This Fallen Prey

by Kelley Armstrong

  Which is exactly what I've been lying here thinking. He says, "This isn't the way to handle it, but I don't know what is," and that articulates my thoughts as perfectly as if he's pried them from my brain.

  "Fuck," he says, and I have to smile, hearing him come back to himself. He looks at me. "We're screwed, aren't we?"

  "Pretty much."

  Silence. When he speaks again, his voice is low. "I keep wanting to ask what we could do differently, but if you had an idea, you'd give it."

  "I would."

  Dalton's eyes shut. A sliver of moonlight bisects his face, half light, half dark. It's a lie. There's no darkness there.

  Light doesn't mean carefree or easy or saintly, though. It's not even light so much as . . .

  If the absence of light is dark, what is the absence of dark? To say "light" isn't quite correct. Even "good" doesn't work.

  "If I knew for certain he was guilty . . ." He lets the rest trail off.

  If I knew for certain he was guilty, I could kill him. To protect the town. To protect you. To eliminate any chance that he hurts someone here.

  That's what he means, and maybe it should prove that he does have darkness. But this is sacrifice. It's a man saying he would take another life and suffer the guilt of that rather than let anyone else be hurt.

  Dalton's lack of darkness, though, means he can never take that step as long as there's a chance that Brady is innocent.

  We both know innocence is a possibility, but I wasn't lying when I told Jen it didn't matter. We cannot prove Brady's innocence or guilt. We cannot even investigate his crimes. He didn't kill here. We can't go there. Which reduces our options for dealing with Oliver Brady to two.

  Keep him.

  Kill him.

  We can devise the most secure prison, staffed with our most reliable and loyal guards, while knowing we cannot truly guarantee safety.

  Or I can conclude that we can't care whether he's innocent or guilty, but I must treat him like a potential patient zero and--without equipment to test for the virus--decide he must die.

  "No," Dalton says, and I haven't spoken a word, but his eyes bore into mine with a look I know well.

  Drilling into my thoughts. In the beginning, that look meant he was trying to figure me out. Now he doesn't need to. He knows.

  "If you make that choice, Casey, you need to tell me first."

  Which means I can't make it. I'd never allow Dalton to be complicit in Brady's death. Nor can I do it behind his back, for the purely selfish reason that it would be a betrayal our relationship would not survive. I'm not sure I could survive it either. I've had my second chance at a good life. I won't get a third.

  He continues, "If it comes to that, it has to be both of us deciding." He settles back onto the rug. "I think we can handle him. Build a cabin like the icehouse. Thick walls. No windows. One exit. Only you, me, or Will carries the key. That door never opens without one of us there. Brady gets a daily walk. We'll do it when no one else is in the forest. At least one of us will accompany him, along with two militia. That's the only time he comes out. We'll gag him if we have to, so he doesn't talk to anyone, doesn't pull his innocence shit." He looks at me. "Does that work?"

  It's the course of action we've already come up with. He's just repeating it, like worry beads, running plans through his mind, trying to refine it and seeing no way to do so.

  "It works," I say.

  And I pray I'm right.

  Day three of hosting Oliver Brady in our holding cell. We're constructing his lodgings as fast as we can. The new building will serve as a food storage locker once Brady is gone. We have to think of that--construction like this cannot go to waste. That also keeps us looking toward the time when he will be gone.

  I remember reading old stories of barn-raising parties, a building erected in a day. It's a lovely thought, but this is being built to hold something more dangerous than hay. We must have our best people on it. Which would be so much more heartening if we had actual architects or even former construction workers. We have Kenny . . . who builds beautiful furniture.

  Dalton is the project foreman. Since he was old enough to swing a hammer, he's built homes meant to withstand Yukon winters. Solid. Sturdy. Airtight. He got up at four this morning to start work, after returning home at midnight.

  It's ten in the morning now, and I'm waiting for Mathias so we can get Brady's side of the story. Part of me would rather not; I fear it will ignite doubt I cannot afford. But that gag can't stay on forever, and we must know what others will hear once it's off.

  Brady is pretending to sleep. That's what he does for most of the day. He must figure the law of averages says that at some point we'll forget he's awake and say something useful.

