This Fallen Prey

by Kelley Armstrong

  "Can you take me through--?" The door opens and Dalton comes in, Phil following. Wallace says, "That was quick. Casey was just about to tell me what happened. I'm sure you'll want to hear this, Phil. Please, continue, Detective."

  I tell the story.

  "The poisoning was real," I say. "Oliver had inside help. He was, as you might expect, protesting his innocence. That's very easy to do when no one here can look up his alleged crimes on the internet. He claimed to have been accused of a shooting spree in San Jose."

  Phil's head jerks up, as if he's remembering I'd asked about the shooting.

  I continue, "It was far too easy to plant doubt under the circumstances. Yet the alternative was to keep him permanently gagged, which raised suspicions among the residents--they wondered if he had something he wanted to say. We tried to walk a middle line--no gag but limited access. That failed. He found an ally, who got him the poisoned food. We had to take him to the clinic to pump his stomach. We had him restrained while recuperating, but his accomplice provided him with a knife."

  "And set the fire," Wallace says. "As a distraction."

  "Helluva good one in a town made of wood," Dalton says.

  Wallace nods. "As his accomplice knew. I am so sorry this happened. The loss of your town leader . . ." He shakes his head. " 'Sorry' doesn't begin to cover this."

  "What was Val doing with the prisoner?" Phil asks.

  "She hoped Oliver would see her as a potential ally, possibly even someone he could charm. She was trying to take a more active role in the community."

  "Which was her first mistake," Phil says. "The leader of this town cannot become involved in such a way. It blurs lines."

  Wallace looks at him. "Are you implying that by trying to help her town, she made a fatal error?"

  Phil has the grace to color. "Of course not, sir. I misspoke. Val made a questionable choice but what happened was not her fault."

  "It was Oliver's," Wallace says. "He is responsible for his actions, something he was never able to grasp, and that is our . . ." He shakes it off. "No blame. Not now. For now, we need to find him before anyone else dies. And then . . ." A pause as he glances away, his voice lowering. "And then we will have to make sure this never happens again, that he never poses a risk to anyone else again."

  Wallace squares his shoulders. "That's for later, and whatever needs to be done, it will not involve anyone in this town. I am truly sorry that this happened. I will make it up to you. I know the town was counting on the added income."

  "Income?" Dalton snorts. "That's their concern." He jerks his thumb at Phil. "We don't give a shit. Not like we were going to see more than a fraction of it anyway."

  Phil bristles. "Of course you were. Beyond basic administrative costs--"

  "Don't," Wallace says. "I have worked with enough foreign governments to understand the concept of 'basic administrative costs.' Roughly ninety percent, in my experience." He looks at Dalton. "When we get Oliver, you'll tell me what you need for this town. Supplies, infrastructure improvements, and any wish-list items that will make life here easier. I'll pay your administrators a reasonable fee for their work, and I will personally take care of everything on your list. Plus I'll pay you and your detective and deputy a bonus."

  "Fuck, no," Dalton says.

  "He means the bonus isn't necessary," I say. "We'll take the rest, but we don't need added incentive to find your stepson. What he's done is enough."

  Wallace dips his chin. "I apologize if I implied otherwise." He looks at Phil. "You can run along now. Fly back to the city, and leave me here with these people to find my stepson."

  Phil's jaw sets. "I will be staying and helping."

  "Yeah," Dalton says. "Because if you leave, you have to tell the council how badly you all fucked up. Then they'd just order your ass back here anyway."

  "If you're staying, stay," Wallace says. "But you damned well better make yourself useful. Now, let's talk about how to get Oliver back."

  42

  Our plans? We're going to look really, really hard for Brady. What else is there to do? We can call in the Mounties with a full search team, blow Rockton's cover to hell for the sake of stopping one killer, and it won't ultimately achieve anything more than we can do on our own, which is, in short, frustratingly little.

  I remember hearing once that Alaska is the serial killer capital of America--not for the number of active ones, but the number who have disappeared there. That is, obviously, an urban legend. It's not as if serial killers leave behind a "gone to Alaska" note. Instead, the so-called fact is an acknowledgment that there are likely many people hiding there, who have done something terrible and then fled where they cannot be found.

