Watcher in the Woods: A Rockton Novel

by Kelley Armstrong

  “You lived in Rockton?” I say.

  “I was one of the pioneers.”

  “The founders?”

  A light laugh. “No, I’m not that old. Close, though. Rockton had been operating for about ten years when I arrived with my husband. We were newlyweds. Young and idealistic. We’d made some rather foolish political choices, and his parents sent us to Rockton before we landed in jail. We lived in what is now the main kitchen. There wasn’t a need for such a thing in our time, with barely thirty residents. We stayed for eight years. Gave birth to our son and daughter, and then returned home.”

  “And now you’re on the board of directors?”

  “We were the board, at one time. My husband, myself and another couple—friends we made in Rockton. When we came home, my husband returned to his family business. A very prosperous business. His friend also came from money, as they say. When Rockton over-expanded and needed investors, we offered. My in-laws saved our lives by sending us to Rockton, and the town itself saved us too, giving us a fresh outlook that we were able to bring home. The board has grown, obviously.” She goes quiet for a moment. “It has retracted, too. My husband is gone, as is one of the dear friends who founded it with us. The other is . . . unable to perform his duties. Dementia. Which means, of the original four, only I remain. There are several newer members, too, who joined as former Rockton refugees. Fellow idealists. And then there are the rest.”

  “The investors.”

  “Yes, and if you’re hoping for tales told out of school, you have the wrong woman. I know neither of you is particularly fond of anyone one on this end of the receiver. I will not defend them. Nor will I condemn. I am here to mediate the current situation. After the upheaval with Val and Phil—and the situation with Oliver Brady—I have used what little power I retain to grab the microphone, so to speak. I will be clear. My job here is to resolve the current situation, not to interfere with the town’s management. That would be beyond the limits of what I’m permitted to do in this capacity.”

  She’s warning us that she doesn’t dare overstep her bounds. That night be true. Or it might be a convenient way to fend off complaints. It doesn’t matter. We aren’t looking for someone to complain to. We wouldn’t trust anyone who offered to listen.

  “What can we call you?” I ask.

  “Émilie,” she says, giving it a French pronunciation, though I don’t detect an accent in her voice. “That is my name, and that is what you may use. Now, the situation at hand . . .”

  “Mark Garcia is dead,” I say. “We just aren’t letting residents know that yet.”

  “I see . . .”

  “I don’t know how much Phil told you. Eric and I found Garcia. He’d apparently fallen into a crevice after being attacked by wolves.”

  “Wolves? That’s never happened before, has it?”

  “No, and it still hasn’t. Garcia lied. The alleged bite marks don’t correspond to a wolf attack. They were shallow puncture wounds, which he made out to be much more serious, as he did with his supposed injuries from falling into that crevice. We believe he heard us talking—we were with Tyrone Cypher, whose voice carries.”

  She chuckles. “That is putting it mildly. I remember Tyrone. I heard you’d made contact with him recently.”

  “We have, and we’re using him for tracking. Anyway, we believe Garcia heard us, lowered himself into the crevice and made the wounds himself, so he could be brought back to Rockton as a patient, giving him the chance to escape the infirmary and grab his fugitive.”

  “Clever . . .”

  “He’d even been more clever if it didn’t get him killed,” Dalton mutters.

  Émilie chuckles. “True. So from what Phil told me, as you were returning Garcia to town, he was shot by a sniper.”

  “Not a sniper,” I say. “Just a person with a gun, hiding in the bushes. He was shot twice. The first wouldn’t likely have been fatal—it was poorly aimed. The second was the lucky shot—lucky for the shooter, that is. Garcia survived until we got him to the clinic. I could tell he wouldn’t survive much longer, so I shut down access to the clinic. He died shortly after. Only Eric, Deputy Anders and my sister know that. Oh, and Kenny will—we needed to move him. Otherwise, we’re telling people that Garcia slipped into a coma without revealing his target. We’re hoping whoever shot him will come back to finish the job before he wakes up.”

  “Excellent. You have the situation under control.”

  “Yeah,” Dalton drawls. “A Federal marshal died retrieving a fugitive from Rockton. That is not a situation under control.”

  “Our immediate concern is finding Garcia’s killer,” I say. “But the larger issue—the one that we’ll need the council for—is figuring out how serious this leak is. First, we must determine whether or not Garcia was actually a U.S. Marshal. I doubt it, given that he came here alone. My hope is that we have a bail bondsman or private bounty hunter who didn’t file a trip plan with anyone down south.”

  There’s a pause. Too long of a pause.

  “He’s a marshal, isn’t he?” I say finally.

  “We’ve found a Marshal Mark Garcia who works out of Spokane. I have his photo here. Getting it to you is obviously a problem. I can’t determine height from the photograph, but he seems physically fit. He’s forty-five. Dark eyes. Dark hair with some graying at the temples. His mother is Caucasian, father Hispanic. Does that match your intruder?”

  “Yes, but I’d like more.”

