Watcher in the Woods: A Rockton Novel

by Kelley Armstrong

  “At the clinic. Your sister’s releasing him soon. She’d also like to speak to you.”

  I sigh under my breath. I glance down the road, but there’s no sign of Dalton.

  I swing into the clinic and collide with my sister, coming out backward. She jumps, her hands fluttering, and I realize she was backing out while pulling Kenny’s bed. With Kenny on it.

  Before I can comment, she says, “Can’t you just walk, Casey?”

  “Pretty sure that’s what I was doing,” I say.

  “No, you were bouncing. As usual. Bounce, skip, sail . . . crashing into everything as you go.”

  Kenny snickers. “Sorry, I’m trying to picture Casey bouncing.”

  I look at him. “I was a very energetic kid. My sister has failed to realize I’m well past my bouncing and skipping stage in life.”

  She gives me that frown, the one that says the words coming from my mouth don’t make sense. Not to her, anyway.

  “Yes, I did kind of swing through the doorway,” I say. “And I did crash into you, April. Sorry. Do I dare ask what you’re doing with poor Kenny?”

  “I said I’d love some fresh air,” Kenny says. “I didn’t mean I expected her to single-handedly wheel me out. I’ve objected. She told me to shut up.”

  April blinks. “I most certainly did not—”

  “She said, ‘Please stop.’ Talking, that is. Which is progress. Usually, she just makes this face, like the sound of my voice hurts her head.”

  April’s face reddens. It takes me a moment to realize she’s blushing. “I do not—”

  “Totally do,” Kenny says. “Anyway, I mentioned fresh air, and now she’s wheeling me onto the front porch, and since I can’t physically stop her, all I can do is protest, and she doesn’t like that. So I’m keeping quiet and letting myself be wheeled out.”

  “He’s been stuck in a closet for two days,” she says. “That is not conducive to recuperation.”

  I grab the end of the rolling bed and motion for her to take the head. We navigate through the doorway as I say, “It’s warm out, so you might as well stay here, Kenny, until Paul’s gone. Apparently, he needs to speak to me first.”

  April opens her mouth. I cut her off with, “Yes, and so do you. I got the message. Everyone needs to speak to me.”

  “I don’t think everyone does, Casey,” she says. “I realize you’re a very important person here, but an overinflated sense of self-importance—”

  “—is not a problem Casey has,” Kenny says. His voice is low, gentle, but April still stiffens. He continues with, “Casey meant that it feels as if everyone needs to talk to her.”

  I expect my sister to snap something back, but she only nods. She might even look a bit chagrined. I wave her inside and make sure Kenny’s comfortable before I follow. I close the door behind me. We’re in the tiny waiting room with the door to the exam room shut.

  “Will I still be home by Tuesday?” she asks.

  I swear under my breath. That makes her wince, but she says nothing.

  “I know you need to get back,” I say. “Your job here is done. It’s just a little complicated with the marshal’s murder. But we did promise you. I’ll talk to Eric. He should at least be able to fly you to Dawson Monday morning, and you can catch a flight from there and be home for Tuesday. That gives us two more days.”

  “It’s Sunday, Casey. Late Sunday afternoon.”

  “What?” I think fast and then start cursing again. When she opens her mouth, I lift my hands. “I can do this. I’m really, really sorry. I will talk to Eric right now . . .” I glance at the closed door into the exam room. “Right after I talk to Paul. We’ll make the arrangements. There are more flights out of Whitehorse at this time of year. We’ll have you to Vancouver tomorrow night. I promise.”

  I take a step toward the exam room.

  Behind me, she says, softly, “Are they going to let me leave?”

  I turn. “What?”

  “I realize you snuck me in.” Her hands fly up to ward off my protests. “I knew that when I came, so I am not accusing you of anything. I . . . understand that I sometimes speak too bluntly, and what I do not intend as an accusation may sound like that. I have been told as much in the past, but with you, I fear I slip into old habits. Isabel has spoken to me about this, and I have enlisted Kenny’s assistance in reminding me of it.”

