Alone in the Wild

by Kelley Armstrong

  That’s the part that decided Baptiste isn’t guilty. Not Baptiste and not Sidra. Neither of them killed Ellen. Neither of them got rid of their baby. Neither of them planned this fake kidnapping to get rid of us. They might be young and naive, but they are good and honest, and they deserve their little girl back. That is who I want them to be.

  Then I hear Baptiste telling Dalton to “get away from her” and I realize I’m wrong.

  As I work this through, I run. I don’t stop running. Then I hear a woman’s voice say, “Put the gun down, you son of a bitch,” and I’m so caught up in my thoughts that I think it must be Sidra, talking to Dalton, and this means she is just as culpable—

  No, not Sidra.

  My mind replays the voice, and there is no question who I’m hearing, even before Petra says, “Lower that damned shotgun or I put a bullet through your lying-bastard head, boy.”

  I see Dalton now, just ahead. Others are with him, but they’re only meaningless figures until I’ve found Dalton and confirmed he’s on his feet, apparently unharmed.

  “Petra, no,” Dalton says. “Everyone just hold on.”

  I burst through the trees. The shotgun barrel turns on me.

  Petra barks, “Don’t you dare!” echoed by Dalton as he pulls his own gun, swinging it on Baptiste. Then we all freeze, guns pointing everywhere, and a voice says, “Stop, everyone please, stop.”

  It’s a girl’s voice, high and tight with fear. I follow it to a stranger, rising from the ground near Dalton as she claws off a gag. A girl no bigger than me, with long black curls. She staggers in front of Dalton, and Petra snaps, “Stop right there,” but Sidra ignores her.

  Sidra makes it to her husband, and he nearly drops the gun in his lunge to catch her. The muzzle is down, thankfully, and Petra doesn’t fire as Baptiste grabs Sidra and the shotgun slides to the ground beside them.

  “Put the gun down,” Dalton says to Petra. “Everything’s fine.”

  “Everything is not fine,” she says. “These two tricked—”

  “No one tricked anyone,” Dalton says. “I found Sidra. I was freeing her when Baptiste showed up, and he misinterpreted. Sidra, did I kidnap you?”

  She shakes her head. “He was helping me, Baptiste.”

  “Did Baptiste kidnap you?” I ask.

  Her eyes round. “Of course not. I … I don’t know who did it. Someone grabbed me at the camp and put something over my eyes.”

  “Then how do you know it wasn’t Baptiste?” Petra asks.

  Sidra’s eyes flash. “I do not need to see my husband to know him. It was a man. I’m sure of that. He spoke to me, but his voice was distorted. We were walking but we kept stopping, and he’d tie me up. Then he’d leave and come back. He’d left me again when this man found me and said he was from Rockton and he was with you, Baptiste.”

  “He is,” I say. “Your husband just panicked.” I turn to Baptiste. “Have you ever lent Lane your shotgun?”

  His face screws up, as if he’s misheard.

  “Lane from the Second—”

  “Yes, I know Lane,” he says impatiently. “He is my friend, and yes, I have loaned him our shotgun, but I don’t understand—”

  “That’s the gun that was used to kill Ellen.” I don’t know that for certain, of course, but they’ll never realize that. “Someone—”

  “No!” Sidra says, and she wheels, and I think she’s spinning on me to deny it, but instead, she faces the forest and shouts, “Lane!”

  “That … That’s…” Baptiste blinks, looking lost. “Lane wouldn’t…” He trails off, unable to finish. Then he looks at me. “This gun? This gun was used…”

  “To kill Ellen,” Sidra says, and tears glisten in her eyes as she looks at me. “That’s what you said, isn’t it? Ellen is dead, and Lane killed her. Killed her and came for me. Killed her and stole … stole…”

  She spins to face the forest again, and when she screams “Lane!” it’s a raw and horrible sound, and the force of it buckles her knees. Baptiste catches her, his face still blank with shock. I see his face, and I see hers, and the missing piece falls into place.

  Motivation.

  Felicity said four kids from the two settlements hung out together. Tomas said Lane lost his best friend last year. That connection had clicked earlier. Lane knew Sidra and Baptiste, and Baptiste was his supposedly dead friend. I hadn’t confirmed that because it seemed nothing more than a tragic collision of circumstance.

