Watcher in the Woods: A Rockton Novel

by Kelley Armstrong

  “Because you didn’t want me here.”

  “I didn’t want you because you didn’t want to come. I needed a detective who gave a damn.”

  “I did.”

  “You cared about your job, yeah. But up here your job is your life. You can’t care about one and not the other. You do now. But if someone like Garcia came for you . . .”

  I twist to look at him again. “I can’t imagine that ever happening. It’s been almost thirteen years, and no one’s looking anymore. I was attacked because my boyfriend was a rich brat student dealing drugs on someone else’s turf. A few months later, Blaine was shot. The police figured it was the same guys, and my biggest worry, at the time, was that they’d catch them and they’d have alibis for Blaine. That never happened. It’s a cold case that no one cares about.”

  He nods, but I can tell he’s still worrying.

  I continue. “When I thought Blaine’s grandfather had tracked me down, yes, I was ready to accept my fate. I was also willing to come up here with Diana until you made it clear you didn’t want me. If the council had let you take her and not me, I wouldn’t have turned myself in, Eric. I still wasn’t ready for that.”

  “The council didn’t refuse your deal with Diana. I never asked them.”

  My brows lift. “What?”

  He shrugs. “I didn’t like your offer. Fucking martyrdom. I wanted you to fight. To tell me you’d be a damn fine detective if I let you come. When you tried to cut that deal, I wanted to take you up on it. But . . .”

  “You decided to give me a chance?”

  “No. I really needed a detective, and there wasn’t much chance of me getting another one.”

  I thump back against his chest, laughing. “Fair enough. I can’t imagine anyone will reopen my case, Eric. Even if they did, I’m here. But on the very, very slim chance that someone comes for me, I’m not going to put my hands behind my back for the cuffs. Nor am I going to swallow a bottle of sleeping pills.”

  “You think Garcia did come for Paul? It happened in Washington, and that’s where Garcia’s from.”

  “He’s from Washington state, not the city.”

  Dalton pauses. “So what state is Washington city in?”

  “None. I’ll explain later. Garcia said his fugitive was dangerous. Someone who attacked a federal officer is dangerous . . . especially in the eyes of another federal officer. But Garcia made it sound like we were dealing with a homicidal maniac. That’s not a guy who beats up an officer at a protest march. On the other hand, Garcia may have played up the crime to spook us into handing him his guy.”

  “So, no strong feeling either way?”

  “Unfortunately, no.” I ease off his lap and turn to face him. “Is Paul’s story the one you know?”

  “Yeah. It’s true, too. When he wanted to join the militia, I looked it up. If he assaulted a federal agent, I had to be sure it went the way he said it did. I found the story online. No red flags there.”

  “Then whether or not Garcia came for Paul is a moot point. The problem is that Paul thought he did. He won’t be the only one, either. Finding out who Garcia did come for doesn’t necessarily solve his murder.”

  Which made our job a whole lot harder.

  * * *

  I tell the town that Garcia is dead. I have to. If Paul’s suicide had succeeded, his death would have been on me. My attempt to trap a killer would have taken an innocent life.

  Now I’m back at square one. I can’t even narrow it down by looking at residents accused of U.S. Federal crimes. Yes, Dalton knows resident backstories, and he shares them with me on a need-to-know basis only. In this case, I need to know. The problem is two-fold. One, that the entry stories aren’t necessarily true. Two, Artie tried to kill Garcia thinking he was a cartel goon posing as a Federal agent. The killer could very well have mistaken Garcia for a hired killer or a bounty hunter. Hell, at this point, we aren’t even absolutely certain he’s not.

  I get some sleep. I have to. I’m running on fumes.

  Dalton brings Storm home. We pull the blackout blinds and keep the alarm off and crash into dreamless sleep.

  Six hours later, Dalton comes downstairs to find me in my bra and panties, stretched out on the bearskin rug, as I jot notes in my book, Storm by my side. He walks past me without a word and bends in front of the fire, which is down to smoldering ashes.

  “Sorry,” I say. “I forgot to stoke it.”

