Watcher in the Woods: A Rockton Novel

by Kelley Armstrong

  I cut him short. The point is that Garcia hasn’t gotten hold of a gun. He’s just escaped, and he’s running. Which means I don’t need to know how this happened—I just need to bring him back.

  I’m taking off when I spot Dalton running toward us.

  “Garcia’s gone,” I say. “He bolted. Will’s giving chase.”

  “Along with a few of the guys,” Sam says.

  “Is your leg hurt?” Dalton cuts in.

  “It’s fine. I—”

  “It’s hurt, and you can’t run. So get your ass to the station. We’ll talk later.” He turns to me, Sam already dismissed. “I’m going after Garcia. You stay here. Town meeting. Now.”

  “Do I get to use my bell?”

  He gives a strained smile. “You do.” He leans down for a peck on the cheek and then looks around. “You!”

  The only person in his sightline is Mathias, casually walking his wolf-dog cub toward the forest, as if nothing is happening. When Mathias doesn’t turn, Dalton booms, “Atelier! I’m talking to you!”

  Mathias looks at us. “Me?”

  “Get your ass over here.”

  “Raoul needs to relieve him—”

  “Do you want to keep that mutt?”

  Mathias scoops up the cub and comes over.

  “Town meeting,” Dalton says to Mathias. “Go door to door. Tell people to get their asses into the square now.”

  I brace for Mathias to make some crack about not being the town crier. He only nods. Before he can leave, another figure comes around the corner, moving fast.

  “Sheriff,” Phil calls. “Whatever is going on here, I should have been notified—”

  “Yeah, that’s not how your job works. Go with Mathias. He’ll tell you what to do.”

  Dalton starts leaving. Phil grabs his arm—the bad one—and Dalton wheels. Mathias pulls Phil away.

  “Do you see that look?” Mathias says. “It is not the sheriff’s this - is - negotiable look. Or his I - wish - to - chat - about - it look.” Mathias purses his lips. “To be honest, he does not have either, so it is safest to . . . I believe the English would be: shut up and do as he says.”

  Dalton strides off.

  “Detective—” Phil begins.

  “Here,” Mathias cuts in. “You may hold Raoul as you follow me.”

  He extends the cub.

  Phil falls back. “That’s the rabid—”

  “Not rabid. Not dangerous.” Mathias smiles, showing his teeth. “Not yet.”

  Mathias hefts the cub under his arm as he leads Phil away. “Do you know what we wish for most in this town? A council representative with an iota of competence. A mere iota. Is there any possibility we might find that with you, Philip? The early signs are not promising.”

  I shake my head and jog off to ring the bell.

  * * *

  I hold the press conference. I explain that we found a stranger in the forest and tracked him to his camp, and we’d just initiated a militia search party when the man began approaching people in their homes. I say that he’s claiming to be a U.S. Marshal seeking a fugitive. I leave out the part where he broke into our home, and we questioned him and let him go again. That opens our actions to far too much second-guessing.

  The only other option would have been to throw him in jail. Take a supposed officer of the law, treat him as a criminal and hope for a peaceful negotiation.

  Yeah, the “throw him in jail” part would have annihilated our chance for a quiet resolution. We had hoped for quiet resolution. Tell us who you came for. Tell us why. Let us figure out what to do about it. If it turned out we were harboring a dangerous criminal, then the answer might have been to let Garcia arrest his target the safety and protection of others.

  That isn’t an option now.

  I tell the residents that we’re actively hunting the intruder. When he is found, the council will deal with the situation. That’s our only option now. Turn him over to them. Let them make the call. Let them handle it, and if handling it means a shallow grave for Mark Garcia, well, my only real concern is that the council doesn’t insist Dalton carry out that sentence. I trust they won’t. That isn’t their way. They’ll send someone for Garcia, and he’ll get on a plane. The problem will go away, and for once, maybe I’ll actually be thanking them. It’s not the resolution I would have wanted, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say it might be the best.