  Lane knows Ellen. Lane also knows Baptiste and Sidra. A hostile steals their baby, and Ellen steals her back, and Lane sees her and shoots her because she’s having an affair with his aunt. He has no idea she’s clutching a baby under her parka. And the fact that that baby belongs to his old friends? Tragic, tragic coincidence.

  That makes sense, right? And if the gun that murdered Ellen belongs to Baptiste, then that must mean Baptiste or Sidra actually shot her. The young couple have been trading their game with Lane, who’s been passing it off as his own arrow-shot kills. Then, when we accuse Lane of shooting Ellen with that same gun, he realizes who actually did it and quickly spins a story to protect his friends.

  That must be the answer, right?

  Unless Cherise sees Sidra with a young man she presumes is Baptiste, while my gut says Baptiste didn’t lie to us and his wife is missing. Who else could Cherise mistake for Baptiste? Another young dark-haired man of similar build.

  Lane.

  Before this moment, I could only guess at why Lane kidnapped Sidra. Maybe he confessed to her, and she hadn’t forgiven him. Or maybe he took her hostage as a bargaining chip against his punishment for killing Ellen.

  Neither scenario had satisfied me. Now, in Sidra’s scream of rage and frustration, I hear the echoes of other women, and I see the answer.

  “Lane…” Baptiste says, looking at me as he holds Sidra, who vibrates with fury. “You think Lane…”

  “He confessed to killing Ellen,” I say. “He didn’t seem to know she was holding Summer when she died.”

  “H-holding…” Sidra says.

  “Summer is safe,” Baptiste says quickly. “This woman— Casey—found her, and she’s fine. Ellen had rescued her and she—she died holding her, but they found Summer before—before anything could…”

  “Lane murdered Ellen.” Sidra stares at me. “While she was holding my baby. He left … he left her…”

  “He didn’t seem to know,” I say.

  Her face contorts in an inhuman snarl. “Oh, he knew. He knew.” She turns and screams. “Lane! Show yourself, you coward! You want me so badly, come and face me!”

  “Want…” Baptiste looks sick. “No … Yes, at first, yes … but he said he was over you. He said he was happy for us.”

  “He lied,” Sidra spits, face contorting again. “He lied to you. Not to me, though. Never to me. It didn’t matter what I said. It didn’t matter what I did.”

  “He … he kept…?” Baptiste sways, face green. “He kept bothering you, and you never told me.”

  “He was your friend, and I thought he’d get over it. He would see the truth—that it was you, and it had always been you, and I never saw him as anything but a friend. I married you. I had your baby. He would understand soon. I kept telling myself he would finally understand. And he did not.”

  Baptiste goes still, processing. Then his face hardens, and he strides toward the forest. “Lane! Sidra’s right. Show yourself! You have something to say to me, come out here and—”

  A whistle. That’s all I hear. An odd whistle, and then Baptiste falls back and Sidra screams. She runs to her husband as he staggers back, an arrow in his shoulder. Sidra knocks Baptiste to the ground as another arrow whistles past. She covers his body, protecting him, as we surround them, guns out, shouting for Lane.

  The forest goes silent.

  Dalton motions that he’s heading in. I clamp down on the urge to stop him. Instead, I motion that I’ll do the same, from the other side, and he gives me the same look, the one that
resists saying no, don’t go. Go or stay, though, we’re in equal danger from an archer in the woods.

  Dalton leaves first, as I call to Storm, loud enough to distract Lane if he’s watching. I’m telling Storm to stay with Petra when Sidra shouts, “Lane!”

  I look to see Sidra marching toward the forest, her arms spread wide. Petra is on the ground with Baptiste, checking his shoulder injury. Baptiste stares at Sidra and then tries to rise, but Petra holds him down.

  “Sidra?” I say. “Don’t—”

  “Lane!” she shouts. “I do not love you. You could take me captive, and I would only kill you the first chance I got. If I couldn’t kill you, I would kill myself before I let you touch me. Is that clear? Do you understand? I will not be yours. I will never—”

  “No!” I say. I hear her words, and I hear echoes of others, and I know what is coming, what is always coming in a situation like this.

