This Fallen Prey

by Kelley Armstrong

  Kill the two men. Take the woman and girl.

  Dalton's circling the camp, scanning it. He walks to the tree where the food has been hung. There are rabbits missing from the brace. Two food packs are missing, too, the cut ropes dangling. Two others remain, and scrapes in the trunk bark suggest someone tried to climb and reach them but couldn't.

  "Hostiles?" I say.

  Dalton shrugs. He knows I'm just avoiding the obvious conclusion. I don't want to give Brady that power, make him our bogeyman--everything terrible that happens must be him.

  Dalton circles the camp. I realize what he's looking for: items the settlers wouldn't need to secure in trees. I spot cups, some cooking tools and blankets. No weapons, though, other than the knife the old man grabbed.

  On a second circuit, Dalton finds two bows propped by a tree. I check the pack hidden in the girl's bed and find a small knife, a sling with stones, a waterskin, and a pouch of dried meat.

  I look again at the girl's sleeping place. There's no sign that the killer went through the pack before putting it there.

  Why wouldn't he search the pack for supplies?

  Why make it look as if the girl was asleep at all?

  I walk to the two bows. Neither has the wolf etching.

  "She snuck off," I say.

  "Hmm?" Dalton is examining tracks and looks over.

  "Harper snuck out." I motion to the bed. "A classic kid's trick. Make it look like you're asleep in case the grown-ups wake and look for you. She took her bow."

  I back onto my haunches and survey the scene. "Intruder kills the lookout first. Then the old man. He leaves the girl because either he doesn't see her blankets or she's too small to be a threat. He decides not to bother with the tent--maybe the woman didn't wake up so he ignored her. He takes what supplies he can. But the older woman does hear him. She comes out . . ."

  I move to the tent and shine my light on the flaps and then inside. "No sign of blood. Does she scare him off? Go after him?"

  Dalton points at the forest's edge. I see signs of wild flight, trampled undergrowth and broken branches.

  The woman woke and ran.

  She did not run far.

  We find her body ten meters from the campsite. I would have passed close to it when I'd been circling around, my attention fixed on the campsite, oblivious to the rest.

  She is on her stomach. One hand stretches out, fingers dug into soil. Dragging herself away from her killer. A trail of blood smears the ground and undergrowth.

  When I see that outstretched hand, I run to her. But she's gone. Long gone, body cooling fast, her eyes as glazed as the two men's. Eyes wide open. Fixed in horror and determination, as if she only needs to get a little farther, and she will be fine.

  Stab wounds in her back. Her killer finishing the job as she crawled away.

  Dalton turns the woman over.

  More wounds there. She was attacked from the front and ran. Realized she could not escape. Turned to fight. Weaponless. Powerless.

  A dozen stab wounds perforate her chest.

  I'm lifting my head to say something when I see a blur of motion. Dalton does, too, spinning, his gun rising. The running figure gives a roar of rage . . . and then skids to a halt.

  It's Harper.

  "You," she says, and there is disappointment in her voice. Her brandished knife wavers for a moment. Then it falls.

  "They're dead, aren't they?" Harper says. "They're all dead." She looks down at the woman and her voice cracks. "Nonna."

  "She was your grandmother?" I ask gently.

  She nods.

  I motion for her to turn away, but her jaw sets.

  "I have seen death before," she says. "I am not a child."

  I would like to say this is different--and it is--but she can already see the body, and she's not going to listen to me.

  "You weren't in your sleeping blankets," I say.

  "I wanted to see your dog again." She kneels beside her grandmother's body. "I was heading to where Albie told you to camp. I was almost there when Nonna screamed. I ran back. I . . . I saw him. The man who . . ."

  She looks at her grandmother again. Rage flashes in her eyes.

  "You saw their killer?" I say.

  "I didn't know that. It was just a man on the trail. He had blood on his face, and I . . . I should have done something--I know I should have stopped him but all I could think about was that scream. I raced back here. Then I saw someone in the camp, and I thought the man had circled back. So I hid." She bites her lip and then straightens. "But not like that. Not hiding from him. I was preparing for my attack. Waiting until I could see who it was. Only it was just you."

