Watcher in the Woods: A Rockton Novel

by Kelley Armstrong

  I press between his knees and put my hands around his neck. “Wanna talk about it?”

  Another half shrug. “I’m being silly. Tired and frustrated and slightly punch drunk. I got nothing from the neighbors. No one saw a damned thing. I was hoping to bring you a lead, and I hit a brick wall so yeah, I’m tired, frustrated, punch drunk, maybe even a little actual drunk.”

  “Well, I have leads. First, though, we need to talk about April.”

  He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. “Fuck. What’s she done now?”

  “Nothing. She’s actually on her best behavior. But it’s Sunday, Eric, and we have to get her to Dawson tomorrow.”

  He nods. “I know, and we will. We should go to Dawson anyway. You wanted to research Garcia, and there are a few background stories I’d like to verify.”

  “April wonders whether she’ll be allowed to go.”

  “What? Fuck, yeah, she can leave. We don’t need a doctor badly enough to kidnap her. And not badly enough to want her.”

  “She means the council. Since we snuck her in—and now she’s a suspect—will they let her leave?”

  He groans, and his gaze slides to the bottle. He doesn’t reach for it, though. Even his glance over is a joke. Law enforcement and isolated northern communities are both known for alcohol abuse. Being law enforcement in a northern community? That’s a trap we don’t even want to skirt. Anders already drinks a little more than we’d like him to. It’s not alcoholism—Dalton wouldn’t put up with that—but up here, it doesn’t take much to worry us.

  “Does April have a reason to be concerned?” I ask.

  He exhales, air hissing between his teeth as he leans back and studies the timbered ceiling for answers.

  “Fuck,” he says. In other words, yes. Like me, he hasn’t considered this, but now that he does, he sees treacherous ground ahead.

  “I promised her, Eric,” I say.

  “We both did. Don’t go making this about you. I want my share of the blame.”

  He leans back far enough to almost collapse on the desktop before he rights himself.

  I chuckle. “How many shots did you have?”

  “One. I’m a cheap drunk.”

  I lean against his shoulder. “You are. And I’m sorry for putting you—”

  “No.” He gives me a stern look. “Having met your sister, I now understand why you’re so quick to take all the blame. Because she takes none. If she’s putting the screws to you on this, Casey, please remind her that she knew we were sneaking her in. She chose to ignore our warnings.”

  “She realizes that. She’s trying to take her share of the blame, which, yes, isn’t easy for her. Isabel thinks she might be on the spectrum.”

  His brows lift.

  “Autism,” I say. “It’s a spectrum disorder, which is—”

  “A mental condition that can manifest in different way, to different degrees. We had a guy with Asperger’s a few years back. High functioning. I did my research.” He considers, his head tilted. “Yeah, now that you mention it, I can see hints. It’s not nearly as marked as the guy we had, but like you said, it’s a spectrum disorder.”

  “And, as usual, I’m prepared to explain something to you, and you’ve read more about it than I have.”

  “That’s what happens when you don’t have a television. And you have six fucking months of darkness.”

  “Well, April’s actually doing better. Isabel has spoken to her, and April asked Kenny to call her on it, when she sounds harsher than she intends.”

  “Kenny?”

  “That’s what I said. No idea how that happened, but it does mean April’s making an effort. She isn’t blaming me if we run into trouble getting her out of here, but I really don’t want there to be trouble. It’s tough enough between us without adding one more reason for her to treat me like a screw up.”

  He mutters under his breath at that, but says, “We’ll take her with us to Dawson tomorrow. Fuck the council. I’m not even telling them.”

  When I tense, he says, “Val’s dead. Phil’s been exiled here. Protocol’s blown to shit. When we ask to talk to someone, we get that Émilie lady. As far as I’m concerned, until they get their shit together, we’re on our own here.”

  “That’s your story, and you’re sticking to it?”

  “Yep. No one told us April can’t leave. They never even said much about it after Phil’s hissy fit. No one from the council has reprimanded us for bringing her in, so now that her job is done, off she goes. Now, did you say something about leads?”

  I tell him about Sebastian and Roy.