  “Kenny?” I must look confused. Kenny is not the person I would ever expect my sister to reach out to for help. She points to the front porch, as if to remind me who Kenny is.

  April continues, “As I was saying, I realized that I was being brought in secretly, so I am not complaining. But these people know about me now.” She pauses. “I acknowledge that is my fault . . . although, I might point out that I was not fully aware of the extent of the situation and the need for secrecy.”

  That’s not true. We told her more about the situation than Dalton was comfortable revealing. She just thought we were exaggerating. Typical Casey, being dramatic. I don’t say anything though. Even admitting that she came of her accord is progress, and I’ll take it.

  “Are they going to let me leave?” she asks.

  I want to say of course they will. She came here in good faith. She came to help us. She’s my sister, and she knows nothing about Rockton that she cannot know. I would never—ever—have let her come if I thought there was any chance she couldn’t leave.

  But now, as she says the words, ice nestles in my gut. It’s like when our parents would tell me not to take a shortcut to school because ten years earlier, a girl had been assaulted there. I wanted to laugh and say they were being ridiculous. That girl had been attacked by a family friend who stalked her, and since then, the city had added lights and removed shrubs, making it safer than the streets. Yet once they put that idea in my mind, my heart pounded every time I took that shortcut. Every shadow made me jump.

  “The council can’t keep you here,” I say firmly.

  “They’re keeping Diana. I heard that. She wanted to leave, and they won’t let her.”

  “That is a very long and complicated conversation, April. One I’m happy to have someday, but I have a feeling it won’t interest you.”

  “Why not?”

  Because it’s about me. Because nothing in my life has ever interested you, and you’ve made that abundantly clear.

  “Diana made a commitment to stay here for two years. She wanted to renege on that, and under most situations, they’d allow her to do so. This is different, and honestly, as patronizing as it sounds, she’s better off here. If she had to leave, though, I’d get her out. We made you a promise. We will honor that. The council couldn’t keep us from bringing you in. They can’t stop us from taking you out.”

  They can just make it very, very difficult. There may be repercussions. But that’s on us. It’s on me. Not you. I made the choice, and I’ll deal with the fallout.

  I don’t say that either. She’d hear it as virtue signalling. See what a good person I am, April? It’s not that at all, so I stay silent.

  “I’ll talk to Eric. Just let me see what Paul needs first.”

  She nods and heads back outside with Kenny. I take a moment to compose myself. After that talk, I want to grab Dalton and run to Phil and make sure there won’t be any problem taking April home. No, I want to grab Dalton and leave with April before anyone can stop us. My sister did me a favor here. The biggest she’s ever granted me, and if any trouble comes to her because of it . . .

  Dalton would not have let me bring April if he thought she could be trapped here. We’re fine. Talk to Paul. Talk to Dalton. Get reassurances about April, and then take Dalton to interview Sebastian.

  I push open the door. Paul is sitting on the edge of his bed, as if just about to get up.

  “Hey, Casey,” he says.

  I ask how he’s doing before finding out what he summoned me for. It takes conscious effort for me to do things like this—my natural proclivity is to just jump to the point of the vi
sit. It’s not that I don’t care how he’s doing. But I can see he’s okay, up and around, and I’m here on business. I wonder if that’s how April processes things, too. It’s not that she doesn’t think about others, but just that social niceties seem like a waste of time and energy when there is important work to be done. The problem is that if you skip the niceties—especially as a woman—it comes off as cold, abrupt, even bitchy. I’ve been called all three. I can only imagine what April gets.

  When I do get to the point, Paul fusses for a bit before answering. Then he blurts. “I screwed up.”

  I lean back against the counter. “I should say no, you didn’t. But if you want that, you’ve come to the wrong person. Attempting suicide was a mistake. An overreaction. I understand the impulse. Everything seems so bleak that you don’t, in that moment, see any other solution. Just . . . ask for help, okay?”

