This Fallen Prey

by Kelley Armstrong

  We lock gazes. Hold them. When he tears his away, I see his outrage, the look that says he won't forget this, that no one treats him this way.

  He goes through the hole after me. Dalton follows. There isn't any sign of Kenny, Jacob, and Storm until we go through another passage. I watch Brady come in, so I witness his first glimpse of Kenny. He sees him . . . and reacts no more than he does to Jacob.

  They're crouched in a cubbyhole not big enough for all of us, and Storm is whimpering. She has no idea what's going on or what to make of this cave-crawling business. Dalton takes the lead and her leash, and Jacob falls in behind.

  The exit is a tight squeeze, and my poor dog cries as she's being tugged by Dalton and pushed by his brother. But she trusts us and she doesn't fight, just lets herself be propelled through.

  We come out a couple of hundred feet from where we went in. We move as quickly and quietly as we can, through the forest, getting at least a kilometer away. Then Dalton wheels and grabs Brady so fast that Jacob and Kenny dive for cover. But Dalton just puts Brady up against a tree and says, "If you fucking ever tell us you haven't killed anyone again--"

  "I did accidentally shoot your friend. The old man. I'm sorry. I know you don't believe that, but I am."

  Brady looks my way, still pinned to the tree.

  "I told you before, Detective, whatever I do comes from desperation. My stepfather wants me dead. He has the money and the power to make that happen. I've run out of options. I will do pretty much anything to stay alive. That includes intimidating an old man. But I did not mean to shoot him. We fought for the gun, and he got shot, and I ran. Panicked and ran."

  "You ground your fist--"

  "I panicked. I needed to know where to find the sheriff's brother, and I did a horrible thing in my desperation to get that information. When he still refused, I didn't try again. I ran."

  "And Val?" I say.

  "If Val is dead, then I am sorry for that, too, but I didn't kill her. I took her to that spot. That wolf was there. Only it was rabid." He gives a ragged laugh. "Of course it was. It's not enough to just have wolves out here. They need to be rabid, too."

  "So you saw the wolf . . ." I say.

  "I saw it. Shot it. And it kept coming, like something out of a damned horror movie. So I ran. At first, Val was behind me, but then she apparently realized I wasn't holding her at gunpoint anymore. So she took off. I have no idea what happened to her after that."

  "Then you did what?" Dalton says. "Wandered around hoping for fucking signs to the nearest town?"

  "Yes, Sheriff, I kinda did, okay? Not an actual signpost--I'm not that naive--but I figured if I just kept walking, I'd reach a road, and I could hitchhike to town."

  "Yeah, good luck with that. You hear any cars out here?"

  "I've realized my mistake, okay? Which is why, when I heard voices, I just said 'screw it' and headed toward you. I've been out here for days, and I feel like I'm walking in circles--hell, I probably am. I'm exhausted. I have no supplies. No weapons. I saw a grizzly bear yesterday. A fucking grizzly bear. I may have pissed myself, but by now, I stink so bad, it's not like you're even going to notice. I give up, okay? I throw myself on your mercy. The only thing I'm going to ask is that if my stepfather orders you to kill me, you walk up behind me and just do it, before I know what's happening. I can't win here. Can't escape. I get that now."

  I slow-clap. He turns on me, but Dalton still has him pinned, and all Brady can do is glower.

  "Just applauding the performance," I say. "It's really good. Unfortunately, while you can explain away Brent and Val and just play dumb about the settler massacre, we have an eyewitness who has seen you out here. Eating bars from Rockton." I take the wrapper from my pocket. "And you weren't alone."

  "What? No. Just . . . Look, I have no idea who this eyewitness is, but if someone told you that, then my stepfather got to him--or her. Bribed him. Blackmailed him. Something."

  Brady turns to Kenny. "It was you, wasn't it?"

  "No, it was me," Jacob says.

  "What?" He turns to Jacob. "You're the scout. The one I met on the walk with the wolf and the sniper. The sheriff's brother, right?"

  "Yeah," Dalton says. "And he lives out here. Which means he's not working for your daddy."