  “Roy seems like a long shot,” I say. “If it was anyone else, I’d dismiss it outright. The timeline is too tight. But he otherwise makes a good suspect. He hasn’t been here long, and Paul’s right that he’s a troublemaker. I don’t know if that’s enough to warrant you giving me his backstory, though.”

  “Good enough excuse,” he says. “That’s all I need.”

  The only person here who is supposed to know a resident’s “real” story is Dalton. The problem is that I’ve been brought in as a detective. Sometimes I need those stories to solve a case.

  As soon as Garcia showed up, Dalton and I had discussed residents who might be the subject of a Federal warrant. It was a very short conversation, one that went something like this.

  Me: Has anyone in town committed U.S. Federal crime?

  Dalton: Not that I know.

  Even with Paul, Dalton had only been told that Paul accidentally struck a law enforcement officer during a protest. Without more detail, it’s a huge jump from that to “has a Federal warrant out for his arrest.”

  Neither of us is even completely clear on what justifies a Federal warrant. I gave Dalton the short run down of what qualifies in Canada. He still had nothing.

  If Garcia is actually a bounty hunter or a hit man, that throws the playing field wide open, encompassing, well, everyone really. Our hidden criminals. Our white collar criminals. Those legitimately here seeking refuge . . .

  So when we have suspects, I’m going to need to know the backstory they gave. That’s the only way I can even begin to determine how likely it is that they’ve caught the attention of a bounty hunter or hit man?

  “Roy’s a white collar guy,” Dalton says. “A capital-A asshole hustler who ran a pyramid scheme, cheating old folks out of their retirement money. I grumbled. I always grumble with guys like that. If they cheat a big company, I realize it trickles down to the little guy one way or another, but actually cheating regular people feels worse, you know?”

  I do. Unfortunately, I know too that Dalton’s grumbles had been only a token show of protest. The council doesn’t care. When it comes to white collar criminals, all that matters is whether their checks clear. If we complain, we get a lecture from Phil on the costs of running Rockton and the fact that even if guys like Roy are indeed capital-A assholes, they aren’t a threat in a society that runs on a strictly regulated economy of credits.

  “We will investigate his story,” Dalton says, “but it wasn’t throwing up red flags for me. He’s here for being an asshole, and he’s continued being an asshole. That isn’t a sinner pretending to be a saint. Attacking you over that lynch mob bullshit, though, took it to a whole other level.”

  “He came at me hard, and I have no doubt he’d have seriously hurt me if he could. But he lacked the skill. It was rage and bravado.”

  “Yeah, as you said, he’s not a great suspect. Too bad. I’d love the excuse to kick his ass out.”

  “Agreed.”

  Dalton stretches his legs and looks toward the back door. Looks at it longingly. Given what we’re discussing, we can’t move this conversation outside. Even in here, we have Artie in the cell, and while that room is soundproofed, Dalton and I still speak quietly.

  “Sebastian’s interesting,” Dalton says. “Mathias is right. Something’s off with him. I don’t know how to explain it, which is why I haven’t brought it up. I figured, if
he caused trouble, I would, but he’s been a model nonentity, if you know what I mean.”

  I do. For us, a model citizen is someone like Nicole or Sam or Kenny. They’re the first to pitch in during a literal fire, and the last to cause a figurative one. Others just want to do their work, pull exactly their share of the load and otherwise keep their head down. They’re model residents rather than model citizens. Nonentities who pass through Rockton without leaving any impression, for better or worse. That accounts for probably two thirds of our population.

  Dalton continues. “When I read Sebastian’s story, it reminded me of Abbygail’s. I wanted to talk to you about it. Just . . .” He rubs a hand over his mouth. “Talk. In the back of my mind, yeah, I hoped maybe Sebastian might be my chance to set the things right. That sounds crazy. I just figured, if another kid like Abbygail came here and everything went smoothly, I might feel like the scales are balanced.” He runs his fingers through his hair. “Fuck.”

