“Come to Rockton,” I say. “Eric’s there. He wants to help—”
She shakes her head.
“Maryanne, please.”
She lifts her hand with the missing partial fingers and touches her ruined ear and then her filed front teeth. Tears fill her eyes.
“Not like this,” she says.
I’m not going back like this. That’s what she means. That is the horror of her situation. Something has happened to her since we last met. Dalton made a connection, and she’d been ready for it. She wasn’t the madwoman who attacked him years ago. She’d already changed, calmed. When he made that connection, it reminded her of who she’d been and something sparked. She began rising from that pit. Her mind rising, but her body . . . Her body had already changed, and no epiphany could regrow her ear and fingers and teeth. She now had the mental wherewithal to realize that, which made it all the worse.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say. “We have a doctor. We can help. You can—”
“No,” she says, those tears spilling.
She turns and runs. Petra looks at me, poised to sprint after her, and my muscles tense, ready to do the same. I take a deep breath and shake my head.
“It can’t be like that,” I say.
She nods. Then she keeps looking in the direction Maryanne went.
“That was a . . .” Petra begins.
“Hostile, yes.”
She’s still staring. “I thought . . .”
“Thought we were lying? Exaggerating? Trying to scare people with tales of bogeymen in the forest?” I hear my voice, harsh, and I shake my head. “Never mind. I’m just tired and frustrated.”
She looks over then, meeting my gaze. “I get it now, Casey. I really do.”
I turn to the bodies. “I want to take that one,” I say, pointing at the hostile she shot. “I want to examine him. Run some tests.”
I know that’s cruel. This is not a cadaver donated to medical research. His people might want his body back. They might have burial rituals. I can’t care about that. I need answers, and this is one way to get them.
Petra doesn’t even question. She just nods and say, “He was acting like Roy. They both were.”
“I know.”
“What Roy did to himself—the hair, the beard—it’s like a stage one version of this.”
“I know.”
“Then whatever I gave Roy . . .” She looks at me. “What are you thinking?”
I don’t answer. She knows exactly what I’m thinking, and I’m not putting it into words so she can tell me I’m wrong, tell me there are other explanations. I know there are. I don’t need to have that conversation, with anyone except Dalton.
“Grab a leg,” I say. “We’re taking him back to Rockton.”
* * *
We don’t haul the hostile into town. That’s the last thing anyone needs to see. It’s not the “hauling” part that matters—it’s the man himself. We’re almost back when I hear a bark, and Dalton releases Storm to come find me. I hurry ahead to stop her. She doesn’t need to see a corpse any more than the residents do. I have Petra hold Storm while I take Dalton to the body and explain.
We don’t discuss the implications. This isn’t the time, and he doesn’t ask what I make of it. He knows.
We take the body around the back and then we put it . . . well, we put it in with Marshal Garcia’s. There’s a spot under the clinic that we use for storing bodies in winter. It’s a large icebox. There’s no nicer way of putting it. Like our home iceboxes, it’s a hole dug down to the permafrost. It’s putting a body on ice, so it decomposes as little as possible, while we wait for spring thaw so we can bury it. Or, in this case, until we have time to deal with it,
Dalton gets called off on an unrelated problem. Petra and I are beside the clinic, talking in hushed voices when Mathias strides toward us.
“He looks like he has something to say,” Petra says. “I’ll get out of here.” She pauses. “May I take Storm for you? I know you’re busy, and I’m just working on some art commissions.”
I hesitate until Mathias is almost upon us, his wolf-dog under one arm, the poor beast wriggling in terror as Storm whines and dances with excitement. I take her collar and pass her to Petra. That doesn’t mean we’re good. She knows that. It just means I trust her again to look after my dog.
As Mathias watches them go, he hefts Raoul in his arms.
“I hope you weren’t bringing him for more canine socialization,” I say in French. “If so, you need to talk to Petra. I have a murder case to solve.”
“No, I have tasks of my own, apparently. Someone has given them to me without asking whether I wanted to undertake them.”
