This Fallen Prey

by Kelley Armstrong

  The sniper fires towards the birds.

  I prod Brady forward with "Move!" and "Stay down."

  He does both. I steer him through the clearest patch of forest floor, where we don't make enough noise to draw the sniper's attention. The forest has gone silent again. Then there's a shot, one too loud to be the sniper. A tremendous crash. Brady dives. I grab him by the collar and propel him forward.

  "That's Eric providing cover," I say.

  This time, he's fired his gun at a dying sapling or dead branch, something that will break and fall, the noise again drawing the sniper's attention.

  I get Brady behind rocks. We're back in the foothills. There's no conveniently located cave this time, but we wind through the rocks and tree cover until I see Dalton ahead, flagging me. I arrive to see he's found a sheltered spot where he's moved the others.

  I spot Storm first. Dalton whispers, "She's fine. Bullet grazed a hind leg. She can't run, but she's fine."

  I crawl to her and rub her neck, and she whines but stays lying down, muzzle on her paws, her gaze on . . .

  Her gaze on Kenny.

  I see him, and I stifle a gasp. He's lying on his stomach, his head to the side, eyes closed. Eyes closed, not moving.

  As I scramble over, Jacob says, "He's unconscious, but he's . . ."

  Jacob looks at Dalton.

  "Where did he . . . ?" I trail off as I see the answer.

  Kenny has been shot in the back. The lower back, the bullet passing through near his spine.

  I forget that there's a sniper out there and a possible killer beside us. That doesn't matter. Kenny has been shot, and this is not a graze or a bullet passing through soft tissue. This is . . .

  I drop beside him. I check his vital signs first. They're strong enough to suggest he's only fainted. He isn't in shock, not from internal bleeding or neurogenic shock--the injury is too low on his back for that.

  I peel up his jacket and shirt, as carefully as I can. It's soaked with blood, front and back, but the bleeding is slow.

  I tend to the injury as best I can while Dalton stands guard. It's quiet out there. Our sniper seems to have a remarkably short attention span. He--or she--is not the trained professional we first thought. With the exception of Kenny, everyone has suffered only minor injuries. Given Kenny, though, the intent does seem lethal. The sniper just doesn't have the skills to pull it off without a perfect target. The wild shots support that theory, as does the fact that it's been easy to draw his fire.

  This is still someone who knows distance shooting--knows how to find a good perch and hit a clear target. That's more than I could manage with a rifle, but it's no better than Dalton or Jacob could do, with their hunting experience.

  As for the sniper's intentions, I have no idea. Initially, Brady seemed to be the target. But he hasn't actually hit Brady. Nor has he fired only at those standing nearby. By this point, I'm almost wondering if the sniper is a completely separate situation--that we have a settler with a rifle who's decided to kill himself some Rockton residents. Because that's just what we need.

  We must get help for Kenny. The best plan seems to be to leave Jacob and Storm with the remainder of our supplies and a sidearm. Both Dalton and I must take Brady back to Rockton, to guard each other from the sniper. That's not even considering the fact that we have settlers hunting for Wallace, who'd be quite happy to vent their outrage on us.

  And then there's Wallace himself. Could he be the real serial killer? At this point, I'm beyond guessing. If someone lined Brady and Wallace up and told me I had to pick which one to shoot, I might as well make them play rock-paper-scissors to decide who gets the bullet.

  With no knowledge of the crimes, no evidence to consider, no way of getting any evidence swiftly, it comes down to "Which man do I believe?" And the answer right now is neither.

  Dalton and I scale the mountain partway to get a better look at our situation. We've climbed about a hundred meters up when a voice drifts over from the forest. A voice that has me thinking I'm clearly hallucinating, because it makes no sense in this context.

  "Is that . . . ?" Dalton looks over at me. "Diana?"

  She stops talking, and a man answers. I hear him speak, and I grin.

  "Will," I say. "They're out searching--"

  Oh, shit. Anders and Diana are out searching for us. In the forest. With a sniper and Wallace nearby. And some really pissed-off settlers. If we can hear Diana and Will, then others will, too.

  58

  "I'm going to go to them," I say. "Can you cover me?"

  Dalton nods.

