This Fallen Prey

by Kelley Armstrong

  Dalton takes my chin in his hand, and he's checking my injuries when I catch his eye and shake my head. His lips tighten. He knows what I mean. It's what stopped him on his way in--made him tend to the mob before me. The job comes first, as long as I'm standing.

  "Where's Will?" he asks Jen.

  I answer, "Hatchet mishap with the lumber party. Nothing serious."

  He grunts and tells Jen to get the backup first-aid kit from the clinic. She takes off. Then he strides into the next room, without a word to anyone there, and returns with a wet cloth. He hands it to me, and I press it against my lip as he walks to Roy.

  "What the fuck happened here?" Dalton asks.

  Roy blinks, as if surprised he's asking him first.

  Before Roy can answer, Brady says, "These rednecks formed themselves a lynch mob, Sheriff. Took advantage of you and the deputy being gone and tried to storm the station. Your detective stopped him. He pulled a knife on her. Knocked her around. But she took him down. Too bad she wasn't carrying her sidearm."

  "She's got her fucking sidearm," Dalton says, his gaze on Roy. "She knew she didn't need to use it on a useless piece of shit like you."

  "I wanted to try him," Roy says. "A trial. Not a lynch--"

  "You said you were going to string me up," Brady says. "We call that a lynching where I come from."

  "Can you add anything to contradict what I just heard?" Dalton asks Roy.

  "She went off on me. Started beating the shit out of me."

  "After you stabbed and punched her." Brady glances at Dalton. "The stabbing was unprovoked. She took him down after that. There was a commotion, and he got free and started hitting her. That's when she went off on him." He smiles. "It was awesome."

  No, it wasn't. I lost control. I don't say that now. I've been a cop long enough to know this is a situation I discuss with my superior officer . . . alone.

  "Feel free to correct him," Dalton says to Roy.

  "You're listening to a murdering--?"

  "Feel free to correct him."

  Roy glowers.

  "Yeah, that's what I thought." Dalton returns to the main room and comes back with a handcuff strap. He tosses it to Kenny. "Let him chill in the icehouse until I feel like talking to him. Better grab him a parka, too. It'll be a while."

  17

  Dalton deals with the mob. None of them may have thrown a punch, but in Rockton, witnessing a crime and doing nothing about it is a punishable offense. This law of Dalton's wouldn't fly down south, but up here, with such a small police force, we can reasonably expect better.

  I've let Storm in, and I'm consoling her while Dalton chews out the mob. When Jen comes in with the first-aid container, I point to the back porch. She hesitates, but I march her out.

  "Here's--" she begins, holding out the kit.

  I thrust the discarded petition at her. "You set this up. You knew Eric and Will were both gone. You chose that moment to hit me with this."

  "Yes, I did. I wanted to talk to you alone because you're the only person who actually listens to me."

  "You took advantage of that to distract me while the others--"

  "What? My petition was for a public inquiry, not a trial. Sure as hell not a lynch mob."

  "Bullshit. You kicked Storm, knowing that was a guaranteed distraction--"

  "No." Guilt flits over her face as looks at the dog. "I'm genuinely sorry about that. If Eric wants to come up with a punishment for animal abuse, I'll take it. I kicked her, and that was uncalled for. My past experience with dogs isn't an excuse. I reacted badly." She eases back and eyes me. "I think you know something about that, considering those scars on your arms and the way you went after Roy."

  "That--"

  "In your case, it was justifiable anger. Mine was not."

  She's being reasonable, and I'm not sure how to handle that. I feel as if I'm being set up, and I'd prefer the old Jen, someone to snap back at me, someone I can rightly vent my rage on.

  "You guys need to do something about Roy." Before I can snarl a response, she lifts her hands. "Yeah, I know, you don't need me giving you more work right now, but he's a nutjob."

  "We've had a few run-ins with him already. He has issues with authority."

  She snorts a laugh. "That's putting it mildly. What you just saw didn't come out of nowhere. I can tell you stories . . . and he's only been here a month."

  "If you can tell stories, you should. As part of the militia."

