So I have no grandparents in the sense that I’ve never had someone to call by that name. If I imagined one, though, my fantasy grandmother would be the woman who steps out of the pilot’s door. Not the soft-lapped grandma with sweets and smiles and a comfy recliner. My fantasy grandmother was, ironically, the sort of woman my own mother could have grown into. The active granny, embracing adventure after adventure, sometimes scooping up her grandkids to take along. A grandmother living her twilight years to the fullest, fit and nimble and endlessly curious.
That’s the woman who hops from the plane. She’s at least seventy, trim and slight, with silver hair cut short and stylish. Her outfit reminds me of Sophie’s, and a pang of panic runs through me, as if this could be her grandmother, the source of her own adventurous genes. Yet this woman’s outfit is the real thing—expensive because it’s quality. In fact, given the fit of the button-down shirt and khakis, I’m guessing they’re tailor made.
She pushes oversize sunglasses up over her forehead, and dark eyes twinkle as she strides toward us.
“Casey and Eric,” she says. “Exactly who I was hoping would come meet me.” She bends in front of the dog. “And this must be Storm.”
I falter, but only for a second, as her voice twinges something familiar.
She extends a hand. “I’m Émilie.”
* * *
Émilie was one of Rockton’s first inhabitants. She and her husband had been sent here by his parents when their college political activism got them in trouble. After they returned south, Émilie’s husband took over the very lucrative family business, and when Rockton faltered, they stepped up as investors.
At one time Émilie was the council—along with her husband and another couple they’d met here. Two of those four have passed on, and the third suffers from dementia, so only Émilie remains, a holdover from Rockton’s past, when those who ran it were more interested in philanthropy than profitability.
Émilie positions herself as our ally on the council, and we accept her assistance, while knowing she may be playing the good cop. I don’t think she is, but even if she’s really on our side, I fear she doesn’t have the power we need to effect change.
In the beginning, Phil was quick to credit Émilie’s power, but as he’s lowered his guard, he’s admitted that the council sees her the way corporations can view the old guard on a board of directors: furniture that came with the room and is too heavy to move. They work around Émilie as they await the day when her health wanes enough for her to release her tenuous grip on the reins.
“Welcome,” I say as I shake her hand. “We . . . weren’t expecting you.”
“You didn’t get my message?”
My expression makes her laugh.
“Sorry,” she says. “I was teasing. There wasn’t a message. Intentionally so. If I told the council what I was doing, they’d have stopped me, even if it meant putting sugar in my fuel tank. What would you have said if I told you I was visiting?”
“We . . . are more than happy to host you,” I say. “This just . . .”
“It isn’t a good time, to put it mildly? You’re already hosting a Danish tourist who was attacked by hostiles. Hostiles who killed three other tourists, while the settlers are already grumbling that you’ve set the wild people off.”
I hesitate, but she’s already turned away, glancing at Dalton, who has taken her bags from the plane.
“Thank you, Eric. Now, I know this seems very poor timing, but I didn’t just happen to show up at the most inconvenient moment. I’m here to help. This mess with the hostiles is spinning out of control, and you need someone on the ground to mediate with the council. First, I want to see this woman you’re caring for. While I’m not fluent in Danish, I did spend a year in Copenhagen, which is one reason I jumped in my plane when I heard you had a Danish tourist. We’ll begin my visit there.”
* * *
Émilie stands over the exam table, looking down at Sophie’s body. I explained the situation as we walked. Dalton took her bag to Petra’s place, and I’m now in the clinic, alone with Émilie, having sent April on a break.
“I’m not sure whether this complicates matters or . . .” She taps her chin. “No, at the risk of sounding like a complete monster, it does help our situation.”
“I know. I hate admitting it, but now we don’t need to worry about how to get her back and what she’ll tell the authorities. However, it doesn’t solve the underlying problem. It just means that we’ve lost our sole witness to multiple homicides.”
“We know the hostiles are responsible.”
When I hesitate, she looks over sharply. “I understood that conclusion wasn’t in question.”
I walk to where a sheet has been drawn over the three settlers. When I lift it, Émilie inhales sharply and says, “Those aren’t her fellow tourists, are they.”
“A settler family. No connection to Rockton. They appear to have been killed by hostiles. The wound patterns suggest makeshift knives, and they’re similar to what we saw with Sophie’s companions. However, when April autopsied the boy, she found that he’d been killed by a bullet.”
Émilie frowns. “Do we have any evidence of the hostiles using firearms?”
“None. Maryanne’s group didn’t. Even if the others somehow got one, they wouldn’t be using a nine-millimeter.”
“A handgun? That . . .”
“Makes no sense? Agreed. April needs to autopsy the other two bodies so we can get a fuller picture of the situation. She was about to do that when Sophie was killed.”
“And then I showed up, further delaying her investigation. I’ll remedy that last part by getting out of your way. This is definitely not my area of expertise. I’ll go settle in with Petra while you and April handle this, and then we’ll discuss how to present the updated situation to the council.”
“Thank you.”