“Sebastian. Yes. You’re welcome.”
His mouth opens.
“Skip the protests, Mathias. You like projects. You wanted this one. You’re going to pretend you’re doing me a favor, so I’ll feel indebted. But I did you a favor.”
“A favor?”
“I gave you a pet sociopath. Almost as good as a pet wolf, right?” I motion for him to join me as I walk back to the station. “Sebastian says he’s reformed. He says he wants to stay reformed, and he wants help with that. I’m not making any judgment calls. Your job is to help him and watch over him. That’s why he’s your apprentice.”
“I do not need—”
“Too bad. He’s your apprentice. Your shop apprentice. Not you sociopath apprentice.”
I get a reproachful look for that. I continue. “Whatever your own condition, you’ve learned to rechannel it. I’m not asking you to do that with Sebastian. He isn’t you. Just figure out if he’s serious about coping with his condition. If he isn’t, we can’t have him here. If he is, that’s a project for you.” I glance over. “Did he tell you what he did?”
“Yes. It is a fascinating case study, to be so young and do such a thing. Even more fascinating if he, at his current young age, sees his problem and wishes to overcome it. The issue with sociopathy is that one usually cannot understand that what one is doing is wrong. He seems to. Fascinating.”
“You’re welcome. And it must be very close to your birthday, because I have another present for you. A hostile.”
His eyes light up. “You brought me a live hostile?”
“Dead.”
That light fades. “I am not certain what I can do with a dead one.”
“You’ll figure it out. I have reason to believe that the substance Roy was given before his episode is related to whatever the hostiles ingest or are exposed to. I don’t know if they’re given it or they find it naturally in the woods. All that is part of your project.”
“How long is your sister staying? I could use her help.”
“Not long enough. Sorry. You might have her for a day or two. The body is with Garcia’s. Please don’t take it out until after dark. We had a hell of a time sneaking it in there just now.”
* * *
I leave Mathias and head for Phil’s place. Of course he’s at home. He answers the door with a notebook in his hand and a look that warns me I’m interrupting something. On the notepad, I see numbers and equations, and there is a moment where I don’t see Phil there at all. I see Val, and I feel . . .
Regret. I will admit that. I will always feel regret for what I did, but I feel anger, too, outrage even, that emotion I’m far less likely to admit to than the regret. Regretting murder is natural, expected even, whatever the circumstances. The anger, though, rises from hurt. I am hurt that Val betrayed me. I am humiliated by the fact that I worked so hard to bring her into the community, and she turned on me and mocked me for it.
I won’t reach out like that with Phil. Right or wrong, I must lick my wounds in hurt silence, and let him do what he will do, and if that’s hiding in his home like Val, so be it.
“I need to talk to you,” I say. “About the gun and your watch.”
His mouth tightens. “I believe we’ve been through this—”
“No, we actually haven’t. I k
now you had the gun in your luggage, but we have never discussed who had access to it. Now, I’m sorry to interrupt whatever you’re doing . . .”
“Budgets,” he says. “I’m am working on the town budget. It’s clear that despite Valerie’s level of mathematical expertise, she had no head for accounting. The books are a mess, along with the town’s finances. I’ve already discovered over a thousand dollars a month that can be trimmed from expenses.”
I stiffen. “If you are suggesting that we overspend, let me remind you that people are trapped here. Yes, we could cut back on coffee or baked goods or books, but those things are important to residents.”
“I agree, which is why I’m trimming in other areas, so that you will have more money for those luxuries.”
“Oh.” I glance over my shoulder as residents pass, looking over in curiosity. “Can I come in, Phil. It’ll only take a few minutes.”
He waves me inside. I ask him to show me where he kept his luggage. I confirm that both the gun and the watch were inside it. I also confirm that he hadn’t seen the watch between the shooting and the time we returned it.
I should have checked on this earlier, ascertained exactly where he’d kept the watch and when he’d last seen it. After Roy’s episode, it seemed obvious that whoever drugged him also planted the watch, especially if they were trying to frame him, which Petra was.