  I wave at the forest. "This isn't the big city. Your stepdaddy can't post on Craigslist for a spy."

  "I realize that," Brady says coolly. "I presumed that whoever he paid off was a resident of your town." He glances at Kenny. "You or one of my other prison guards."

  "It wasn't me," Kenny says.

  "I saw you eating that bar with someone," Jacob says to Brady. "I saw you walking with someone. Heard you talking with someone."

  "I don't even know what to say to that, except that I wasn't. Flat-out wasn't."

  "So you're calling my brother a liar?" Dalton says.

  "No, I'm actually not. I grew up with the biggest liar you could hope to meet--my stepfather. I know when someone's bullshitting, and I can tell your brother isn't, which leaves me . . ." A helpless shrug. "I don't even know. I just don't. Obviously he saw someone out here who looks like me. Same size or whatever."

  "It was you," Jacob says. "Those jeans. Those shoes. That shirt."

  "Then I . . ." Brady trails off and looks over at me. "I do not know what to tell you, Detective. I just don't know."

  "Any identical twins we should know about?" I ask.

  His lips tighten. Then he says, "I realize you're being sarcastic, but at this point, I'm starting to wonder myself. The only thing I can even think of is that my stepfather sent someone out here who resembles me, dressed like me. Which makes me sound like a raving lunatic. So I've got nothing, Detective. Absolutely nothing but my solemn word, with a promise that if you find out I'm lying, you don't need to shoot me. Walk me to one of these mountain gorges, and I'll swan-dive. Save you the bullet."

  55

  Jacob leads the way. Brady is right behind him, with Dalton and Kenny following. I'm lagging back with Storm. I've given her food from my pack, and we've found water, but she's exhausted. Like a small child who senses this is not the time to complain, though, she troops silently beside me.

  We're heading toward the First Settlement. That's what Dalton told me, murmuring, "I'll work it out," and "Only thing we can do." Which is correct. We cannot risk Edwin finding out that we have Brady and didn't bring him. He would execute Wallace for that--he must, to keep the respect of his people.

  So I'm lagging behind, and I'm thinking. I'm not thinking of how to get out of this without handing our prisoner over to people who'll execute him. I need to work through something else first.

  We've been walking in silence for about thirty minutes when Dalton falls back with me.

  "You know one of the best things about having you?" he says quietly, and I have to replay his words, so out of context here.

  "Having someone," he continues. Then he pauses. "Yeah, that didn't come out right. Sounds like I'm one of the guys from town, desperate for a woman, any woman."

  I manage a chuckle. "You've never had that problem."

  "Yeah. But you know what else I've never had? A partner. Not just for sex. Not just for work. Not just for friendship. Someone who is all that and more. Lover. Colleague. Friend. Even using those words to describe other people? Seems like they should have different definitions altogether."

  "I know."

  And I do. I'm just not sure where this is coming from, if he's unsettled by what's happened and looking for distraction.

  He continues. "Even 'partner' is a shitty word. Sounds like a business arrangement. The other day, when you said you were my wife, that . . ." He shoves his hands in his pockets. "It sounds lame, but that means something to me. We don't get that in Rockton. My parents--the Daltons--they were a couple, but I've never heard them use the vocabulary much. To me, husband or wife means . . ."

  He takes his hands out of his pockets and flounders, as if looking for a place to put them, finally settling
for taking Storm's lead in one and my hand in the other.

  "My dad always used it," he says. "My, uh . . ."

  "Birth father."

  "Right. In the First Settlement, he used it a lot, and my mom would call him her husband. That was because they were reminding people--warning the men to leave her alone--but I didn't realize that at the time, so husband and wife, that seemed like their special words. And they were . . ." He shakes his head. "Fuck, they were in love. The kind of stupid, crazy love that makes you run into the forest when someone tries to separate you. Dumb kids. But they made it work, and they were partners--real partners--in everything. I told you Jacob says they died together, in a dispute with hostiles, but I wonder if maybe just one was killed and the other didn't . . ." His hand clenches mine, reflexively tightening. "Just didn't try very hard to get out alive after that."

