A Stranger in Town

by Kelley Armstrong

  “Uh…”

  He unwraps a bar as he gives me a sidelong look. “You saving it for a special occasion?”

  Another pause. “I was about to joke that I was saving it for a break between dead bodies, but that’d be in poor taste.”

  I try to smile, but my fingers tremble as I unwrap the bar. I keep seeing those corpses stacked like cordwood in the clinic.

  “You can make that joke,” he says. “As long as you don’t make the one about the increase in dead bodies since you arrived. That shit’s not funny.”

  “True, though.”

  “Bullshit.” He pauses, chocolate halfway to his lips. “Actually, no. You’re right. If not for you, we wouldn’t have any bodies in the clinic right now. They’d all be rotting in the forest, including Sophie.”

  “You never would have left her out there.”

  “Yeah, but in an alternate reality where you never came to Rockton, Sebastian and the other kids wouldn’t have been having a party on the lake, because even if he’d somehow still met them, I’d never have allowed them to hang together. I certainly wouldn’t have been there myself. So Sophie would have died in the forest. If somehow I was there without you, then there’d be no April and thus no one to save her. Even if another doctor did manage that, I’d have shipped Sophie south, trusting the council to look after her, and we both know how that would work out. So, no, without you, there’d be no bodies in Rockton right now. They’d all be rotting in the forest, with no one to investigate and make sure it doesn’t happen again. You figured out what’s going on with the hostiles. We’re going to stop this because of the work you did. These tourists and settlers aren’t the first people they’ve killed.”

  “Hostiles didn’t kill the settlers.”

  He frowns.

  “That’s why I was in the clinic. A bullet killed the boy.” I sigh. “And as much as I appreciate you bringing me back here for a break, I really do need to return to the clinic so we can autopsy his parents.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yep.” I waggle the bottle. “I have a feeling I’ll want more of this at the end of the night, but for now…” I cap it. “My pity party is over. Thank you for attending. However—”

  Storm scrabbles to her feet, nails clicking against the hardwood as Dalton’s head shoots up, eyes narrowing.

  “What the fuck?” he murmurs.

  I catch the sound then. The unmistakable drone of a low-flying plane.

  FIFTEEN

  Rockton isn’t on any commercial flight routes or any local ones—the founders chose our location well. That doesn’t mean it’s impossible for a small plane to randomly choose a path that takes them over us, which is why all of our buildings are constructed with structural camouflage. The council also invests in the latest technology for keeping us off radar, which is partly what interferes with the radios.

  Even with all that, it would only take a stray plane passing low enough to see people and buildings.

  Like a plane searching for a quartet of missing tourists who aren’t at their pickup point.

  Dalton and I are out the door in a shot, Storm racing past. We’re barely outside when Anders shouts, and we look to see the deputy running our way as others scan the skies.

  We stride to Anders.

  “No one’s seen it yet,” he says.

  “Hasn’t passed close enough,” Dalton says. “We’d all hear that.”

  Dalton turns, face upturned. He doesn’t shade his eyes. He’s listening, not looking. He pinpoints the sound and takes off at a lope.

  “Everyone inside!” Anders calls as I run after Dalton. “Sebastian? Maryanne? Jen?”

  He calls out names of people in sight and tells them to order people into their homes. Residents will obey. No one’s going to risk their security. By the time I’m running, the entire town is scattering, like mice seeing a hawk glide overhead.

  Dalton’s already in the forest. The plane’s engine roars, as if turning for a second pass. Not just idly crossing our airspace. Searching for something.

  Searching for four hikers.

  We are so unprepared for this. We—

  The plane banks, and I whisper “Shit!” as I see where it’s heading.

  To our airstrip.

