Watcher in the Woods: A Rockton Novel

by Kelley Armstrong

  Dalton walks to the edge, looming over Garcia’s head. He looks down at the marshal and grunts.

  “Yes, Sheriff,” Garcia says. “I got myself in some trouble, as you predicted. And, no, I can’t get out.”

  “Figured that or you would have.”

  Dalton hunkers down on his side of the divide. I do the same on mine.

  “Are you going to help me? Or just stare at me?” Garcia says.

  “We’re admiring your predicament,” Dalton says.

  “Yeah, yeah. Fuck you.” There’s no venom in Garcia’s curse, only exhaustion laced with the recognition that he has indeed ended up in exactly the kind of straits we warned him about. “Can you get me out, please?”

  “You want to tell us who you’re hunting?” I say.

  He turns a glower on me, and his dark eyes snap. “Really, Detective? I’m not lying here enjoying your fine Yukon air. I’m hurt, okay? I’m trying to hide it. Bit of machismo in that. More than a bit, maybe.”

  I take a closer look. There’s blood on his clothes, and they’re torn far worse than I’d expect from a ten-foot tumble down a crevasse.

  “So,” Garcia says, trying for nonchalance. “Apparently, you have wolves up here.”

  “We do,” Dalton says. “You met them?”

  “You might say that. I went to a stream this morning, and I’m trying to wash dust out of my hair, when I look up to see a goddamned pack surrounding me. They attacked. I wasn’t expecting that. Sure, they’re wolves and all, but I’m the idiot city boy who’s thinking how cool this is. Real wolves, close enough to touch.” His voice is shaking now, bravado fading. “Close enough to rip my damned throat out.”

  He twists, and I see the front of his shirt is torn. There’s blood, too.

  “I’d set my knife down. That’s the only thing that saved me. I’d put the knife right beside me while I washed my hair. When the wolf lunged, I grabbed it and . . .” He holds up his hands, fingers and forearms stained red. “I fought like something out of a damned lost-in-the-wilderness movie.”

  “You killed the wolf?” I say.

  His laugh dissolves into a pained cough. “I wish. The version in my head was like the lost-in-the-wilderness movie—the intrepid hero vanquishes an entire pack of wolves armed only with a knife. I only wounded the one attacking me. As soon as it let go, I tore up the mountain. I don’t think they followed me far, but I never checked. I just kept going. Blind panic fueled by pure adrenaline. Which is how I ended up down here. For a moment, I was like a cartoon character, running on air. Then I dropped. I’ve been trying to climb out but . . .”

  He grimaces as he straightens one leg to show a bloody gash. “I hit the side when I fell. Between that and this”—he waves at his clothing, slashed with bloody holes—“I’m still running on adrenaline. And fear. Probably shock, too. That wolf did a number on me. I’d like to say I did worse to it, but that’d be a lie. I’m in rough shape.”

  “Hold on,” I say. “We’ll get you out.”

  TWELVE

  We set about extracting Garcia. I joked earlier about a rope. I actually have one. I put it into my pack last week after Storm took off chasing a young cougar.

  I clamber down into the crevice and check Garcia’s wounds before we move him. After Kenny, I’ll err on the side of extreme caution in any situation that might result in spinal injury. There doesn’t seem to be one here. Garcia’s ankle hurts to the touch, as does his knee, but the bones are fine.

  Garcia has a half-dozen puncture wounds and tears from the wolf attack. I can’t see how deep any of them go. They’re bloody and ragged, and they’re causing him a lot of pain. Same goes for the leg gash. The upshot is that none of his injuries requires leaving him in this crevice while we run for help.

  With my support, Garcia rises to his feet. Lots of wincing and heavy breathing and a couple of pained gasps but he manages it. Dalton lowers the rope, and I support Garcia as he climbs it. Dalton helps him out.

  I don’t need the rope for more than a handhold. A week ago, I survived clinging to the side of a cliff. This is nothing.

