfire party, I’d show up with my dog, who’d race through the forest, getting her fill of freedom before dropping in exhaustion at our feet.
I have the dog now, too, a Newfoundland gifted to me by the guy at my side. The guy who makes sure I get what my soul needs most, no matter how much I protest.
When the smell of smoke wafts over, I think my imagination is in overdrive, supplying all required elements of that adolescent fantasy. Beside me, Dalton sighs and shakes his head.
“Is the ice still thick enough for a bonfire?” I ask.
“If it’s not, they’re gonna find out.”
The trees open to a scene that even my teen imagination would have dismissed as too fanciful. Which is silly really. The point of fantasies is to dream big, imagine things beyond our reality. Yet I’d always edited my dreams into the realm of possibility. Reach high . . . but not too high. Keep yourself safe from the inevitable disappointment of wanting too much. That was the message my parents imparted to their younger daughter.
Before me lies a bonfire on a frozen lake, against a backdrop of evergreens and snow-topped mountains. Yet the four teens wear short sleeves as the sun beats down, though it’s nearly nine at night. It makes no logical sense . . . unless you’re in the middle of the Yukon wilderness, during an unseasonably warm spell in early May.
We had snow just last week, and the remains still frost the treed edges of the lake. The sunny side is thawing fast, the ice so dark it looks black. The kids stay close to the shady side as they lounge on storm-felled logs. A makeshift fish rack shows off the day’s catch of Arctic grayling and lake trout. Three of the teens hold beer bottles, while the fourth sips water.
From here, they look like ordinary kids, a day of fishing serving as a fine excuse for the beer and bonfire. Obviously the fourth is abstaining to drive the group home. Yet there’s no need for designated drivers here. No cars, and no roads to drive them on.
Draw closer, and something about the group seems odd. One boy wears a T-shirt, jeans, and hiking boots, with a plaid jacket around his waist for when the sun drops. One girl also wears jeans . . . paired with a hide shirt and homemade knee-high boots. The other girl is dressed in hide trousers, moccasins, and a modern sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up. And the remaining boy is completely in homemade garb, all gorgeously tanned and decorated hides. It also becomes apparent why the second girl isn’t drinking—she holds a baby on her lap.
Three of these teens have never set foot in a clothing store. Never shopped online. Never seen a computer or a cell phone or even flicked on a switch and had light fill the room. They were born out here, raised out here, and, as far as I can tell, intend to die out here.
Some people would look at these kids, happy and laughing, and credit lives free from the evils and burdens of the modern world. That’s bullshit. You can walk into any park and find teens just as happy and carefree, with cell phones tucked in their back pockets. The modern age brings seemingly endless sources of anxiety, but this life has its own worries and dangers, set at the base level of “Will I survive the winter?”
We find our joy where we can, and it doesn’t matter whether kids are taking a break from hunting for food or from studying for exams, they will find happiness in those moments of peace and freedom.
As for the fourth member of the group, he may have grown up with all the modern amenities, but in his way, he’s as lost down south as the other three would be. At the age of eleven, Sebastian went to prison for murdering his parents. He got out when he turned eighteen.
Sebastian is a sociopath. He lacks that little thing we call a conscience. He wanted a normal life, and his solution was to poison his parents and stage it as a suicide in which they realized the emptiness of their lives and ended them, bequeathing most of their fortune to charity and leaving their son just enough to get by on.
Say what you want about the penal system, but sometimes, it does what it’s supposed to: rehabilitates. Sebastian is the poster
boy for that. Years of therapy—and a genuine desire to change—means he’s learned tricks to overcome what he lacks.
Sebastian sees us first and comes running like an eager puppy. Bouncing at his heels is an actual puppy—year-old wolf-dog Raoul. A fitting companion for a boy who is part feral himself. Raoul spots Storm—our dog—and gallops in for a greeting.
“Is everything okay?” Sebastian asks as we head onto the ice.
“Everything’s fine,” I say as I scoop up the baby from Sidra.
The dogs head off to explore. As I cuddle Abby, Dalton hoists a case of soda pop.
“We come bearing gifts,” I say.
“Bribes.” Dalton looks at Sidra and her husband, Baptiste. “Casey likes bacon.”
“Doesn’t everyone?” Sebastian says.
“Point is,” Dalton continues, “that the venison variety, while perfectly serviceable, does not make our detective happy, and it is in my best interests to keep her happy. You two apparently know where to find our local herd of wild boar. So she’s bribing you with soda pop.”