“He locked her in the bathroom,” Dalton says.
I stare at him.
He shrugs. “She went in to get a razor and help him shave. He broke the door knob. She escaped out the window and found me. She’s fine. Just pissed off.” He looks around. “Where’s Diana?”
“Don’t ask. Just . . .” I look at Roy.
“You go. I’ll cuff him and catch up.”
FORTY-SEVEN
As I’m jogging back to where I left Diana and Paul, I hear a shout. A scuffle. A yelp.
Goddamn it, Diana!
I race over to find Diana on the ground, pinned there by . . .
“Jen?” I say.
Jen looks up from securing Diana, who is spitting curses. “She was cutting a deal with Paul. I was out looking for Roy, and I heard them. Paul’s your killer. Diana here was blackmailing him.”
“As I was supposed to,” Diana snaps. “That was Casey’s plan. Which you just fucked up.”
“I—” Jen begins.
“She tried to go after Paul,” Diana says. “He bolted. She decided I was a fine substitute and let your actual killer go.”
“Which way?” I say.
Diana rises, giving Jen a shove and a glare as she does. Then she takes off, waving me to follow.
I quickly tell Jen to take over with Roy and send Dalton this way. Then I race after Diana. By the time I reach her, she’s veered onto a path for easier running, and we can hear Paul crashing ahead.
“You saw Roy stop me,” I say as I cut in front of her on the path. “You should have waited.”
“I knew you’d catch up, and it gave more weight to my story. Anyway, Paul went for it. He gave me this song-and-dance about how he hadn’t wanted to hurt anyone, but Garcia betrayed him, and he isn’t really a bad guy.”
“Just misunderstood?”
Diana snorts. “Pretty much. I pretended I bought it, didn’t blame him etcetera, etcetera. He agreed to pay me to keep my mouth shut. I was haggling on the price, waiting for you to jump in, when Jen showed up. Where were you?”
“Roy, again.”
“Seriously? Can’t you just shoot him? Or Jen? I would pay you to shoot both of them.”
I’m not angry at Jen. I underestimated Roy’s threat and wrote him off as a blustering bully. He is, yet that doesn’t mean he can’t still be dangerous. As for misunderstanding the situation with Diana and Paul, I can’t blame Jen for that, either. I just wish she’d chased Paul and left Diana to us.
This is the problem with setting a trap. It’s not a controlled environment, as it would be if I just brought Paul in for questioning. I’d known an arrest wouldn’t work, though. I’d been operating on a theory with no solid evidence. So I had to trick Paul into incriminating himself, which meant trusting Diana to stay on-script and trusting Rockton to go about its business without any fresh crisis erupting until I finished. Which is, yes, kind of like asking the earth to stop revolving for a few minutes.
It’s gone quiet up ahead. I stop and put my fingers to my lips. Diana nods. I take out my gun and pivot, searching the surrounding trees for any sign of movement.
Voices drift from somewhere ahead. A laugh. A good-natured “Hey!” More laughter.
A work party. I check my watch. It’s almost five, exactly when any work parties would be heading in.
That’s why Paul has gone quiet. He’s waiting for them to pass. I pinpoint where I last heard him and begin creeping forward while motioning Diana to stay back. She lets me get ten paces ahead and then follows. Good enough. Probably best if she doesn’t stay in one place, the perfect target should Paul decide—
A cry from up ahead. A shout. A woman—Nicole—saying, “Let him go, or I’ll put a bullet—”
Paul cuts in. “You set that rifle down, or I’ll slit this kid’s throat.”
I break into a run. I round a corner, and I see them on the very path I’d been taking. It’s a chopping party, three guys and Nicole, as their militia guard. She’s still arguing with Paul, but she’s lowered her rifle.
Paul has a hostage.
Sebastian.
He’s holding the kid backed into his chest, one arm around him, the other with a knife at his throat.
Paul’s trying to get Nicole to put the rifle down, and she’s trying to get him to let Sebastian go. I wave for Diana to stay where she is, as I slip through the forest. I come out behind Paul. Nicole sees me. I motion for her to set the rifle on the ground. She does, her gaze locked on Paul.
