A Stranger in Town: a Rockton novel

by Armstrong, Kelley

  She blinks. It could be confusion at the seeming segue. It is not. That blink evaporates every foolish hope that I am wrong.

  I am not wrong about the tea. I am not wrong about Émilie’s involvement. I am not wrong that Petra knows, and that she’s been watching me like I’d watch Storm when she was a clumsy puppy searching for a particularly well-hidden treat.

  Petra egged me on and tossed clues my way. She patted me on the head when I got one right, all the while certain I’d never get the whole thing, but gosh, I was so adorable to watch, wasn’t I?

  Now, instead of pretending she has no idea what I’m talking about, she just looks at me, waiting. Waiting to see if the puppy has figured it out.

  “The First Settlement revolted,” I say. “Two Rockton residents died. Later, when the Second Settlement left, they seemed harmless enough—modern-day hippies—but no one dared take the chance. Not when it’d be so easy to take advantage of that hippie vibe and source them a locally grown happy tea. That’s where your grandparents came in, with their big-pharma company. Send a researcher to source the brew and convince the commune to drink it. Sounds reasonable, right? No harm in that.”

  She still says nothing. Just listens.

  “I agree,” I say. “No harm in that. It’s a bit patronizing, but the settlers weren’t forced to drink the tea. They made a choice. And when someone breaks away from the group and tweaks the recipe and things go awry? It was an unforeseeable consequence. The fault lies in the cover-up. In turning a blind eye to what happened next. In telling every goddamn sheriff that they were imagining wild people in the forest. In hearing stories like Maryanne’s and saying ‘not our problem.’ Worse, hearing those stories and telling us it’s not our problem, that we shouldn’t help. You’re right, I shouldn’t run into the woods after a woman who attacked me. But maybe, just maybe, I can’t help it because I feel complicit.”

  “You aren’t.”

  “The hell I’m not. We all are—everyone who knew and did nothing, said it wasn’t our problem.”

  A moment’s silence. Then she asks, slowly, “So what are you going to do about it?”

  Is my grandmother in danger? That’s what she wants to know. Am I a threat to Émilie.

  I’m opening my mouth to answer when I notice the man sitting between us, and I give a start, as if he’s appeared from nowhere. I’d wiped him from the scene. It’s me and Petra, butting heads as he sits silent and invisible, out of our line of sight.

  Colin sits quietly, like a kid overhearing something juicy when his parents have forgotten he’s in the room. Keeping his mouth shut and hoping they don’t remember he’s there.

  He’s heard, and I panic until I replay my words and realize how little I’ve actually said. No names. No details. Just vague references to settlements and some kind of tea. I’m sure he realizes that’s what I’m blaming for the wild people we just encountered, but it is indeed like overhearing a parental conversation, most of it flying past without context. Tantalizing glimmers of secrets and nothing more.

  “I’m sorry, Colin,” I say stiffly. “You don’t need to hear any of that.”

  “You think you know what’s wrong with these people, right?” he says. “Then you should help.” An empty-eyed look toward Petra, half puzzlement, half wary concern. “I don’t know why anyone would say otherwise.”

  “No one is,” I say. “It’s just an internal dispute. Now—”

  A bark. My head jerks up. There’s not a split second where I wonder whether that bark comes from any canine but Storm. It’s not just that I know my dog, it’s that a Newfoundland’s bark is very distinctive, especially when they’re in distress, and that’s what I hear. Storm’s deep woof of warning and rage and fear.

  “Don’t you dare,” Petra says.

  I turn and lift my middle finger between us. Then I walk away. I don’t run—she’d only accuse me later of running blindly into the forest at every provocation. I wouldn’t give a shit about what she thinks except that she has the power to get me fired, get me sent back down south.

  I have never been more aware of that than in these last few minutes. Petra isn’t simply a resident. She isn’t just a comic-book writer or a friend. She’s a spy whose grandmother might be at the top of the Rockton food chain. That last gives her a power I hadn’t recognized because she hides it so well, taking on a shop clerk position in town, pulling her weight, accepting a tiny apartment. Camouflage, all of it, and I failed to see the threat hiding in the center.