  When the door opens, I say, "I hope you brought plenty of anesthetic," in French. I'm kidding, while testing whether Brady knows French. He's American, but he's also a private-school kid.

  Brady doesn't react. Nor do I get a rejoinder from Mathias . . . because the man walking through the door is Brian, who runs the bakery. He has a Tupperware box in hand and slows, saying, "Did you just ask if I brought a nest egg?"

  I snort a laugh at that and shake my head.

  "Yes, I failed French," Brian says as he comes in. "You must be expecting Mathias."

  "I am."

  He lifts the box. "I brought cookies, since I know you're stuck here with . . ." His gaze slides to Brady, and I tense.

  The cookies are an excuse. With almost anyone else, I would have foreseen that, but Brian has been to our house for poker. We've been to his for dinner. I talk to him almost every morning as I pick up my snack. He's my best source of town gossip, but it's the harmless variety, local news rather than rumor and innuendo. He has never once asked me for information on a case.

  But now he's here to see Brady. To assess the situation. And when his gaze falls on the prisoner, his lips tighten in disapproval.

  "A gag?" he says. "Is that really necessary?"

  I want to snap that if it wasn't, I wouldn't do it.

  "Yes," I say. "For now, it is. We've replaced the original with something softer, and Will's watching for chafing. Given what this man is accused of, I'm okay with him suffering a bit of temporary discomfort. The gag will come off soon."

  Brian eyes Brady. "What does he try to say when it comes off?"

  "What would you say?" asks Mathias as he walks in. "If you were in this man's position, what would you say?"

  "I-I don't know."

  Mathias throws open his arms. "Look at where he is. Who he is with. He came to stay among strangers, accompanied only by a piece of paper accusing him of crimes. What is he going to say? That it is all a terrible mistake. That he did nothing."

  "Then why not just let him say that?"

  "Because it grows tiresome. For twenty years, I studied men like this. It is banally predicable. It begins with 'I am innocent' and escalates to 'You are a nasty human being for not believing me' and continues to 'Let me go, or I will slaughter you and everyone you have ever loved.' Tiresome. It is bad enough Casey has to sit here all day babysitting him. Does she need to endure that as well?"

  "No, but . . ." Brian sneaks another look at Brady.

  "The gag will come off," Mathias says, "once he realizes he wastes his breath with protestations of innocence and threats of terrible vengeance. Now go." Mathias waggles his fingers.

  Once Brian leaves, Mathias makes a very indecent proposition to me en francais. Then he watches for a reaction from Brady. There is none, confirming that if he does speak the language, it's probably limited to being able to order champagne in a Monte Carlo casino.

  "Are you ready to interview him?" Mathias asks, still in French.

  I make a noise in my throat. I'm unsettled by Brian's visit, seeing a friend and supporter question our decisions.

  People want their monsters to look monstrous. At the very least, they want them shifty-eyed, thin-lipped, and menacing--a walking mug shot. But reality is that a killer can
be a petite Asian Canadian woman, well educated and well spoken. Or a killer can be a handsome all-American boy, a little soft around the edges, a young man you expect to see on the debate team and rowing team, but nothing overly rough.

  When you look at Oliver Brady, you see wealth and privilege, but you don't really begrudge him that, because he seems innocuous enough, the type who'll attend a fund-raiser for the Young Republicans on Friday with friends and a Greenpeace meeting on Saturday with a girl.

  Mathias opens the cell door. I'm standing guard, my gun ready.

  "Step out," I say to Brady.

  I don't tell him to put his hands where I can see them. It's not as if he's hiding a shiv in his pocket. He puts them up anyway and takes exactly one step beyond the cell door. Then he stops. Waits.

  I motion to the door leading from the cell to the main room.

  "In there, please."

  There's the slightest narrowing of his eyes as he assesses my please.

  He walks into the next room and sits on the chair I've set out. He puts his hands behind his back. I ignore that. I'm not binding him.

  When I circle around, Brady's head swivels to follow. I've holstered my weapon, but his gaze dips to it, just for a split second, as if he can't help himself.

