This Fallen Prey

by Kelley Armstrong

The older man and woman nod. The younger man's gaze alternates between me and Blaze, the look in his eyes suggesting we are of equal value, both chattels he covets. When he glances at Dalton, I see the dissatisfaction of a child looking on an older one, wondering what he's done to deserve all the good toys.

  The girl is busy staring at Storm, and while Dalton talks to the woman and older man, I murmur, "Storm? Up."

  The dog rises, and the girl falls back. No one else notices, and I tell her not to worry, the dog is safe unless I give her a command.

  I lean over Cricket's neck and murmur, "Do you want to pet her?"

  The girl frowns, as if "pet" is as foreign a word as "detective."

  I say, "Storm?," and she bounds over to me. I bend as far as I can and scratch behind her ears.

  "This is petting," I say. "She likes this, as you can tell."

  The girl rises and approaches carefully.

  "Put out your hand," I say. "That gives her a chance to sniff you, and it warns that you're going to touch her."

  The girl lays down her bow first. It's a beautiful one etched with wolves. Then she lets Storm sniff her fingers and lays a tentative hand on the dog's broad head. As she strokes Storm's head, she says, "It's soft."

  I smile, and as Dalton continues talking with the older settlers, I show the girl where to pet Storm, and I point out her black tongue and webbed feet. She runs her hands over the dog, fingers in her thick fur, and smiles when Storm licks her arm. She asks questions, too, like whether Storm hunts and if she ever runs off. I tell her about the cougar, and her eyes round at that. I may give Storm a little more credit for "rousting" the cat than she deserves, but it makes for a better story.

  By the time Dalton is done, the girl is throwing sticks for Storm, fascinated by the dog fetching them back.

  "Harper?" the woman says. "It's time to go."

  The girl pats Storm again and gives her the stick.

  The younger man says to Dalton, "If you're looking to camp, there's a good spot just west of here. Follow the path and take the first left. You'll see the clearing."

  "Sounds good," Dalton says. "Thank you."

  I straighten on Cricket. "Jacob isn't the only one we're looking for out here. There's a man. Young, maybe your age." I describe Brady. "He's dangerous. He doesn't look it, but he is."

  The young man curls his lip, and even on the faces of the other two adults, I see contempt. Sneering at me for warning them.

  "We will be fine," the older man says. "No one out here is a threat to those of the First Settlement."

  I want to say no, he doesn't understand. Do not underestimate the danger. Please. But I can tell that would be interpreted as weakness. If I fear Brady, that means I am simply not as strong as they are.

  Dalton says, "If you see him, the same reward applies. We want him alive, but in his case, we're more concerned with catching him than keeping him healthy."

  "Understood," the older man says. Then he calls to the girl, still lingering by Storm, and they return to the forest.

  37

  We head off in the direction where the young man suggested we camp. We won't be stopping there. Dalton veers off on another path and cuts back to our initial route. We continue along for another couple of kilometers before we make camp, well off the trail, in a spot sheltered by rock on two sides.

  We brought a small tent--a simple pop-up, and we tie the horses right outside it. The clearing is large enough that nothing will get the jump on them, and they are capable of looking after themselves. Storm will sleep inside, on our legs, which makes the tent a bit crowded, but I can't rest if she's outside alone.

  Once the tent is ready, Dalton rigs up a simple intruder alert system. Rockton has never had problems with the First Settlement. Its elders are from the town, and while they may have chosen to leave, they respect what Rockton stands for. The problem, as I know Dalton fears, is that those who settled the community are getting old. The girl--Harper--is likely third generation. The farther removed the settlers get from the originals, the easier it will be to look on our town and covet its relative riches.

  It's not just Rockton's horses and women they'll want--the differences in our standard of living are clear right down to our store-bought boots and fresh-scrubbed faces. Once the hold of the first generation relaxes, Rockton can expect raids. We both fear that day, and we know it's coming fast.

  I start a fire while Dalton sets up the alert system. I'm still a fire-building novice--it really is a skill--but I manage to have one going by the time he finishes. Then we settle in, sitting on a blanket, his arm around my back. From his pocket, he pulls a flask.

