Watcher in the Woods: A Rockton Novel

by Kelley Armstrong

  Getting past five years is damned near impossible. Getting beyond the minimum currently only requires you pull your weight and don’t give us trouble.

  Artie did not qualify for an extension. He’s gone through seven positions since he got here. I’m not even sure what he does now. While he isn’t a troublemaker, he’s constantly whining and complaining, and honestly, I think Dalton prefers the troublemakers.

  So why is Artie now in his fourth year at Rockton? When other residents complain about Artie’s extensions, he says, “I have no fucking idea.” In private, he suspects Artie is one of our white collar criminals and he’s buying his extensions.

  I’m surprised to see Artie staking out the clinic. I can’t imagine him shooting Garcia. But I’ve learned that in Rockton, those assessments are bullshit. Maybe they’re bullshit everywhere. As a homicide cop, I never actually knew the people I arrested. Yet even down south, how many times were a killer’s friends and coworkers stunned? How many offered to give character witnesses, convinced the police had made a horrible mistake?

  As Artie watches the clinic, I motion for Isabel to take Storm and retreat the way we’d come. I slip through the trees until I emerge two houses down from the clinic. Then I loop along the street and through the clinic front door, after briefly speaking to Sam, who’s stationed there.

  Diana is inside, watching over Kenny. I talk to her. Then I grab the radio we left in the clinic and head out back, where one of the militia stands guard. As I walk out, I’m talking into the radio.

  “He’s out here. You want me to send him over?”

  Pause.

  “Sam’s on the front door. That’s covered. Diana’s looking after Kenny and Garcia, but Kenny’s fast asleep. I’ll send both and cover nursing and back-door duty myself.”

  Pause.

  “Got it. They’re on the way.”

  I send the back-door militia guard inside, murmuring, “Talk to Diana.” He doesn’t question. A minute later, they’re on the front porch, telling Sam that they need to go handle something for Dalton. Then their footsteps retreat along the hard-packed dirt road. Five minutes later, my walkie-talkie beeps with an incoming call. I answer.

  “I can’t find Eric or Will,” Diana says. “I’m using the radio at the station.”

  Shit. That’s not ideal.

  “Okay,” I say, loud enough for Artie to hear, “It’s quiet here. I really can’t imagine the shooter would dare try again. Between you and me, Will, I think Eric’s overreacting.”

  “Eric’s always overreacting,” Diana says. “Sadly, he usually has good reason. And I can’t believe I admitted that.”

  “Sure,” I say. “Give me five minutes, and I’ll be there. Sam’s got the front door. Good enough. Just don’t tell Eric.”

  “I wish I could tell Eric this plan of yours,” Diana mutters. “You’re going to handle it on your own, aren’t you?”

  I laugh. “Okay, sure. I’ll be right there.”

  “And I’m going to find Eric or Will,” Diana says. “Hold on, okay. Don’t try this without—Oh, hell, why do I bother? Just be careful, Case, okay?”

  I sign off and head inside. I walk through and out the front door, where I speak to Sam. He takes off across the road, giving the sound effects I need—those running footfalls.

  I slip back into the clinic. Then I hide in the room with Garcia’s body, crouched behind a chest of instruments. Yes, that feels ridiculous, but it’s a small room, and I don’t have a lot of options. A moment later, Artie tries the door. I locked it, but I didn’t pull it shut all the way, and there’s a sharp intake of breath as he discovers it isn’t actually closed.

  Artie slips inside and shuts the door behind him. He looks around and sees the partly open door into Kenny’s closet-room. He creeps to it and peers through the gap. Then he pulls the door shut. A moment’s pause as his gaze sweeps the tiny exam room. There’s moonlight coming through the window, and thankfully he decides that’s enough and doesn’t light the lantern on the counter.

  Artie looks down at Garcia’s still form. The marshal’s eyes are shut, the sheet pulled to his chin. An IV drip is attached to his hand. He looks like he’s sleeping, and from here I see nothing to destroy the illusion. April even left an open bottle of disinfectant to cover any odor of decomp. Artie certainly seems fooled. He’s not paying close attention to Garcia, just gazing at his body, as if trying to drum up the courage to act.