  As dire as Garcia’s predicament had seemed, I suspect that once the shock and fear passed, and he assessed his situation with a clear head, he’d have gotten out of that crevice. Not that I’ll tell him that. If he thinks his injuries are worse than they are, that’ll ensure he doesn’t try making a run for it. Just in case, as I clean his wounds up top, I tell him he’s lucky we came along. Injured and bleeding, he was sure to attract predators. Then I list them, from cougars to black bears to grizzlies to wolves to wolverines.

  “That’s not even counting the wild dogs,” I say. “And the wild pigs.”

  Dalton’s glittering eyes suggest I might be overselling it.

  As for Garcia, he manages a snorting laugh at the mention of dogs and pigs.

  “I’m serious,” I say, as I plaster one of his chest wounds. “Our town kept pets and livestock years ago. The animals either escaped or were turned loose, and they’ve thrived. That’s the biggest danger out here, really. Domestic animals aren’t afraid of humans. You’re lucky we came along when we did.”

  “Believe me, after those wolves, I’d be glad you came along even if I hadn’t fallen into that crack. You guys win. I’m ready to negotiate. Just take me back to your town, and let me see a doctor, please. I’m pretty sure I broke a rib or two falling down that hole.”

  * * *

  Getting Garcia to Rockton isn’t easy, not when Dalton is still trying to hide the fact that he’s injured his dominant arm. We don’t need to carry the guy, but he’s limping badly, and his breathing suggests he’s not wrong about those ribs. He needs a literal shoulder to lean on, one that isn’t twelve inches lower than his. Dalton supports him on his right side, and I drape his other arm over my shoulders. It’s slow going, and when Jacob whistles, warning us he’s approaching, I’m about to breathe a sigh of relief. Then I see Dalton tense, and instead, I tell the guys I need a “restroom” break and hurry off to warn Jacob away. We’ve learned our lesson about introducing newcomers—however unwittingly—to Dalton’s younger brother.

  I tell Jacob we have our man and ask him please let Cypher know. Then Dalton and I continue our trek back to town with Garcia. When we’re close to town, I try the radio. It’s not working great, but I manage to get a message through to Paul, telling him we’re bringing Garcia in, wounded. He takes off to tell Anders and gather a party to meet us.

  It’s at least fifteen minutes later before I catch the distant sound of voices, and we’re almost at town. So much for getting help carrying Garcia. I’ll just need a good shoulder massage after this. A hot bath would be even better, but that’s not a—

  A crack sounds behind us, like someone stepping on a dried branch. I’m turning with, “Will?” when Garcia falls against my arm.

  “Casey!” Dalton says.

  My first thought is that Garcia has collapsed, and thank God we’re only a hundred feet from Rockton. Then there’s another crack, and I realize it’s not a branch.

  Someone is shooting at us.

  Dalton pulls me down just as I start to drop on my own. He looks over at Garcia, but I drag Dalton off the path, as I flash back to a week ago, Dalton trying to protect Brady, lucky to end up with only that bullet wound in his shoulder.

  This time, I’m ready to haul Dalton into the undergrowth and hold him there if I have to. I don’t have to . . . because he looks at Garcia and sees the blood pumping from his chest and knows it is already too late.

  THIRTEEN

  I lift my head. Dalton goes to push it down, but I duck and peer out at the path. There’s a dark shape about fifteen feet away, in the bushes alongside the path. It’s too hidden by that bush for me to see more than a shape.

  “Cover me,” I whisper to Dalton.

  “My arm—”

  “—is fine for cover fire.”

  I inch behind a tree and rise to a crouch. The dark shape has vanished, and I’m aiming my gun at th
e bush instead. I lean out.

  A bullet whizzes past. I drop. Dalton fires. There’s a crash of undergrowth as the shooter takes off.

  I lunge again, but the shooter fires, and I can’t see anything to fire back at. Dalton shoots twice in quick succession, but I know he’s also firing blind. Firing high, as his bullets thwack into trees, his shots intended only to make our assailant dive for cover. The shooter just keeps running, and with the thick growth here, I see only a dark blur dart between two massive evergreens, already fifty feet away.

  I’m about to fire—a wide shot, still hoping to spook the shooter—but a shout from deep in the forest stops me. Running footfalls say someone else has heard the shots and is coming our way. I can’t risk firing off another round.

  “Casey?” Dalton says.