  I slide down the mountainside as Dalton positions himself, gun ready. I reach the bottom and scamper from one point of cover to the next. I hear Anders again, but his voice is muffled now that I'm on ground level, and I can tell he's farther away than I thought.

  I turn and see Dalton shielding his eyes, watching me. I pantomime that they're at least a kilometer away, and he motions that he'll stand guard for as long as he can see me. I'm zipping past the others, quietly calling to Jacob that I hear Anders . . . when Brady lurches out.

  "I am not staying out here," Brady says. "If you're on the move, so am I."

  I want to put my damned gun to his head. I might, too, if I could spare the time to slow down . . . and the time to chew him out . . . and the risk of being overheard by our sniper. I see Dalton watching from above. He gives a dismissive gesture, one I'd love to interpret as "Just shoot the son of a bitch," but I know better.

  "Keep up," I say. "You want to try escaping again? That sniper isn't the only one in this forest with a gun."

  "You don't need to keep reminding me," he grumbles as he jogs over.

  When I glance back to Dalton, he puts a finger gun to his head and shakes his head, and I have to smile at that. By this point, we don't really give a shit if Brady is innocent. Killing him on principle seems like a fine idea.

  He catches up and stays behind me. I'd rather he was in front, where I can watch him, but that won't help me find Anders and Diana quickly. I can no longer hear them. I'm moving at a slow jog, and Brady has the sense to do the same, making minimal noise.

  Shortly after I start, I think I hear something, but it quickly goes quiet. I'm long out of Dalton's line of sight, unable to see more than the mountaintop over the trees. I'm mentally trying to pinpoint where the sound might have come from when I hear Diana, her voice harsh as she argues with Anders.

  I'm not sure whether to breathe a sigh of relief that I hear her . . . or hiss in exasperation at her loudly bickering with him. Diana and Anders had a one-night stand after she arrived, and then I showed up and to her, he suddenly turned his attentions my way. Not entirely true. Their affair had been a drunken one-nighter, which he regretted, realizing he might have taken advantage of her at a vulnerable time. But to have him hanging out with me a day after sharing her bed? Humiliating, and she hasn't forgiven him. I don't quite blame her. It's an awkward situation all around.

  Now I'm just wishing they hadn't had the harebrained idea to team up and come find me. Why Diana? Even at our closest, I'd never have chosen her as a search-team partner.

  "I am not--" she begins.

  Anders answers, his voice pitched higher than normal, clearly feeling the strain of this pairing. I can't make out what he's saying, but it must be some variation on Hell, yeah, you will, Di, because she comes back with, "Absolutely not, you crazy--"

  A hiss of pain cuts her short, and I stumble to a halt.

  Will?

  The question lasts only a split second. I know Will Anders, and it doesn't matter if he isn't really Will Anders, if he's a soldier named Calvin James, who shot his CO in cold blood. Anders would be the first person to call himself a killer, a monster. But even when I once suspected him of brutally murdering four residents, I'd struggled with my own conclusion. As naive as it sounded, I could not believe he'd done it. And he hadn't.

  I know Will Anders. I also know Calvin James. I know exactly what happened, even if he doesn't
understand it himself. Once I stood in front of a man I hated, pointed a gun at him, and pulled the trigger. I snapped. Anders did the same, spurred on by tragedy and rage and misprescribed medication.

  When I hear Diana's words and that hiss of pain, I know that the other speaker is not Anders.

  "Casey!" Diana calls, and her companion doesn't stop her. "Casey? If you're out there, and you can hear me . . ." She pauses, as if expecting to be interrupted. "Run. Run like hell--"

  A smack cuts her short. Whoever has her hostage told her to call to me. This just isn't the message he wanted imparted.

  "Casey?" she shouts. "It's Brady's father. He's knocked out Will--"

  Another thwack, hand against flesh. Then I hear Wallace talking to Diana, his voice clearer now as he tells her to stop it, he hasn't hurt Anders, hasn't hurt her, stop being so melodramatic.

  "And you think I'm fucked up?" Brady mutters behind me. "He's holding your friend hostage, smacking her around and telling her she's overreacting."

  "So he is dangerous?" I say.