Yet Petra didn’t plant the watch, and I believe her, because it was a clumsy move, and she is not clumsy. She would take one look at Roy and know he wouldn’t covet Phil’s expensive but delicate watch. Roy was an asshole, but he wasn’t an idiot. Hiding it for two years wouldn’t be worth the few hundred bucks he could fence it for when he left, especially when Petra would know his background, know he was hardly the sort who’d know where to find a fence or a guy who needed a few hundred bucks.
No, it was clumsily done, meaning that Petra wasn’t the only one framing Roy.
“Detective?” Phil says, as I stand there, brain whirring, making connections. “You have something?”
I don’t answer the questions. I ask more about access to his house. He keeps it locked, unlike most residents, meaning whoever got the gun either broke in or had entry. Those who’ve had entry, though, have barely gotten past the door, meaning whoever did this likely broke in. That person knew what they were looking for, though. Knew Phil had a gun. And the person I have in mind is on the short list of those who definitely knew, having witnessed the aftermath of the first time Phil pulled that damned gun on us.
“You have a suspect?” Phil asks as I’m preparing to leave.
“I have a theory.”
He frowns, clearly vexed with my answer, and despite my wandering thoughts, I almost have to smile at his vexation. Phil has that kind of male-model face where every expression looks like something in a stock photo collection. Type in “vexed man” or “annoyed man” or “man concentrating” and you get someone like Phil, his perfect jawline and perfect mouth set in whatever perfect expression you require.
I notice this, and I’m reminded of my thoughts about Sebastian, and how he could hide because of his face, nothing extraordinary about it, not eye-catching handsome or the opposite. Phil might have a very pretty face, but it’s equally cookie-cutter in its way, as that stock-photo perfect visage. And as I think this, I’m not really thinking of Phil or Sebastian at all. I’m remembering Roy with his beard half shaved, and then Petra, talking in the forest.
Then I’m thinking of another face, as blandly average as Sebastian’s. I’m thinking of a photograph.
I’m thinking of a mistake I’ve made.
The mistake of looking at a photograph and saying, “Sure that looks like so-and-so,” because it did look like him. But it wasn’t.
FORTY-FIVE
As I’m walking to the station, Diana crosses the road ahead, moving fast, and finger waves. I remember something I overheard at the clinic—something potentially useful. I consider for a moment. Then I jog to catch up.
“You’re in a hurry,” I say. “Eager to play nurse for Roy and Paul? I heard that’s your job today.”
She rolls her eyes. “Believe me, I’m only rushing because I’m late and I don’t need your sister giving me crap. She’s as delightful as always. I’ve offered to look after Kenny, while she checks on Paul and Roy, but no . . . She gets the nice guy.”
“Roy’s an asshole,” I say. “Take backup when you visit him.”
“Oh, I do.” She pulls a knife from her pocket, and I have to laugh at that.
“Uh, yeah,” I say. “You do know that, statistically speaking, you’re more likely to get stabbed with that than stab your attacker.”
Another roll of her eyes, as if I’m kidding. I’m not, but with Roy, if he did try anything, one flash of that blade should stop him.
“Paul’s fine, though, isn’t he?” I say. “I know he’s expressed interest. Has he been bothering you?”
“No more than usual. It’s not harassment, just pestering. He’s interested, and I’m not.”
“Well, I know one problem here can be guys making up stories, since there’s no way to do a background check. If you ever have trouble, I can’t tell you why someone’s here, but I can . . . suggest when they’re full of shit. Has Paul said anything about that?”
It’s a shot in the dark. But she says, “Nothing specific. Just hints that he’s one of the white-collar criminals. A man with money.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yeah. He made it clear that I might want to get in on that, an investment toward my future. As if I couldn’t possibly be here for the same reason because I’m a woman.”
I look around, making sure we’re alone. “Did you tell anyone that you met Garcia when he arrived? That he took you captive?”