  “For now,” I say, “all excursions are canceled. Militia will receive double credits for overtime. Other militia-trained citizens may assist patrols for full pay. We will lock down the border of this town. You may continue to wander freely during the day. However, we will be imposing an after dark-curfew, meaning . . . well, this time of year, that’s midnight to four AM, when you should all be sleeping anyway.”

  I get some laughs for that, people relaxing.

  I continue, “At night, lock up and draw your blackout blinds. Do not answer your door to anyone. If we need you . . .”

  “If they need you, the sheriff has the master key,” says a voice beside me, “and he isn’t afraid to use it.”

  I look to see Isabel on her upper balcony, wearing a silk wrapper and sipping a coffee.

  “That’s right,” I say. “So doors stay closed and locked. Any questions?”

  “Who’s the woman?” someone calls from the crowd.

  “Isabel,” I say. “I know, you don’t recognize her in that robe. She’s come out to announce free morning coffee with a whiskey chaser for everyone. Just pop by the Roc. Tell her I sent you.”

  That gets a laugh, drowning out Isabel’s reply. It does not, however, distract from the question, and as soon as the laughter dies down, that voice in the crowd says, “No, the woman staying in your house.”

  There’s a momentary urge to pass this off, pretend he’s mistaken. Woman? What woman? But a couple of others join in, one saying, “She looks like you. She’s a relative, right?”

  I take a deep breath. “Yes. There is a woman staying in my house. She has nothing to do with the man we’re hunting. She’s . . .” Oh, hell, just get this over with. “She’s my sister. She’s a neurosurgeon, and we brought her in to treat Kenny.”

  There’s a movement in the crowd, and I look to see Phil striding to the front, his expression warning that he’d better be mishearing me.

  I continue. “As you know, Kenny was shot in the back, and we were unable to airlift him out for the emergency medical attention he required. We decided to bring my sister in. Our hope was to make it a very quick visit and to segregate her from the population, for your privacy.”

  Phil looks positively apoplectic by this point, his eyes blazing behind his hipster glasses.

  I keep going. “I am pleased to report that my sister conducted surgery on Kenny yesterday. Working with Will and Mathias, they were able to dislodge the bullet. We don’t know the prognosis yet, but the surgery was successful.”

  A round of applause. Phil plants himself at the foot of my platform, blocking my exit once I’m done.

  “If I may.” Isabel’s dulcet tones cut through the chatter as well as Dalton’s shout. “I believe I speak for us all when I say we are very grateful to your sister, Casey, for her time and expertise. I hope she will give us the opportunity to say as much. I understand your concern for our safety, in keeping her sequestered, but she is your sister. That is enough for me.”

  A chorus of agreement follows.

  “We appreciate the council’s thoughtfulness in this,” she continues. “We would hope that if any of us were in the same situation as Kenny, we would receive the same treatment.”

  Phil aims a glare Isabel’s way. She heads inside, as if this ends the matter. I take my cue from her, thanking everyone and imparting a few final warnings while assuring them this matter will be resolved as soon as possible.

  As I turn to climb down, Phil ascends. “You—”

  “Can’t talk,” I say. “With Eric and Will gone, I need to organize the volunteers.”

 
; “Your sister—”

  “—is a highly trained professional,” Mathias says, climbing the steps behind him. “We are grateful for her expertise, as Isabel said. Grateful too, to the council, for displaying such understanding in this matter.”

  If looks could kill, Phil was preparing to launch a nuclear warhead. I hop from the platform and start for the station. Isabel is outside now, and she joins me, still in her wrapper, legs and feet bare.

  “So you snuck your sister in,” she says as we walk. “Well played.”

  I make a noise under my breath. “I’d rather not need to play games at all.”

  “I know. But you’re so good, it would be a shame to deprive us of the entertainment. Eric’s performance last night was breathtaking. Even I never suspected he was distracting us while he snuck your sister into town.” She pulls her wrapper tighter. “Phil will be fine. He just needs to learn his place. Which is not with the big girls and boys. A shame really. He’s terribly pretty.”

  “Enjoy.”