  He watches Garcia for at least thirty seconds. Then he glances at the back door. Garcia. Door. Artie marches toward the door and grasps the handle. Damn it. He’s changed his mind, and he’s about to leave. I’m ready to step out and confront him before he goes. But then he releases the knob and moves into the room again.

  His shoulders straighten, and his gaze sweeps the room. It stops on a pillow left on a chair. That is not accidental. This room has been staged. A pillow on the chair. A scalpel left on the tray. Even a bottle marked Morphine with a needle beside it. So many ways to kill a man, should you have forgotten to bring a tool. I’m helpful that way.

  Artie picks up the pillow. He steps beside Garcia. His Adam’s apple bobs. Then he lowers the pillow . . . and sees me, crouched in my imperfect hiding spot.

  I straighten. “Okay, Artie, put down the pillow.”

  He lunges for the scalpel. I’m already coming at him, and when he sees he’s not going to make it, he knocks the tray instead. The scalpel skates across the floor. He dives, grabs it and rolls onto his back, brandishing the tiny blade . . . to see me calmly holding my gun on him.

  “Go ahead,” I say. “It’s better than the pillow. Take your shot. I’ll take mine.”

  He whips the scalpel. It bounces off my jeans as he scrambles for the door. He grabs the knob, twists and—

  “You need to unlock it first,” I say.

  He goes to do that, but I’m already on him. I’ve holstered my gun, and when he reaches for the lock, I grab his arm and throw him to the floor. Behind me, I hear a snicker, and I glance over to see Sam watching the show.

  “I’d have helped,” Sam says. “But I figured I’d just get in the way.”

  “Good call.”

  I wrench Artie’s arm, pulling him to his feet just as footsteps sound on the front porch. Dalton runs in.

  “It’s under control,” I say.

  “So I see.”

  “He threw a scalpel at me,” I say.

  “I’ll add that to the charges.” He walks over and takes Artie. “Arthur Grant, you’re under arrest for the murder of Mark Garcia.”

  “What? No. I never—” Artie twists to face me. “Casey, tell him. I never used the pillow.”

  “Only because you saw me.”

  “I wouldn’t have used it, and you can’t prove otherwise. Even if you try, that’s attempted murder.”

  “Nope,” I say. “He’s dead.”

  “He can’t be. That pillow never touched him.”

  “Your bullets did. That’s the murder you’re being charged with, Artie. The man you just tried to kill? He’s already dead.”

  * * *

  “I didn’t do it,” Artie whines as Dalton strong-arms him into the station.

  “Here’s a thought,” I say. “Surprise us. Upend our expectations. Stand tall and proud and say, ‘Yes, I did it and by god, I’d do it again if I could.’ If you really, really must proclaim your innocence, just don’t whine about it, okay? The whining really gets on our nerves.”

  Artie gapes at me. Then he says, “You—you aren’t supposed to talk to me like that. I have rights.”

  “No and no,” I say. “You signed off on those rights when you came up here. Literally signed them away, in return for safety. And while down south I wasn’t supposed to talk to suspects like this, I sure as hell wanted to. Up here . . .” I glance at Dalton. “May I speak to him like this, sir?”

  “Fuck, yeah. I’m sick of his complaining too. Four years, Artie, and I don’t think I’ve heard you say a sentence without whining it. I’m b
eginning to suspect it’s a speech impediment.”

  Artie straightens. “Fuck you, asshole.”

  “Nope, apparently not a speech impediment. Good thing, ‘cause I’ve had to apologize if it was, and I might even have felt bad. Truth is, you’re just a whiny little shit. Now you’re a whiny little shit murderer. Not sure if that’s a step up or down.”

  Dalton pushes Artie into a chair, and I secure his hands. Artie’s cursing the whole time. We ignore him until I’m done.

  Then he says, “I have an alibi.”

  “Yeah, heard that one,” Dalton says. “Also noticed you didn’t stick around when we started asking for the alibis.”

  “Because you needed two witnesses, and I only had one. I was waiting my turn. I was doing what you told me to, asshole.” Artie looks at me. “At the time of the shooting, I was with Mindy. I had . . . arranged for her company.”