  I run for Sidra, but Petra is closer, and she knows the same thing I do. She’s on her feet, launching herself at Sidra. That whistle sounds. That horrible whistle. Petra hits Sidra and sends her flying, and the arrow hits Petra in the chest. I’m already running at her, and I see it hit and her eyes round, mouth rounding, too, in surprise. Another arrow, this one hitting her in the shoulder, spinning her. She stumbles, and I catch her. I grab her, and her feet scuffle against the ground as she tries to stay upright.

  “Cover!” I shout at Sidra and Baptiste. “Get to cover. Storm!”

  Storm races to me as I half drag Petra. Baptiste says, “Here!” and I look to see him and Sidra ducking behind a deadfall off to our left. I manage to get Petra there. I glance at Baptiste, but he says, “I’m fine.”

  “He’s not fine,” Sidra says, voice quavering, “but his jacket is thick. He’ll be all right.”

  Sidra helps me lay Petra down. Petra’s fingers wrap around my arm, her face pale, eyes wide with impending shock.

  “You’re okay,” I say. “Relax. Stay with us.”

  “Émilie,” she says, and it takes me a moment to remember that that’s her grandmother, one of the board members for Rockton. “The … the hostiles … Your … your theory.”

  “Tell Émilie my theory about the hostiles. Got it. But you can do it yourself. Just hold on.”

  We don’t remove the arrows, not until we get a look at how deep they’re in. I undo Petra’s parka. While she hasn’t been as lucky as Baptiste, the arrowheads haven’t gone deeper than the head. One is in her shoulder, the other just above her heart. Serious, yes. Life-threatening, though? I hope not. I really, really hope not. I can’t see well enough to be sure, not without removing the arrows.

  “We need to snap off the shafts,” I say. “If the shafts are off, we can get her out of that jacket and—”

  “Eric,” Petra whispers. “Go look after Eric. And get this guy. Stop him.”

  I hesitate, but Sidra shoulders me aside, taking over. “She’s right. We’ll leave the arrows in for now. Just find your sheriff and stop Lane.” She meets my gaze. “Please stop Lane.”

  I nod, squeeze Petra’s hand, and then take off.

  FORTY-ONE

  From the arrow-fire, I know the direction to go. I do what we’d planned before Petra got shot—I sneak up in the other direction, presumably on Lane’s opposite side. I hear Lane before I see him. He’s breathing hard and fast, the sound pulling me easily through the woods, letting me approach alongside him, no danger of running smack into him. Not that I’m too worried about that. His weapon might be lethal, but he doesn’t have an arrow nocked. I can see that as soon as I spot him. He’s poised, bow in hand, his gaze riveted on the place where the others hide behind the deadfall.

  He’s waiting for movement. I don’t know what he expects—someone to leap up like a jack-in-the-box? His heavy breathing tells me his adrenaline is pumping, blood pounding in his ears, rendering him deaf and blind to everything except what he wants to see.

  Sidra.

  He’s waiting for Sidra.

  He expects she’ll leap up again to scream at him. Tell him that she’ll never be his, and he will kill her for it. That is what men like him do. He’s been raised to believe he has the right to a life partner, the right to the woman he chooses to fill that role, and if he can’t have her, then by God, no one else will either. He’ll kill Sidra and then himself. That is how this goes. It’s how it always goes.

  So Lane waits for his chance, and he doesn’t hear me creep up on his left side. He hasn’t seen the figure to his right either.

  Dalton will have heard the commotion with Petra going down, and he’ll have paused long enough to be sure we were safely under cover. Then he came here, where he’ll wait to see what I do before he makes his move.

  When I’m far enough behind Lane’s peripheral vision, I lean out and catch Dalton’s eye. He nods and motions a plan. Or I’m sure it’s a plan, but we’re forty feet apart in the forest, and it’s not as if I see more than a few hand gestures. That’s enough, though. I know what we should do, and it seems to coincide with what he’s suggesting.

  We both creep toward Lane from our respective positions, staying out of visual range and on either side of him. Then, without warning, Dalton steps forward, plowing through brush, winter-dry twigs crackling. Lane wheels on Dalton … and that’s apparently my cue to swing behind him and cut off his escape route. I dart into place just as Lane looks over his shoulder to find me there, gun pointed at him, Dalton doing the same on his other side.

