This Fallen Prey

by Kelley Armstrong

  I work through Jacob's description of the person he spotted with Brady. Clean-shaven. Shorter than Brady. A bulky jacket, which would hide breasts.

  There is a person with Brady. This person showed up at some point between day one and last night. This person is from Rockton, as evidenced by the clothing and the bars.

  Someone has betrayed us. That person does not seem to be Kenny.

  One name keeps coming to mind.

  My other suspect for the poisoning, for Brady's accomplice.

  Jen.

  I'm working through how much of it fits when Dalton calls, "Casey?"

  I've been bent over and out of his sight too long, and it's a testament to his self-control that he didn't shout "Butler!" the second I disappeared.

  I rise and see him farther down the path, anxiously straining to spot me, resisting the urge to run and check. When I wave, I swear I hear him exhale from thirty feet away.

  I glance down at the prints one last time, but they aren't telling me anything new. I'm turning from them when I see a flicker in the bush. I drop Kenny's boot and raise my gun.

  Dalton gives an alarmed "Casey?" and his boots thump as he runs toward me. In the bushes, I can see a form big enough to be dangerous, and I back against a tree, my gun raised.

  A woman steps out. She's filthy with snarled hair and ragged clothes, and I think of Nicole. A woman, lost in these woods or taken captive, escaping and hearing voices and making her way toward us.

  Then I see the knife. A rusted one with a broken blade and a makeshift handle. When I see that, I realize I'm looking at a hostile.

  I have not seen one since I arrived in Rockton. I have heard some stories from Dalton and read others in the archives, but I am still not prepared. This woman could have just crawled from a pit after a decade of captivity. Matted hair. Dirt-crusted skin and clothing. When she draws back her lips, I see chipped and yellowed teeth. But she has not crawled from a pit. She has not been held captive. She has chosen to do this to herself.

  And yet . . .

  And yet I am not certain she has chosen. Deep in my brain, tucked away into the morass of "things I will pursue later," I have a theory. A wild theory that I used to joke sounded like I'd been spending too much time with Brent. I will never make that joke again, but the truth of it remains--that I have a theory about the hostiles that I am ashamed to admit to anyone but Dalton because it smacks of paranoia.

  A theory for which I have zero proof, and that only makes it worse, makes me fear it is truly madness arising from hate and prejudice, a place no detective can afford to draw from.

  My theory is that the hostiles are not Rockton residents who left and "went native" in the most extreme way. That such a thing is not possible, not on such a scale, because that is not what happens to humans when they voluntarily leave civilization. Jacob is not like this. The residents of the First Settlement are not like this. To become this, I believe you need additional circumstances. Mental illness. Drug addiction. Medical interference.

  My theory is that the council is responsible for what I see here. I don't know why they'd do that. I have hypotheses, but I won't let them do more than flit through my brain or I may begin to believe I truly am losing my mind in this wild place.

  I see this woman. I see what she has done to herself. And it's not just dirt and lack of care. Those only disguise what Dalton's stories have told me to look for. The dirt isn't from lack of bathing. It has been plastered on like war paint. Under it, I see ritualized scar patterns. And the teeth that appear chipped have actually been filed.

  I see a woman who should not exist outside of some futuristic novel, a world decimated by war, ravaged by loss, people "reverting" to primitive forms in a desperate attempt to survive, to frighten their enemies.

  Which would make perfect sense . . . if people up here had enemies. If there was not enough open land and fresh water and wild game that the only force we need fight is the fickle and all-powerful god of this world: Mother Nature.

  I stare at this woman . . . and she stares back.

  I point my gun; she brandishes her knife.

  Dalton is running toward us. Running and paying no attention to anything except me and this woman. Movement flashes in the trees, the bushes rippling.

  "Eric!" I shout. "Stop!"

  He sees something at the last second. He spins, gun rising, but his back is unprotected and there is another movement behind him. Then something white flying toward him. I yell "Eric!" and he dodges, and what looks like a sliver of white flies past his head.

  It's a dart. A bone dart.

  He's turning, and then there's a figure, in flight, leaping from a tree.