  So I walk from that clearing with a brisk and purposeful stride, as if I’ve just decided to go patrol the area. Nothing alarming, certainly not the fact that my dog is freaking out in the forest, a forest filled with angry hostiles, where she’s alone with the man I love. Nope, none of that. One agonizing step after another until I’m far enough away. And then I run.

  30

  On that run, I imagine every horrible scenario, and I will my muscles to move faster, my damn fucked-up leg to do better, driving myself through the rain-soaked forest, slamming down each foot hard, as if that will keep me from sliding. I run, heart hammering, the sun dropping as I strain to listen in the silent forest.

  The barking has stopped, and my first thought was Good, they’re fine. Then other scenarios play, all the ways that a cessation in barking means anything but “they’re fine.”

  I’m tearing through the woods in the direction I last heard Storm, and I’m telling myself that I’m still aware of my surroundings, despite the near darkness, despite the blood pounding in my ears. I’m certain I’m fooling myself, until a movement to the side has me spinning, gun up, and I see Dalton and Storm running toward me. I don’t ease my stance until Dalton waves.

  As I jog to meet them, my gaze scans both, looking for injury. The only thing I see is that they’re both soaked, Storm a black mop impersonating a canine and Dalton dripping wet, his T-shirt sculpted to his body in a way that makes me temporarily forget I’d spent the last ten minutes running in abject terror. He catches me looking and laughs.

  “You checking me out, Butler?”

  As relief washes over me, I grin wider than the soft teasing warrants. “Looking good, Sheriff. Wet T-shirts suit you.”

  “I’d say the same back, except I can’t see your T-shirt under that sweatshirt. You look like a bedraggled kitten. Adorably bedraggled.”

  He starts to put his arms around my shoulders, but I throw mine over his, hugging him tight.

  “Hey, you okay?” he asks, hugging me back.

  “I should be asking you that. I heard Storm freaking out. Let me guess, just a fox or a hare, right?”

  His pause tells me no, and I know better anyway. That was no animal-spotting bark.

  “Ran into a couple of hostiles,” he says. “Well, didn’t run into them, thankfully. A woman and a guy. I heard people moving through the forest, thought it might be Edwin or Felicity, and we surprised each other. Had a bit of a standoff. The woman was hurt, though, so she backed off fast. Storm helped convince her.”

  He lays a hand on the dog’s head. “The woman didn’t seem to know what to make of our pup and wasn’t eager to find out. The guy followed her lead.”

  “Was he young? Maybe twenty?”

  “Nah. Forty or so?” He squints down at me. “That was a bullet in her shoulder, wasn’t it?”

  “I didn’t have a choice.”

  “Shit.” His arms tighten around me.

  “I think she came for the guy Colin killed. She saw he was dead, freaked out, saw Colin and really freaked out.”

  Dalton curses. “They must have been tracking him together.”

  “Exactly what I figured. Anyway, I’ll explain later. Right now, if you’re safe, we need to get back to Petra.” I pause. “I may have gotten a little pissed off at her.”

  “Ah.”

  “Yep, I planned to confront her, but not quite like that.”

  “Did she deny it?”

  I shake my head. “No denial. No anger. Totally calm and
collected.”

  “Bitch,” he mutters.

  “Right?” I say. “Damn her for not waving a gun in my face, telling me I’ve got it all wrong and if I tell anyone my crazy theory, I’ll be sorry.” I hug him again. “Thank you for understanding that her reaction only pisses me off more.”

  “It hurts you,” he says. “But yeah, we’ll go with pisses you off, if that helps.”

  “It does.” I kiss his cheek. “Thank you.”

  * * *

  The place where I left Petra and Colin is empty.

  Earlier, I’d almost overshot it, and then even when I reached them, I’d mentally mused at how unremarkable the spot was.

  As I’d chased Storm’s barks, I’d taken note of my path as best I could, so I could find my way back. All that was unnecessary. I had someone with me who could have found their way back even if we’d still been in the middle of a thunderstorm. Apologies to Storm, but it’s not her.