  He jogs up beside me.

  “Take Garcia,” he says. “I’ll go after the shooter.”

  I race back to Garcia. As I do, I shout, “Man down!” and “We need help!” I can already hear shouts and footfalls.

  I drop beside Garcia. He’s been hit twice. Both to the back. The first shot is low and off to the side. The second is to the upper left of his chest, and even if it missed his heart . . .

  I won’t think about that. He’s still breathing. That’s the main thing. Breathing and conscious, but in shock, his eyes wide, mouth working.

  “We’ve got you,” I say. “We have two doctors in town. You’ll be fine.”

  He will not be fine. I know that. But as long as he’s breathing, there’s a chance to find out who did this. To find out who the marshal came for.

  God, I’m a cold bitch, aren’t I? A man is dying in my arms, and all I can think about is keeping him calm enough to find out who he came for. But that’s my job. Garcia is here for a fugitive, and the town knows that, and his target has lain in wait for us to return. Lain in wait to make sure Garcia fails his mission.

  My job is to make sure that person fails in his—or her—mission to dodge justice.

  Right now, Garcia wouldn’t be able to answer my questions. He’s going into shock. I assess and field-treat Garcia’s wounds, mostly trying to stop the bleeding. By the time help arrives, Garcia is unconscious. April appears right behind the first group. That surprises me. I don’t know what I expected—that she’d hear shots and hide? That’s unfair, but honestly, it’s what most people do. It’s the sane thing to do.

  April arrives and only needs a ten-second assessment to look up at me.

  “We’re going to move him to the clinic,” I say.

  Her brow furrows, and her voice takes on a tone I know well, the big sister to the younger one who, time and time again, proves she’s not quite as bright as one might hope.

  “This man—” she begins.

  “—is going to the clinic.” I meet and hold her gaze. “We are taking him to the clinic.”

  “He’s—”

  “Will moving him to the clinic hurt his chances of survival, April?”

  She starts to answer. I’m ready to cut her off again when a lightbulb flashes behind those blue eyes. Well, maybe not so much a flash as a flicker, with the faint hope that her sister is not so medically incompetent, that I realize even firing a bullet into Garcia’s head wouldn’t “hurt” his chance of survival. He has none.

  “I would like him in the clinic,” I say, and she finally seems to get the message.

  “All right,” she says but cannot resist adding, “I don’t think it’ll make any difference, treating him here or there,” for the benefit of the three gathered townspeople. But she doesn’t clarify that he has no chance either way. For that I’m grateful.

  When more locals arrive, I shoo them off. Anders has come running from the forest, and between him and the three others, they’re able to lift Garcia. Anders does frown over at me when he sees Garcia’s condition, but when I say, “I’d like him in the clinic,” he nods, needing no further explanation.

  As we walk, I clear the way with my best Dalton impersonation, warning the residents that we have a gravely injured man, one who has been shot, and anyone who takes too great an interest will zoom to the top of my suspect list. That clears them fast.

  When I catch sight of Diana, I call, “Gather up any militia in town. Have them wait outside the clinic,” and she takes off.

  The clinic isn’t meant for long-term patients. There’s one examination room, where Kenny is currently enjoying morphine dreams. We wheel Kenny into the other area, used for supplies and equipment, which feels kind of like sticking him in the closet. I’ll apologize later.

  As soon as Garcia’s on the table, I shoo off our three helpers with thanks. By that point, Garcia is barely breathing. Anders has already figured out my plan, and he’s jumped in to work on Garcia. April thankfully follows his lead, and the last thing the trio of residents see is the two of them heroically trying to save a man who cannot be saved.

  They don’t stop as soon as their audience is gone. We do make every effort to save the marshal. When he breathes his last, we all step back from the table.

  “He’s comatose,” I say.

  April gives me that are-you-an-idiot look again. “This man is—”

  “Comatose,” I say. “We have about forty-eight hours before the smell will prove otherwise.”

  Anders chuckles under his breath.

  April stares at him. “I realize you are a police officer, Deputy Anders, but let me assure you, I do not share my sister’s sense of gallows humor.”

  “Yeah, pretty sure you don’t have a sense of humor, period,” he says under his breath.