  The same goes for the Yukon. In Whitehorse, I've heard people joke that the most common question asked of newcomers is "So, what are you running from?" The answer for most is "Nothing." People run to places like Whitehorse. They come on a job placement or a vacation and fall in love, like I have. Whitehorse is a city of transplants. Willing transplants. But yes, everyone knows there are people in the wilderness who are hiding. Asking questions is frowned upon, both for safety and as a courtesy.

  We don't know what--or who--might be in these woods. And we don't really care to find out, because the point is moot. Modern tracking equipment can't reliably locate hikers who wander off the Appalachian Trail. It sure as hell won't locate fugitives up here.

  We must find lodgings for our unexpected guests.

  "I will take Casey's old house," Phil says. "I know it's vacant."

  "Yeah, no," Dalton says. "The guy paying the bills gets the house. Casey just needs to move something out first."

  "No need," Wallace says. "I won't disturb any of her belongings."

  "Thanks," I say. "But there's one item you'll definitely want relocated."

  We take Phil and Wallace to my house with their luggage. I open the door and slip inside with a quick, "Give me a sec."

  A few minutes later, I emerge with a duffel bag and a sleepy cub.

  Phil sees the wolf-dog and turns on Dalton. "We allowed special dispensation for a single canine. Casey's dog, which is a working--"

  "This isn't a pet," I say. "It's the remaining cub from the wolf-dog we had to put down."

  "And so you brought it here? This isn't a wildlife refuge, Detective."

  "This cub bit Eric. We feared it was rabid, and I needed to monitor it."

  Phil steps back so fast I have the very childish urge to dump the cub into his arms. I do hold it out toward him. I can't resist that.

  "It's fine, see?" I say.

  "Then why is it still here?"

  "As opposed to dumping it in the forest? Or killing it?"

  As he opens his mouth, I spot a familiar figure passing and shout, "Yo! Mathias!"

  Mathias makes his way over and arches a brow. "Did you actually hail me with 'yo'?" He speaks in French as his gaze touches on our guests, testing their comprehension. Wallace gives no sign of understanding. Phil squints, as if he recognizes French from long-ago classes.

  "We have guests," I say in English. "I'm sure you've already heard that."

  "Our illustrious council liaison, and the poor man who married into the family of a serial killer."

  Wallace blinks, but then chuckles. "That's one way of putting it." He shakes Mathias's hand as I introduce them properly.

  Then I say, "Your timing is perfect. I was just about to tell Phil that you've volunteered to take and train this cub as a guard and hunting dog. But I'm afraid he's going to tell you no."

  "No?" Mathias says, as if he doesn't recognize the word. He turns to Phil and fixes him with a smile that has sent many a resident skittering from the butcher shop. "You wish to tell me I cannot have this cub, Philip? That is unfortunate. I was very much looking forward to it."

  "I never said--"

  "Excellent. Then we are agreed. I will quarantine and then train it properly, as a working beast." He hefts the cub from my arms. "The next serial killer must es
cape the jaws of a wolf if he wishes to flee." He pauses. "Or she. I would not wish to be sexist."

  "Let's just hope we don't have to guard more serial killers, okay? Now Mr. Wallace is taking my old house while he's here, so you'll need to care for the cub."

  Mathias says in French, "You realize you cannot take it back now. You have committed to the course. All for the sake of tweaking poor Philip."

  "I couldn't resist."

  "A cruel streak. This is why I like you." He takes the bag of supplies from my hand and switches to English. "Do you know where Philip will stay? I do not believe we have empty apartments."

  "We can move Kenny out and place him under guard," I say. "Then let Phil take the house we built for Oliver."

  "The windowless box you built for Oliver?" Phil says. "I am certainly not--"

  "Yes," Mathias says. "That would be wrong. You must stay with me. Ah, no--I mean us." He hefts the canine. "Please. I insist."