  Dalton led the way, and as we approached the place, my mind began ticking off landmarks with small nods of satisfaction. Then we reach the actual spot, and I find myself hoping Dalton has made a mistake.

  He has not made a mistake. There’s a dead hostile on the ground, exactly where we left him, leaving zero doubt that this is the spot.

  “Paula!” I shout, my voice echoing in the night. “Paula!”

  “Petra!” Dalton’s shout is a snarl that cuts above mine.

  It’s possible the hostiles returned and kidnapped Petra and Colin. Neither of us even voices that idea, though, because if it happened, there’d be at least one more dead hostile on the ground. Petra had a gun, and she would use it.

  Did she use it . . to take Colin hostage?

  I still want to believe she only retreated to Rockton. Took Colin back and left some message here that I can’t see. Yet I fear the scenario I imagined earlier, where Émilie and Petra flee. Where they don’t dare stand their ground and try to explain away Émilie’s culpability. Where they fear that we won’t let them explain—that we’ll demand truth and reparations, neither of which is in their interests.

  “So what are you going to do about it?”

  I knew she’d been worried about what I planned to do with my information, how it might affect Émilie. Yet I left her here and I ran, and I can seethe at that, but if it played out again, I’d do the same thing. Dalton and Storm were in trouble.

  We comb the spot they left behind. The pack—with Colin’s sat phone—is gone. The dead hostile remains exactly as we left him and so does everything else. I do find signs of a scuffle in the dirt.

  We follow Petra’s trail, even as we realize it’s pointless. She helped raise and train Storm. She knows what our dog can do, and sure enough, we haven’t gone more than fifty feet before the trail ends at a stream, where she must have ordered Colin barefoot as they waded in freezing-cold water. I only hope the poor guy doesn’t lose toes to frostbite.

  I keep thinking about Colin. The guy who came here because he was worried about his clients. Came to save them and ended up attacked and blinded, and now kidnapped.

  We don’t try very hard to find the trail again. There’s little point. Petra’s heading to Rockton. Slip in under cover of night, warn Émilie, and the two of them will fly out in her grandmother’s plane. As for why she took Colin, the angry part of me wanted to insist he’s a hostage, in case she needs leverage. The calmer side admits that she likely took him because it would be wrong to abandon a blind man in a forest with hostiles who want him dead. She’ll take him to Rockton and leave him there, safely.

  Petra already has a head start. The creek trick, though, will have cost her time. She’s only done that to ensure we don’t follow her direct trail. Now she’s on her way to town. The only problem? In diverting for the creek, she may stumble around in the general direction of Rockton before finding the trail. So we have an advantage, and we use it, hightailing it to the trail and proceeding along it far faster than a woman leading a blind guy.

  By midnight, we are back in Rockton, and there’s been no sign of Petra and Colin.

  “You go check Petra’s place,” Dalton says. “See if Émilie’s there. I’ll head to the hangar and check on the plane, do a little creative mechanics to make sure it’s not flying out of here tonight.”

  I start to jog off, and he calls, “Take Storm. Just in case.”

  I’m about to joke that I’m not exactly worried about an eighty-year-old woman. Then I remember who I’m talking about, and I gesture for Storm to follow.

  * * *

  Émilie is gone. I’m standing in Petra’s living room, skeleton key in hand, looking around the dark and empty apartment. There’s one bedroom, and from here I can see the bed is made. The tiny bathroom door is open, and no one is in there.

  I walk into the bedroom and pause. There’s a suitcase on the floor. Émilie’s suitcase, the kind of high-end carry-on bag used by savvy and wealthy travelers who don’t want to fuss with checked luggage when they must, ugh, fly commercial.

  Did she leave the bag behind? Certainly possible. With her money, it’s like me not bothering to grab my toothbrush as I flee in the night. Still . . .

  I look around, as if it’s not past midnight, dark and silent. I heft the bag onto the bed and unzip it. Inside are more containers, packing squares and such. There’s also a leather folder tucked into a zippered pouch. I open it and find myself staring at—

  Holy shit.