  We walk a couple of steps, and I say softly, "I don't know much about your parents, but from what Jacob has said, I don't think they'd have left him alone if they had a choice."

  A moment of silence. Then he nods. "Yeah, you're right. If one could have made it back, they would have. For him. For their . . ." He swallows. "Fuck."

  His hand grips mine so tight it hurts. Here is the discrepancy he cannot resolve: that the parents who didn't rescue him from Rockton were not parents who would ever shrug and say, Well, that's one fewer mouth to feed.

  "The point," he continues, "is that this is important to me. What we are. You and me. One of the best parts is that I don't have to do this on my own anymore. Yeah, I know, I've always had help. But it's just been that: help. People who listen to me and do what I tell them because they trust my judgment. But fuck, you know what? Half the time I'm not sure I'd listen to me. Now I have you. Someone I can talk to, share with, confide in, ask for advice and, yeah, someone who'll tell me if I'm full of shit."

  "Uh-huh."

  "So my question is, Casey"--his gaze slides my way--"is that just me?"

  "I don't understand."

  "I want to be that for you, too."

  "You are."

  "Am I? Or am I the junior partner here?"

  I look over sharply. "What?"

  "The trainee. A promising one, but still new at this detective shit, and not ready to work at your level."

  "What--?"

  "I don't think that's it. But I like the alternative even less--the feeling that if you're holding back, it's not because I haven't proved myself, but because you want to protect me. I'm a little bit naive. A little bit idealistic. You like that. You want to preserve that. Which might seem fine to you, but I feel patronized. Like I'm years younger than you, not just a couple of months."

  "I--"

  "When we got Nicole back, I know Mathias left that asshole in a hole somewhere. Poetic execution. You know it, too, and I'm sure you confronted him. But you kept that from me."

  "No, I did not, Eric. Yes, I confronted Mathias and didn't tell you--because he wouldn't admit to anything. If he did, I would tell you. I have to. Not just because you're my boss, but because keeping it from you would be treating you like a child."

  He relaxes at that. But he has a point, one I'm not going to admit right now. I would have told him if Mathias confessed, and I'm glad he didn't, because that would have meant Dalton needed to launch a hunt for a man who deserved his horrible fate.

  I didn't push Mathias because I wanted to protect Dalton. And that is wrong. Not wrong to protect him, but wrong if, in protecting him, I'm trying to preserve his innocence, to shield him.

  It is patronizing. It's what you do to your children and, at one time, it was how you treated your wife, presuming she didn't have the fortitude to face life's ugly truths. It is not what you do to someone you consider an equal, however good your intentions.

  "I'm sorry," I say. "If I've done that, I apologize."

  "So we can stop protecting Eric's delicate sensibilities?" he says.

  I manage a smile. "We can."

  "Good. Then tell me what you were thinking."

  "Thinking . . . ?"

  "Right before I came back here and gave you a hard time. What you've been thinking all day . . . whenever we haven't been trying to stay alive, which has been, admittedly, the bulk of our morning and afternoon."

  "It's only afternoon?"

  He shows me his watch. It isn't even 3 P.M. I curse, and he chuckles.

  "I'm working on a theory," I say.

  "Kinda guessed that."

  "It's not one I like."

  "Yep."

  "If I've been keeping it from you, it isn't to protect your sensibilities. It's to protect your opinion of my mental health. And maybe your opinion of me."

  "Because if you tell me what you're thinking, I'll wonder what kind of fucked-up person even imagines something like that."

  "Yes."

  "Then let me help. Are you wondering whether Harper killed the settlers?"

  I blink over at him.

  He continues, "She claimed to have seen Brady there but gave little more than what might be extrapolated from our description of him. She was the one found with blood-soaked clothing, explained away by trying to save her grandmother. Then there's the shredded food pack. If Brady killed the hunting party for their supplies, he'd have taken much better care of that. Instead, it was abandoned and ripped apart by animals. You just don't want to admit you're considering her because you're afraid it reflects badly on you, thinking a kid could do something that horrific."

  He looks over. "So, am I close?"

  "Uh, dead on, actually."

  "Good. Proves I'm making progress with this detective thing. And that maybe my view of people is a little more jaded than you'd like to think."

