This Fallen Prey

by Kelley Armstrong

  "It wasn't that kind of a diversion. I thought so, too--that's why I went to check--"

  "No." He spins to the door. "Fuck, no. Do not tell me--"

  I grab his arm. "Yes, I'm telling you he's gone, and that there's a reason why I didn't come running to get a search party. Just listen. Please."

  He nods, and I explain.

  23

  You did the right thing.

  That's what Diana told me. That is, I know, what I will hear from Anders, from Nicole, from everyone else who believes in me and wants to offer support.

  That is not what I get from Dalton.

  Fucking impossible situation.

  That's what he says, and it's what I need to hear. Acknowledgment that there was no right choice here. There were only choices.

  He doesn't tell me he'd have done the same. That goes without saying. Because what is the alternative? That I raised the alarm and hoped someone took Brady down before he could shoot Val?

  Fucking impossible situation.

  I put Val in that situation, so I could have done nothing that would end in her death. Even though what I have done might still kill her.

  I don't trust Brady to let her go. Like Diana, Dalton argues that Brady has no reason to kill her and no reason to take her with him. But he says that because, to him, this is logical.

  To Dalton, if Brady has no reason to kill Val, then he won't. He understands that we may be dealing with a man who kills for pleasure, but he cannot comprehend the implications because they don't exist in his world. Even with the hostiles, he presumes they attack us for a reason.

  When I correct him, though, he says, "Yeah, but will he endanger his life for the enjoyment of taking hers? I like sex, but I gotta warn you--if our house catches on fire midway through? I'm leaving. Taking you with me, but leaving. If Brady kills Val, we're going to be all over his ass. Far as I'm concerned, if he gives us Val back, I'll do a rudimentary search--that's it. I'm not risking lives to recover him. But if she dies . . ."

  "You'll hunt him down."

  "We will."

  Back at the shed, Dalton tells people to carry on. Then he asks a few to help him tackle "security shit--'cause it doesn't stop even for a fucking fire." He takes Anders, Nicole, Sam, and Kenny. Paul feels the sting of being passed over. He's core militia, and Nicole is not yet, but Dalton's commitment to women in the militia means showing that they won't be tokens, left off the front lines when situations get serious.

  Anders runs Storm over to Petra's. Our first stop is the station, where Dalton asks Nicole and Sam to wait outside. We take Kenny in.

  Dalton closes the door behind us.

  "I'm going to ask you to step into the cell," Dalton says.

  "Sure," Kenny says. "You need me to check something?"

  "No, I'm going to lock you inside until I get back."

  Kenny lets out a strained laugh. "Is it something I said?"

  "When you showed up here three years ago, I thought you were useless. Couldn't hold a saw. Sure as hell couldn't fire a gun. Nothing I could do with you except make sure you didn't get your damned ass killed before you could go home. Then you decided to apprentice in carpentry, and I thought, huh, maybe . . . Still, when you asked to join the militia, I thought, fuck no. Another desk jockey fancies himself a lawman. Gonna shoot yourself if I give you a gun. But you proved you could handle it. You became Will's right-hand man. You still drive me fucking crazy sometimes, but I came to respect you. And that respect is why I'm not throwing you in the cell. I'm asking you to walk in yourself."

  "I don't under--"

  "The only thing to understand right now is that I gave you an order. Either you do it or this gets uglier than I want."

  Kenny walks into the cell. Dalton closes the door.

  "Oliver Brady is gone," I say.

  "What?" Kenny says. "Someone killed--"

  "He escaped."

  Kenny's mouth works. Then he stops. "Because I left him unguarded. Shit. I'm sorry, Eric. He was secured and the fire--"

  "He got himself unsecured," I say. "With this." I hold out Kenny's knife.

  Kenny pats his pockets. "No. No. He must have--I know this looks bad but--"

  "You told me Val let you leave. She says she didn't. After you told me that, I called you back. You kept going."

  "I didn't hear--Wait. Val says she didn't tell me to leave? I heard the bell, and then I smelled smoke, and I told her and she was freaking out over the fire, and maybe she didn't understand what I was asking. You know how she gets. Bring her here. Let me talk to her."