“Casey!” Paul shouts. “I know you’re out there. I heard you.”
I glance around and spot another figure by Diana. It’s Dalton. He’s leaning in as she explains the situation to him.
I turn back to Paul. I can’t shoot him from here. Not without hitting Sebastian, too. I could threaten, but I won’t with that knife at the young man’s throat. Even sneaking up and grabbing Paul is too risky. He could startle and cut Sebastian without meaning to. I have the advantage of surprise . . . and no way to use it.
“Casey!”
I holster my gun and pull my jacket closed. Then I clear my throat and say, “Right here.”
Paul wheels, taking Sebastian with him. The young man winces as the knife nicks him. Nicole goes for her rifle on the ground, but Paul expects that, and his head whips around with, “Anyone moves, and I kill him. I swear it.”
“I’m moving,” I say, my voice loud enough for Dalton to overhear. “I’m going to pass on your left side and walk over to stand with the others, okay?”
“Hands in the air.”
I nod, lift them and walk to Nicole and the other two residents. They’re unarmed. We leave the hatchets hidden at the chopping site—along with the wood—until week’s end when they haul it back with the ATV and trailer.
“I know you killed Marshal Garcia,” I say. “You admitted it to Diana, and Jen overheard. You know there’s no way out of this. Just let Sebastian go—”
“Why? If you know I’m guilty, this kid is the only leverage I have.”
Sebastian swallows, and when he speaks, his voice quavers. “If I ever did anything to you, sir, I’m sorry. It was an accident. A mistake. I’d never—”
“Shut up,” Paul says, and Nicole tenses, outrage fairly pulsing from her. Paul continues. “I didn’t even know your name until now, kid. You just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, so you’re going to help me get out of this. Just be a good boy and pray that Casey here gives a shit about you.”
“Paul, let him go and—”
“If he dies, it’s on you, Casey. Just like that stupid security guard who got me into this mess.”
I don’t ask what he means. I know he’s going to tell me. He’s itching to tell me.
“I used to take hostages all the time,” he says. “It’s the one thing people pay attention to when you’re robbing a bank. Grab some kid or old lady, and suddenly, everyone pays attention. They do what you ask, and no one gets hurt. Not until some doughnut-munching lard-ass security guard decides to be a hero. Then what can I do? If I don’t shoot the hostage, no one’s ever going to take me seriously again. I try not to kill the old lady. I shoot her in the shoulder. That’s what they always show in the movies. That’s even what ol’ Deputy Will taught us. You could cost someone the use of their arm, but it’s a damn sight better than killing them. The problem is when you aim for the shoulder, and they move. Suddenly, I’m not just a bank robber; I’m a killer. That’s when they pay attention. That’s when you get a Federal warrant on your head.”
“Agent Garcia found you,” I say. “And you bribed him to let you go.”
His head whips my way.
“He wouldn’t come here alone on a warrant,” he says. “He caught up with you once before. You made a deal with him. But something happened—maybe you stiffed him on his payment when you came up here—and so he followed.”
“I didn’t stiff anyone. I paid him in full, and he’s the one who got me up here. He knew about this place. I paid him to le
t me go, and I paid him for passage up here. Then . . . who the hell knows. Maybe he got greedy and followed. He wanted more.”
“Or he had a change of heart,” I say. “He regretted what he’d done and came up here to make you face justice.”
Paul laughs so hard the knife wavers, and Sebastian shoots me a look, the frightened kid facade slipping to show the unnervingly mature adult beneath, the one who isn’t terribly concerned about his situation but asks me to please refrain from anything that will get him killed. The look vanishes in a blink, and he starts breathing hard, eyes fluttering.
“L-look,” Sebastian stammers. “I—”
“Shut the fuck up,” Paul says. Then he turns back to me, and in him I also see another person, a stranger now. I have to remind myself that this is the same man I’ve known since I arrived, the eager and helpful militia guy I couldn’t quite rely on, but only because he was prone to screwing up, never because I doubted his loyalty.