  Dalton lashes out with his gun. A thwack, and the man goes down, howling. Another figure lunges from the forest. Jacob races around the bend, and Storm barrels past. And I fire. I lift my gun over my head and fire.

  52

  When I fire overhead, everyone stops. Even Storm.

  The man who was charging at Dalton sees the dog, and he raises something in his hand, and Jacob drops on Storm, covering her.

  "Stop!" I say.

  I don't know if it will do any good. I believe they are capable of understanding the word; I do not believe they are capable of caring about it. I'm not even sure the guns matter, if the shot didn't just startle them.

  Then I hear a voice, and the words are so garbled, it doesn't sound like English.

  "Get on the ground," one of the men says again, slower, clearer, as the man Dalton knocked down rises.

  Two others step up beside Dalton. Two men armed with clubs. One raises his and barks what I am certain is not a word, but the meaning is clear.

  "Do as he says, Eric," Jacob says. "Please just do as he says." He glances over his shoulder and says, "You, too," and that must be for Kenny, sneaking up.

  Dalton holsters his gun, and I wait for someone to tell him to hand it over instead, but no one does.

  Dalton kneels and puts his hands on his head. His expression is blank, but I see the rage in his eyes. This is the second time today we have been ambushed, and that feels like failure, as if we are characters in a bumbling-cop movie. But the truth is that this is the Yukon wilderness, and we are always one step away from ambush, by human or beast. The forest swathes her threats in bush and shadow, and we can walk all day and see no more than hares . . . or we can be forced to lower our weapons twice.

  In all this, the woman before me has not moved. When I fired, she flinched, but now she stands exactly where she was, watching me, studying. No one else pays me any mind. I'm standing with my gun out, but they don't seem to care. They have assessed our party and dismissed me. One man watches Jacob--still atop Storm--but makes no move to go closer.

  Four men surround Dalton, and something tells them that this is all that matters.

  Which is not wrong. Not wrong at all.

  The man who spoke before prods Dalton with his club. "Jacket."

  Dalton glowers, but even before Jacob can speak up, Dalton takes off his pack and tosses it aside. The jacket follows.

  "Gun."

  He lays that down.

  "Shirt."

  "What the hell--?"

  "Eric?" Jacob says, and there's a quaver in his voice.

  Jacob has spent his life avoiding the hostiles. There was an encounter years ago, when he'd been a young teen, after his parents died. I don't know details, but he's said enough for me to suspect it was not unlike the ordeal Nicole faced . . . in every way.

  "We'll be fine," I say. "We'll be fine."

  Dalton grunts and strips off his T-shirt. "There. If you want the rest, you're gonna need to--"

  "We will take the rest."

  The leader grabs Dalton's gun and swings it up.

  I shout "Eric!" and lunge.

  Dalton drops to the ground. The gun fires. And I fire.

  I shoot the leader. I do not think about what I'm doing. I saw that gun rise on Dalton, and I knew what was happening. They made Dalton remove his j
acket and shirt so they didn't ruin the garments when they put a bullet through him.

  The leader falls. Dalton's gun drops from his hand, and Dalton scrambles for it. It takes only a split second, and then we're back-to-back, our guns raised.

  The leader lies on the ground, blood pumping, his hands over the hole through his chest. His mouth works, his eyes wide. And not one of his own people even looks his way.

  He is defeated. He is useless. He is forgotten.

  "Jacob! Kenny!" Dalton shouts. "Go!"

  There is a pause, and I know Jacob and Kenny are both assessing. Waiting for one of the remaining hostiles to turn on them, to raise a weapon, let loose a dart. But they do not. All they care about is us.

  "Jacob," Dalton says again.

  Then there's a rustle in the undergrowth, and while neither of us dares look that way, I know Jacob and Kenny are retreating. That's the smart move. This is bad enough already, with Dalton and me back-to-back, guns drawn, three armed men surrounding us, a woman with a knife just a few feet away.

  "Back the fuck up!" Dalton says to the men.

  The one with the club steps toward us.