  I kick up my pace as Dalton slows. He’s holding out a ball cap that I didn’t see him grab. I tug it on and pull my ponytail through the back. The hat is navy blue with a militaryesque emblem on the front. Rockton has multiple cover stories, in the event someone stumbles on it. One is “military facility.” That’s easy for me and Dalton to pull off. We’re physically fit and clean-cut, Dalton’s hair clipped to his summer crew cut. The advantage to the military story is that it’s not one the average person will question … nor does it inspire people to want a closer look.

  You’ve got an armed military compound out here? Er, okay, I’ll just keep moving, thanks.

  I’m thinking that when—

  “Shit!” I hiss again and grab Dalton’s arm. “We can’t do military.”

  He glances at me.

  “It’s a search party,” I say. “Foreign tourists missing in the wilderness. The first thing they’re going to expect is for us to help them. That’s part of the military’s job.”

  “Fuck. Rangers, then?”

  Park rangers is another option, but it’s the same problem. Any military or quasimilitary organization will be expected to join in the search. We’d happily do that—and steer them in the wrong direction—but they’ll also expect to set up base camp in Rockton.

  Ahead, the plane is coming in for a landing.

  “Just roll with it,” I murmur, pulling off my hat. “Follow my lead. We’ll … figure something out.”

  I have no idea what that even means. Maybe we can be scientists? Pretend we’re a research facility, privately run.

  We haven’t seen any hikers, sorry, but we really need to get back to our work.

  We reach the landing strip as the tiny plane rolls to a stop. It’s a Cessna TTx, which makes me blink and Dalton murmur “What the hell?” under his breath. The TTx is the Mercedes of small planes—a luxury puddle jumper for wealthy city dwellers with oceanfront summer homes.

  My parents had died in a plane like this. That’d been the sort of circle they traveled in after April and I had moved out. They’d eased back enough on the overtime to have a social life, with friends who’d owned small planes and used them where others might have summoned a car service. The independent and the adventurous upper middle class.

  The door opens and out steps …

  I don’t have grandparents. Okay, that’s a lie. Technically, I do. I don’t know them, though. I think my paternal grandmother is still alive, but the story goes that they’d disowned my dad for marrying a girl who wasn’t white. Then along came April, and they welcomed Dad back into the fold. I followed five years later and … Well, their reaction made it obvious that they’d only reunited with my dad because he’d given them a pale-skinned granddaughter they could proudly push around in a pram. I was a different story.

  There are many things I wish I could tell my parents, now that I’ve found my footing in life and found the courage to say what needs to be said. I’d tell them how badly they fucked up, but I’d also tell them the things they did right, and this is one of them. My parents made me feel inferior to my sister in many ways, but the color of my skin was never one of them, and Dad gave up a relationship with his family to protect me from that.

  The situation with Mom’s parents was equally complicated. She left China for university and never went back. As an adult, I realize how unusual that is for someone of her heritage. Mom rejected her family and her culture with a ferocity that now speaks to me of deep pain.

  So I have no grandparents in the sense that I’ve never had someone to call by that name. If I imagined one, though, my fantasy grandmother would be the woman who steps out of the pilot’s door. Not the soft-lapped grandma with sweets and smiles and a comfy recliner. My fantasy grandmother
was, ironically, the sort of woman my own mother could have grown into. The active granny, embracing adventure after adventure, sometimes scooping up her grandkids to take along. A grandmother living her twilight years to the fullest, fit and nimble and endlessly curious.

  That’s the woman who hops from the plane. She’s at least seventy, trim and slight, with silver hair cut short and stylish. Her outfit reminds me of Sophie’s, and a pang of panic runs through me, as if this could be her grandmother, the source of her own adventurous genes. Yet this woman’s outfit is the real thing—expensive because it’s quality. In fact, given the fit of the button-down shirt and khakis, I’m guessing they’re tailor made.

  She pushes oversize sunglasses up over her forehead, and dark eyes twinkle as she strides toward us.

  “Casey and Eric,” she says. “Exactly who I was hoping would come meet me.” She bends in front of the dog. “And this must be Storm.”