  "Brady took her."

  "W-what?"

  Dalton says, "He took Val hostage. You're staying in that cell, and we'll talk when we get back. Just hope we have Val with us to straighten this out."

  Before we go, Dalton changes his mind about bringing Anders. That would leave Rockton exposed. The fire was a distraction, and Dalton failed to see that, so now he's madly spinning out all the possibilities we might be missing. One is that Brady expects we'll do exactly this--gather our law enforcement and troop into the forest, leaving the town with a guard or two on fire cleanup. He could take more hostages, steal an ATV, even try to steal the plane.

  I explain the situation to Anders, Sam, and Nicole as we walk. Then Anders runs back to town, where he'll have the remains of the militia guard the vehicles and patrol the town while citizens handle the fire fallout.

  We move at a brisk walk. Val will be alone in the forest, which she has not set foot in since she was attacked here shortly after she arrived. Now she's about to be abandoned in these woods after being marched in at gunpoint. I cannot imagine what that will be like. Nicole can. She's moving faster than any of us, and Dalton has to call her back, saying, "If Brady thinks we didn't give him an hour, that gives him an excuse."

  An excuse to kill Val.

  We're approaching the final curve when Dalton's gait catches. A split-second hesitation as his chin lifts and his nostrils flare, finding some scent in the breeze.

  "Eric?" I say as I come up beside him.

  His nostrils flare again. His gaze fixes on the path, and when Sam whispers, "What's the plan?," Dalton doesn't seem to hear him.

  "You two stay here," I whisper to Sam and Nicole.

  I slant a look at Dalton, giving him the chance to contradict the order. He just keeps moving, his gaze fixed on that corner.

  "Guns out," I whisper to the other two. "Watch the forest. Do not fire."

  I jog to catch up with Dalton. He's rounding that final curve to the place where we should find Val--

  The breeze hits, bringing with it the unmistakable coppery smell of blood.

  I cover Dalton. He doesn't have his gun out. His arm isn't good enough for that. Instead, he reaches his right hand into his pocket for his knife.

  I have my gun ready as we continue around the curve . . .

  There's something on the path. Dalton stops short, but he doesn't look at the object. He's scanning the forest. I give the object one quick glance, and then pull my gaze away after I'm sure it's not a person.

  As I survey the forest, though, I recall the image. A bloodied heap. Something brown.

  What was Val wearing?

  It's too small to be her body. Too small to be her entire body.

  I don't pursue that thought.

  I know why Dalton is ignoring the heap--he can't be distracted from a potential trap. But the unknown pounds at my head, my mouth going dry, and all I can think about is Val agreeing to be our spy with Brady.

  And me letting her, despite Dalton's reservations.

  So I look. I suck in breath. Dalton tenses, shoulder blades snapping together under his T-shirt.

  "It's not Val," I say quickly.

  His gaze drops then. And he lets out a quiet oath.

  It is a dog.

  No, it's a puppy.

  On the path lies what looks like a shepherd puppy, with brown speckles on its muzzle. As soon as I see those, I remember the wolf-dog, the nursing mother
.

  The cub is dead.

  Slaughtered and left on the path.

  I pull my gaze from the cub and wrap both hands around my gun. Dalton steps over the tiny corpse.

  I lift my foot to follow. Then I stop. Eyes on my surroundings, I crouch and lay my fingertips against the side of the cub's neck.

  Still warm.

  I hurry to catch up with Dalton, continuing around the curve and--

  He stops and lets out a string of curses under his breath.

  There is another heap on the path.

  We don't stop for a better look. I see bloods and entrails, and my stomach churns. I've seen plenty of dead animals up here, often in worse shape, half devoured and rotting, but this is not a predator's kill. These cubs have been planted--a trap that Dalton and I are expected to fall for because we have a dog of our own. So we will see these poor dead cubs and stop, and then--

  A whimper sounds in the bushes, and Dalton lets out another curse, this one softer, almost an exhalation.

  Fuck, no . . .

  What will be worse than seeing dead wolf-dog cubs in the path?

  Seeing one that is not yet dead.

  24

  We take a step. Then the sound comes again, that deep-throated whine, from the brush beside the path.

