This Fallen Prey

by Kelley Armstrong

  I replace his dressings and check for signs of rabies. I see none, and by this point, I'm starting to agree he isn't infected.

  As I change his dressing, I resist the urge to scratch behind his ears or cuddle him. That is oddly difficult, more than it would be with a human patient. We're already crossing a line by feeding him--associating humans with food. Yet we aren't sure what else to do, besides declare him rabies-free and dump him into the forest to fend for himself. Abandon him to die. That's what we'd be doing, and neither of us suggests that.

  When the door opens, I grab for the cub. I'm accustomed to Storm as a puppy, where an open door meant freedom. Instead the wolf cub dives back behind the sofa.

  Mathias walks in. Before I can give him shit for not knocking, he says in French, "I want the wolf-dog."

  "Uh, yeah . . . no. He's not a--"

  "Pet. I realize that. No one else will." He purses his lips. "Except Dalton. And of course, you, but you already have Storm, therefore giving you guardianship of another animal would be unfair."

  "No one is taking this cub. The whole 'not a pet' issue."

  "Which is why I am requesting guardianship." He crouches to peer at the cub. "Australian shepherd."

  "Hmm?"

  "The dog blood is Australian shepherd. I am familiar with the breed--my family owned several. It's a working dog, like all shepherds. I believe that will help counteract the wolf blood and the combination of the two will produce an excellent guard dog. Possibly even an acceptable hunting dog, given the wolf instincts."

  When I say nothing, he looks over. "What is the alternative? It cannot be returned to the wild at this age. It cannot be released once it is grown. It cannot be given to anyone in town who will, despite all protestations, expect a dog like Storm. I have scraps to feed it. I have the time to train it. I am bored. It will be a project for me."

  "I'm not sure an animal should be a cure for boredom, Mathias."

  "Then consider it a favor. To you. Otherwise you will be placed in an impossible situation. You'll never euthanize an animal you have rescued and cared for. So you will be forced to add it to your household, which introduces a dilemma. It cannot sleep by your bed like Storm, or roam freely as she does. Yet if Storm bonds with the cub as a pack mate, you must treat them the same, which means either restricting her or being dangerously lax with him."

  I hunker back on my haunches. "Did you hear about Val?"

  "All right. You are not outright refusing me, which means you are changing the subject so you may consider my request. Also you are reminding me that this might not be the time to make such a request. Yes, I heard she is dead. I also know you will feel responsible. If you wish to discuss that, I would remind you that Isabel is the therapist."

  "I'm not looking for therapy. Or absolution. You were there. You know what happened. I chose to let Brady take Val because that seemed the best chance for her survival."

  "True."

  I carry the wolf cub's bowl into the kitchen for fresh water. "The question I want to ask you is why. Why would Brady kill her? Yes, we suspect he's a serial killer, but his MO suggests he likes torture and captivity. Would a quick kill serve the same purpose?"

  "No," he says as I return with the water. "But the urge to kill is . . . People often use the analogy of hunger or thirst. I prefer sex. Most of us enjoy it, and it satisfies a need, yet we can survive without it. For a murderer who likes to torture his victims, a quick death is akin to shower masturbation with someone banging on the door telling you to hurry up. It won't scratch the itch, but it does the job in a pinch."

  I set the bowl down along with more meat scraps. When the cub comes out from behind the couch, Mathias crouches and takes a piece, holding it out.

  I make a noise in my throat, and he says, "That is an excellent Momma Wolf impression, Casey."

  "You know what I mean."

  "Oh, but I do. The same thing Momma Wolf would. Watch myself because you have not yet decided whether I pose a threat to your little one." He feeds the cub. "Are we certain Brady murdered Val?"

  "He murdered Brent."

  "Which is not the same thing. And yet it is to you, isn't it? If he murdered your friend Brent, then you are not wasting time wondering if he is also responsible for Val. You will determine that when you have the body, but for now, it does not matter."

  "Should it?"

  "I suppose not."