  Brady stares at me. "Have you been listening to anything I said? He's killed at least five people. Tortured them. Watched them die. Oh, but he seems like such a nice guy." He jabs a finger in the direction the voices came from. "Does that seem like a nice guy? Of course he's fucking dangerous. He's going to kill your friend and--"

  "Just checking," I say as I kick out his knee.

  Brady drops, and I grab his arms with one hand, wrenching them up again as I put my gun at his head and plant my foot on his back.

  "Wallace!" I shout. "It's Casey."

  "What the fuck are you--?" Brady begins.

  "You just confirmed he's dangerous. Which means he'll kill Diana and Will if he doesn't get what he wants. I'm going to guess what he wants is you."

  Brady goes wild, struggling and snarling. I keep wrenching his arm and warning him to stop. There's a crack, as his wrist breaks. He howls in pain.

  "You bitch. You--"

  "Shhh," I say. "I can't hear your daddy."

  I push Brady's face into the dirt and shout, "Wallace?"

  "Yes . . ." The reply comes slow, tentative.

  "You've got something I want," I say. "I'm going to guess I have something you want, too."

  "If it's that sadistic bastard my wife whelped, you would be correct, Detective."

  "Then bring Diana and follow the sound of my voice."

  I keep Brady pinned, muffling his rage as I scan the treetops, all too aware of the chance we're taking with this confrontation. The chance that our voices will tell our sniper friend exactly where to find us.

  Wallace eventually appears, Diana in the lead, a knife at her back.

  "He ambushed us," she says. "Knocked out Will."

  I mouth to ask if there are others. Anders and Diana can't be the only searchers. But her gaze sweeps over the forest in a desperate look that tells me, yes, there are others, but they aren't close enough to come running.

  "I just want what I came for," Wallace says. "I haven't killed anyone. I've only done what I had to. I need you to give me Oliver."

  "But that was the deal, wasn't it?" I say. "So why the sudden need to force my hand, Gregory? To start hurting my people?"

  "I know you have doubts, Casey. I've seen it in your face. In Sheriff Dalton's. You've spoken to Oliver, and whatever he has said, it's made you wonder if you've been misled. I don't blame you, which is why I'm doing my best not to hurt your people. But I can't take the chance that you won't use lethal force to stop Oliver if he escapes. The very fact he's still alive tells me I'm right. You'll let him run, and others will die."

  "You son of a--" Brady begins.

  I push the gun against the back of Brady's neck.

  "Oliver here is telling a new story," I say. "One that says you're the monster. The serial killer."

  "What?" Wallace's eyes round. "My God, Ollie, you are desperate. You're actually accusing me--"

  "I caught you," Brady snarls. "With that boy. I followed you to where you were keeping him, and I saw what you'd done. What you were doing. You murdered him right in front of me. Slit his throat while he begged me to save him."

  "You know, Ollie, I recognize that story. It sounds very familiar. Maybe because it did happen . . . only I was the one following you. I was the one who saw that poor kid." Wallace's voice rises. "And I was the one begging. Begging you to let him go as he sobbed, gagged and bound, covered in blood and filth. A boy. A teenage boy. You tortured him. Murdered him. I don't even want to know what else you'd done to him."

  Brady struggles to get up from under me. "You bastard. You sick, sick bastard. Do you think I've forgotten what you did to me when I was his age? I kept my mouth shut because you said you'd kill my mother if I told her. Maybe I should have let you, if it meant stopping you before anyone else died."

  Wallace looks at me. "He will say anything to get out of this, Casey."

  "So will you," Brady spat.

  Wallace keeps his gaze on me. "I know you're angry at me for threatening your friends. But I have done the minimum damage possible. Same as with that woman in the village. I just want to get Oliver out of here before he kills more people. However angry you are right now, Casey, the difference in our behavior should speak for itself. Oliver has murdered multiple people up here. I've knocked out two. I've threatened this woman and yes, I struck her in answer. Ask her if I've done more. Check to see if she's suffered even a bruise."

  Diana gives a reluctant shake of her head.

  "We have no actual proof Oliver killed anyone except Brent," I say, "and even Brent says the bullet was fired accidentally, during a fight."