No, that isn’t true. I think back to those screw ups. To times when Paul disobeyed an order—like when he failed to help me during Roy’s lynch mob—and I should have wondered whether it was truly a failure of nerve or a deeper problem. A lack of commitment to his job. A lack of loyalty to Dalton. We’d known not to put Paul in charge of anything critical, and I think we’d all just been hoping problems were “Paul screwing up . . . again” rather than anything serious.
Garcia told me his target would have insinuated himself deep in the community, and that’s what Paul had done. He just hadn’t been able to fake full commitment to the task.
“Let’s negotiate,” I say.
“You’re in no position to do that,” Paul says. “You act like you can give orders, but you’re just Eric’s girl. You’re hot, and you’re into him, and he’s taking full advantage of that. As he should.”
I resist the urge to glance behind Paul, where I know Dalton is in the trees, rolling his eyes.
“Maybe,” I say, “or maybe I’m the one taking advantage. You can tell yourself I don’t have power here, but you know I do. As long as I share Eric’s bed, I have power—over him. I am in a position to negotiate, and you’ll get a better deal with me than you would with Eric.”
He doesn’t come back with a rejoinder, which means he sees my point.
“We’re going to trade hostages,” I say.
Paul snorts. “Yeah, no. This skinny kid can barely heave a hatchet. I’ve watched you fight.”
“Which is why I’m not offering to be your hostage.” I gesture, and his gaze moves to Nicole.
“No,” I say and point his attention downward. “I’ll trade you Sebastian for that rifle. You take the gun and the knife, and you go. You run fast, and you run far. You might even get away.”
“I saw how well that worked for Oliver Brady. No, here’s my version of the deal. I keep this kid, and you give me the keys for the plane. Been a while since I’ve piloted, but I can manage it. I’ll let the kid go in Dawson. I know that’s the nearest town—I’ll find it and leave this kid there. I might even leave him alive, if he behaves—”
Sebastian starts to hyperventilate. “Oh God, no. Please don’t let him take me.” Tears spring to his eyes as his voice quavers. “I-I’m sorry. I just can’t do that. I’ll puke, or I’ll have a panic attack, and he’ll kill me. Give him someone else. Please.”
“For Christ’s sake,” Paul mutters. “Grow a damn backbone, kid, and—”
Sebastian’s fist shoots up. It smacks straight into the curve of Paul’s arm and knocks it away, the blade falling from his throat. I’m ready. The moment Sebastian started sniveling, I saw a setup. I leap. I’m already flying along the path, and Dalton is doing the same from the other side. Sebastian already has Paul by the arm, twisting, and before either of us reaches them, Paul thuds to the ground, with Sebastian over him, knife at his throat.
“Don’t move,” Sebastian says.
There’s no anger in his voice. None in his face either. That’s where my gaze goes—to Sebastian’s face—because I must see his reaction. I must look into his eyes. I do, and I don’t see rage. I don’t see excitement either. The expression on Sebastian’s face is the same one he might give a kid who accidentally bumped him in the school hallway, mild annoyance, the understanding that these things happen, and it’d just better not happen again.
When Paul tries to stand, Sebastian’s hand never wavers. He lets Paul rise right into the blade, the tip piercing his skin.
Sebastian says nothing. Does nothing. He just watches Paul with that same dead-eyed look.
“We have this, Sebastian,” I say. “Go on back to town with the others.”
The young man doesn’t hesitate. He nods and gets off Paul. After handing Dalton the knife, he joins the others. They start slowly back to town, glancing at us as they go.
We wait until they’re gone. Then Dalton says, “Paul? You’re under arrest for the murder of Mark Garcia. Get up and put your hands on your head . . .”
FORTY-EIGHT
Paul may have laughed at the idea that Garcia came back to arrest him. I believe that, though. I have no idea how he’d turn Paul over without losing his job, but I can’t imagine he came all the way up here to ask for more money. He cut a deal with a killer, and he regretted it. He tried to make that right. I know he did.
As for how we’ll make things right . . .