  I want to snap, Then why bring it up. I don't. He's only nudging doubts I don't want nudged. Brent is dead. There is no question that Brady shot him. But the question of intent is murkier. The gun went off during a fight. I want to say that doesn't matter. Death as a result of an armed robbery is still homicide. Brady also failed to do anything to help Brent after he'd been shot. He ground his fist into the injury. Therefore, he must be the monster his stepfather claims he is.

  Yet I keep hearing him in the clinic, telling me not to test him, not to underestimate his desperation.

  Desperate enough to take a hostage. Desperate enough to threaten to kill me. Desperate enough to waylay Brent in hopes of finding Jacob.

  And Val?

  When I realized she'd been in the water for a while, I jumped to the conclusion this proved Brady killed her. Of course it doesn't. In fact, if I'm being brutally honest, the location of her corpse suggests he might not be the culprit. While it's possible that Brady led her up the mountainside and then killed her, I don't see the point of that. My theory was that her body had been dragged upstream by a large predator.

  Yet is it not equally likely that Val herself fled in the wrong direction? That she escaped Brady, or he let her go, and she ran toward the nearest landmark? Climbed the mountain hoping for a good vantage point and then slipped into the gorge?

  I don't want to think that. I need the simple answer for now--that Brady murdered her and therefore, if I see him, I am free to shoot.

  He killed Brent. He killed Val. He is a killer. The end.

  35

  Dalton returns at dinner hour. They didn't find Val. The stream is too narrow and shallow to miss her body, but there are several pools along the way. We have no equipment for diving, and the glacial water is still too cold for sustained searching. So they return, tired, frustrated, and empty-handed.

  Dalton finds me in our house. I'm taking a shower with Storm--kind of--having trained her to lie with her head inside the partially open door so she can enjoy the spray without actually getting in with me.

  Afterward, I'm dressing while packing a bag. He's too preoccupied to notice the latter.

  "I've decided you're right," he says as he lounges on the bed, watching me scurry about in my bra and panties.

  "Am I?"

  "About Jacob, that is. There are other reasons he might abandon camp temporarily. Bears for one. And I didn't see his bow. He might have been out with that, got led off by good hunting."

  "Uh-huh." I tuck one of his shirts into the bag.

  "Even if Brady did get the jump on him, that doesn't mean he kept him. Jacob isn't some kid wandering the forest. He knows how to take care of himself."

  "He does." I grab toothbrushes and paste from the bathroom. Then I start pulling on my jeans and shirt.

  "But if it wasn't easy--or safe--to escape, Jacob would do the smart thing and give Brady what he wants. Lead him in the general direction of the nearest community. It'd take a fucking week to walk there. But that's a week for Jacob to escape."

  "True." I heft the bag. "Needs marshmallows."

  "Marshmallows?"

  "For the bonfire," I say, as I head downstairs.

  I'm on the first level by the time he calls down, "What bonfire?"

  "The one we'll have when we stop to camp. We should get going, though, while we still have light. You grab the marshmallows and bring Storm. I'll meet you at the stables."

  Dalton doesn't argue with my plan, which is that we're going hunting for Jacob--immediately. All the self-talk in the world won't keep us from worrying. At least searching eases the tension
, making us feel as if we are accomplishing something productive.

  First, we check the marked tree and find the flag to tell Jacob we want to talk. Next we travel to a spot he sometimes uses for a temporary camp. There's no sign he's been there. He has a more permanent site where he hides his gear, but Dalton has no idea where it is.

  He grumbles about that tonight, like he always does. Usually, that's just hurt feelings, and I tease that it's like when the brothers were little and Dalton had hiding spots to escape Jacob. Now Dalton knows what that feels like. It's a good analogy, too. Jacob avoids questions about his main camp because he doesn't particularly want his brother there. Part of it might be privacy, but I think more is fear of being judged.

  Dalton is physically incapable of keeping his opinions to himself, particularly when those opinions relate to how others are living their lives. We occasionally need that blunt honesty and hard push toward what we secretly know is the right path. But there's a limit to how much honesty--and pushing--anyone wants, and Dalton struggles to find that line. I think Jacob imagines his brother seeing his permanent camp and finding all the faults with it, all the reasons he should make Rockton his base camp. Better to just firmly draw that line for Dalton. I love you, brother, but this is my space, and thou shalt not pass.