  "Detective Butler is going to remove your gag," Mathias says. "If you wish to scream for help, please don't restrain yourself on my account. It will give her the excuse to replace the gag, and me the excuse to get on with my day."

  Brady grunts. I read derision in that. He looks at Mathias, hears his diction, and smells weakness. Mathias is twice his age. A slender build. Graying hair and beard. An air of the bored aristocrat, the French accent on precisely articulated English adding to that sense of the bourgeois. Brady comes from wealth, but it's new-world money, won by frontier ingenuity. In Mathias, he sees old-world rot and weakness. An old man, too, compared to him.

  Brady's grunt dismisses Mathias, and the older man's eyes gleam.

  "Remove the gag, please, Detective. Let us begin."

  7

  I take off Brady's gag. He reaches up and rubs at his mouth, wincing as his fingertips massage a tender spot.

  Mathias turns away as he pulls over a seat. It's a deliberate move. He could have placed the chair sooner, but he puts his back to Brady.

  Brady's gaze flicks to me. He expects to see my hand resting on my gun. When it isn't, he looks back at Mathias, now tugging the chair over, his attention elsewhere. He sees that, and he frowns, as if to say, I don't understand.

  Good.

  Mathias sits. I back up to perch on the edge of my desk. Brady looks from me to the older man. As he does, his sweep covers the back and front doors.

  His nostrils flare, as if he quite literally smells a trap, as if Dalton and Anders are poised outside those doors, praying he makes a run for it.

  "Detective Butler says you have been very eager to tell your story, Oliver," Mathias says. "Now is your chance."

  Silence. When it reaches ten seconds, I open my mouth, but a subtle look from Mathias stops me. Five more seconds pass. Then:

  "Is there any point?" Brady says. "You don't want to hear it. You've all made that perfectly clear by the fact you've kept me gagged for seventy-two hours. I try to say a word when it's removed at mealtime and she"--a glower my way--"threatens me with starvation."

  "She is Casey Butler. She is a detective who has been placed in a very frustrating position, forced to babysit you when she has other work to be done."

  "And I'm supposed to, what, apologize for the inconvenience of my captivity?"

  "No, you are supposed to recognize that Detective Butler has done nothing to deserve the inconvenience of your care. And recognize that she attempted to relieve the indignity and discomfort of that gag, and you called her . . ." Mathias purses his lips. "I will not repeat it. It is rude. Uncalled for in any circumstances, but particularly these."

  "I was pissed off. I vented." He glances my way. "I apologize." His gaze swings back to Mathias. "But you aren't interested in what I have to say. Neither of you is. You're treating me like a child throwing a tantrum. Let me get it out of my system, and maybe I'll shut up. Gregory Wallace has convinced you all that I'm guilty, and the only thing that surprises me about that is how easy it was."

  Brady pauses. "No, I shouldn't be surprised. I've seen it my whole life. Got a problem? Drown it in money, and you'll drown all doubts. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth and so on. How much is Greg paying you?"

  "Hot tubs," I say. "He's paying us in hot tubs and big-screen TVs. Oh, and diamond necklaces, to wear to the next town picnic."

  Brady's eyes narrow.

  I wave at the police station. "Look around. We don't have electric lights or gas furnaces, and that's not for lack of money. We have what we need. You're here because of what you did. Not because we're being paid to take you."

  "No, I'm here because of what I know."

  "Which is?"

  "Does it matter?"

  "Your plan is ill-advised," Mathias murmurs.

  Brady turns to him. "And what is my plan? You obviously know, so how about letting me in on it. Maybe it'll be something I can use, which is a damned sight better than my plan--the naive one where I thought you people might be smart enough to question the lame-ass story my stepfather gave you."

  "It does not seem 'lame-ass' to me," Mathias says. "Uninspired and unoriginal, and yes, that is the colloquial definition of lame, but I believe the word you meant was 'dumb-ass,' implying anyone who believes the story is not very bright, rather than that the crimes themselves suggest a lack of intelligence on the part of the criminal."

  "What?"

  "Is my accent impeding your comprehension? Or are you simply proving my point?"