  “I still might. I sense a great deal of repressed anger in that one. If properly channeled, it could make for excellent sex.”

  I shake my head and turn toward the station, but she catches my arm.

  “Let’s detour to your old house, Casey,” she says. “Introduce me to your sister. I’ll take over her care from here.”

  “So you can pry out blackmail information on me?”

  She gives me a look. “No. Admittedly, I am curious to meet your sister, but I will contain that curiosity better than others. They will pry—only to satisfy their curiosity, but in doing so, they’ll invade your privacy.”

  “All right. I’ll introduce you to April.”

  * * *

  I take Isabel to meet April, and my sister stares. Just stares, as if a mirage has emerged from the wilderness. Or, possibly, the saloon mistress has emerged from her fine establishment.

  Isabel looks like she belongs on the set of a Wild West movie. She’s mid-forties. Dark hair with a few strands of gray—we don’t import dye into Rockton. No makeup—also, not a priority. But the lack of more modern feminine grooming only adds to Isabel’s aura of old-time glamor. Her silk wrap and bare feet cement the image, and when she swans into my old house, her hand extended, I half expect her to say, “Charmed, I’m sure.” Which wouldn’t be Isabel’s style at all. Instead, it’s a firm handshake as her gaze assesses my sister.

  “Isabel Radcliffe,” she says. “I will be your hostess for the next couple of days, freeing Casey to go about her duties.”

  April’s gaze flicks to me. “All right . . .”

  “The town knows you exist,” Isabel says, “but we will refrain from parading you about. That would be . . . unwise.”

  April’s brow furrows.

  A knock sounds at the door, and Isabel murmurs, “Our boys are fast on the draw. One must give them that.”

  I open the door to find a trio of locals. All men. All trying to peek around us at April. I block their view.

  “Yes?” I say.

  “We just, uh, thought your sister might, uh, want breakfast. We could escort her—”

  “Unnecessary, boys,” Isabel says, stepping around me. “I have this under control. Please, pass the word on to the others. While I’m here, Miss April will want for nothing, particularly companionship.”

  Isabel shuts the door. “Reason number two why I offered to care for April. The local wildlife have caught wind of prey.”

  April looks alarmed. “Wildlife?”

  “The men,” Isabel says. “We have a lot of them. It’s a problem.”

  April frowns.

  “Three men for every woman,” I say.

  My sister continues to look confused.

  “Sex,” Isabel says. “They want sex. As men often do. Well, no, that’s unfair. Women want it, too. In this town, though, that is much easier to come by for us.” She looks out the front window to see the trio of men talking to another group, warning them off with a shake of their heads.

  Isabel sighs. “Did you have to tell them she was your sister, Casey? Wouldn’t great-great-aunt have sufficed? You realize the stream will be nonstop.”

  “You can handle it,” I say as I turn to leave. “Drum up some business for the brothel.”

  April blinks. “Did you say—?”

  “Your sister has a very special sense of humor, April,” Isabel says. “Come along inside, and let’s discuss how we can get your breakfast without attracting a conga line.”

  NINE

  I spend the day running on a treadmill while madly juggling a half-dozen grenades. It’s a solid day of absolutely zero progress, and the best I can say, at the end of it, is that nothing exploded.

  Kenny runs into post-surgery complications. None of them are April’s fault, but my damn sister can’t just trust that I have the medical IQ to realize that. Nor can she seem to see those five other grenades I’m juggling. She has to summon me and make it very clear that she did not cause any of Kenny’s complications. We did, through our unacceptable pre-surgery treatment of the situation. The fact that the “unacceptable” part arose from the situation itself—Kenny being shot five miles into the forest, and us having to convey him to Rockton—doesn’t matter. It’s our fault. All ours. Specifically mine because I knew better.

  Phil is furious about April being here. More furious than he is about Garcia, which spikes my temper even higher. The April situation is a well-controlled bonfire; the Garcia one is a full-blown wildfire. We need the council’s help with the latter. We do not need their bullshit threats over the former.