  Dalton glances back at me. It's the briefest of glances, no more than a flicker of eye contact.

  We should keep going. We're suckers if we don't, playing right into the trap Brady has set. A third cub has been left alive, horribly injured, as the cruelest of taunts. Punishment for the fact that we are not monsters.

  Can you walk by this dying dog? You know you should. It's a wild thing, a feral beast. But I saw how you left the wolf-dog alone. I heard you say that she must have pups nearby. Heard the relief in your voices when she didn't attack, an excuse to let her live.

  Suckers.

  I'll leave Val by that spot where the sheriff got shot. You know the one. Just go there, and you'll find her.

  The cub whines again.

  "Fuck."

  "Val?" I call. Then louder. "Valerie?"

  She doesn't respond, and I know she won't. She isn't here. It would make no sense to kill these cubs and leave her with them, where she can warn us of a trap.

  Brady is out there, in the forest, with my gun.

  He's watching us. Figuring out how to put us both down before we can fire back. And this is the way to do it. Get us to lower our guard as we go after the wounded cub, because we will do that, of course we will.

  Suckers.

  I remember reading folklore that said one way to escape a vampire was to throw rice on the path, and it will be compelled to stop and pick up every grain before continuing on. I remember shaking my head at the absolute ridiculousness of it. But that is what Brady has done. He has thrown rice in our path, knowing we must stop to gather it up.

  "Sam?" I shout. "Nicki?"

  "Here!" Nicole calls back.

  "Stay where you are, and stay alert. Brady's set a trap. There's no sign of Val. We're fine. Just hold there while we look for her."

  "Got it!"

  I cover Dalton as he takes another step. Then he bends to grab a stick with his bad hand, his knife still clenched in the good one. He pokes the stick around the brush where the noises come from. He jabs the cub by accident, and it lets out a startled yelp. Then it growls, and when he withdraws the stick, a pair of tiny jaws come with it, clamped on the wood before they fall away.

  "Well, that's a good sign," he murmurs.

  Confident he's not about to step into a literal trap, Dalton walks to the undergrowth, bends, and pushes fronds aside. Inside is a cub. I catch one glimpse of it before I remember what I'm supposed to be doing.

  Don't be any more of a sucker than you need to, Casey.

  I stay back and let Dalton handle it. The cub whines and whimpers and then--

  "Fuck!"

  I look over sharply. He's pulling back his hand, puncture wounds below his thumb welling with blood.

  "It attacked you?"

  "Nah, just snapped at me. It's caught in something."

  "How badly is it injured?"

  "I see blood where it's caught, but otherwise nothing. Looks like a snare wire. I'm probably going to get nipped again, so ignore the cursing."

  "Got it."

  I survey the forest. I know this is a trap. It must be. But there's no sign of anyone. Dalton works on the cub, swearing as he's nipped. Then there's a sound from the forest.

  "Eric . . ."

  "I hear it."

  He backs away from the cub, who begins whining and yelping in earnest. However much freeing it hurt the cub, it's even more worried about being abandoned again, and it's making enough noise that I can't hear what's happening in the forest.

  Dalton retreats to me, knife still in his hand. "Sound came from that way."

  "Could you tell what it was?"

  "Footsteps maybe? Hard to say."

  The brush crackles, loud enough for us to catch it between the cub's cries. I see it, too, a wave of movement, branches pushed aside, something big crashing toward the path . . .

  I aim my gun.

  There's another movement. A dark shape below where I'm aiming.

  The mother wolf-dog staggers onto the path. Her gray fur is matted with blood, and she moves with a stiff-legged gait, breath coming so hard I can hear it.

  Dalton says, "Fuck, no," and that seems odd. Yes, it's a tragedy that the wolf-dog has also been mortally wounded, drawn back by the cries of her cub, but there's a note of fear in his voice that I do not understand until I see what hangs from her jaws.

  Saliva.

  Bloody, foaming saliva.

  "Rabies?" I whisper.

  "I hope not, but presume yes. We're going to have to take her down. You got a bead on her?"

  I nod.

  "Okay, take the--"

  The wolf-dog charges. One second, she's shambling along, seeming a heartbeat from keeling over. The next she is in flight, jaws snapping, bloody froth flying.