  "I did not have anything to do with what happened in there," she says, ignoring my comment. "You aren't going to find any of those names on my petition. I knew you were alone here, and Roy knew you were alone here. Two totally separate incidents."

  I open the first-aid kit.

  "People don't like what's happening with this Brady guy," she says.

  "Really?" I scrunch my nose. "Personally, I can't see it, but that may be because I'm seeing two of everything right now, after getting clocked by a guy who . . . Wait, he's upset about Brady, isn't he?"

  "I'm just--"

  "You're pointing out the obvious, as usual." I yank out a bandage and lift my shirt. "You have your petition because you think we're overreacting. Roy tried to lynch Brady because he thinks we're underreacting."

  "You need to clean that wound first." She picks up my discarded wet cloth from the railing.

  Dalton peeks out the door.

  "She's fine," Jen says.

  Dalton ignores her and says to me, "I'm still dealing with these idiots, but if you need anything . . ."

  I manage a smile for him. "I can stitch myself, remember?"

  "Yeah, but don't. You need me, shout. Otherwise, I can help in five minutes."

  He retreats inside.

  I turn to Jen. "I know how you feel. You've made that abundantly clear. I'm fucking up, as usual. Now just go."

  "I just think it's a dangerous situation. Especially after this. Whatever Brady did, does it really deserve this treatment?"

  I stare at her. Then I march inside.

  Dalton stops lecturing the coconspirators and arches his brows. I wave for him to continue. Then I unlock a drawer and remove the letter that came with Brady. I walk outside and hand it to Jen.

  After she's read it, I give her the details.

  When I finish, she's pale. Then she says, "Maybe Roy has the right idea."

  "Really? That's your takeaway from this?" I throw up my hands. "I try to share information with you, so you understand why we're keeping him locked up, and you do a total one-eighty. Now we're wrong for not lynching him."

  "I never said lynching."

  "We are doing our best here," I say. "We need people to trust us. Like I trusted you with that letter. If I find out that anyone else knows those details? I know where it came from."

  "I don't like this," she says as I walk away.

  "No one does," I say, and take Storm inside to help Dalton.

  The council has decided not to let Dalton go to Dawson. After what happened today, the situation is "too precarious." I can bitch about that, but they aren't wrong.

  We're on Dalton's balcony, which is our bedroom in good weather . . . and sometimes in bad. I've been here nine months, and the allure of falling asleep to the howl of wolves and the perfume of pine and spruce hasn't worn off. We have a mattress out here, and we're lying on it, with Storm at our feet as we talk.

  Roy is still in the icehouse. We gave him winter gear and a sleeping bag. He'll be fine. One of the militia guys is in there with him, just in case he decides to sabotage the ice. I wouldn't put it past him. Jen's right that he's been trouble. What happened today, though, was worse than I expected. Far worse.

  "He's going back," Dalton says. "As soon as we figure out the shit with Brady, Roy is going home."

  "Is that . . . a good idea? They made Diana stay because she posed a security threat."

  "Nah, they made Diana stay because they're assholes. They've kicked people out before. They have blackmail to make sure they keep their mouth shut ab
out us. We'll work it out. He's not staying, though. He could have killed you. His so-called backstory says nothing about violence, meaning his file is bullshit."

  I don't pursue this. After Dalton finished dealing with the mob, he'd gone to the ice house, and then Roy got to see how Dalton really felt about him attacking me. It wasn't physical. Dalton isn't going to rough up a bound man. But he managed to scare the shit out of Roy without lifting a finger. So while Dalton's calm now, I'd like to back-burner the issue of Roy.

  We discuss the mob. Dalton's furious about that, too, especially since they waited until I was alone at the station. That is unacceptable. They've each been sentenced to six months of chopping and sanitation duty, the worst punishment I've seen Dalton inflict since I arrived. This was an uprising. A revolt. We cannot afford that in our little powder keg of a town.

  The petition doesn't help. The fact that we have residents complaining that we're erring too far on both sides means we're, well, screwed. We can't inch in either direction without pissing someone off.

  "Stay the course," I say. "That's my advice, if you want it."

  "Course I do."