  Phil's jaw works, as if he knows he's being played here. Then he says, his voice tight, "Oliver's intended residence will be adequate."

  We leave the men to settle into their lodgings and we resume our search for Oliver Brady. We're out until dark, and I'm putting my extra gear in the locker when Isabel comes in and says, "We need a fourth for poker."

  I laugh. Hard.

  "I'm serious," she says.

  I close the equipment locker. "I'm exhausted, Isabel. I'm going home with Eric, to a hot meal, a warm bed, and as much sleep as I can get."

  "Eric won't be joining you for a while. There's a problem with the lumber-shed reconstruction."

  "Of course there is."

  "So, poker?" she says.

  I shake my head. "If Eric's busy, I'm going to have that hot meal waiting when he's done."

  "That's very domestic of you."

  "No, it's considerate."

  "I'm not sure that's the word I'd use, having heard Will and Eric discuss your cooking." She follows me from the equipment shed. "One of the cooks at the Lion owes me a favor. I'll have her prepare something to put aside for both of you."

  "Then I'll rest--"

  "That word is not in your vocabulary, Casey." She keeps pace alongside me. "If you want a rest, you'll find it in our poker game. It's an all-estrogen event. You, me, Petra, and Diana."

  "Since when do you play poker--or socialize with Diana?"

  "Since I requested her presence at this particular game. I know you and I both would have preferred Nicole, but she's busy with the search. Diana is joining us in a wake for the loss of one of our own."

  I slow. "Val."

  "Yes, and while you might not want the reminder, I think we owe it to Val."

  I nod and follow her.

  43

  We're in the Roc. Isabel has closed it for the night, both the bar and the brothel. There would normally be two women on "duty" in the evening. There are about six on staff. I say "about" because the number fluctuates, as women come and go from the ranks, most just deciding they're going to give it a try for a few months, for fun.

  Isabel argues there is sexual liberation in that, and it isn't so much monetizing their bodies as experimenting with a traditionally more masculine form of sexuality, taking partners where and when they want, without emotional risk. Sounds great. The reality, though, is that if one of them refuses an offer, she has to deal with the prospective client outside these walls, and having a woman refuse paid sex is apparently more of an ego blow than just refusing sex. I dealt with an incident recently where the rejected john found a way to retaliate.

  When we arrive at the Roc, there's a hopeful client walking inside just ahead of us, and Isabel pulls open the door just in time to see him sidling up to Petra and Diana, with a "So, are you ladies looking for--"

  Then Petra turns and he sees who it is and stops short with an "Oh."

  "Yes, oh," Isabel calls. "Have I spoken to you about this before, Artie? You do not ever presume that a woman drinking here is looking for anything but a drink."

  "No harm in asking, Iz," he whines.

  "Yes, actually there is. If a woman here wants your company, she will approach you. That is the new rule, as you have been told. If you're looking for company, you'll find it in the search parties. That's where tonight's staff is, and that's where you should be."

  "Can I get a drink?"

  "Yes, absolutely. I'll get you your drink, and you'll sit on your ass and enjoy yourself while everyone else searches for the man who murdered Val. I'll make sure all my girls know that's what you were doing tonight. They'll be terribly impressed."

  Artie leaves. Quickly. I sit with Petra and Diana, and Isabel brings over tumblers and Irish whiskey.

  "I don't think Val was Irish," I say.

  "Do you have any idea what her heritage was?"

  I shake my head.

  "Then in the interests of a proper wake, tonight she was Irish. And we are playing poker."

  "Never been to an actual wake, have you," Petra says.

  "I'm improvising. Otherwise, we'll sit here and try to come up with things to say about the dearly departed, and it will get very awkward, very fast." Isabel pours the whiskey. "Have any of you ever attended one of those funerals? Where it's very clear that no one actually has anything interesting to say about the deceased?"

  "Or anything nice," Diana says as she takes her drink.

  "The lack of anything nice would be far worse than the lack of anything interesting. That's what I want for my funeral. I don't give a damn if anyone tells a single story that reflects well on me. Just tell stories."

  "Val liked tea," I say.