  I falter, but only for a second, as her voice twinges something familiar.

  She extends a hand. “I’m Émilie.”

  * * *

  Émilie was one of Rockton’s first inhabitants. She and her husband had been sent here by his parents when their college political activism got them in trouble. After they returned south, Émilie’s husband took over the very lucrative family business, and when Rockton faltered, they stepped up as investors.

  At one time Émilie was the council—along with her husband and another couple they’d met here. Two of those four have passed on, and the third suffers from dementia, so only Émilie remains, a holdover from Rockton’s past, when those who ran it were more interested in philanthropy than profitability.

  Émilie positions herself as our ally on the council, and we accept her assistance, while knowing she may be playing the good cop. I don’t think she is, but even if she’s really on our side, I fear she doesn’t have the power we need to effect change.

  In the beginning, Phil was quick to credit Émilie’s power, but as he’s lowered his guard, he’s admitted that the council sees her the way corporations can view the old guard on a board of directors: furniture that came with the room and is too heavy to move. They work around Émilie as they await the day when her health wanes enough for her to release her tenuous grip on the reins.

  “Welcome,” I say as I shake her hand. “We … weren’t expecting you.”

  “You didn’t get my message?”

  My expression makes her laugh.

  “Sorry,” she says. “I was teasing. There wasn’t a message. Intentionally so. If I told the council what I was doing, they’d have stopped me, even if it meant putting sugar in my fuel tank. What would you have said if I told you I was visiting?”

  “We … are more than happy to host you,” I say. “This just…”

  “It isn’t a good time, to put it mildly? You’re already hosting a Danish tourist who was attacked by hostiles. Hostiles who killed three other tourists, while the settlers are already grumbling that you’ve set the wild people off.”

  I hesitate, but she’s already turned away, glancing at Dalton, who has taken her bags from the plane.

  “Thank you, Eric. Now, I know this seems very poor timing, but I didn’t just happen to show up at the most inconvenient moment. I’m here to help. This mess with the hostiles is spinning out of control, and you need someone on the ground to mediate with the council. First, I want to see this woman you’re caring for. While I’m not fluent in Danish, I did spend a year in Copenhagen, which is one reason I jumped in my plane when I heard you had a Danish tourist. We’ll begin my visit there.”

  * * *

  Émilie stands over the exam table, looking down at Sophie’s body. I explained the situation as we walked. Dalton took her bag to Petra’s place, and I’m now in the clinic, alone with Émilie, having sent April on a break.

  “I’m not sure whether this complicates matters or…” She taps her chin. “No, at the risk of sounding like a complete monster, it does help our situation.”

  “I know. I hate admitting it, but now we don’t need to worry about how to get her back and what she’ll tell the authorities. However, it doesn’t solve the underlying problem. It just means that we’ve lost our sole witness to multiple homicides.”

  “We know the hostiles are responsible.”

  When I hesitate, she looks over sharply. “I understood that conclusion wasn’t in question.”

  I walk to where a sheet has been drawn over the three settlers. When I lift it, Émilie inhales sharply and says, “Those aren’t her fellow tourists, are they.”

  “A settler family. No connection to Rockton. They appear to have been killed by hostiles. The wound patterns suggest makeshift knives, and they’re similar to what we saw with Sophie’s companions. However, when April autopsied the boy, she found that he’d been killed by a bullet.”

  Émilie frowns. “Do we have any evidence of the hostiles using firearms?”

  “None. Maryanne’s group didn’t. Even if the others somehow got one, they wouldn’t be using a nine-millimeter.”

  “A handgun? That…”

  “Makes no sense? Agreed. April needs to autopsy the other two bodies so we can get a fuller picture of the situation. She was about to do that when Sophie was killed.”

  “And then I showed up, further delaying her investigation. I’ll remedy that last part by getting out of your way. This is definitely not my area of expertise. I’ll go settle in with Petra while you and April handle this, and then we’ll discuss how to present the updated situation to the council.”