  "Tequila?" I ask.

  "Of course."

  He passes it to me for the first slug. There's not much in the flask. I max out at two shots--always. He'll go to two, if we're alone, but tonight he won't, not with settlers in the woods. So he just takes a long sip and hands it back.

  "I've got vacation time coming up," he says.

  "Do you?"

  "Yeah, apropos of nothing except the fact that it's been a shitty day, and I'm trying to think of something good."

  "Vacation time is always good."

  I feel him shrug, and he says, "Guess so."

  "You go to visit your parents, right?"

  "Normally." Five seconds of silence. "Think it's okay if I skip that?"

  "I think a guy who works his ass off is entitled to do what he wants with his vacation time. They'll want to see you at some point, but not all your breaks need to be family visits."

  "Yeah." He pauses. "You like Vancouver?"

  "Sure, and if you want me to suggest some places you can visit, I know it well enough."

  He glances over. "I'm not going on vacation without you."

  "Uh, I don't qualify--"

  "Already worked it out. Before all this shit started. I get a week. I agreed to cut it to five days if you can come. I sure as hell wouldn't go to the city by myself." He shudders.

  "Too many people?"

  "People. Concrete. Noise. When I go to interview newcomers, if it's in a city, sure, I'll go sightseeing. Museums. Galleries. Libraries. Theater. But . . ." He makes a face. "I feel like people look at me and wonder if I took a wrong turn. Like everyone can tell I'm a country mouse in the city. I know that's bullshit. They're too busy to even notice me."

  He pauses. "Which isn't how this conversation is supposed to go at all. I think I'd like the city a lot more if you were there, and I'm sure you'd like a civilization break. The way city people take a camping break."

  "Am I allowed to suggest alternate vacation plans?"

  "Sure."

  "Down south, we have what's called staycations, which means you don't travel far from home. That's what I'd like. A five-day hike or horseback trip up here. Would that be okay?"

  He looks over. "Is that what you want? Or what you think I do? Because it sounds like backpedaling to me."

  He means "backpedaling" to the old Casey. The one who frustrated him because she never wanted anything. No likes. No dislikes. Every choice weighed according to practicality and the needs of others.

  I scoop up the marshmallow bag and put one on a stick I've set beside us. When it's in the fire, I say, "If it's just five days of camping, then I might prefer a trip to Vancouver. But if it's five days of scouting for a potential site for a new Rockton, then that's what I want. Not a place to start building right away, but a place we know we can build at. A spot maybe a day's ride away that we can visit over the seasons and see how it seems, for water, game, other inhabitants, and so on."

  "That would work."

  "Then it's a date?"

  "It is."

  I pop the roasted marshmallow in my mouth. As I'm moving back, he pulls me into a kiss. Then he licks his lips and says, "Tastes like marshmallow."

  "Shall I roast you one?"

  "Hmmm." One brow lifts, his eyes glinting. "Tell you what. You roast one. Wherever you put it, I'll take it off."

  "Oh?" I take anothe
r marshmallow from the fire, blow it out, and tear off one crisp corner. Then I put my finger in and pull out a dollop of gooey marshmallow. "So if I put this someplace. . ."

  "On you."

  I laugh. "Okay. Well, let's see."

  I lick the marshmallow off my finger. Then I have him hold my stick while I slip out of my shirt. My jeans follow in a striptease. Bra. Then panties. Then I'm kneeling beside him, naked, his breath coming fast. I reach out for the marshmallow, take another fingerful, and lower it down. Then I slowly draw it up, over my belly, past my breasts, careful not to let it drip.

  "Anywhere?" I say.

  "Uh-huh."

  "Hmmm, how about . . ." I streak it across my chin. "There?"

  He laughs and his arms go around me as he does indeed lick it off, while toppling us onto the blanket behind.

  38

  We're sleeping soundly when a scream cuts through the night. Dalton scrambles up with "Casey!" as his hands wildly pat the blankets. I've rolled just far enough away that he's panicking, and before I can say anything, the scream comes again.

  "Casey!"

  "Here," I say. "I'm right here."