  "Then we continue on as planned. Ignore those who argue that Brady deserves more freedoms. The bigger threat is Roy's gang. If that continues, we clamp down."

  "Martial law." Dalton shakes his head. "I saw it done when I was growing up, and I was kinda proud of the fact that I've never had to resort to that. Thought that meant I was a better sheriff. Bullshit. It just means I got lucky."

  "Rockton has never dealt with anything like Brady before. Right now, I think we're just in the unsettled phase. People are on edge. Once his cabin is built, they'll settle." I stretch out on top of him. "We'll be okay."

  His arms go around my waist. "We will be."

  Which is true. We'll be okay, as both a couple and as individuals. We'll weather this, however it plays out. The problem is everyone else. Everyone we are responsible for.

  18

  "That is not perfect," Anders is saying early the next morning. "Casey cut the board backward."

  "I was just--" Kenny says.

  "Being supportive. Encouraging." Anders puts the board in place, and the angle is indeed the wrong way. "Well, at least it's straight. A for effort, Case."

  I take back the board, with my middle finger raised.

  As I carry it to the sawhorse, Anders says, "Casey hates the effort award. She wants the honest A-plus overachiever award."

  "Ignore him," I say. "But yes, Kenny, you can tell me I did it wrong. I'll survive. And I'll do it right the next time."

  "Overachiever," Anders calls.

  Kenny comes over and helps me line up the cut. I don't tell him I can handle it. He means well. While I've chopped wood, even that was a new experience for me six months ago. When I was growing up, we never had so much as a saw in our garage. My parents would say sharp tools were unsafe, but part of it was also the mentality that such tasks were meant for people who lacked a surgeon's IQ.

  Brady's new quarters are almost done, and we're spending every spare minute building.

  I hand the fixed board to Kenny.

  "Now it'll be a half inch too short," Anders says. "It'll leave a gap, and Brady will get his fingers through and pry it open and escape."

  "It's for the bathroom interior wall."

  "He'll still escape through it. Just watch. All because you cut an angle backward."

  "Didn't we have to take down half a wall because someone put the damn door on the wrong side?"

  "You said the door went on the west wall, and you know I'm directionally challenged."

  "The sun was setting. It doesn't set in the east."

  Jen walks by with a bucket of nails. "You two keep bickering like that, the sheriff's gonna get jealous. Sounds like someone has a crush."

  "Only if you're twelve," Anders says. "Grown-ups bicker 'cause it's fun."

  "The word you want is 'annoying,' " she says.

  "You only say that because you feel left out. Hey, Jen, can I have a few of those screws?"

  "They're nails."

  "I know, but yesterday I asked you for screws, and you brought me nails."

  She shakes her head.

  "That's an opening," he says. "You're supposed to make a sarcastic retort."

  "The only ones I can think of are puns on screwing and nailing, and every woman in Rockton knows not to mention those words around you, Deputy, or you'll think it's an invitation."

  "Ouch."

  "Good one, though," I say. "A little below the belt, but it's an A for effort."

  Kenny snorts at that, and he starts to say something when I hear "Will? Will!" and Paul races around the neighboring building, pulling up short when he sees us. "Will and Casey. Perfect. I need you both at the station. There's something wrong with the prisoner."

  Anders takes off ahead, Storm follows at my side.

  "You didn't leave him alone, right?" I ask as Paul runs a pace behind.

  Silence. Then, "He was sick, and I had to get Will, and there was no one else--"

  "Is his door locked?"

  "The station door?"

  "Cell. Did you open his cell?"

  "I don't have the key. Eric took it. He got called across town. As he was leaving, the prisoner said he had to take a shit, and Eric said to hold it or use the bucket. He wasn't leaving the key."

  I send up a silent thanks to Dalton.

  I yell ahead to Anders, "Careful! I think it's a trap," and he raises a hand, as if to say he's already figured that out. The medical emergency is a hackneyed escape ploy. The fact that it happened while Dalton was out? And after Brady tried to get him to leave the key? Yeah, this screams setup, and not a very clever one at that.