The council can do nothing about Mark Garcia. We discuss ideas—put his body in the woods closer to Dawson City, to at least give his family closure. Anything we do, though, would only make the situation worse. Garcia must vanish.
It turns out he was on leave from the marshals for a disciplinary action, and so no one knew he’d come up here. He has an ex-wife and two kids he hasn’t seen in years. According to his will, everything goes to those kids, including the investments he’s been holding, the ones that confirm his payout from Paul. His family won’t get his body back—or any answers—but at least they’ll have the money when he’s declared legally dead. It’ll have to do.
We now know how Garcia got here. He knew about Rockton, and he facilitated Paul’s arrival through a third party. He figured out that we flew through Dawson, and he arranged the rest from here. There’s no leak we need to plug—this only highlights concerns Dalton has been raising for years, like using the local airport. After this the council agrees to his demands on that.
Paul will be shipped out when we take April home to collect her things. Someone from the council will meet us in Whitehorse and take him from there. He’ll be given a new identity and access to his remaining funds. Yes, that seems like rewarding him for murder, but the council needs leverage to buy his silence about Rockton. If he says anything, they’ll make sure he pays for what he did. Until then, he’s free. It’s not fair, but it’s what’s best for Rockton.
Roy’s also being kicked out, and in his case, they’re returning some of his payment. Slowly returning it, and if he talks, he loses that. Even Artie is being kicked out, for attempting to “murder” Garcia’s corpse. Rockton is about to get a whole lot less chaotic. We hope.
Sebastian, Petra, the hostile . . . that all still needs to play out. Sebastian handled himself perfectly with Paul, and so I have no immediate concerns. Petra’s backstory helps me understand her role here, and I have no immediate concerns there either. Both go on a watch list.
As for the hostiles, Mathias’s preliminary findings on the body have revealed nothing we don’t expect. He was malnourished, scarred, frostbitten . . . Exactly what we’d expect, with no obvious signs of long-term drug use. So they are an ongoing situation, with nothing to be done now.
That leaves my sister. The council jumped at her offer to stay. They’d already vetted her—they started background checks as soon as they knew she was in Rockton. I was right about her breakdown. She spent a month at a fancy retreat for “stress-related health issues,” but she resumed her job after that, with a reduced schedule, and the council isn’t concerned about her mental state. She must stay for
at least six months, as she offered. That’s their only stipulation.
I find April in the clinic, reorganizing a cupboard.
“You’re in,” I say.
She doesn’t even turn. “I will require a labeler. We can purchase one in Vancouver.”
I lean against the doorframe. “I had to fight for you,” I lie. “It wasn’t easy, but I’ve convinced them to let you stay. You have to agree to a minimum of six months though.”
“I already have.”
“You’ll also get the house next door. Nicole is moving.”
She moves a beaker. “I’ll need additional batteries and tape for the labeler. Several refills of tape.”
I shake my head. “I love you, April.”
She turns, looking alarmed. “What?”
“Put the beaker down. You’ll get your labeler, and whatever else you need. Make a list, and we’ll leave as soon as we can. Tonight, though, we’re going to celebrate.”
“Celebrate what?”
“I solved the case. Caught the killer. Yay for me.”
She looks at me as if I’m suggesting we celebrate me brushing my teeth every day this week. “That’s your job, isn’t it?”
I sigh. “Yes, April it is. But we’ll still celebrate. My success and the long-overdue arrival of a new doctor.”
“A doctor who needs to clean and organize and—”
“Not tonight,” I say, getting between her and the cupboard.
“But Kenny—”
“Hey, Kenny!” I call into the next room. “Can I steal my sister for a drink?”
“Only if you bring me one,” he calls back.
“He really shouldn’t have alcohol.”
“A beer will be fine,” I say. “And you can have tea. Long Island Iced Tea.”
“I don’t actually care for iced—”
“You’ll like this one,” I say as Kenny’s chuckle wafts out from the other room.
“I will go if it is Isabel’s establishment. I would not object to socializing with Isabel. She is a very competent business woman.”
Watcher in the Woods: A Rockton Novel Page 35