  “Thank you.”

  * * *

  April has completed the autopsies. She did not find another bullet. However, knowing that a bullet killed the son, she paid more careful attention to the parents’ internal injuries. While we can’t say conclusively that all three settlers died of bullet wounds, we find evidence of several through-and-through shots and of another bullet that had been removed. Intentionally removed.

  This family didn’t die from a hostile attack. Someone shot them, and the killer removed any embedded bullets except the one they missed. Then they exacerbated the wounds with a knife to cover the entry and exit holes and simulate a frenzied knife strike.

  Staged to look like a hostile attack.

  I don’t know what to make of that.

  It casts doubt on the events surrounding the deaths of the hikers. Were they attacked by hostiles? Or by someone pretending to be hostiles, who then ravaged the bodies to simulate a hostile attack? They’d disguised themselves as hostiles, in case someone survived, as Sophie did. Maybe they even left her alive as a witness—she would describe her attackers, which would leave no doubt they were hostiles.

  The problem, though, is that we found zero evidence that the hikers weren’t killed by hostiles. Also, at no point did Sophie mention gunfire.

  I believe that Sophie and her companions were attacked by hostiles. I also believe that the settler family was attacked by someone pretending to be hostiles.

  And as I say those words, curled up at home with Storm, explaining to Dalton and Anders, I stop myself and curse.

  “Damn it, don’t do that,” I mutter.

  “Do what?” Anders asks, taking another slug of beer.

  “Conflate the evidence,” I say. “I know the settlers were not killed by hostiles. I know their bodies make it appear that they were. I’m ramming those two things together and presuming a link.”

  “Uh…” Anders glances at Dalton. “That makes sense to you, doesn’t it?”

  “She means that just because the settlers appear to have been killed by hostiles doesn’t mean that their killers staged it.”

  “Ah. Okay, I get it.” Anders pauses. “Shit, yeah. Especially considering who turned those bodies over to you.”

  I nod. “Cherise. Being terribly helpful, wrapping them up and storing them away from the elements.”

  “And away from predators that might mess up their handiwork,” Dalton mutters.

  Anders
leans forward. “So you think Cherise and Owen found this family, who’d been killed by someone else, and they made it look like hostiles so they could trade the bodies. That’s cold.”

  “That’s Cherise,” I say.

  “Any chance they’re the killers?” Anders says. “They shoot the settlers and then stage it to look like hostiles? You did say they took the settlers’ goods. They could also get their hands on a nine-mil in Dawson.”

  “They could. They may even have one already. I don’t want to jump to that conclusion, though. Who else out here would have a nine-mil?”

  “Besides us?” Anders takes out a key and dangles it. “All weapons present and accounted for. I will check the logbook, though, and see whether anyone had the nine-mil out for target practice.”

  I motion toward my own gun, the holster slung over a chair. “As the only one of us with that caliber, I’ll run a ballistics test to confirm the bullet wasn’t from my gun.”

  “You do realize that really isn’t necessary, right?” Anders says.

  “Don’t bother,” Dalton says. “She’ll insist, because otherwise, we’d all be whispering, ‘You know, I think I saw Casey sneak into the forest to kill some settlers last week.’”

  “I carry the same caliber of gun used in a murder. I will test it for exclusionary purposes. I will do the same with the one in the locker, whether it was signed out or not.”

  “So who in the forest would have a nine-mil?” Anders says, lacing his fingers around his bottle. “No one, right? It’s a handgun, not a hunting rifle.”

  “That doesn’t mean shit,” Dalton says. “Anyone with access to the outside world can get a gun, and everyone has access, if they’re willing to walk far enough.”

  I nod. “A nine-mil is the most common weapon in Canadian law enforcement, which makes it easy to come by, if you want it badly enough. I’m also sure there are people up here who got one legally.”

  “It’s not exactly an AR-fifteen,” Anders says.