  Now, though, not knowing where to find that permanent camp gives Dalton a real reason to complain.

  We return to the abandoned camp to search it better. We confirm that, yes, Jacob's bow is missing. While he has the rifle, that's mostly for protection. It's the bow he keeps strung across his back in case he spots dinner.

  We set Storm to work here. I pull a sweater from inside the tent and let her sniff, and she does a little dance of joy. On the long list of people she adores, Jacob is near the top, and she's been racing about camp already, sniffing and looking for him. Now realizing that he is her target makes her far happier than when we gave her Val and Brady.

  The moment I let her sniff Jacob's sweater, she's off like a flash. Fortunately, I learned my lesson with the cougar. She's on a lead now, and Dalton is holding it--she can't take him butt-surfing, no matter how hard she pulls. She snuffles around the campsite for about three seconds and then zooms into the forest. She doesn't go far. Apparently, she's found the path Jacob uses for his latrine, which means it's well traveled . . . and goes nowhere useful.

  When she comes back, she takes it slower, unraveling scent trails. She follows the one we came in on and then pauses, as if considering. We've been working on teaching her to "age" scents--parse older ones from new.

  She circumvents the camp again. Then she takes off on a trail leading into the forest. She commits to this one, which makes things tricky when it goes through trees too dense for the horses. I go back for them, climb onto Cricket and take Blaze's reins. Dalton's gelding isn't thrilled with that plan, but he follows and we circle around while whistles from Dalton keep us going in the right direction.

  We spend an hour like that. I ride and lead Blaze while trying not to stray too far from Dalton's signals. Twice Jacob's path joins a trail, which makes it easier, until he cuts through the bush again.

  Dalton finds no sign of trouble. No indication of an ambush or a fight. But eventually we hit a rocky patch, and Storm loses the scent. She tries valiantly to find it again, grumbling her frustration when she can't. We have some idea of the general direction Jacob was headed, though, so we continue that way, both on horseback now, while Storm runs alongside, her nose regularly lifting to test the air.

  "Satellite phones," Dalton says after a while.

  "I know."

  I've been advocating sat phones. I remember when I first moved here, I thought that's what Val used. When it turned out to be some kind of high-tech dedicated radio receiver, I presumed that was because nothing else would work. But Dalton and I did some research when we were down south, and we discovered there was no reason sat phones shouldn't work. We just don't have them, because they'd allow us to call out, which is against Rockton rules. Also, even calls between phones in such an isolated region could trigger unwanted interest.

  We have discussed getting them anyway, for emergencies, and now is the perfect example of when a satellite phone could be a lifesaver.

  "We'd need to know whether they could be detected," I say. "And figure out how to get an account without a credit card and ID. They aren't like cell phones. You can't grab a prepaid."

  "Yeah."

  "It might be possible to buy one on the black market. Yes, I'm talking about that as if I have a clue how to get anything on the black market. But I might be able to figure out . . ."

  I trail off as Storm stops. She's sniffing the air. Then the fur on her back rises, and she reverses toward me . . . which means toward Cricket, making my horse do a little two-step before snorting and nose-smacking the dog.

  I pull Cricket to a halt and swing my leg over, but Dalton says, "Hold," and I wait. Storm growls. I resist the urge to comfort her. If she senses trouble, I want her warning us.

  Storm is sitting right against Cricket's foreleg. The mare exhales, as if in exasperation, and nudges the dog, but there's no nip behind it, and when Cricket lifts her head, she catches a scent, too.

  "Step out."

  Dalton's voice startles me. The animals, too, Storm glancing back sharply, Cricket two-stepping again. Only Blaze stays where he is, rock-steady as always.

  "We're armed," Dalton says as he takes out his gun. "I know you're there, just to the left of the path. Come out, or we'll set the dog on you."

  36

  Silence answers. I haven't heard whatever Dalton and the animals must.