  “Excuse me?”

  “We aren’t making jokes here, doc,” Anders says. “But you’re right that we’re law enforcement. Your sister is a detective first, medical assistant second, same as me. She has a killer to catch. A killer who shouldn’t know that he succeeded.”

  “Or that she succeeded,” I say. “I realize you’re using the masculine for simplicity, but I didn’t even see enough to establish gender.” I turn to April. “Marshal Garcia came to town to catch an alleged fugitive. Unfortunately, he made his intentions clear.”

  Anders looks at the body. “Fatal mistake, I’d say.”

  “Everyone in town knew what he was here for,” I continue. “I had to tell them. After Garcia went door-to-door, enough people knew for the news to travel like wildfire. Better for me to clarify. Someone in Rockton knew there was a supposed U.S. Marshal here to arrest them. That person tried to make arrest impossible.”

  “We don’t want them to know they succeeded,” Anders says.

  I nod. “I’ll put out the word that Garcia survived but has gone into a coma, from which we hope he’ll recover. I’ll make it clear that Marshal Garcia did not reveal his suspect’s identity, but that he certainly will when he awakes. With any luck, our shooter will move to ensure Garcia never wakes up.”

  April thinks this over and then nods slowly. “All right.”

  “I’ll set up guards right away,” Anders says.

  “Hold off for a bit,” I say. “First, I’m going to need to figure out which militia members we can eliminate. For now, that’ll just be everyone who was in sight at the time of the shots.”

  Anders lifts his hand. “I was with Jen and two volunteers.” He looks at April. “You have no idea what a relief that is. Around here, that’s step one in any crime: eliminate the law officers from the suspect list.”

  She stares at him.

  “You think I’m kidding,” Anders says.

  I shake my head. “No, she just hopes you are. Okay, let’s go talk to the militia.”

  * * *

  I’m heading outside with Anders when Dalton comes striding through town. From his expression, I know he didn’t catch the shooter. I retreat into the clinic, leaving Anders in charge of getting militia alibis.

  “How is he?” Dalton asks as he throws open the clinic door.

  “Comatose,” I say.

  I’m tucked back, out of sight of the militia, wav
ing for Dalton to come in and shut the door, but he says, “Fuck. What are his chances?” as the door still’s shutting.

  “Pretty good,” I say. Then I lead Dalton into the back room. “Garcia’s dead.”

  “What?”

  “Lower your voice please,” I say. “It was a fatal wound. He survived long enough to get here, so I’m saying he’s in a coma, in hopes of flushing out the killer. If you disagree, let me know, and he’ll suffer a sudden fatal relapse.”

  “No, you’re right. It’s a good idea. Given our track record, the shooter will figure he can break in here no problem.”

  “I know you’re being sarcastic, Eric, but yes, the shooter has to think they have a chance of success.”

  He slumps into a chair. April is rattling about, cleaning, but he ignores her.

  “I didn’t see anything except a shape,” I say. “Adult human. That’s all I have.”

  “That’s all I’ve got, too. I picked up the trail, but whoever it was, they made a beeline for town. Re-entered by the lumber shed. By the time I got there, people were all over the place. They heard the shots and came out to see what it was.”

  “Maybe one of them saw someone enter town in from that direction.”

  “Yeah. Hope so.” He waves at Garcia. “He’s not gonna be any help.” He exhales. “Fucking shitty thing to say.”

  “Earlier I wanted to make him name his suspect before I rescued him. But I felt like a ghoul. Poor guy was attacked by wolves and thought he might die in that hole, and I wanted to barter for his release. I should have. I really should have.”

  “Wouldn’t have helped. He would have just made shit up.”

  “Now he didn’t even survive our rescue. He might have been better off staying in that hole.”

  Dalton grunts. Then he rises, walks over and pulls back the sheet tugged up to Garcia’s neck. He grabs a probe from the surgical tray and starts poking at the puncture wounds.

  “Excuse me, Sheriff?” April says, turning on him.

  “It’s Eric. Sheriff is what folks call me when they’re showing respect or being patronizing.” He meets her gaze. “You demonstrating respect for my position?”