  Currently, the council’s stance on Garcia is “get him.” Find him, bring him in, and then they’ll decide what’s to be done. Which would be awesome if we could manage the “finding” part. He’s disappeared into the woods, and the council is baffled as to how that happens—how that keeps happening. People continue to escape, and we continue to have a helluva time finding them.

  It’s like dealing with my sister harping at me over Kenny’s care. I want to grab the whole damn council and throw them into the wilderness for a few days. Give them a sense of the circumstances we are dealing with. People down south have died of exposure while lost in a few miles of forest. Imagine if that person is in a forest a thousand times that size . . . and doesn’t want to be found. Garcia can literally plunk his ass down in some bushes, and unless someone stumbles over him, he’ll be safe.

  I haven’t seen Dalton since he left this morning, but I know he’s fine. Give him a water skin and an energy bar, and he doesn’t need to come back before nightfall. Hell, in this weather, he’d be fine indefinitely, sourcing water, hunting and gathering. He also has a gun, and Garcia does not. This doesn’t, however, keep me from wishing our sheriff would swing by once or twice. He doesn’t.

  I’m juggling as fast as I can, powered by caffeine and cookies. When I zip into the station to refuel on both, footsteps follow me.

  “If you’re volunteering for patrol duty, go speak to . . .”

  I turn to see Petra closing the door behind her, and there’s a moment where I think “Thank God.” In this town, I have more female relationships than I’ve ever had in my life, and I am grateful for that. They are complicated, at times fractious, but they are real, with none of that sugar-coated crap I grew up reading and seeing on television, girls linking arms and vowing to be BFFs forever, them against the world. Of all these relationships, there is only one that is truly steady. One friend who is always there for me and never complicates my life. Who never needs more than I can give, never demands anything.

  That is Petra.

  No, that was Petra.

  Two days ago, Dalton and I were bringing Oliver Brady back to face whatever fate the council decided for him. He never made it. Someone in the forest shot him. Dalton and I both saw who did it: the woman standing before me, the woman I thought I knew, the woman I apparently did not know at all. Petra shot Brady, and when we called her on it, she told us we were mistaken.
r />   Nope, sorry, you’ve got the wrong person. Wasn’t me. Uh-uh.

  At the time, Kenny was the bigger concern, so I tabled this discussion. With Garcia on the run, I’d like to keep tabling it.

  “Yes?” I say, my voice chilling.

  “I saw you gave Storm to Brian and Devon.”

  “Yes.” I take a couple of cookies from the box that Brian dropped off. “Someone needs to watch her.”

  “That someone has always been me.”

  “It isn’t now.”

  “I’d like to talk about that.”

  I spin on her. “Really? No, Petra, you will not be dog-sitting for us again, and that is the least of your worries. If it seems like we’ve dropped what happened with Brady, we have not. It’s on the back burner while we extinguish other fires.”

  I take a step toward her. “I saw you. Eric saw you. There is absolutely no doubt in either of our minds who killed Oliver Brady, and I would strongly suggest that, instead of worrying about losing your dog-sitting gig, you take this time to worry about that. Because it has not been forgotten.”

  “I know.”

  “So you came here to admit to it?”

  She moves back. “I came to suggest that you do drop the matter.”

  I stare at her. Then I burst out laughing.

  She has the grace to flinch at that laugh. “What I’m trying to say, Casey, is that it’s a moot point. Whoever shot Oliver Brady did not kill an innocent man. In fact, I’d say they did—”

  I surge forward, and she backpedals so fast she smacks into the wall.

  I advance on her. “If you are about to say they did me a favor, I’d remind you that I’ve had zero sleep in forty-eight hours.”

  Petra straightens, her face setting in a look that, a week ago, would have surprised me. It is hard, and it is unflinching, and it warns me to step the hell back—now.

  I stay in her face, waiting.

  “I was going to say that whoever did this made the right move,” she says. “The move that you, understandably, could not. I would also remind you that Oliver Brady wasn’t the only person to die in that clearing. And I didn’t pull that trigger.”