  Then he says, "Storm? Get ready . . . ," and there's a rustle in the undergrowth ahead.

  A boy steps onto the path. He can't be more than twelve. I see him, and the first thing I think of is Dalton--that this boy is already older than he would have been when the former sheriff took him from the forest.

  The boy looks so young. It's easy to think of twelve as the cusp of adolescence, but it is still childhood, even out here, and that's what I see: a boy with a knife clenched in one hand, struggling to look defiant as he breathes fast.

  Dalton looks at the boy, and his jaw hardens. Then he aims his glower into the forest.

  "That's a fucking coward's move, and you oughta be ashamed of yourselves, pushing a kid out here. Did I mention we have guns? And a dog?"

  The boy's gaze goes to Storm. He tilts his head, and I have to smile, remembering how Jacob mistook her for a bear cub.

  "Storm?" I say. "Stand."

  She does, and her tail wags. The boy isn't the threat she smelled, proving Dalton is right about there being others.

  "If you're planning an ambush," he calls, "you do realize that the person I'm going to shoot at is the one I see, which happens to be a child."

  "I'm not a child," the boy says, straightening. He pushes back his hood . . . and I realize he's not a boy either. It's a girl, maybe fourteen.

  "And I'm alone," she says. "I came hunting and--"

  "Yeah, yeah. There are three other people over there, who obviously think my night vision sucks."

  "Sucks what?" the girl says.

  I chuckle at that, and she looks over at me. "You're a girl," she says.

  "Woman," Dalton says. "And a police detective. Armed with a gun. Now sit your ass down."

  "You can't tell me--"

  "I just did." He points the gun.

  The girl sits so fast she almost falls.

  I say, "Storm, guard." Which is a meaningless command, but I pair it with a hand gesture that means she can approach the girl to say hello. The girl shrinks back as the big canine draws near. Storm sits in front of her and waits to be petted. Patiently waits, knowing this is clearly coming.

  "Three people," Dalton calls. "I want to see you all on this path by the count of ten. Your girl seems a little nervous, and if she runs, I can't be held responsible for what our dog will do."

  Storm plunks down with a sigh, her muz
zle resting beside the girl's homemade boot, as if resigned to wait for her petting.

  "Just don't move," I say to the girl. "You'll be fine."

  Dalton begins his countdown. By the time he finishes, a man and a woman have emerged from the trees. Both are on the far side of fifty.

  "It's only us," the woman says. "You have miscounted."

  "And you have mistaken me for an idiot incapable of counting." He raises his voice. "I see you coming around beside me. Do you see the gun pointed at your fucking head?"

  Silence. Then a dark figure appears from the shadows, heading for Blaze.

  "Yeah, no," Dalton says. "If you're planning to spook my horse, thinking he'll unseat me?" Dalton lowers the gun a foot over Blaze's head and fires. Cricket does her two step and whinnies, but Blaze only twitches his ear, as if a fly buzzed past.

  "Now get up there with the others," Dalton says.

  A young man steps out. He has a brace of rabbits over his shoulder.

  "Good hunting?" I say.

  He only stares. Keeps staring, his gaze traveling over me a little too slowly.

  "Answer her, and keep your fucking eyes on her face," Dalton says. "She asked you a polite question, as a reminder of how civilized people behave when they come across one another, each out minding their own business in the forest."

  "You his girl?" the young man asks.

  "She's . . ." Dalton hesitates, and I know he wants to say "my detective" because that is the respectful way to introduce me. But it might imply I'm single, and from the looks this kid is giving me, we'd best not go there.

  "I'm his wife," I say, and Dalton's gaze cuts my way, but he only grunts and says, "Yeah. My wife and my detective."

  "What's a detect--" the girl begins, but the older woman cuts her off with a look.

  "I was a police officer down south," I say. "Law enforcement."

  "Down there and up here," Dalton says.

  "Here being Rockton," the older man says. "I know you. You're Steve's boy. Jacob's brother."

  "And you're from the First Settlement."

  The man nods.

  "We're looking for Jacob," Dalton says. "You seen him?"