  Mindy is one of Isabel’s “girls.” She’s relatively new to Rockton, and she came after being a sex worker down south, where she witnessed something that put her in witness protection . . . which did not protect her as well as it should. When she came up here, she happily resumed her former occupation for extra credits. She was the idealized version of prostitution—a healthy and capable woman who said “my body, my choice.”

  “At the moment the shots were fired . . .” I prompt.

  He meets my gaze with a smirk. “I was firing my own. Just ask Mindy. She made a joke about it. Fireworks and all that.”

  I will check with Mindy, obviously. There’s a tendency to think that a woman who’d sell her body might be equally willing to sell her integrity, but that’s bullshit. I’m sure many people in town would sell an alibi—or trade one—which is why I’d asked for doubles.

  “So you’re claiming you didn’t shoot Marshal Garcia,” I say.

  “Uh, yeah.” He rolls his eyes, confidence soaring.

  “Then why did you just try to murder him?”

  “I wasn’t—”

  “Yeah,” Dalton says. “You were just giving him a pillow. Making him comfortable. The problem with that? Most of us prefer the pillow under our heads.”

  “You tried to murder Marshal Garcia,” I say. “I saw it. The question is what we tell the council. What we recommend to them. Do we say you’re a cold-blooded murderer? Or do we plead extenuating circumstances and ask for leniency? Ask them to let you stay. Because that’s the fate you face. Being forced out of Rockton. Given all your extensions, I get the impression you don’t want that.”

  “I wouldn’t have gone through with it.”

  “Don’t care,” Dalton says. “What matters is what Casey saw.”

  “You wanted to stop Marshal Garcia from waking up,” I say. “You were afraid of what he’d say when he did. Which means you thought you were his target. There’s a U.S. federal warrant out on you—”

  “Hell, no. I’m Canadian.”

  “Yeah,” Dalton says. “That doesn’t actually matter. If you committed your crimes in the United States—”

  “I didn’t commit any crimes. I’m the victim here. I heard people saying he’s not a real marshal. I mean, come on. I’ve only ever seen them on TV, and I know one guy isn’t going to come into the Yukon wilderness chasing a fugitive. He was with one of those drug cartels.”

  “You stole money from a drug cartel?” I say.

  “I didn’t steal anything. Are you listening to me? I’m the victim here.”

  “The victim who bought his way into Rockton,” Dalton says. “Who is buying his extensions. You don’t get that kind of cash working as . . . a social worker, wasn’t it?”

  “I didn’t steal that money.”

  “So a drug cartel gifted it to you?” I say.

  “Yes, actually. In payment for services rendered.”

  “You worked for a drug cartel.”

  His nose screws up. “Of course not. Like I said, I’m not a criminal.”

  “So they paid you to keep quiet about something. A client came to you with information, and you exhor—convinced a cartel to pay you not to reveal that information to the police.”

  He snorts. “Believe me, my ‘clients’ would never have information worth that sort of payoff. Bunch of deadbeat addicts, never worked a day in their lives. You haven’t heard whining until you’ve sat in my chair. I put myself through school, all the way to a Master’s degree, and where did it get me? A shit-paying job listening to losers.”

  “If you wanted a lucrative career, social work may not have been the way to go.”

  He scowls. “I planned to be a psychologist, like Miss Holier-than-Thou Whore-Mistress Isabel. But I got fucked over. Couldn’t get into grad school, because I’m a white male.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “So I went into social work, thinking I’d get my psych doctorate once I had some work experience, but that never happened. So I was stuck listening to druggie losers all day. That’s when I hit on a plan to make some extra cash. I started getting details from my clients and going after their suppliers. Cutting my own deals. Five grand here, ten there . . . It adds up. I made a better detective than you, Casey. I climbed higher and higher up the food chain until I was trading serious info for serious cash.”

  “Until you climbed too high and attracted the attention of the wrong people. A cartel.”

  “Apparently. So I ran, and now they’ve found me. Obviously.”

  “Why ‘obviously’? What made you think Garcia was after you?”

  He looks at me like I’m a moron. When I don’t react, he taps his cheek.

  “You recognized him?” I say.

  He rolls his eyes. “Exactly how many Mexican marshals do you think are out there? Obviously he’s with a cartel.”

  I stare at him. Then I turn to Dalton. “Better let Phil know we’re shipping Artie home.”