  “Kettle won’t boil without fire,” he says, nodding at the kettle I set over the wood. He pulls the handle to bring the kettle in. As he hefts it, he frowns. Then he tilts it. Nothing runs out.

  “There was water,” I say. “It must have boiled dry.”

  “Do I even want to ask how long you’ve been up?”

  He shakes his head as he takes the kettle into the kitchen, and then brings it back, hangs it and relights the fire.

  Dalton sits cross-legged beside me. He doesn’t say a word. Just sits and watches as I write. When I finish jotting a few notes, I glance up. He’s wearing only his boxers, and I tilt my head to admire the view as my fingertips tickle his bare thigh.

  “Don’t start something you can’t finish,” he says.

  I sigh and roll onto my back. “Sorry. Just . . .” I make a face. “Busy.”

  “Nah.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear and taps my temple. “Busy.”

  “Same thing.”

  “No.” He shifts closer and leans over me. “Garcia is dead. His killer isn’t going anywhere. Nor is that killer likely to be a danger to anyone else. You could sleep more. You just . . .” He taps my temple again. “Can’t sleep more. Your brain’s spinning like a clothes dryer.”

  I smile. “Clothes dryers don’t actually spin very fast.”

  “Tornado then. I’ve never seen one of those either, but I know it’s fast.” He pauses. “I’ve used dryers in hotels. Just never paid any attention to how they work.”

  I laugh.

  “What?” he says.

  “The way you say that. As if you have inexcusably missed an opportunity by not observing the normal operating habits of clothes drying machines. But yes, your point is taken. My brain’s spinning. I did manage to sleep for a few hours. After that, I couldn’t, and it made more sense to spew my thoughts on the page.”

  He looks at the open book. “Doesn’t look spewed.”

  “That’s because you arrived at the right time, as I’m organizing the mess into helpful categories and tables. You want to see spew?”

  I leaf back and lift the book. It’s an entire page of questions, almost all crossed out.

  He leans closer. “Trying to narrow down the subpopulations of suspects.”

  “Yep, same damn thing I do every time. And the same damn thing that fails every time.”

  “It doesn’t fail. It just doesn’t work as neatly as it does down south. We’re a unique situation up here.”

  I snort a laugh. “That’s one way of putting it.” I flip onto my stomach, and he stretches out beside me as I point to the list. “I initially tried to figure out who Garcia came for. That’s when I was still half asleep and forgot it doesn’t matter. So anything he may have told us about his target—which is precious little—is meaningless.”

  “Not meaningless. Just because his target may not be the killer doesn’t me I don’t want to know who his target was.”

  “He didn’t specify gender. Didn’t specify how long the person had been here. He said the crime was violent, but as you pointed out, that might be bullshit. The point, however, is that the killer thought they were his target, which gives us a bit to go on. At first, I thought ‘Ah-ha, that means they’re American!’ But no, Artie isn’t, and he thought he was the target. So, ultimately, we are left with knowing only that our killer has committed a crime that would warrant someone—U.S. Marshal or bounty hunter or hired killer—coming after them. I’ll just say that I’m really glad Will and I are off the list, because otherwise, we both fit. So do about a dozen people in t
hat little black book of yours, plus God knows how many whose real stories we don’t know.”

  “Huh. So it’s like one of those murders in the city where you find a body and don’t have a line of suspects queued up behind it.”

  I knock my shoulder against his. “Yes, smart ass.” I move forward in the book. “Which is why I gave up trying to narrow my suspect pool and started compiling a list of physical evidence. First and foremost is the bullet. We have a limited number of guns here and a limited number of people who have access to them. As soon as my sister digs out that bullet . . .”

  I catch his expression. “She already has, hasn’t she?”

  “Yeah. Last night. You were busy, so I handled it, and then after Paul, there wasn’t a chance to talk. It’s a nine mil.”

  “Wait. What? There only person who carries that caliber is me. You were there. There’s no way in hell I shot Garcia.”

  “There’s another nine mil in town. Just not one of ours.”