  I fumble in the darkness and find him as he turns on the flashlight. He's looking around, eyes still wide, as if getting his bearings. Storm is on his legs, whining.

  "Is that a cougar?" I ask.

  A moment's pause. Then he nods. "Could be."

  The night has gone silent again. I replay the sound. I know what a cougar's scream sounds like only from anecdotal evidence.

  "Have you ever heard one?" I ask.

  "Once." Another pause. "I'm not sure that was it."

  "Vixen then?"

  I have heard those screams--female foxes at mating time--and they're chilling, but not quite what I just caught, and Dalton agrees.

  "Do you think it's a trap?" I ask.

  "Maybe."

  A woman's scream to bring us rushing out. Riding to her rescue, worried and still sleepy. Ripe for theft.

  "We shouldn't ignore it," I say. "Even if it's a trap, that means those settlers are looking for us. Better to confront them, while we're prepared."

  "Yeah," he says, and I can tell he's relieved. Neither of us wants to be the chump who falls for a trap, but nor can we ignore it.

  We dress and then step out carefully, in case the "trap" was just to have us race--weapon-free--from our tent.

  The horses are uneasy, Cricket stamping her feet, Blaze casting troubled looks in the direction of the screams. I glance at Storm. She's gazing about, on alert but calm enough that I know no one is nearby.

  We gather our valuables--that's another potential trap: lure us away and then raid our camp. We leave only the tent and sleeping blankets behind. Then we set out, leading the horses.

  There's been no other noise, and we take it slow. Dalton goes first. He'll have a better idea of where that scream came from. We follow the path to a spot that has Dalton pausing and looking about. He bends to check something at ground level. A grunt of satisfaction before he leads Blaze off the path, following a trail only he can see.

  We've only gone about twenty paces before Cricket whinnies. She flattens her ears, her nostrils flaring, eyes rolling. Blaze snorts and shifts uneasily. Storm gives a long drawn-out whine, her gaze fixed on the forest ahead.

  Dalton motions for me to tie Cricket to a tree. He leaves Blaze untethered. His horse has been known to wait half a day by a stream. Cricket is too young and temperamental for that.

  After I've tethered my mare, we proceed. Soon I smell campfire smoke. All is silent, though. We go another twenty paces. Storm stops. Just stops dead, and when I try to nudge her, she digs in and gives me a look, as if begging me not to make her go on.

  I hesitate. Dalton takes the leash and sets it on the ground. Then he prods me to keep going. I do, with reluctance, but after a few steps, Storm follows. She may not want to continue, but she wants to be left alone even less. Dalton gathers up the leash, and we move slowly through the trees.

  The first thing I see is a hide tent. Small and low, shelter for one person.

  Dalton's arm springs up to hold me back. I survey the campsite, and after a sweep, I spot what he did--someone sitting by the embers of a fire. The figure is perched on a log and leaning back against a tree. A guard for the night. When I peer, I see the light brown beard of the younger man. I can't tell if he's resting or fallen asleep.

  Storm growls, the sound vibrating through her. I bend to reassure her that all is well, and yes, praise her for the growl, proof that these are the settlers who unnerved her earlier.

  I take the leash and tell Storm to sit while Dalton moves closer. As he does, I survey the camp again. One tent. A couple of leather pouches hang from trees, along with the brace of rabbits. That tent is much too small for three people, and I'm wondering where they all are when I make out the shape of sleeping blankets, just barely illuminated by the dying fire.

  I follow one set of blankets up to the graying hair of the older man. He's sound asleep. I think I spot more blankets beyond him, but they're too far from the fire to be more than dark blobs.

  If this is a trap, it's an odd one. I see both male settlers. They could be faking sleep, but it would make more sense to be lying in wait while leaving the woman and girl in sight.

  The younger man is across the campsite. Dalton motions that he's going to circle around. Then he stops. Considers. Hefts his gun, held in his left hand, his arm far from healed. He shifts the gun to his right and lifts it. Considers some more.

  "Let me," I whisper. I motion at my dark clothing and hair, better able to blend into the shadows.

  He nods.

  I give him back Storm's leash and whisper, "Stay."