  “If you reach for an arrow, we fire,” I say. “You can run, but this time, we’re close enough to catch you.”

  “Also close enough to shoot you,” Dalton says. “Save ourselves the trouble of chasing.”

  “I’m fine with shooting,” I say. “In fact, I’d say it might be our best option. Our only option, really. You stole a baby. You murdered Ellen. You hoped to murder the baby with her. Now you’re trying to murder your best friend and the woman you supposedly love.”

  “Seems to me he doesn’t know the meaning of that word,” Dalton drawls.

  Lane’s face purples. “I’m the only one who does know the meaning of it. Baptiste doesn’t. He’s no friend of mine. Friends don’t do that.”

  “Friends don’t fall in love with the girl you like?” I say. “The girl who likes them back?”

  “I found her,” he says. “Not him. Me. I met Sidra and Felicity in the forest, hunting duck. I was their friend first, and then I brought Baptiste to meet them. I would get Sidra, and he’d get Felicity. He knew that. I found them first. So I was entitled to first pick.”

  “Yeah,” Dalton says. “Like when you’re hunting and you spot a herd of caribou. If you spot them first and bring your friend, you should get first shot, first pick of the herd. That’s how it works, and if he shoots first, he’s an asshole.”

  Lane straightens. “Yes. You understand.”

  “I understand if it’s a herd of caribou,” Dalton says. “But those were girls. Human beings. Not game animals. You can tell Baptiste you like Sidra, and if he’s a decent friend, he won’t make a play for her if there’s a chance she feels the same about you. But that isn’t how it went, was it?”

  Lane shoots Dalton a look I can’t see.

  “Sidra fell for Baptiste,” I say. “And he fell for her. He probably felt lousy about it, but from what I understand, you stood down. You told Baptiste it was fine … while you kept pursuing Sidra. She ran away with him, and you did what? Offered to help them? Bring their game to the Second Settlement in trade? Felicity backed off, but you stuck close in hopes of winning Sidra. Then along came a baby, and you couldn’t allow that. You took Summer. Stole her.”

  “I had to,” he snarls. “A winter baby? How could Baptiste do that to Sidra? It proved he didn’t care about her. I did what needed to be done.”

  “Taking their baby and giving it to the hostiles?”

  His jaw sets. “I gave it to a wild woman who wanted a child. I heard Ellen mention the woman, and I knew that was the answ
er. I left the baby where the woman went to get water each morning, and she took her. She was happy to take her. Then Ellen showed up and stole her back. I’d been out hunting with Baptiste’s gun. As I headed home, I heard the baby, and I heard Ellen hushing her. I found them. I told Ellen to give me the baby, but she said no. She’d been hit on the head stealing her from the hostile woman, and she was confused. She ran, and I fired, and she kept running.”

  “So you let her go?” I say.

  He doesn’t answer.

  “No, you didn’t,” I say. “You followed enough to see her lying down. She stopped to rest. Between the head injury and the shot, she was losing blood and confused, and she’d lain down to rest, and you left her there. You left her to die in the snow. You left the baby to die with her.”

  “I did it for her,” he snarls. “For Sidra. To save her from him.”

  For fourteen years I have worried that someday, holding a gun in my hand, I will repeat the mistake I made with Blaine. Someone will say something, and the rage—the absolute rage I felt then—will rise again, and my gun will rise too, and I will pull the trigger.

  For fourteen years, that possibility has terrified me.

  And now, in this split second, it evaporates.

  I feel that rage again, a blind wave of it washing over me. I see Ellen, lying in the snow, a woman who only wanted to help.

  I see Ellen dead with Summer in her arms, and I think of how close that baby came to dying horribly in the snow, and all this time, I’ve told myself it was a mistake. It had to be, didn’t it? No one would do that on purpose. Before me stands the boy who did it. On purpose. Murdered a kind and generous woman. Abandoned a baby to the elements. And for what? For a girl who never gave him a moment’s encouragement. To murder her child, destroy her life, and then try to kill her if he couldn’t have her?