  Diana snickers and then sobers with, "Sorry."

  "The point being," Isabel says, "that we have not a single interesting thing to say about Val."

  "We didn't know her," I say.

  "Not for lack of trying."

  "Shortly after she arrived, she got lost in the forest and was attacked."

  Isabel nods. "I know."

  "She came to you?"

  "Val ask for help? Never. But I have counseled enough survivors to know she did not wander out of that forest unscathed. I tried to broach the subject once, to offer support, and she shut me down. Nothing happened, and I should go practice my 'mediocre skills' on real victims." She raises her glass to me. "Kudos on being the one to break through."

  "I didn't. When I confronted her, she said that to have 'allowed' herself to be attacked would have been a sign of weakness. Strong women don't do that."

  "Ouch," Petra says.

  "An unfortunate--and unfortunately common--belief," Isabel says. "Also monumentally wrong and stupid, but that goes without saying."

  We take a drink.

  "Val however was not a stupid woman," Isabel says. "She'd been a mathematician."

  "I didn't know that," I say. "I'd seen her doing math puzzles. Not the kind you get in a paperback book, but real puzzles. Theoretical ones."

  "Even if she didn't open up to you about the attack, Casey, you were the one to break through. To get her out of that house and into the community."

  "Yep." I take a slug of my whiskey. "And look where it got her."

  Three mouths open in simultaneous denials. I beat them to it with, "This morning, Phil said Val made a mistake trying to join life in Rockton. That her place was separate and apart from us. He may have had a point."

  "Phil is an idiot. Gorgeous, but an idiot. And I don't just say that because he looked at me like I was a bag lady blocking the steps to his brownstone."

  "It wasn't that bad," I say.

  "Oh, yes it was, but since he wasn't checking you out either, I won't take it personally."

  "You both might be the wrong gender," Petra says.

  "He didn't give Will more than a passing glance."

  "The sneer wasn't a physical assessment," I say. "It was disdain. For everyone and everything here. But I still wonder if he was right about Val. We couldn't afford to lose our leader, and involving herself in our affairs endangered her."<
br />
  "Well, if that's your reasoning, you'd better tell Eric he has to stay in the station from now on. He's the one we can't afford to lose. Val was . . ." Isabel swirls her drink and shakes her head. "This isn't the proper way to conduct a wake, is it?"

  "Does anyone have anything nice to say?" Diana says.

  "She liked tea," Petra quips. Then she adds, "The truth is that none of us knew her well enough to eulogize her. But a year ago, no one would have been holding a wake for her either. She was coming out of her shell. She was starting to care. We were starting to care back."

  Isabel raises her glass. "Then let's drink to that. A woman we didn't always understand. A woman we didn't always like. But a woman we were looking forward to getting to know better. A missed and mourned opportunity."

  We clink glasses.

  "Now, poker?" Petra says. "For credits, I hope, because I will clean you all out."

  The door opens, and Isabel calls, "Closed!"

  Dalton walks in. "Got a situation, Casey. I need you."

  I'm getting to my feet when Diana says, "Can't you handle it alone, Sheriff? Casey deserves a rest."

  "So does he," I say. "And he hasn't been sitting here drinking whiskey."

  She opens her mouth, but a murmur from Isabel stops her. A quiet reminder, I'm sure, that harping on Dalton does nothing to bring Diana back into my good graces.

  When we get outside, I say, "We were attempting to eulogize Val. It wasn't going well."

  He slows. "Shit, I'm sorry. If you want to go back--"

  "The eulogy part was over. It was booze and cards henceforth. Somehow I don't think Val would have approved."

  He takes my hand as we walk. I might joke, but he knows that wake wasn't easy. Any reminder of Val is a reminder of how she died. But Isabel is right--Val deserved a few quiet moments of our time.

  "So what's up?" I say.

  "Kenny's missing."

  "What?"

  "He was out searching with a party. I wanted him at the lumber shed to deal with the reconstruction issues. When it was definitely dark"--he points at the night sky--"I went to see why he wasn't back yet."