  “So would we. You are correct that his behavior is inconsistent with what we’d expect from American federal law enforcement. The marshals do not operate like this, a lone wolf chasing down a fugitive. However, as I’m sure you’re aware from your own law enforcement experience, Casey, how officers are supposed to behave is not always consistent with how they do behave. Even within a department, there can be variation in how ‘standard’ standard operating procedure really is. There can also be exceptions.”

  She’s right, of course. It only takes one superior officer to sign off on something like this, for whatever reason. Maybe Garcia’s partner was unavailable. Or his partner was supposed to join him later. Or, simply, Mark Garcia was a pain in the ass to work with, and his superiors gave up on him. It’s not supposed to happen. But it does. I’d gone out on cases without my usual partner for various reasons. I wouldn’t fly into the Yukon wilderness alone, but I can’t look at Garcia’s situation and say it could never, ever happen.

  “Then he’s filed a flight plan,” I say. “They’re going to come looking for him.”

  “We hope not. Our hope is that he got a lead and chased it without pausing to follow proper procedure. That may be unlikely.”

  “It is.”

  “We know that, and so we’re already pursuing other avenues. We have contacts within the USMS, as we do in most Federal agencies. That has proved advantageous over the years, allowing us to ensure that we do not permit dangerous criminals into Rockton.”

  Dalton and I exchange a look at that.

  Émilie continues. “We are, of course, very circumspect with those contacts. Which means we can’t simply phone and ask if they’re missing a marshal. But if this man is Marshal Mark Garcia, and he was working a case with a registered travel plan, then we have every hope of resolving the matter before it becomes a security threat.”

  “Resolve it how?” Dalton says. “Their marshal is dead.”

  “Which means, I fear, that our best hope of resolution punts the ball back into your court.”

  “Find his killer,” I say. “Offer them that.”

  “Yes.” She pauses. “And while your focus is, of course, on who killed Marshal Garcia, have you given any thought to how he found Rockton?”

  “He said his target had talked to someone before coming to Rockton,” I say. “Reassuring a loved one that they’d be safe. Garcia says he got enough to remind him of something he’d heard, about a town out here. Obviously, it’s more complicated than that, given that he managed to find us.”r />
  “He followed the plane,” Dalton says.

  I glance over.

  “He tracked the plane somehow,” Dalton says. “That’s the best I can come up with. He arrived the same day we flew back from Dawson. It doesn’t seem likely to be coincidence.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” Émilie says. “Which leads me to make a very uncomfortable suggestion about a potential suspect.”

  “Who?” I ask.

  “Your sister, April.”

  “What?” I laugh. “Uh, no. Trust me. There is no way in hell that my sister has attracted the notice of a Washington state marshal. Not as a fugitive, at least.”

  “Your sister attends regular conferences in the U.S. Including one last year in Seattle.”

  “Right. Because she’s a very successful neuroscientist. She speaks at conferences and presents her papers.”

  “I’m not going to argue about this with you, Casey. I’m simply putting forward a theory. You went to get your sister’s help, via a conference call. Instead, she offered to come with you. Shortly after she arrives, we have a marshal who apparently followed your plane here.”

  “But Garcia said he spoke to someone. A person connected to his fugitive. That can’t be April. It doesn’t fit.”

  “Because it was a lie. A deflection to keep you from guessing his target. Marshal Garcia’s story contained no details, correct? Just a vague account of speaking to someone whose words reminded him of something he heard about a town out here.”

  My gut screams that she’s wrong—she must be. But if we weren’t discussing my sister, I’d have already jumped to this conclusion. Earlier, Anders said we need to consider everyone, and I agreed. I must always consider every possible suspect, whether it’s a friend or my sister.

  “But they saw each other,” Dalton says. “Garcia knocked on April’s door, and she answered. There wasn’t any sign that he recognized her, right?”

  I open my mouth to say, yes, he’s correct. Then I mentally play back that moment and shake my head. “I’m not sure Garcia saw April. She came to the door while you two were brawling.”

  “But she would have seen him,” Émilie says. “She might have recognized him.”

  Yes, she might have.

  SIXTEEN

  I find April tending to Kenny. He’s awake but groggy. I speak to him for a moment and then take April into the next room. When the door shuts, I cross the floor, getting far from it, which unfortunately puts me next to Garcia’s corpse.

  “You know why Marshal Garcia was here, right?” I say.

  “I know why that man was here.” She nods at the body. “And I know he may be a marshal.”

  “It seems he is.”

  “Then I hope there are procedures for handling such a security breach, Casey. I came here to help you. I did not intend to get caught up in an international crisis.”

  “I—”

  “If there’s even a hint of that, I expect to be flown out immediately.”

  I study her expression. She looks pissed off. Worried, too? Frightened?

  “Why?” I ask.

  “Why would I not want to be here when a branch of the United States government descends on you for the murder of one of its officers?”

  “You know why he was here, right?”

  She flutters her hands and starts reorganizing implements. “Is this a test, Casey? Do you want me to pretend I don’t know he was here chasing a fugitive? Pretend I don’t realize not everyone in this town is here for an innocent reason?”

  “No, I just want to know why you were in such a hurry to get here.”

  She looks up. “What?”