* * *
April has completed the autopsies. She did not find another bullet. However, knowing that a bullet killed the son, she paid more careful attention to the parents’ internal injuries. While we can’t say conclusively that all three settlers died of bullet wounds, we find evidence of several through-and-through shots and of another bullet that had been removed. Intentionally removed.
This family didn’t die from a hostile attack. Someone shot them, and the killer removed any embedded bullets except the one they missed. Then they exacerbated the wounds with a knife to cover the entry and exit holes and simulate a frenzied knife strike.
Staged to look like a hostile attack.
I don’t know what to make of that.
It casts doubt on the events surrounding the deaths of the hikers. Were they attacked by hostiles? Or by someone pretending to be hostiles, who then ravaged the bodies to simulate a hostile attack? They’d disguised themselves as hostiles, in case someone survived, as Sophie did. Maybe they even left her alive as a witness—she would describe her attackers, which would leave no doubt they were hostiles.
The problem, though, is that we found zero evidence that the hikers weren’t killed by hostiles. Also, at no point did Sophie mention gunfire.
I believe that Sophie and her companions were attacked by hostiles. I also believe that the settler family were attacked by someone pretending to be hostiles.
And as I say those words, curled up at home with Storm, explaining to Dalton and Anders, I stop myself and curse.
“Damn it, don’t do that,” I mutter.
“Do what?” Anders asks, taking another slug of beer.
“Conflate the evidence,” I say. “I know the settlers were not killed by hostiles. I know their bodies make it appear that they were. I’m ramming those two things together and presuming a link.”
“Uh . . .” Anders glances at Dalton. “That makes sense to you, doesn’t it?”
“She means that just because the settlers appear to have been killed by hostiles doesn’t mean that their killers staged it.”
“Ah. Okay, I get it.” Anders pauses
. “Shit, yeah. Especially considering who turned those bodies over to you.”
I nod. “Cherise. Being terribly helpful, wrapping them up and storing them away from the elements.”
“And away from predators that might mess up their handiwork,” Dalton mutters.
Anders leans forward. “So you think Cherise and Owen found this family, who’d been killed by someone else, and they made it look like hostiles so they could trade the bodies. That’s cold.”
“That’s Cherise,” I say.
“Any chance they’re the killers?” Anders says. “They shoot the settlers and then stage it to look like hostiles? You did say they took the settlers’ goods. They could also get their hands on a nine-mil in Dawson.”
“They could. They may even have one already. I don’t want to jump to that conclusion, though. Who else out here would have a nine-mil?”
“Besides us?” Anders takes out a key and dangles it. “All weapons present and accounted for. I will check the logbook, though, and see whether anyone had the nine-mil out for target practice.”
I motion toward my own gun, the holster slung over a chair. “As the only one of us with that caliber, I’ll run a ballistics test to confirm the bullet wasn’t from my gun.”
“You do realize that really isn’t necessary, right?” Anders says.
“Don’t bother,” Dalton says. “She’ll insist, because otherwise, we’d all be whispering, ‘You know, I think I saw Casey sneak into the forest to kill some settlers last week.’ ”
“I carry the same caliber of gun used in a murder. I will test it for exclusionary purposes. I will do the same with the one in the locker, whether it was signed out or not.”
“So who in the forest would have a nine-mil?” Anders says, lacing his fingers around his bottle. “No one, right? It’s a handgun, not a hunting rifle.”
“That doesn’t mean shit,” Dalton says. “Anyone with access to the outside world can get a gun, and everyone has access, if they’re willing to walk far enough.”
I nod. “A nine-mil is the most common weapon in Canadian law enforcement, which makes it easy to come by, if you want it badly enough. I’m also sure there are people up here who got one legally.”
“It’s not exactly an AR-fifteen,” Anders says.
“You can get those legally, too, if you follow the rules. You just can’t legally modify it to hold more rounds. There wouldn’t be any use for an AR-fifteen up here. A nine-mil, though?” I shrug. “It’d be shit for hunting, but it’s fine protection against anything smaller than a grizzly.”
“It’ll even kill that if you aim it right,” Dalton says.
I lean back and rub Storm’s ear. “Speaking of protection, I wonder if the hikers could have brought it.”
“Ah,” Anders says. “They bring a handgun for protection. The hostiles kill them and then use it . . . No, the settlers died first, right? Or around the same time? Close enough that the hostiles didn’t have time to figure out how to use guns, let alone become crack shots.”
“You’re meeting Cherise tomorrow, right?” I say to Dalton. “To give her the trade goods.”
“I am.”
“I’d like to come along.”
“I figured you would.”
16
Next I need to talk to Émilie. I’d said that I’d get to her right after the autopsy. I can argue that I wanted to run my theories past my fellow law enforcement officers first, and that’s partly true, but it’s also me being territorial and obstinate. Émilie wants to be the bridge between us and the council, just as Phil does. Everyone wants to smooth things over so we can all work together, put our differences aside to focus on Rockton and its residents.
In theory, that is good. In theory, it is excellent, and at one time, I’d have led the charge for unity. Yet the council has screwed us so often that the push for cooperation has started to feel like victim-blaming—if we’d just stop causing trouble, they’d stop punishing us.