  “Who . . . ? Garcia. Right. He brought a nine mil. It was in lockup.”

  I see his expression again. “No, not in lockup. In our house.”

  “Yeah. When we let him go, I stashed it in the drawer, along with his sat phone. I meant to get it to the locker that night. Then he came back to town, banging on doors, and I got busy hunting him. Yesterday, I took the gun and the phone and put them into the locker. Which means, not only did I leave a gun out to be used in a crime, but I fucked up your scene by moving it.”

  “I forgot all about the gun myself. As for messing up the scene, your prints were already on the gun. You just added more, and you aren’t a suspect anyway. Did you notice anything when you opened the drawer? Was the position changed?”

  “The other day, I was just concerned with getting it out of sight. I didn’t pay attention to how I put it into the drawer.”

  “So who knows it was in our house? Me, you . . . Oh, and Diana. Did you tell anyone else?”

  He shakes his head. “I mentioned it to Will, when I took it to the locker, but that was after the shooting.”

  “So only Diana knew. She has a solid alibi. She was with Kenny and April in the clinic. She must have told someone the gun was there.” I snap my book shut. “There. I have a lead.”

  When I get up, Dalton says, “You might want to dress first. Not that anyone would object to you walking around like that, but it’s a little nippy out.”

  “Ha ha. I’m not that distracted.”

  As I head for the stairs, he says, “You want this coffee I’m making? I’d insist on breakfast too, but I know that’d be pushing it.”

  I pause. “Actually, now that I have a lead—and it’s not going anywhere—yes, I’ll take the coffee and the breakfast.” I walk back over, eying him, still stretched out by the fire. “Anything else on offer?”

  “You’re heading on this investigation. I play support staff. So just tell me what you need.”

  I grin. And then I do.

  TWENTY-TWO

  I’m on the case forty minutes later. I may have a lead, but it’s not like I’m going to fritter my afternoon away, however much fun the frittering might be. I leave the house, rested, caffeinated, fed, and back on my game.

  Diana works as a seamstress. Down south, she held a string of marketing jobs, the sort that come with interchangeable titles. There isn’t much use for that here, so like many people, she’s fallen back on hobby interests. She’s always had an eye for fashion and used to make some of her own clothes. Up here, being able to repair or resize clothing is a valuable skill.

  I find Diana working at home, sitting on her apartment balcony, sewing in the sunshine.

  “I need to speak to you,” I say as I climb the stairs.

  “Nice to see you, too, Casey. Keeping busy, I see.”

  “You know what the great thing is about knowing a person for fifteen years, Di? Getting to skip the small talk when I am keeping busy. Like investigating a murder.”

  She nods and fold the jeans she’d been hemming. “You’re right. Sorry. I just keep hoping we’ll reach the point where you come over for something other than work.”

  “The way I see it, you’re lucky I don’t send Eric to interview you instead.”

  “That would require delegating. Not happening. Pull up a chair.”

  “Better if we take this inside.”

  She nods, gathers her sewing, and we go in. Diana’s apartment is even smaller than Paul’s. It’s basic accommodations, where people have a choice between sharing a larger space or taking a bachelor apartment, which is the size of a hotel room with a kitchenette.

  “Park yourself on the bed or the sofa,” she says. “They’re in the same room anyway.”

  “Hey, you always wanted to move to Vancouver. Think of this as practice for micro apartments.”

  She snorts. “No kidding, huh.”

  I could also say it’s far more comfortable lodgings than the jail cell she’d have gotten if she hadn’t ended up in Rockton. But that’d take us places I don’t want to go with this conversation.

  Contrary to her snark, there’s more than a sofa and a bed. I lower myself into an armchair, and she perches on the sofa . . . which to be fair, is really more of a love seat.

  “Mark Garcia was shot with his own gun,” I say.

  “He . . . shot himself?”

  “Eric took his weapon, remember?”

  “Please tell me this story ends with our sheriff being the one who shot the marshal, and sadly, Eric will now be forced into exile, and you’ll take over.”

  I just look at her.