  It’s Émilie’s passport.

  I could say it’s fake, but the surname is recognizable as one of the few big-pharma family names I know.

  This is Émilie’s actual passport. Alarm bells sound, the weird compulsion to warn her that she shouldn’t be leaving this around, even in a locked apartment. She needs to be much more careful hiding her real name.

  Of course, it’s to my advantage that she didn’t see the need. It also tells me she hasn’t left Rockton. She’s not fleeing without her passport, especially when we’re guaranteed to find it after she leaves.

  I check my watch. Where the hell would she be? The Roc and the Red Lion are closed.

  Storm and I step outside. There’s no sign of Dalton . . . or anyone else. I’m heading to the nearest town border, intending to circle around to the hangar, when I catch a flicker of movement. My gun flies out before I realize what I’m doing. It’s not a hostile, of course. It’s a resident, sneaking to or from another resident’s bed.

  I’m sliding my gun back into the holster when the moonlight illuminates just enough of the figure to tell me it’s no resident. Well, it was a resident, once, but that was a very long time ago.

  It’s Émilie.

  Seems there’s more than one secret agent in the family. Émilie’s spy game may not be on par with her granddaughter’s, but she’s clearly not out for an evening stroll. When I mistook her for a resident sneaking from another’s bed, that’s because she’d been outside a resident’s back door. Mathias’s door, to be exact.

  I stride between buildings, and when Émilie walks past, she gives a start, seeing Storm first. Then she spots me and lets out a small laugh.

  “Casey,” she says. “Petra always said your dog looked like a bear, and I didn’t see it until I came around that corner there. Nearly gave me a heart attack.”

  “What are you doing out and about?” I ask.

  Her silver-gray brows arch. “Is there a curfew?”

  “I thought you were unwell.”

  “I was tired. It passed, and now I’m most decidedly not tired. That’s the problem with napping, especially at my age.”

  “Did Mathias have something to help with that?”

  She frowns.

  “He’s a licensed psychiatrist,” I say. “He can write prescriptions for sleeping pills. You don’t need one, though. April will supply them without a script. Around here . . .” I shrug. “Mathias is just the butcher.” I pause. “Well, maybe a little more, but that can’t be why you went to his house, can it?”

  “I have no i
dea what you’re talking about, Casey. I certainly hope you’re not implying I’m carrying on some kind of illicit liaison.” Her lips twitch. “I wouldn’t object in theory, but there’s no one here in my age bracket.”

  “I saw you coming from Mathias’s house.”

  She turns and frowns. “That chalet there? Only essential services get those homes, and I can’t imagine a butcher would qualify.”

  “Oh, Mathias is special. It’s his other job that’s helped him wrangle his prime real estate. He’s a spy for the council. But I’m sure you know that, which is why you were visiting.”

  Silence. A long silence as the wheels turn and she considers her next move. Finally, she exhales and motions for me to follow. I hesitate until I see Dalton. With a wave, I ask him to join us. He does, and he keeps quiet as we walk. I think Émilie is going to take us to Petra’s place, but she keeps walking.

  “I believe you’ll want to continue this conversation in a more private location,” she says. “It may be night, but I fear the soundproofing here may not be what we might require.”

  She starts veering toward our house. I tense, hackles rising, and Storm gives a low growl, as if sensing my reaction. Dalton strides into the lead and turns toward the station instead.

  Émilie sighs loud enough to make her displeasure known, but she says nothing.

  Inside the station, the fire burns low. Dalton stokes it as Émilie settles into the only chair.

  “I might have hoped for more comfortable surroundings,” she says.

  “This is fine,” Dalton says and heads out back, returning with the two patio chairs. We settle into them by the fire, and Storm thumps down between us.

  “Enough dancing around one another,” Émilie says. “Yes, I know Mathias works for the council. I would argue he’s not a spy, but a mental-health monitor. He’s very good at that. As a spy, though, he leaves much to be desired. The only time he’s interested in information-gathering is when he can use it to his own advantage.”