“No. Geez, Casey. How many times do I need to say it? I didn’t tell anyone. You asked me not to, and I wouldn’t have anyway. No one needed to know that.”
“Good,” I say. “Then I think it’s time to let them know.”
* * *
Diana and I are in line at the bakery. It’s just past one, still early for afternoon coffee, but with the longer days, everything shifts, and by now there’s a lineup, as I hoped.
“I need to know what he told you,” I say, keeping my voice artificially low, a harsh stage whisper that everyone nearby could hear.
“I told you, Case, Garcia never said anything.”
“Bullshit, you were alone with him for fifteen minutes. He talked to you. I know he did.”
“He told me to shut up and behave or he’d shoot me. If you call that a conversation then yes, we talked.”
“He was a U.S. Marshal. He wasn’t going to shoot you. When I got back with Eric, you were talking about who he came for. He gave you a hint. I know he did.”
“He didn’t—”
“He said to ask you. Those were his last words. I wanted to know who he came here for, and he said to ask my friend, the one he held hostage, the one with the pink hair.” I cast a pointed look at her fading pink tips. “Don’t tell me he meant someone else.”
“That was his final screw-you. With his dying breath, he tells you to speak to me . . . except he never told me anything. Ha-ha. Joke’s on you. He was an asshole. Trust me. I’m the one who had to sit with him for fifteen minutes as he held a gun to my head.”
I look around, as if making sure no one has heard us. Everyone glances away quickly, feigning sudden interest in their fingernails or the menu board or the lovely June sun overhead. My gaze crosses Paul, two people behind us. He’s with Anders, who I asked to drop in on Paul . . . and suggest they grab a coffee.
Anders smiles and shoots me a subtle thumb’s up. Diana and I step to the front of the line and place our order.
* * *
After that, I catch up with Dalton and then tell him my theory at the station. I’d rather have done that before I set my plan in motion, but it hasn’t proceeded far enough that I can’t stop if he points out some critical flaw in my rea
soning.
“Paul?” he says, when I tell him who I suspect. “Yeah, he does have a Federal warrant, but we’re reasonably sure Garcia wasn’t here on official business.”
“I screwed up.”
Dalton sits on the edge of the desk. “Okay . . .”
“I mistakenly ID’d our Paul as the guy in those protest photos. Just yesterday, I was thinking that Sebastian didn’t need to worry about being recognized because he has a very average white boy face. So does Paul.”
Dalton’s brows rise. “Average white boy face?”
“They look like a million other white guys their age. No distinguishing features, just a very normal face, pleasant enough but nothing that stands out, nothing you’d notice or remember.”
“That doesn’t sound . . . flattering. Dare I ask if I have . . . ?”
“No,” I lean over and kiss his cheek. “Now, if your fragile ego can allow me to continue.”
“My ego is not—”
“Totally can be. And this is not the time for it. So Paul has a very average face. Very ordinary. He also has a beard, which he didn’t have in the photo. I’m guessing he had that beard when he arrived?”
Dalton thinks. “Maybe? Yeah, I have no idea.”
“Because he isn’t memorable, right? But I bet he did. It hides half his face, so when I looked at the photo online, it seemed to be him. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Same facial shape. It looked like Paul, and I didn’t study the photo closely, because I expected it to be Paul. I can’t say for absolute certain that it wasn’t, but I’m no longer sure it was.”
“Okay.”
“Then there’s the suicide attempt. Petra made a comment about that, in another context, how it wasn’t serious, just a cry for help. She’s right. He took enough to pass out, knowing we’d come looking for him because of his shift. Given how easily he recovered, he didn’t take enough to kill himself. I figured he just didn’t know the dose—no one does. But he had more pills there, scattered on the bed, as if he dropped them when he passed out. If you’re serious about killing yourself, you take all you have at once, before the sedative kicks in. Still, that only means he wasn’t serious. It happens.”
Watcher in the Woods: A Rockton Novel Page 33