  Brady stops struggling.

  "I won't know about Val until I retrieve her body," I say. "I saw no signs of trauma that couldn't have been inflicted by a fall. As for the settler massacre, I believe someone else was responsible."

  "Some other random killer roaming the woods?" Wallace says. "I'm sorry, Detective. I realize Oliver is an attractive young man, and he can be charming--"

  "Stop right there," I say.

  Brady gives a harsh laugh. "Yeah, no, Greg. Don't even try that. She hates my fucking guts, whether I'm guilty or not. The only reason she isn't shooting me is that she's actually a damn fine cop, one who gives a shit about--"

  "You, too," I say. "Enough. I don't want patronizing bullshit from him or bootlicking flattery from you."

  "She's right," Diana says. "I've known Casey half my life. Don't insult her. Don't flatter her. She'll see through that crap and stomp you both like bugs."

  "Just give me my stepson," Wallace says. "That's all you need to do. Hand him to me, and I will lead you to your deputy, and we'll all walk back to town. It's not as if I can hijack the plane and fly out on my own."

  "He can do exactly that," Brady says. "He has a fleet of small planes, and he insists on flying them himself, like he insists on doing everything himself. Including murder."

  Wallace sighs. "And here is the problem, Casey. Lies. His endless lies. I don't know how to fly. I don't own any planes. If I did, why would Phil have brought me? Oliver is spouting nonsense. He'll say whatever it takes to make you doubt me."

  And so they go, accusing one another and protesting their innocence, leaving me feeling like the therapist for the most dysfunctional family ever.

  Except I'm not their therapist. I am their judge, jury, and, yes, executioner.

  I can end this now. Decide who is lying and shoot him. I have Brady pinned under me, and Wallace is barely even bothering to hold the knife on Diana, too caught up in defending himself against his stepson's accusations.

  All I have to do is decide who is telling the truth. Who is the real killer. Which is impossible, when I have nothing to go on but their say-so.

  Maybe after all my years as a detective, my gut should tell me which one is guilty. But right now, it wants me to shoot both of them. It says they're both full of shit, and I don't think it's wrong. Neither is being completely honest. But one is a ser
ial killer, and the other is just a garden-variety dangerous son of a bitch. One deserves death. One does not. And I have no idea which is which.

  I catch Diana's eye. She's looking straight at me, tuning out father and son as she waits for me to resolve this, like I always do.

  Casey to the rescue. Just trust Casey.

  See how well that worked out for Val and Kenny.

  I failed them. I will not fail Diana.

  I could signal to her that she can jump aside and get free of Wallace, but that's a risk.

  No more risks. No more being a homicide cop. I need to channel Dalton here. I am the guardian of those under my protection, and they are all that matters.

  "He's yours," I say to Wallace.

  Brady screeches, "What?"

  "You'll escort him back to town," I say, "and I don't really give a damn what happens then."

  Which is a lie. I have every intention of getting to the bottom of this. I just can't do it out here, with them raging at each other, drawing the attention of everyone around. And not while Anders lies unconscious and Kenny is in desperate need of medical attention. Just let me get them to town, and I'll figure out my next move there.

  I haul Brady to his feet. When he resists, I squeeze his broken wrist. He howls . . . and a bullet hits the tree right beside Wallace's head.

  Wallace spins. But he doesn't dive for cover. He grabs Diana, yanking her in front of him. When she tries to pull away, the knife flashes and blood sprays, and I forget Brady.

  I run for Diana. Wallace holds her like a human shield. I knock her in the side, shoving her away. Wallace grabs my upper arm and yanks me into Diana's place. When I see the look on his face, I know what he is.

  I finally know.

  I swing my gun up. The idiot has forgotten I have it. He slashes with the knife, the blade aiming for my face. I wrench from his grasp.

  "On the ground!" I say, gun barrel pressing up under his chin. "Get on the goddamned ground or--"

  "You'll shoot?" Wallace says. "You haven't yet, Casey."

  "Because I hadn't figured out which of you bastards is guilty. Now I have." I push the gun barrel in harder. "Do you notice which one I let escape? And which is at the end of my gun?"

  "You're wrong. You--"