  She sighs and leans back. “Okay, I’m being bitchy. You’re fond of the guy, and you don’t need the extra work of being sheriff. It wasn’t Eric who shot him, was it?”

  “No, I was with Eric—and Garcia—at the time.”

  “Wait. So you’re the sheriff’s only alibi? This seems highly suspicious. I think we should investigate.”

  “I’m glad you find the situation amusing, Diana, but since I know you’re not actually accusing Eric, I’d suggest you might want to take this a whole lot more seriously. Someone used Garcia’s gun to shoot him. Three people knew we had that gun in our house. You, me and Eric. Since Eric and I alibi ourselves out . . .”

  She straightens. “What? Are you suggesting I shot him?”

  “I’m just pointing out—”

  “I have a double alibi. Your sister and Kenny. I was in the clinic when we heard the shots.”

  “There’s actually been some question about that,” I lie. “You might want to reconsider.”

  She sputters. “Question? What question? I was there. April, Kenny and I discussed the sound. And why the hell would I kill this guy? You know what I did, Casey. I embezzled funds from my employer, and then Graham convinced me the cops were getting close and I had to run. He double-crossed me.”

  “Shocking.”

  She glowers. “Yes, you saw that coming. Maybe someday you and I will have a conversation about how your best friend could be such a flaming idiot. Or maybe now that you’ve actually fallen for a guy, you have some idea how that works.”

  I don’t point out that Dalton has never lifted a hand against me, and if he ever did, I’d be gone forever. That’s victim blaming. The truth is that I don’t think I can ever understand how Diana could still love Graham after what he put her through. I simply have to accept that she did. Which doesn’t ever excuse the rest. I don’t care how much you love a man, you don’t betray your best friend for him.

  “Graham has the money,” she continues. “I’m stuck up here for at least another year. A U.S. Marshal wouldn’t be involved because it’s not a U.S. case, and Graham isn’t going to send someone after me, because I’m no threat to him. Never was. I’m not you, as he reminded me, over and over again.”

  “Well, if you didn’t shoot Garcia, then we have a problem, because only the three of us knew where that gun was.”

  “Someone else must have.”

  “Eric and I
forgot about it. Otherwise, we’d have secured it in the gun locker.”

  “I presumed it was in the gun locker.”

  “Did you mention to anyone that we took a gun from him?”

  I’ve been hoping she’d volunteer this information. That’s why I lied about her alibi being in question. The obvious defense would be to say that she mentioned the gun to someone. I even prompted her by saying we hadn’t told anyone.

  Diana might insist she’s not “like me.” That’s she isn’t a threat. She might not know how to take revenge on Graham or how to make him pay for what he did, but she has a finely honed survival streak. I’ve tossed her a life raft here, and it didn’t matter if saving herself meant tossing someone else to the sharks. She’d have done it in a blink. The fact that she hasn’t tells me she doesn’t have the answer I want. I still ask, outright, but I’m not surprised when she says,

  “I didn’t tell anyone, Case.”

  “If you did, it’s in your best interests to tell me.”

  “You think I don’t know that?” She pulls her legs up, crossing them. “I didn’t tell anyone anything about what happened at Eric’s house because I knew that wouldn’t help you guys. Also, admittedly, I wanted to prove you could trust me. So, because I kept my mouth shut, I’m now your prime suspect. I think they call that irony.”

  “What about after Garcia ran? Maybe you mentioned something about him being unarmed? Maybe people worried that he was running around with a gun, and you said no, he wasn’t.”

  She shakes her head. “No one realized that I’d met Garcia, so I didn’t volunteer that information. To anyone.”

  I rise from the chair. “All right then.”

  “Can you talk to April and Kenny again? I don’t know how there can be any confusion about my alibi.”

  “It’s fine. Your alibi stands.”

  She gets to her feet. “You lied?” Before I can answer, she says, “Wait. You lied about my alibi, expecting me to toss you other suspects to save myself. Wow.”

  I meet her gaze. “And you wouldn’t have?”

  Her mouth opens. Then it shuts. She sits down. I let myself out, and she’s still sitting there, staring into space.