I do believe there are elements in the council—like Émilie—that we can work with. I also believe there are elements we can’t, and since we only speak to Tamara, we can’t mentally sort the good from the bad from the indifferent. Other than Émilie, they are a homogeneous blob of negative experiences that I cannot trust. So in talking to Dalton and Anders first, I am saying these people are my priority. Protecting Rockton means communicating with my proven allies before anyone else.
When I go to talk to Émilie, I take Storm. She serves vital law enforcement purposes beyond guarding and tracking. She’s a comfort animal when needed and, in this case, she’s distraction and diversion. Nothing says “this is just a pleasant conversation” like bringing along your dog.
I’m halfway to Petra’s place when Storm gives a happy bark and races forward to meet Petra herself, out walking.
This winter, Petra took an arrow to the chest, and while she seems fine, I’m not sure how much of that is a true full recovery and how much is just Petra toughing it out. When we draw near, Petra drops to one knee and spreads her arms, a sign that allows Storm to embrace her, paws over Petra’s shoulders as they hug. Petra pats Storm and then rises, making an exaggerated show of spitting fur from her mouth.
“I do believe your puppy needs a brushing,” she says as I walk over.
“Weirdly, it hasn’t been high on my priority list this week.”
“Which is why I’m offering to do it for you.”
“Are you sure? Looks like you’ll be busy entertaining a guest.”
“Yeah. About that, I didn’t know she was coming. Not that I’d have been able to talk her out of it, but I’d have warned you.”
“I know.”
Less than a year ago, I’d thought how wonderful it was to have such an uncomplicated friendship. Then I learned that the smart, stable, drama-free comic-book artist I’d befriended was a former special ops agent.
As Petra argued, that was just one aspect of her, an aspect unrelated to our friendship, and what I saw was the real her. I’ve come to accept that—not only about Petra but about pretty much everyone in Rockton.
I use the analogy of the internet. On it, you can present whatever version of yourself you choose. While you can be a better person online—kinder and wittier and more open-minded than you are in real life—it’s easier to be your worst self, freed from expectations. An acquaintance who knows not to joke about cats in Chinese food when he’s near me may feel perfectly comfortable sharing those jokes online . . . or sharing Asian fetish porn with my face attached. Yes, I had that happen, from a colleague I’d thought was a decent guy.
Rockton is the internet in real life. Be the person you want to be, with no fear of long-term consequences. You can reinvent yourself, like Kenny, the high-school math teacher who decided to hone his carpentry skills while pumping weights as if it were his job. He became the buff, tough head of Rockton’s militia. Except . . . well, “tough” is a word I’d only apply to Kenny in the most positive sense. He doesn’t back down from trouble. He’s never complained about his injury, and he worked his ass off to get back on the militia legitimately, not as a pity post. Yet underneath the new exterior, he’s still the sweet and somewhat awkward guy I suspect he’s always been.
That’s the thing about Rockton. We can pretend to be someone new, but truth still outs. We are our real selves, for better or worse, because anything else is exhausting and pointless. The Petra before me is still the Petra I knew a year ago, even if it’s uncomfortable to admit that after her lies.
I continue, “Your grandmother’s arrival is a surprise all around. Phil is going to have a conniption.”
She snickers. “ ‘Conniption’ is exactly the right word. Poor guy.”
“Any chance I can get some advice?” I ask. “For dealing with her.”
“That’s why I’m here. I was watching to see when you started heading toward my place so I could intercept. I told Émilie I’m grabbing a snack at the bakery before it closes. Join me?”
“Yes
, please.”
* * *
“We can skip the part where you tell me I can trust your grandmother,” I say. “I already expect to hear that.”
When she doesn’t answer, I look over to see her mouth set with concern.
“Are you actually going to warn me that I can’t trust her?” I say.
“No, but . . .” She shoves her hands into her jean pockets. “You can trust that Émilie only does what she perceives to be in Rockton’s best interests.”
“Uh-huh. Everything the council does is apparently in Rockton’s best interests.”
“The difference is that they’re feeding you a line of bullshit. They are concerned with the town’s well-being insofar as that keeps it financially stable. Émilie doesn’t give a shit about that. She has more money than she can spend. Every one of her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren has a trust fund. We still have to work for a living, but we can take whatever job we like, without concern for income. That’s her gift to us. My grandmother genuinely cares about Rockton as an ideal. I only mean that you two may disagree on how to best achieve that goal.”
“So trust that she thinks she’s doing what’s best for Rockton.”
“And for Eric.”
I glance over sharply. “Eric?”
Petra shrugs and lowers her voice as we enter a busier part of town. “I don’t know his full story. Only that something happened when he was a child, and she was concerned for his well-being and fought for him.”
She means Gene bringing Dalton into Rockton. Émilie disagreed with allowing Gene to keep him—she’d been uncomfortable with Gene’s story that the boy was neglected and abandoned.
Petra continues, “Do you remember those ads on TV for ‘fostering’ kids in Africa? You were assigned a child and sent money for their schooling and health care?”
A Stranger in Town: a Rockton novel Page 14