  I race into the station to find Anders outside the cell. Inside, Brady is on all fours, vomiting. Vomiting hard, as if he's going to puke up his stomach lining. His back arches like something out of a horror movie, his body convulsing before he spews more of his stomach contents onto the floor.

  Paul looks at me. "Should I go find Eric for the key?"

  I take mine from my pocket. Then I proceed with measured steps toward the cell. Paul stares at me, and I see that once again, we are trapped in this dilemma, where caution seems callous.

  Anders looks at me, his mouth set in a tight line. He knows this can be faked. Stick your finger down your throat to start the vomiting and then act out the rest.

  "Guys?" Paul says.

  "Lock the back door," I say, and then I do that with the front. As Anders holds open the back door, he says, "Out," to Paul . . . who hasn't moved.

  "But he--"

  "--could be just hoping we throw open the cell door and let him make a run for it."

  "You think he's faking?" Paul says.

  I say, "I think every second you debate whether to do as I said, you delay us helping him if he's not."

  Anders shuts and locks the rear door as he says, "Stay here then. And don't expect me to forget that you disobeyed an order."

  We don't hear Paul's protest. I'm at the cell door with my key in one hand, gun in the other. Storm stands beside me. I hand Anders the key, and he unlocks the door. Brady is still doubled over, dry-heaving now, panting hard and letting out whimpers of pain between breaths. The stink of vomit fills the room.

  Anders opens the door and steps over a puddle. His gaze goes to something behind Brady. He motions to me that he's going to bend over the heaving man to retrieve it. I stand poised while he crouches. What he lifts is Brady's breakfast tray. He backs out of the cell to set it on the floor. Then he starts in again.

  Anders makes it one step. Brady lurches. I shout "Will!" but Anders is already on him, pinning him to the floor, a slap as Brady's body hits the vomit pool. Brady's arms fly out to the sides, as if in surrender.

  "Dog," he rasps. "The dog."

  He points in my direction, and I'm not sure if I'm mishearing, but he just keeps pointing. Then he starts heaving again, his body jerking and convulsing under Ande
rs.

  "Lock the door," Anders says.

  I hesitate--I'm loath to lock Anders in there with Brady--but it's only a split second. Then I lock it and train my gun on Brady as Anders rises off him.

  Brady stays facedown, racked with dry heaves.

  "I need you to put your hands behind your back," Anders says.

  At first, Brady just moans. Anders repeats the command, and Brady complies. Anders snaps on a wrist strap. He looks from me to the puddles to the food tray. It's mostly empty, the water and coffee drained. If Brady just finished his meal--including two drinks--that could account for the quantity of vomit. That tray, though, also suggests he might not be faking.

  "Here?" Anders says, and I know he's asking whether we should attempt to care for Brady in the cell.

  If it is poison, we need him at the clinic. He can't even lie flat in the cell, and it's such a mess that it'll impede our efforts.

  "He's secured," I say.

  "Can you walk?" Anders asks Brady.

  The younger man puts one foot out and begins to rise. It's slow, unsteady, but even if he forced the vomiting, he will be weak.

  Anders helps him to his feet. Then, "Paul?"

  "Yes, sir." Paul hurries over from where he's been watching in silence. "I can help you carry him."

  "Not you. Get Kenny."

  Paul flushes. He knows Anders is saying: I don't trust you. He bobs his head and runs out the front door. I relock it behind him. Then I move to the cell and unlock that. Anders has Brady up, supporting him. I open the door and move in to help, but Anders says, "I've got it. Just stand point, please."

  I step back and keep the gun ready as they walk out of the cell. A key scrapes in the front door lock. Then it stops.

  "Casey? Will?"

  I call for Dalton to come in, and he finishes unlocking the door. He steps through, sees Brady, and curses. Then he hurries over to help.

  If there is an advantage to having parents who raised me to be a doctor, it is that I don't need to consult our medical texts to recognize the signs of poisoning. I assess Brady as Dalton and Anders carry him to the clinic.

  He has a fever. He's struggling to breathe. His heart is racing.

  Oliver Brady has been poisoned.

  At the clinic, we pump his stomach. It's only our second time using the procedure. In Brady's case, after all that vomit, there really isn't much to pump, but it's all we know.