  Dalton murmurs to me that he's going to get Storm, whimpering back at the campsite. When he's gone, I say to the girl, "You saw the man who did this?"

  "Yes."

  "Where was he? How far from camp?"

  "A quarter mile southwest," she says, with the assurance of a girl who may not know her times tables but must be able to relate distances and directions accurately, a matter of basic survival in the forest.

  "How far away were you?"

  "From here to the campsite. I was in the forest, and he was on the path. He was walking away with some of our stuff."

  "What stuff?"

  "I saw a rabbit and a food pack."

  "Can you describe the man you saw?"

  "I wasn't that close, like I said. But he was on the path, and there was moonlight. I could see light-colored hair. Straight, I think. Longer than . . ." She gestures toward Dalton, in the clearing. "But not long like yours. No beard. He had pale skin. That's how I saw the blood on his cheek. I couldn't tell his height, but he looked normal-sized. And he was wearing clothing like you people."

  She's describing Brady. Oliver Brady killed these settlers. Slit a guard's throat. Slaughtered an old man in his bed. Chased down and brutally murdered a fleeing old woman. There is no way I can say these were acts of desperation.

  Also, there was no sign of Jacob with him. Brady was seen a half kilometer from the scene alone.

  Brady is not an innocent man.

  Brady does not have Jacob.

  That is everything I need to hear. Everything I want to hear, too.

  40

  We hide the bodies under evergreen boughs, which should help mask the smell from scavengers. Then we escort Harper to the First Settlement. She walks while we ride slowly. I offered her a spot behind Dalton, but pride won't let her attempt to ride as a passenger. And, I suspect, it wouldn't have let her ride Blaze alone and risk looking foolish.

  Harper walks holding Storm's lead. Now that I'm certain we are dealing with a monster, I cannot risk Storm taking off after her target. I explain that to Harper, who has never heard of using a dog to follow a smell, and she peppers me with questions, distracting herself from the memory of what happened tonight.

  We don't talk about what happened. That is how, as a homicide detective, I handled dealing with a victim's loved ones so soon after the deaths. Let them set the tone. If they want to talk about it, I will, while giving away nothing about the investigation. More often, when it's this soon afterward, they either haven't fully processed the death or they are desperate to discuss anything else. For Harper, that distraction is talking about how dogs track scents. Every now and then she'll trail off and look back the way we came, only to shake herself and keep talking about Storm.

  It's 4 A.M. when we near the settlement. We don't take Harper inside. We don't even take her to the edge. Three settlers are dead. Edwin--the leader of the First Settlement--will figure out that the killer came from Rockton. That puts us in danger.

  The First Settlement is like many splinter groups that break away over issues with its parent organization. They don't hate us. They don't wish us ill. But there is no warmth there either.

  I once asked why Dalton doesn't trade with the settlement. We don't need their game, but we can always use it, and what they'd want in trade is paltry to us--some coffee, a new shir
t, a gun or ammunition. More important, though, is the bond it would forge. The goodwill it buys. Trade links provide us with valuable partners in this wild life. While Ty Cypher might not tell us that ducks are particularly plentiful on a certain lake, he will mention if he's spotted strangers or a worrisome predator.

  To the First Settlement, though, such a partnership would smack of weakness. If we initiate trade, that suggests they have things we need, and that we may be weaker than they think. Weak means ripe for raiding. I will admit I didn't fully believe that until I saw the way the settlers looked at me when I suggested they watch out for Brady. I may have been right--tragically right--but to them, Brady was just a lone outsider. No match for them.

  We leave Harper about a kilometer from town. Dalton tells her to explain everything to Edwin and let him know that we had to hightail it back to Rockton, in case the killer heads there. He promises that we'll come by later to discuss the situation. By "later" he means "after we catch Brady."

  We don't return for our tent and sleeping blankets. We'll get them another time. Right now we do need to hurry back to town. Jacob doesn't seem to be with Brady, and we'll willfully interpret that to mean Jacob is safe. We must return to Rockton, regroup, and organize a full manhunt for Oliver Brady . . . before he does circle back to Rockton, once he realizes that escape isn't a simple matter of a half-day hike to the next town.