  "Or just that I'm rubbing off on you."

  He puts his arm around my shoulders. "Sorry, Detective. I'm pretty sure it's not possible to have lived my life up here and be completely unaware of what people are capable of doing to each other. I just don't like to jump to that for the default. Innocent until proven guilty. Good until proven evil. And there's a huge spectrum between those two poles. What matters is where you want to sit on that spectrum, and where you try to sit if you have a choice. Like when you need to shoot a hostile who's about to kill me."

  I say nothing.

  He glances at me. "You think I don't know that's bugging you, too? I'm the one who screwed up back there. I tried to avoid killing that man, and all I did was sentence him to a slow death. They had no chance of crawling back to their camp. No chance of being rescued. No chance of surviving. The sniper who shot that hostile did him more of a favor than I did in trying to just wound him."

  "You--"

  "I'm not looking for redemption, Casey. Just stating facts. I learned my lesson. Doesn't mean I won't leave someone alive if they can get to help, but I won't make that mistake again. Either way, I killed a man today, too."

  "Have you ever . . . ?"

  "No," he says, and shoves his hands in his pockets. "No, I haven't."

  We are back in the clearing where the three settlers were massacred. I have watched Brady's expression the whole way, waiting for the flicker of recognition, of concern, of worry. Why are we returning him here? Is there something we might find that will prove he's guilty?

  He must be guilty, right?

  No. That is the hard truth I've come to accept. The likelihood that Harper killed these settlers. That Brady's claim of innocence is correct. At least in this.

  As we approach, he gives no sign that he recognizes the location. We enter the clearing, and he's looking around. Then he's checking his watch, as if wondering whether we're stopping for the night.

  "Turn around," I say.

  He does. He's been quiet. Past the point of denials. Past the point of anger. Just exhausted and resigned to whatever his fate might be.

  Earlier, I patted him down for weapons and found only Kenny's knife, which I have returned. Brady claims he had a stick, too--he'd sharpened it with the knife, as a spear, and he'd been proud of his ingen
uity in that. He'd been unable to find anything to eat out here, but at least he had a sharp stick. Or he did until we crawled into that cave and he had to abandon it outside.

  Now I more thoroughly pat him down, and he has nothing but crumbs in his pocket. Apparently Devon had delivered cookies to Val while she sat with Brady, and before Brady escaped, he shoved them into his pocket. A survival plan as pathetic as that sharp stick.

  Those crumbs clearly came from sugar cookies rather than our protein bars, and Brady seems as weak as one might expect after three days. That does not mean I accept that Jacob made a mistake about seeing him with another man, eating our old bars. I'm just not sure how to reconcile that, so I've put it aside.

  The lack of food isn't ironclad proof that he didn't kill the hunting party. Yet there is also the most damning evidence for a homicide detective. His clothing.

  Brady is wearing what he left Rockton with. Right down to his socks and boxers. As filthy as his clothes are, I see no more than a smear of blood on his shoulder, as if he'd wiped a bloodied nose after fighting Brent.

  Whoever killed the settlers had slit one man's throat. Stabbed another. Brutally murdered a woman. That much blood won't come out by rinsing your shirt in a mountain stream.

  I would not take this evidence before a court of law--not unless I was a defense attorney, desperate to get my client exonerated. Brady might have taken off his shirt for the attacks. He might have hidden whatever food and supplies he stole from the settlers.

  But I cannot continue to say he even makes a good suspect.

  Which leads to a very uncomfortable admission. That he might actually be telling the truth . . . about all of it.

  Brent's death was manslaughter, rather than murder. As for Val, I don't know how she died. I wasn't able to recover her body to autopsy it. I wasn't even able to get to her body for a closer look. I can only say that she was dead in that river, with no obvious signs of trauma.

  Yet there are other things that don't fit.

  Who did Jacob see in the forest, if not Brady? I trust Jacob implicitly, and I can't imagine he was mistaken, so what is the alternative? If it was Brady, wouldn't he come up with an excuse? Why, yes, I did meet someone on the trail--a stranger who took pity on me and shared his stash of protein bars.