  “I know. And I’m embarrassed about the whole thing. But that wasn’t what I meant. I made another mistake, one that added to my guilt and made everything worse. Then, when you saved me, I didn’t want to make the situation worse by admitting . . .” He takes a deep breath and meets my gaze. “I didn’t kill that marshal, but his death may have been my fault.”

  “How?”

  “I was guarding Roy when you called.”

  “Right . . .”

  “I was inside the secured house talking to him. I’d just brought his lunch, and I’ve been trying to talk sense into him. He’s an asshole. There’s no two ways about it. Back in my protest days, he’d have been the guy on the other side of the line. Cindy used to say if we could just talk to people like that, we could open their eyes, wake them up. I grew up with guys like Roy, and I know it isn’t that easy, but with Roy, I figured since he’s stuck here with us, maybe he’ll listen to reason. I was wrong.”

  I nod and say nothing.

  He continues, “And that’s no surprise to you, huh? Yeah, it’s pointless, but I still tried. I told him about this marshal guy. I was trying to impress on him how tough a job you guys have with law enforcement. How hard you work to keep us safe, and the last thing you need is garden-variety assholes like him making it worse. I talked to him about that when I brought his breakfast. Then I brought his lunch, and he wanted an update. I gave it, and we were chatting—sports stuff—when you called. I took off to get Will and . . .” He takes a deep breath. “When I came back later, Roy’s door wasn’t locked.”

  “Someone opened it?”

  He shifts on the bed, his hands clenching the edge. “I think I left it unlocked. No, I must have. There’s only one key, and I had it. When I found it open, I tried to remember locking it, and I couldn’t. I was busy thinking about where I’d last seen Will, so I could pass on your message, and I must have walked out and forgotten the door.”

  “Was Roy there when you got back?”

  He nods.

  “Did you say anything to him?”

  Paul shakes his head. “I was hoping . . .” He swallows. “I hoped he hadn’t noticed the door. It was closed, of course, and I figured since he was still in there, with no sign that he’d left, I’d gotten off easy. It never occurred to me that he could be the killer. This Garcia guy was a U.S. Marshal, and Roy is Canadian. Then last night, I was talking to Jen, and she said she thought this guy was lying about being a marshal. That he would know there was no way for you guys to check. I remembered Roy had asked me that over breakfast, when I first told him about Garcia.”

  “He asked if Garcia was really a marshal?”

  “He said something like ‘you think this guy’s really American?’ and I said that’s what he says, and he has a badge, but Roy looked worried. I didn’t think anything of it until Jen, and then I wondered ‘What if Roy thought the same thing?’ I know the marshal came for me—for my Federal warrant—but no one else realized that. Roy sure didn’t. And he was worried. Really worried.”

  “About Garcia.”

  Paul nods.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  I like Roy as a suspect. Paul’s right. He’s an asshole. It’s always so much easier when the bad guys are jerks. Even if Roy isn’t responsible for this, I’d love an excuse to get rid of him. He’s a powder keg waiting for his match.

  The problem with Roy as a viable suspect is timing.

  Garcia’s killer used Garcia’s gun. From our house. That gun could have been taken at any point after Dalton put it into the drawer and returned any time before Dalton put it into the locker.

  I would presume that the killer got the gun when Dalton and I went searching for Garcia. The house was empty, no people, no dog. Then the killer waited for us to bring Garcia back. Now, it’s possible they waited in the forest, but that’s hours of hanging out in hopes that we returned with our quarry. With the militia and volunteers scouring the forest for Garcia, it’s unlikely anyone could stay out there half the day and not bump into someone who’d escort them back to town.

  The more likely answer is that someone heard we had Garcia. After I called, Paul had been running about, searching for Anders, telling everyone what happened so they could help find our deputy. This means there were dozens of residents who knew we were slowly making our way to town with a wounded marshal.

  This timing only works if the killer already had the gun. Roy didn’t. He’s been in custody since before Garcia arrived. Roy would have needed to take off after Paul left, run to our house, ransack it in hopes of finding a weapon and still make it in time to intercept us. That’s twenty minutes maximum. Not impossible but highly improbable.