  As we near Rockton, I hear a sound that must be an audio hallucination. I've been working through the case as we ride, and I was analyzing the beginning to figure out what we could have done better. Then I hear the very sound that started this whole mess. Therefore, I am imagining things. Or so I tell myself until Dalton says "What the fuck?" and I glance back to see him squinting up at the midmorning sky . . . as a prop plane flies into view.

  Once again, we reach the landing strip just as the plane touches down. Cricket hears the racket and declares she's not going a step closer, and if I insist, then she'll send me there by equine ejection seat. Even Blaze flattens his ears and peers at the steel monster with grave suspicion.

  We leave our horses and walk down the airstrip just as the passenger door opens. Out steps the kind of guy who'd seem more at home on a private jet. He's tall and trim, in his late fifties, with silvering dark hair. He has a magazine-cover smile that's dazzling even from fifty meters away. Dressed in pressed khakis and a golf shirt, he looks around with the grin of a big-game hunter, ready for his first Yukon adventure. When he spots us, the smile only grows, and he strides over, hand outstretched.

  The pilot climbs from the cockpit. He looks like the passenger's personal assistant, a guy maybe my age, dark-haired and chisel-jawed, wearing stylish glasses that I suspect don't contain prescription lenses. He is not smiling. Instead, he bears down on us like we're about to contaminate his boss with our dirt-crusted hands.

  "Sheriff Dalton," the younger man says. "Detective."

  I know that voice. I can't quite place it, but it's one I've heard. . .

  It clicks. Yes, I have heard this voice many times, and I've imagined the man it belongs to so often that I'm sure I'm misidentifying him now. In my head, the voice belongs to an older man, maybe fifty, another middle manager, like Val. A fussy little man with a potbelly and a comb-over.

  The younger man passes the older one and puts himself slightly in front, as if shielding him from necessary interaction. Then he extends a hand--to me.

  "Phil," he says. "It's good to meet you, Detective."

  Phil. The council's spokesperson.

  He takes my hand in a firm but perfunctory shake. And for Dalton? A curt nod. Then he turns to the older man.

  "This is--"

  "Gregory." The silver-haired man steps past Phil. "Gregory Wallace. I've come to see my stepson."

  41

  I glance at Dalton.

  Gregory catches the look and says wryly, "Yes, I suspect I'm not your favorite person right now, which is why I'm here. I insisted Phil bring me to see what can be done to make Oliver's stay less taxing."

  "Yeah?" Dalton says. "You know what would make it less taxing? If it never happened."

  Phil makes a noise in his throat, one manicured hand rising in the gesture you'd give a child, telling him to calm down before he embarrasses you in front of company.

  Dalton continues. "I don't know what the hell your understanding of the situation up here was, Mr. Wallace, but we were not equipped to deal with a prisoner of any variety. This town is for victims. It is safety. It is sanctuary. It is not a fucking maximum-security prison."

  "What Sheriff Dalton is saying--" Phil begins.

  "Oh, I believe he's saying it just fine," Wallace says, and while he's smiling, the steel in his voice warns Phil to silence. "Please continue, Sheriff."

  "We were not equipped for this," Dalton says. "We were not warned in time to become equipped. Your stepson was dropped off with a fucking bag of coffee. Here's a serial killer. Please take care of him for us. Oh, and enjoy the coffee."

  "I don't think this is productive," Phil says.

  Dalton turns on him. "You want to talk about productive? How about giving me a damned method to communicate with you when everything goes to hell up here?"

  Phil straightens, bringing himself to Dalton's height and looking him square in the eye. "You have a method, Sheriff. Valerie is--"

  "Dead."

  A moment's pause. Then Phil says, "What?"

  "Val is dead." Dalton waves at Wallace. "His stepson took her hostage. Killed her. Dumped her in a river. Casey almost died trying to retrieve her body 'cause a proper burial seems the least we can do. Oliver Brady also murdered Brent, one of our key scouts and local contacts. Gutshot him and left him to die. Then he massacred three settlers, including an old woman trying to escape. Her granddaughter managed to avoid the carnage, though not without witnessing her grandmother's bloody corpse. We escorted the kid home, but we didn't dare take her inside the settlement and explain what happened, or we might not have walked out alive, considering the killer was one of ours." Dalton pauses. "That's our day so far. And yours?"