  I take his hand and entwine it with mine. I don’t say anything. What happened with Abbygail wasn’t his fault, but he knows that. Everyone who knew her still feels the sting of her death, of misplaced guilt. She died before I arrived—her murder is what brought me here. Abbygail came to Rockton at nineteen, younger than residents were supposed to be, and far more messed up than they were supposed to be. For her, a hellish childhood led to a life on the streets and teen prostitution and drug abuse. When she tried to escape that life, it followed her, old associates setting fire to her parents’ house. Her mother and father died in the blaze. After that, someone got her to Rockton.

  Like me, Abbygail hadn’t wanted to come here. And like me, this town saved her. Isabel and Dalton and others got her on the right track, destined for nursing school once she returned down south. Only she never got that chance. She was brutally murdered, and it doesn’t matter if no one could have foreseen or prevented that, they still feel as if they failed her. To them, it’s as if she’d been drowning, and they grabbed her hand, and when they relaxed too soon, a shark pulled her back under.

  “Sebastian reminded you of Abbygail,” I say.

  “His story did. I read it, and I wanted to talk to you, but I couldn’t, of course. I figured maybe I would anyway. Fuck the rules. They didn’t apply in a case like that. Like with Abbygail—we didn’t go around telling everyone her background, but some people had to know. Sebastian seemed like that. But then . . .” Dalton shrugs. “He wasn’t.”

  “Wasn’t like Abbygail.”

  “Wasn’t what I expected. His background’s similar. Shitty fucking childhood. Tossed around by his relatives, like a puppy no one wanted. Had some arrests. Petty theft, selling pills. Ended up in group homes. Things got worse after that. He joined . . . I don’t know what you call it. I’d say a gang, but it wasn’t like that. Wasn’t like the mob either. Somewhere in the middle. He wanted out, and they weren’t letting him go, so a guardian angel sent him here.”

  I pause. “That’s . . . not what I expected. We haven’t talked much but that wouldn’t have been the background I picked for him.”

  “No, shit, huh? I expected him to be like Abbygail, a tough kid fighting me every step of the way. Or maybe a scared kid, happy to get out of there. He’s a little older than her—twenty-one—but still a kid. What I got was . . .”

  He throws up his hands. “I don’t even know what I got. He’s there, but he’s not there. I meet him, and he does whatever I tell him to. He answers whatever I ask. It’s like dealing with a fucking robot. He never acts. He just responds. Usually, when someone’s like that, I can get a sense of what’s behind it. Maybe they’re uncertain, feeling out the situation, careful not to cause trouble. Maybe they’re pissy, doing as they’re told and nothing more. With Sebastian?” He shakes his head. “Nothing. I was going to talk to you about it, but what would I say? The kid creeps me out? What kind of bullshit is that?”

  “A valid personal reaction. A gut feeling.”

  Dalton makes a face. “Based on what? He’s polite. He does as he’s told. There’s no sarcasm there, no snark, no sense of repressed anger. Guy’s a fucking perfect resident, and I’m complaining?”

  “Well, Mathias thinks there’s something wrong with him.”

  “Like what?”

  “For now, he’d like us to just speak to him. Get our responses.” I hop from the desk. “We can do that right after we tell April about tomorrow.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  I find April at the clinic and promise she’s leaving tomorrow, and there’s no reason to tell anyone other than Kenny and Isabel. The council hasn’t refused to let her go. We just aren’t asking permission.

  April doesn’t like that. She doesn’t actually complain, but she fusses and frets, and I can tell she’s uncomfortable with the subterfuge. Still, the important thing is that she’s leaving. Definitely leaving. If that causes trouble, we’ll deal with it after she’s gone.

  Before we leave, she picks up a pill bottle from the counter. “I presume you need this. It should be put somewhere for safekeeping.”

  I lift the bottle. It contains the bullet she took from Garcia.

  “We’ve identified the caliber,” I say. “That’s really all we need. We already know the gun used so . . .”

  I’m holding the bottle at eye level. Just casually looking at the bullet while I talk. I stop.

  “April?” I say. “Can Eric and I have a moment?”

  Her brow furrows.

  “She needs to speak to me in private,” Dalton says.

  April nods and heads into the exam room, where Kenny rests.

  “What’s up?” Dalton asks.