  I fire.

  The bullet hits her. And she doesn't care.

  I fire again, and Dalton stays right there, beside me, and I want to shout at him to move. Get out of the way. Dive for cover. Run!

  But he just waits as I fire more rounds, and by then she's so close I can see the proverbial whites of her eyes as they roll.

  "Eric!" I shout as I fire one last time.

  He pushes me to the side. It's not a shove, just a push, and I'm scrambling out of the way, and he's just moving aside and . . .

  The wolf-dog falls. Midflight, she collapses, this weird movement, almost like she's dancing as she folds in on herself. Then she drops, and when she hits the ground, those wild eyes are frozen open in death, a bullet hole between them.

  "Nice shot," he says.

  "Next time, can you not stay in the path of a charging wild animal?"

  "I knew you'd get her."

  "Just humor me, okay?" I walk over to see I did get her--with every bullet. Two to the chest, both of which would have been fatal, but she'd been too far gone to care.

  "Got another one here where the blood's drying."

  It's the spot I'd seen on her flank, matted with blood. Dalton pokes at it.

  "Bullet's . . ." he says.

  He uses his knife to cut it out. I've stood in on countless autopsies without flinching, but I swear Dalton makes me look positively squeamish. There is a question to be answered here, and he digs that bullet free without a moment's hesitation.

  He holds the bullet up, his fingers red with blood.

  "Nine-mil?" he asks.

  "Yes."

  One of the perks of being on the Rockton police force is that we get to choose our own sidearms. Mine's a Sig Sauer P226. Dalton is a revolver guy--the product of growing up here and using older guns. He carries a .357 Smith & Wesson. Anders prefers a gun that might actually stand a chance of taking down a grizzly: a Ruger Alaskan .454, which requires more wrist strength
than I currently possess.

  The bullet Dalton found fits my weapon . . . the one Brady took.

  "Yes," I say. "It is possible we've misread the scenario. Brady shot this dog, which appears to have rabies or some other infection that drove it mad. It might have killed its own cubs. That one"--I nod toward the third--"could have gotten tangled in a settler's snare. Then Brady comes along, finds the mad dog and shoots. Even if it was a trap, it only seems to have been designed to slow us down, because he's missed the chance to attack."

  "Or he was setting a trap. He killed the cubs, and the mother unexpectedly returned and attacked. He shoots her and takes off."

  "Possible. Right now, though, we have two problems, leading in polar opposite directions. Finding Val and getting that cub back to town."

  He frowns at me.

  "No," I say. "As much as I love dogs, I'm not equating that cub's life with Val's. But this is about yours."

  His frown deepens.

  I wave at the wolf-dog. "If she had rabies, there's a chance her cub is also infected. The cub that bit you. We need to quarantine it."

  "Yeah." No curse for this one. He hasn't considered this possibility, but now that I raise it, he doesn't freak out. Huh, you're right. I could have a terrible and deadly disease.

  "Casey?"

  I jump at Nicole's voice. I'd forgotten we've had two militia around the corner. The only reason they haven't come running is that they know how much shit Paul is in for disobeying an order. So they stayed put, our voices assuring them we aren't lying in agony, gutshot on the ground.

  I tell them to approach, and I warn about the cubs, but when they appear, both are obviously rattled.

  I'm standing point while Dalton continues freeing the cub. Nicole sees what he's doing and jogs over with, "Here, let me--"

  "No," I say. "The mother may have been rabid. Eric's already been bit."

  "Rabid?"

  I struggle to keep scanning the forest. Dalton may not have freaked out about the possibility, but I sure as hell am. I feel him glance at me.

  "It's unlikely," he says, his voice softer than usual. "Highly unlikely. There's never been a confirmed case in the Yukon. But, yeah, I've seen reports of it. We'll quarantine the cub. First sign of trouble, I'll get my ass south."

  I don't answer, just keep looking for trouble, hoping that if it exists, it's out there, not here in the form of a small and terrified cub.

  "Casey?"

  "Hmm?"

  "There's never been an incidence. Not one. The mother could have had a seizure. Could have been poisoned."