  "That is not backing the fuck up," Dalton says. "I know you understand English, so do not pull this bullshit caveman routine on me. I know where you are from. The same place I am, and you will not pretend you don't fucking understand me."

  One of the other two men raises a knife.

  "Drop that!" Dalton barks. "If you take a step toward us with that--"

  The man draws back as if to throw the knife. I shoot his hand. He lets out a howl, blood spraying, knife dropping. Then he charges.

  I kick. I don't aim for his groin, but that's where my foot connects. He falls back yowling, and the two other men run at us, weapons raised.

  Dalton fires. I kick again and then swing my gun, hitting my attacker in the face. I hear Dalton snarl for the men to stop, just fucking stop before we put fucking bullets through their fucking heads. We do not want to do that. To them, though, that does not make us merciful. It makes us weak.

  It makes us vulnerable.

  I kick. I pistol-whip. Dalton shoots, aiming to wound, not kill. My foot makes contact. So do my gun and Dalton's bullet, and the three men are bleeding. Bleeding and enraged, club flying, knife slashing. I hear an oomph as the club strikes Dalton in the chest. I wheel to fend off his attacker, and a knife slashes my jacket.

  I remember a story Brent told once, about a wolverine. He'd watched it defend its kill from a grizzly. Defend it to the death, the wolverine knowing it had no chance of winning against the bigger predator but unable to surrender. That's what this is. Only we cannot walk away. Cannot just say, "You win--take our stuff and go." That is not an option; it never was an option.

  The hostiles can't win this fight against our guns. It doesn't matter. Our reluctance to use those guns is like blood in the water. The smell of weakness drives them into a frenzy, even if they must realize we won't let them beat and stab us to death while we hold loaded guns. They will force our hand.

  The club blow winded Dalton. He lowers his gun, and his attacker is pulling back to strike him again. Dalton raises his gun, but he hesitates, and I know he will not pull that trigger. Something in his brain says he doesn't need to just yet.

  He will not use lethal force until he is moments from death himself.

  I can fix this.

  Don't worry. I can fix this.

  Dalton diverts his aim to the man's arm. His finger moves to the trigger, and I fire. I must fire. I will not gamble on his life. I have already killed one man today, and if I have to kill three more to walk away from this then that is what I must do. They leave us no choice.

  I fire.

  My aim isn't perfect. This is not a slow dance. Only a few heartbeats pass between Dalton being clubbed and me realizing I must shoot before he is hit again. I pull the trigger, and my bullet hits Dalton's attacker in the shoulder. It is enough. He goes down, and I spin on the other two men.

  Dalton shoots one in the leg. The other is coming at me, and I raise my gun and Dalton has his up, yelling, "Stop, you stupid son of a bitch! Just stop!"

  A shot fires. The man flies sideways, and Kenny stands there, gun gripped in both hands, his eyes wide. The hostile slumps to the ground, shot through the chest. Kenny stands frozen, breathing hard.

  "Eric?"

  I hear the voice, and I think it must be Jacob. It isn't Kenny, and it comes from off to the side. It's pitched high, but I am still sure it is Jacob--he's frightened. Then there's a movement on my right as Jacob and Storm cautiously approach from the left.

  I turn toward the voice.

  The woman stands on the path.

  I have forgotten the woman. She's gripping her knife, and there are four of her people on the ground, two dead and two injured, moaning and bleeding, and she doesn't seem to see them. She's staring at Dalton.

  "Eric?"

  53

  Even before Dalton says "Maryanne?" I know who this is. A woman who left Rockton years ago. A biologist who'd mentored Dalton, taught him, shared his insatiable curiosity about the world around them.

  When Maryanne left with others, his father made the militia pursue. Rockton did not allow residents to become settlers. Dalton had been the one to find their camp, with evidence they'd been attacked by hostiles. A year later, he saw Maryanne again, and she was a hostile--did not recognize him, tried to kill him, almost forced him to kill her. Maryanne is one of those pieces that makes me think my theory is not so far-fetched after all.

  I look at this woman, and I try to imagine a biologist, rapt in conversation with a teenage boy. A brilliant woman with a doctorate who decided to go live in her beloved natural world, and who made that choice willingly. Chose that and ended up as this.