  Phil's face hardens. "Your insubordination--"

  "Fuck my insubordination. Go tell the council I was rude to you, Phil. See which of us they declare the more valuable asset."

  I turn to Wallace. "I'm sorry we don't have your stepson. Despite the fact we weren't prepared, we do accept responsibility for his escape. I'm also sorry if you were misled about the appropriateness of this solution to your problem."

  Wallace rubs his chin. He looks sick, and it takes him a moment to regroup.

  "The blame, I'm afraid, is as much mine as anyone's, Detective," Wallace says. "I failed to properly warn you about exactly the sort of monster you were dealing with. I erred on the side of caution, fearing the truth would limit my options drastically. And in doing so--" He inhales sharply and then shakes his head. "Let's get someplace quiet, where we can come up with a solution."

  We ride the horses to town, letting Phil and Wallace walk the short distance. When we're out of earshot, Dalton mutters, "Fuck," and I agree, and that's all we say, all that can be said. This wrinkle is the absolute last thing we need to deal with.

  When we enter Rockton, Anders and Isabel are striding toward us.

  "Did we hear another plane?" Anders says. He notices the two men behind us. "What the hell?"

  I jump off Cricket and call Storm over. Dalton wordlessly reaches for my reins, and I hand them over.

  "The younger guy is Phil," I say when Dalton leaves for the stable.

  "Our Phil?" Anders says.

  "Yep."

  "Huh. Not what I expected."

  "But a not unpleasant surprise," Isabel murmurs as she gives Phil the kind of look I haven't seen her give any guy since Mick died.

  "The other one might be more your style," Anders says.

  She gives him a look. "More my age you mean?"

  "Nah. I know you like them young."

  He gets a glower for that. Wallace is looking about
Rockton, his gaze here and there, taking everything in. I can almost see his thought processes--looking for electricity lines, noting the piles of lumber, checking the construction of the buildings and the layout of town and nodding throughout, as if intrigued and impressed. Phil glances about in mild horror, and I can read his thoughts even better. Dear God, I had no idea it was this bad.

  "And the older gentleman?" Isabel says, her voice lowered as the men approach. "Judging by his attire, clearly a man of means. An investor, I presume."

  "You could say that. He's Gregory Wallace. Oliver Brady's stepfather."

  "Oh, hell," Anders mutters.

  "Yep."

  The men draw close enough for me to say, "Phil? Mr. Wallace? This is our deputy, Will Anders, and one of our local entrepreneurs, Isabel Radcliffe."

  Isabel's eyebrows lift at the introduction. I mouth, Brothel owner?, asking if she'd prefer that introduction, and she rolls her eyes and extends her hand. Phil accepts it with a perfunctory shake, having seen and dismissed her in a heartbeat. Wallace's gaze lingers, and he smiles, as if she is much more than he expected out here.

  "Gregory, please," he says, taking her hand and then Anders's. "Detective? If I might speak to you alone, I believe Phil would like to talk to the sheriff."

  Phil gives him a clear What the hell? look, but Wallace only smiles and says, "I believe you and the sheriff have a few things to discuss. Or he has a few things to discuss with you. Detective . . ."

  "Casey," I say.

  He nods. "Casey and I will be at the police station."

  I leave Storm with Anders. As Wallace and I enter the station, he says, "You are correct that I didn't know where I was sending Oliver. I understood the basics, of course. A remote, northern community. Hidden. Untraceable. Designed to conceal and contain those who need concealment and containment. That seemed enough. I made the mistake of presuming this was for people like my stepson."

  "It's not."

  "I see that now. I should have asked more questions. An associate told me this was the perfect solution, and I suppose, given what I was willing to pay, Phil's employers had every incentive to agree with me."

  "Like Eric said, we just weren't equipped for it." I stoke the fire to start a kettle. "Our police force is just myself, Eric, and Will. We're all experienced law enforcement but none of us has done correctional work. We have a volunteer militia. We have one cell." I cross the room and open the door to show him, and then shutting it before Roy can speak. "We couldn't leave Oliver in that for six months, so we were quickly building him a fortified unit. He escaped just before it was completed."