  Dalton says, "I will," and then gives me a smile, tight and anxious. I squeeze his arm and set out.

  While it's only a quarter-moon, the sparser forest here means I can see where I'm putting down my feet. It's mostly bare dirt, and the windswept puddles of conifer needles are damp from spring showers; even when I do touch down, they make no sound.

  I head behind the young settler. As I pass the camp, I squint at a second set of sleeping blankets. I think I see a smaller figure. There's no sign of the older woman's white hair, so this would be the girl, Harper.

  That means the woman is inside the tent. Where I can't see her and confirm she's fine.

  She should be fine. The others wouldn't have slept through those screams. Either this is a trap, then, or they woke hearing the screams, recognized them for an animal, and went back to sleep.

  I can see my target now. The tree is just inside the clearing. I have my gun out. And then . . .

  Well, I'm not quite sure what I should do next. For the sake of a good night's sleep, I'd like to reassure myself that the woman and girl are both fine. I can't do that without marching into camp. I would also like to reassure myself that this isn't a trap. But how do I do that without the risk of waking the settlers, who'll think we're raiding them?

  I circle behind the tree where the young man rests. Then I keep going so I don't emerge behind him, which is never the way to say "I come in peace."

  I draw alongside him, close enough to see that he seems to be sleeping, his head bowed. Then I whistle. It's not piercing, but it's enough that even if he's asleep, he should jump up.

  He doesn't budge.

  Damn it.

  Either my whistle is softer than I think, or this is a trap, and he's wide awake and waiting.

  I whistle again, louder.

  No reaction.

  I get a better grip on my gun and then retreat behind the tree. From there, I creep forward, no longer worried about startling him. This is a trap. That or . . .

  I know what the "or" is. I have from the start.

  I slip up behind the tree. I can see the young man's arm, hanging at his side. I take a deep breath and count my steps. Three. Two. One.

  The last brings me to his shoulder. I sidestep. Moonlight shines into the clearing, glisteni
ng off his half-closed eyes. Glistening off the blood soaking his dark shirt.

  39

  A slash bisects the young settler's throat. It's ragged at one side, cutting upward on an awkward angle. Rushed. But a single slice, deep enough that I see his spinal column. No hesitation cuts, no sign that the killer paused or reconsidered or had to steel himself to do the job.

  The killer crept up while the young settler watched the fire. One deliberate slash to end his life before he had time to react. Blood covers the young man's hands as if in his last moments he'd reached up, unable to breathe, grabbing his throat. Too late to even rise from his spot.

  I turn to call Dalton, but he's already making his way into the clearing. He sees me bent beside the young settler and knows he is not asleep.

  Dalton ties Storm to a tree. She whimpers, but at a firm "Quiet," she lies down. She doesn't want to come closer. She knows what's here. She has always known what's here.

  I crouch beside the older man. His eyes are open just enough for me to know he isn't sleeping. The top blanket has been drawn up to his throat, as if the killer tucked him back in. Not an act of contrition--the killer was hiding his work. I tug down that blanket to see the old man's throat has been slashed. There are other cuts, too, on his bare arms, and a clump of gray hair by my foot.

  The killer tried to murder the older man in his bed, but something gave him away, an ill-placed footstep or the death gurgle of the younger man. The old man bolted up, maybe getting tangled in his blankets. Rising fast enough to fight, not fast enough to win.

  There's a knife by his head. No blood on the blade. As if he'd grabbed it from under his blankets, but it was already too late. The killer had grabbed the old man's hair, yanked back his head and slit his throat. Then he laid him down and tucked the blanket up under his chin.

  Dalton is at the tent, sweeping open the front flap. Even from here, I can see it's empty, the old woman gone. Then I remember the second set of blankets by the fire. The small form within. I stumble over to it and yank back the blanket to see . . .

  A pack. There's a large deerskin pack under the blanket. The girl is gone, but someone has made it look as if she's asleep. What's the point of that?

  Dalton stands in the clearing. He's peering around, gun in hand, but this doesn't seem like a deliberate trap. The first body wasn't staged in that position. The second was covered, but only--I presume--in case the woman or girl saw a body and panicked.