  "I'm not going to sit here and be insulted--"

  "Yes, you will. We are not forcing you to speak. I spent my career interviewing psychopaths, sociopaths, and garden-variety sadists, and I always told them that they were free to cut the session short at any time. Do you know how many did?" Mathias holds up his thumb and forefinger in a zero. "But please, feel free to show some originality in this, if you could not in your crimes."

  Brady seethes, and it is like watching a weasel in a cage, being poked with a cattle prod. All it has to do is retreat to the other side. Instead, it snarls and twists and snaps at the prod. That may feel like grit and courage to the weasel, but to an outsider, it looks like submission. Mathias holds the power; Brady is trapped.

  "Ignore him," I say to Brady, and he starts at the sound of my voice, as if he's forgotten there's someone else in the room.

  "He's baiting you," I say. "He gets little amusement up here, and you're his entertainment for the day."

  Brady's lips tighten. He wants to smirk and lean back in his chair and say he isn't falling for the good cop, bad cop game. But my expression doesn't look like the good cop's.

  Seconds tick by. Then he makes up his mind and twists to face me.

  "I can't fight a bold-faced lie," he says. "I don't even know where to start."

  "Try."

  "How? We're not in San Jose right now. We're thousands of miles from it. So how exactly do I prove I wasn't the shooter?"

  Mathias clears his throat, and I know my poker face has failed. Mathias's throat-clearing pulls Brady's attention away, and I recover.

  "Try," I say. "Tell me what proof they had against you. What they were using to charge you."

  Brady laughs. There's a jagged bitterness to it. The weasel has realized that attacking the prod does no good, but it can't help itself. It has no other recourse. Keep doing the same thing and hope for a different result, knowing how futile that is.

  "Greg said I was being charged? Of course he did. It's not like you can call up the district attorney and ask. Not like you'd expect an honest answer if you did. We can neither confirm nor deny--that'd be the sound bite, and you'd take it to mean yes, they have a warrant out for my arrest, when the truth is"--he meets my gaze--"it's like me
telling this old man that you think he's hot. You know it's bullshit. I know it's bullshit. But he'd love to believe it, and there's nothing you can say to defend yourself."

  "Actually, no," Mathias says. "I find the thought rather alarming. I would have to disabuse Casey of it immediately, and inform her that, as lovely as she is, I really do prefer women who were born before I graduated university."

  "Whatever," Brady says. "My point is that I wasn't even on the investigators' radar. Why would I be? What's my motive? Did Greg even bother to mention that? 'Cause I'd love to hear it."

  "Haven't you asked him?" Mathias says. "Or are you testing us? Seeing if your stepfather's story changes, depending on the handler? That would be odd, given that we could simply compare notes, as they say."

  "Do you think any of my 'handlers' were talking to me?" He shakes his head. "Everybody's looking for the shooter, so it was an easy story to tell. Greg just had to move fast, before they caught the real guy. Get me up into Alaska, some off-the-grid place where no one can check the news."

  "But someone did tell you what your stepfather said."

  "No, I overheard two guards talking about it. Couple of jarheads, must have thought gagging me also took away my ability to hear. When they fed me, I tried to reason with them. They gave me this." He pushes aside his hair to show a scabbed gash. "The gag stayed on for the next eight hours. No food. No water. That's what a guy who shot six kids deserves. Which is why Gregory used that story. The whole damned country wants that bastard to burn in hell."

  "What's your stepfather's motive, then?" I ask. "You said you know something."

  He eyes me. Sizes me up. Finds me lacking and eases back into his chair as he says, "That's my leverage, and I'm not giving it up until it'll get me somewhere. For now, let's go with the obvious motive. The one that's partly true. Money."

  "From what I understand, it's his company. Your mother married into it."

  "No, it was my father's company. My biological father. Gregory Wallace was his employee. After my dad died, Greg took his wife and his company. But my dad made sure no one would get their hands on my inheritance. On my twenty-eighth birthday, I get a trust fund of fifteen million. Do you know how old I am now?"

  "Twenty-seven."

  "Yep. Last year, I heard something that made me suspect there wasn't fifteen mil in that fund anymore. I tried investigating. Greg blocked me. Gave me some song and dance about the stock markets and poor investments my father made. He promised there will be plenty of money but . . ."