  “You haven’t seen or heard from me since last fall. I show up and ask to speak to you, and you treat me the way you did when I called last time—like I’m your kid sister who just keeps popping up, annoying you with petty demands. You wanted nothing to do with me . . . until you got a better sense of the situation. A sense that I was offering to take you someplace far away, someplace hidden. Then you jumped. Forget a conference call. Let’s pack a bag and go.”

  She tries to answer, but I continue. “I should have questioned that. Years ago, you gave me shit for trying to surprise Mom and Dad with an anniversary family trip. You said six months notice wasn’t enough. You accused me of springing it on you at the last minute. That was your idea of spontaneity. So I should have known something was up when you dropped everything to come with me.”

  “Are you . . . ? Are you asking if this man came for me? Followed me?”

  “Yes.”

  “If this is one of your very poor attempts at humor, Casey—”

  “It’s not. It’s an honest question. You went from ‘get away from me, Casey’ to ‘how soon can we leave’ in ten seconds flat. The only way this guy could have shown up is if he followed us.” I meet her gaze. “Did he follow us here, April?”

  “You’re serious. You honestly believe that I’m a fugitive wanted by the American government.”

  “I honestly believe that I don’t know shit about you, big sister.”

  Her eyes narrow. We exchange a look that scorches between us, and when she speaks, she barely unhinges her jaw. “That is not my choice.”

  “Hell, yes, it is. You’re the one—” I stop short. “The point is that I do not know you nearly as well as I should. I do know that you make regular and frequent trips to the States.”

  “For medical conferences. For seminars. Dear God, I know you aren’t a genius, but this is a new low, even for you.”

  “No.”

  “No, it’s not?”

  I advance on her. “No, you will not play this bullshit card with me, April. I’m not a child anymore. I’m not going to be humiliated into silence anymore, terrified that if I open my mouth, I’ll only prove you and Mom and Dad were right, and it’s a miracle I have the brain cells to spell my own name. I’m smart. I know I am. But more than that, I’m capable. I earned my job, and I’m good at it. That is the one thing even you can’t make me doubt. I might only have one skill, one real talent, but this is it, and you’re treading on my turf here, big sister, so tread carefully. Tread very carefully.”

  “I—”

  “Let’s rewind. Right now, I’m not Casey, your little sister making stupid accusations. I’m a detective questioning you in regards to a murder investigation.”

  She fixes a cold stare on me. “All right, Detective. Ask.”

  “What made you change your mind so quickly?”

  It takes her at least sixty seconds to answer. When she does, her voice is as cold as her stare. “My little sister asked for my help.”

  “Oh, don’t you—”

  “You want to play this out, Casey? Then close your mouth and listen.” She crosses her arms. “My sister took off last fall. Called with some rushed message about needing to go away, and said I might not hear from her for a couple of years. I thought she was just being her usual dramatic self.”

  “Dram—?” I stop and nod. “Sorry. Continue.”

  “Then next thing I know, she’s actually gone. Quit her job and left with her friend. Diana, who has never been anything but an albatross around Casey’s neck. But no, Diana needs her, so Casey quits a very good job to move away with her. And what do I get? A twenty-second phone call. But that’s my sister. She’s careless, thoughtless, selfish and reckless. Zero sense of responsibility. I should be used to it by now. But I’m not, and when her leaving hurt, it proved that I needed to sever that link, and if she ever came back, I was not giving her the power to hurt me again.”

  I can only stare at her. It’s as if I really am hearing her talk about a third party, our nonexistent other sister.

  She continues, “But when she asked me for something—the first time in her life she’s ever asked me for anything—I saw the look on her face, and I saw how much she needed me. She needed help saving another person, and I was the one she came to. So I said yes. God help me, I said yes. And now I wish I hadn’t.”

  “That is
bullshit,” I say. “Complete and total bullshit.”

  “Excuse me?”

  I move toward her again. “Do you really think that’ll work, April? Spin some bullshit story to make me feel terrible. Convince me that you came here for me? You really do think I’m an idiot?”

  Her voice rises. “Excuse me?”

  “So I’m careless, thoughtless, selfish, reckless and irresponsible? Is that the full list? Are you sure you don’t want to add anything?”

  Her mouth opens.

  “You call me thoughtless and selfish . . . for giving up my job, my home, my life to help a friend escape her abusive ex. Careless? Irresponsible? I defy you to find someone else who would apply either of those words to me. Yes, I can be reckless. But never by endangering others. My brand of recklessness is doing stupid things like throwing a bear cub to avoid shooting its mother.”

  “You threw—?”

  “Not important. The point, April, is that I call bullshit on your story, and I’d really think you’d have the IQ to come up with a better one.”

  “So you’re not careless? Not thoughtless and selfish? What about the hell you put our parents through, always racing off, riding dirt bikes and skateboards. Even that dog of yours. You know how our parents felt about dogs, especially big ones. They’ve been gone five years, and you’re still defying them.”

  I laugh. I have to. Her expression, though, is perfectly serious.

  “I did normal kid stuff, April. Yes, Mom and Dad didn’t want me to do those things, but I wasn’t running wild, hot-wiring cars or selling drugs on the street corner.”

  “No, you just dated a drug dealer. Who left you to be beaten nearly to death.”