  “What?” Artie says. “You said if I had an excuse—”

  “You don’t,” Dalton says. “We’ll verify your alibi, and then you’re gone.”

  NINETEEN

  I let Petra out of the cell. I have to. Last week we doubled our secured space by constructing long-term lodgings for Brady. Now we’ve got Roy in there and Petra in here, and we need someplace to stash Artie.

  Petra’s incarceration has served its purpose. The council has been advised that we’ve charged her with the murder of Oliver Brady. And they’ve said nothing. Phil desperately wanted to talk to us about that, so I’m presuming he notified them, but Émilie didn’t comment on the situation. I’m not sure what to make of that. At this point, I no longer care. I’m back-burnering this murder to solve one where I don’t know whodunit.

  “So this is like . . . bail?” Petra says when I tell her she’s free to go.

  “We’ve been told to release you,” I say.

  “By who?” She gives a soft laugh. “Nice try, Case, but no one said to let me go. You need the cell space, and you know I’m no danger to you or anyone here.”

  I wave for her to leave.

  “I mean that,” she says. “I’m here to help. I’m on your side.”

  “Good night, Petra.”

  “Well, I suppose I should thank you for locking me up. Otherwise, you’d be accusing me of shooting this marshal guy. Someone did you a favor there, too, from what I hear.”

  “Yeah, murdering an on-duty U.S. Marshal? I can’t see how that could ever turn out badly for us.”

  “The council will take care of it.”

  “Like they took care of Oliver Brady?”

  She says nothing.

  “You know what I wish?” I say. “I wish people would stop doing us favors.”

  I escort her out the door before she can answer.

  * * *

  No one has “done us a favor” here, and I spend far too much time seething over Petra’s words. A dead marshal is serious trouble. Even if it wasn’t, it’s wrong. This wasn’t Oliver Brady. It wasn’t Val Zapata. It wasn’t even my ex, Blaine, who, whatever his mistakes, did not deserve that bulle
t. On a scale of deservedness, though, the murder of Mark Garcia ranks far below even Blaine. This was a U.S. Marshal. An officer of the law doing his damn job, and if the execution of that job proved inconvenient to us, too bad. We could have dealt with it once we’d stopped butting heads and come to a place where we could negotiate.

  Yes, Garcia was a pain in the ass. Yes, he threatened our security here. Yes, he tried to trick us with his “attacked by wolves” crap. But Dalton saw through that. We’d have brought Garcia back, gotten him secured in Rockton, and then thwarted his plan to sneak out and find his suspect.

  We’d have bested him, and he’d have thrown up his hands and said “You win. Let’s talk.” That’s not wishful thinking. I’ve known too many men like Garcia. His issue with us was a territorial pissing match. A battle of law enforcement wits. When we won, we’d have gotten our reasonable conversation and solved this. Now we can’t. Now we are screwed, and for Petra to suggest—

  That’s my hurt feelings talking. I’m still smarting from her betrayal. More than smarting. Which means she has far too much power over me right now. When she leaves the station, I’m tempted to slip after her. See where she goes. But Petra’s secrets are a matter for another time. Like she said, I know she didn’t kill Garcia, being locked in the cell the entire time. So I can put her out of . . .

  Am I sure she was in there the entire time?

  The moment I think that I want to dismiss it. Chalk it up to more hurt feelings. I’m angry with her so I don’t want her getting a pass on this. I want to go after her, for something, anything.

  She was locked in a damn cell, Casey. No one has a better alibi than that.

  Here’s the problem, though. I am almost certain Petra works for the council. It’s the only solution that makes sense. Someone sent her after Brady, and that someone also supplied her with a gun and a silencer. We don’t have silencers here. There’s no point. But when I think about the gun, I remember another one that went missing.

  When someone shot Dalton in the arm, the gun came from our locker, which had stymied us. Only Dalton and Anders have keys. I’d asked whether the council might have a spare, and Dalton had allowed that it was possible. Considering that Val was the one firing that gun, we presume I was right. But if Val had that key, might she also have one to the cell? If so, it’d be easy enough for Phil to slip it to Petra. No one would have been guarding her cell. It’s locked. We don’t need to watch over prisoners—we just make sure someone pops by regularly to see if they need anything.