  I uncap the bottle. Then I lay out a cloth on the waiting area counter and tip the bullet onto it.

  “This isn’t a nine mil,” I say.

  “What?”

  He takes a closer look. “That’s a nine millimeter caliber bullet.”

  “Right. The cartridge is nine millimeters in diameter, but it would be longer than an actual nine mil. Rimless, too. I’ll return to the scene, find the casing and confirm that, but I’m ninety-nine perfect sure this is a three-eighty. It’s definitely not from my gun. We’ll have to fire Garcia’s to check the bullets. I think this explains why the gun was full. No one took it out of that drawer. They used an entirely different weapon.”

  A look crosses Dalton’s face, the horror of a kid who’s bet his year’s allowance on a quiz answer, so certain he’s right.

  “I . . .” He can’t even finish that.

  It’s hard for me to remember that I’m older than Dalton. Even if it’s only by two months, it’s significant because I feel younger. He doesn’t act like a thirty-one-year-old. He can’t as sheriff in a town where ninety percent of the residents are older than he is.

  I got my badge younger than most. I spent years hearing how that was because I was a woman and a visible minority, and I won’t say with absolute certainty those things didn’t play a role, but I also earned it, through my education, my experience, and the fact that I worked my ass off. Even when I left the force, I was the youngest detective in major crimes. So I was accustomed to older coworkers watching my work carefully, double checking and, yes, second guessing. As much as that rankled, I appreciated it too, because they had the experience I lacked.

  Dalton doesn’t have that older partner. He hasn’t since his father left. I’ve wondered at that sometimes. Five years ago, Gene Dalton retired and put his twenty-six-year-old son in charge of Rockton law enforcement. I made detective around the same age, and I hated anyone suggesting that was too young. It felt old enough. For a junior detective, maybe. For sheriff of a town as volatile Rockton, without even an experienced older officer as mentor? Hell, no. When I asked Dalton once how he’d handled that, he’d shrugged and said, “What’s the expression? Fake it ’til you make it.” It wasn’t entirely a joke.

  Dalton’s formal training in ballistics is nonexistent. As in everything else, he’s self-taught. It’s just easy to forget that when I
’m working with him.

  “This is my fault,” I say. “I should have confirmed ballistics first. Especially when Garcia’s gun wouldn’t have been easy for the shooter to get. I just . . .”

  “Trusted me when I said it was a nine mil.” He slumps into a waiting room chair. “Fuck. I’m sorry. I was completely sure, based on nothing more than overweening confidence. I have no fucking idea what a three-eighty is, so I sure as hell shouldn’t be playing gun expert.”

  I pull up a chair in front of him. “We’ll share blame on this one. I’m accustomed to not questioning my partner’s findings. The problem is that you aren’t my detective partner. Like you’ve said before, you’re a junior partner. I’m uncomfortable with that, so I don’t focus on it. But junior doesn’t mean less competent. It means less experienced. I do you no favors treating you like a full detective and not questioning your work. For your part, yes, less confidence in your detective skills helps. You’re not alone in this anymore, Eric.” I point at the door “I understand why you can’t waffle and second guess out there. But when it’s just me, you can say ‘It looked like a nine mil,’ and let me follow up. If you don’t, I should follow up anyway. Likewise, you are free to check and question my work at any time.”

  “I was trying to save you a few minutes, and I added endless fucking hours chasing the wrong damn gun.” He shakes his head. “How much does this screw up your investigation?”

  “Not much, really. Let’s walk.”

  I pocket the bottle and lead Dalton outside into the forest. His face stays tight, gaze distant, and I wait until he shakes it off and glances over.

  “A three-eighty, huh?” he says.

  “It’s very similar to a nine mil,” I say. “In law enforcement and the military it’s mostly used as a backup weapon. It’s smaller than a nine mil, cheaper and has less kickback. Not as much force behind it, though. For a cop, there’s no reason to use one instead of a nine mil. It’s mostly a personal weapon. Well, if you’re American. Not a lot of self-defense pistols in Canada. I’d say that could be significant, but either way someone smuggled a weapon in, which is damn near impossible.”