  She looks at me, and she's squinting, studying me as she did before, when we faced off and she did not attack. She squints as if trying to place me, too. Or maybe it's more than that. Maybe she's looking at me and seeing a mirror, reflecting something that sparks forgotten memories.

  I used to look like that. Used to dress like that. Talk like that.

  "Maryanne," I say, carefully, too aware of that knife in her hand. "I'm Casey. This is Eric Dalton. You remember him, right? From Rockton."

  Dalton gives a start, as if snapping out of the shock of seeing her. "Right. It's Eric." He pauses for a second. "Eric Dalton. Gene was my father. We talked about biology. You specialized in black bears. I found papers you wrote, on vocalizations and body language. I read them a few years ago. You were a professor at a university in Nova Scotia."

  Her brow furrows, as if she's trying to understand the language he speaks. Intently trying to understand. She might even be struggling to hear--I see the blackened ear he mentioned, lost to frostbite. But there's more to her expression than incomprehension. It is as if she's peering deeper into that dark mirror, catching wisps of shadows that look like people she once knew.

  "Bears," she says.

  Dalton nods. "Right."

  "Eric?" Kenny says.

  Dalton lifts a hand to tell Kenny to stay where he is. He never takes his eyes from Maryanne. "I found your camp after you left Rockton. I know something happened to you."

  "Eric," she says. "The boy with the raven."

  "Uh, right." He shoots an almost sheepish glance at me and then looks back at Maryanne. "I was trying to train a raven. I wanted to see if it could be taught to use tools. You told me there'd been studies on that, and you thought it might be possible."

  Dalton has never told me this. That look says he finds it a little embarrassing now. But I remember when he first caught me training "my" raven. He rolled his eyes then, but I'd gotten a sense that my experiment pleased him.

  "Eric with the raven," she says. Then she pauses. "Eric with the gun."

  "Yes. You wanted to learn to shoot. I showed you, but you couldn't actually do it. You couldn't shoot anything."

  He's giving as much as he can, trying to prod those mem
ories, like speaking to someone with amnesia, but I can tell it's not quite getting through. It's like talking to a small child, one who is listening mostly to the sound of your voice and picking up familiar words. She is making connections, though. She is remembering.

  And she is not attacking. That is the most important thing, because in her restraint I see hope. The others attacked. The others now lie, bloody, on the ground. And yet it isn't fear that holds her back. She could have attacked. She could have fled. But she sees Dalton, and something has changed from the last time. The rage is gone.

  "Do you remember Rockton?" he asks. "Where we lived? Where you met me?"

  "Eric. The boy with the raven."

  He nods. "I'm going back to Rockton. I would like you to come with me. You'll be safe there. We have . . ." He pauses, as if struggling to remember something. "We don't have ice cream. That's what you said you missed most from down south. Ice cream. But we've shaved frozen milk before. You can have that. It's like ice cream."

  There's no sign that she understands what he's saying, but when he says, "You'll come with me?," she tilts her head, listening. I put out my hand, and she stares at it.

  "Come with us?" I say.

  She looks at Dalton. He moves my way, a sidestep, motioning for her.

  "It's okay," he says. "It's your choice. You can come with us or . . ."

  He doesn't say "or not." He glances at me, and we exchange a look that says that isn't an option. We want her to come willingly, but what is the alternative? To leave her out here, with her people dead?

  There is opportunity here. So many opportunities. For her, to return to what she had been. For Dalton, to exorcise this particular ghost from his past. And yes, for me, to answer my questions about the hostiles. Both Mathias and Cypher have said we need live subjects, and while the very concept has horrified me, Maryanne is the perfect subject--not a lab rat but a woman we can help.

  We walk a few steps. Then we motion for her to come with us. She looks about. She sees the men on the ground. Sees the two bodies. Sees the two wounded. Then she nods, and I can't tell whether it's acceptance or satisfaction. Whether she sees her comrades fallen through their own mistakes . . . or her captors finally getting their comeuppance. Either way, she nods. And then she follows. One step. Another.