  I’ve barely started my hunt for Dalton when I spot Anders. I jog to catch up.

  “Seen the boss?” I ask.

  He chuckles. “He just asked me the same thing.”

  “So he finally admits I’m the boss?”

  A louder laugh. “No, sorry. But he is looking for you. I told him I was too, and whichever found you first got dibs. He’s swinging by the station, so we might be able to catch up to him.”

  As we head in that direction, I say, “You wanted to speak to me?”

  “Actually, you wanted to speak to me. You just didn’t realize it. Sam says you’re looking for the person who’d been in charge of Petra yesterday. That would be me. Given the circumstances, I figured you didn’t want anyone else in contact with her. Too many questions. So I handled it myself. I’m going to guess you wanted to be sure she was safely incarcerated at the time of the shooting. She was. I opened the door with her lunch about ninety minutes before you called. I returned thirty minutes later to let her use the facilities. I locked her in and double-checked it.”

  “You need to teach that skill to your militia.”

  His brows arch. Then he winces. “Paul and Roy.”

  “Good guess. You must be psychic.”

  “No, unfortunately. Just an educated guess. Paul’s been on my shit list. First, that fiasco with guard duty last winter, when he let Jen distract him. Then failing to back you up with Roy’s lynch mob last week. I was already planning to speak to Eric about relieving Paul of his militia duties. Two strikes is enough for me. Now, since I know he was guarding Roy when the call came in, I’m guessing he made it three.”

  “He did. He forgot to lock the door when he took off to find you.”

  “Now I have to fire a guy who just attempted suicide. Awesome.”

  “Can you put him on light duty for a while?”

  “Yeah, I will. Paul’s a good guy, but he’s a screw up, and while I appreciate how hard he’s worked for the militia, we can’t have that. At least you know Petra was safely in her cell, though, which is a start.”

  “So you saw her an hour before the shots. When did you see her after that?”

  “Speaking of screwing up . . . With everything happening, I totally forgot about Petra until dinner time. Let’s just say she was very happy to see me.”

  “As far as you know, then, was anyone inside the station between those visits?”

  “If they were, she’d have been shouting for her ba
throom break. But the cell door was locked, Casey. I’m absolutely sure of it. I don’t walk away without checking. I had the key on me the whole time.” He pats his pocket.

  “I’m sure it was locked. I’m sure you had the key. I’m just not sure there isn’t a second key.”

  “Sure, there is. Eric has . . . Oh, you mean a third key. You suspect the council?”

  “They had one to the gun locker. That’s how Val got the rifle. She—and now Phil—may have keys to everything.”

  “So Phil slips Petra the key earlier. Or he lets her out when Paul starts running around telling everyone that you’re bringing in the prisoner. Phil knew you guys had Garcia’s gun, right?”

  I pause. Then I curse. “Yes, of course. We told him we’d taken the gun and satellite phone. I totally forgot about it.”

  “So if Petra works for the council, Phil shows up, hands her the gun, unlocks the door and she slips out the back. Straight into the forest.”

  “Where we’re bringing in Garcia.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  Anders is certain Dalton’s in the station, but when I walk in, there’s no sign of him. I’m looking around when hands close around my waist. I jump as Dalton pulls me into an embrace.

  “Have I warned you about sneaking up on me?” I say.

  He swings onto the desktop and kicks his heels against the desk, legs swinging like a kid’s. “Missed you.”

  “Uh-huh. Someone’s in a very good mood. Had a productive afternoon, I take it?”

  “Nope. Had such a fucking shitty and utterly pointless afternoon that the mere sight of you—even when you’re annoyed with me—puts me into an exceptionally good mood.”

  I lift my brows. Then I spot the tequila bottle on the desk.

  “Ouch,” I say. “That bad, huh?”

  He gives a half shrug. The tequila is mine. Dalton isn’t accustomed to hard liquor. He’ll drink it only with me, when he’s free to be like this, a little carefree, a little boyish.

  “It was drink a shot of tequila or collapse on the floor sobbing,” he says. “I don’t think anyone needs to see me cry.”