This Fallen Prey

by Kelley Armstrong

  "Respectful? He was a toad. Always trying to talk to me. Ask what he could do for me. I know what he wanted to do for me."

  "So you shot him?"

  "He was in the path of my actual target."

  "Casey," Dalton says, when I don't respond. "You wanted to kill Casey. You felt threatened--"

  "Threatened? By this child?" Val laughs. "No, Sheriff. I only wanted her out of the way. She stood between me and the one thing that really can get us out of this godforsaken wilderness."

  "Him," I say. "Eric. Shooting him on our walk was accidental--you just wanted it to look as if someone was trying to assassinate Oliver. When Oliver couldn't get Brent to take him to Jacob, you decided Eric would do. He can guide you out. Keep you alive. You'd kill me and force him to help you escape."

  "Now I don't need to kill you, so I won't. Proving I'm not threatened by you, Casey, I'll just borrow your lover for a week. If he gets us where we want to go, I'll set him free."

  "And I'm supposed to trust you?"

  "He's no threat to us once we escape, so why would we kill him?"

  "Because you can. Because Oliver here is a sadistic--"

  "It was Greg," Brady snarls. "He made me do it. He forced me to help him, and he said if I ever told anyone, he'd kill me."

  "Which would be hard for him to do from a prison cell. He might have groomed you, Oliver, but that's only because he saw you for what you are--as much a narcissistic, sociopathic sadist as he is. And you, Val?"

  I turn to her. "You felt like a prisoner in Rockton because you were. You weren't there by choice. Which means that farm boy isn't the only person you've killed. That's the thing about pulling a trigger. Either you're horrified and suffer a lifetime of guilt . . . or you realize it wasn't so bad after all. You tried to kill Kenny because he literally stood in your way. You tried to do the same to me because I figuratively blocked your path. You're no different than this psycho. Which means I can't trust you to let Eric go once he guides you out."

  "I don't think you have a choice here, Casey. Drop to your knees with your head down or I'll put a bullet--"

  I shoot her between the eyes.

  I don't think about it. I cannot second-guess. I have my gun in my hand, and I have exactly one chance here, while she's talking, while she convinced she's won.

  I swing my gun up, and I fire. I see her eyes. There is a moment there, a terrible moment, between her seeing the gun fire and death. A moment when she knows what has happened. A moment of horror that I will not forget.

  Val drops to the ground.

  "Holy shit," Brady says. "Holy--"

  I point the gun at him, and he stops. I'm waiting for Dalton to tell me no, don't shoot Brady. But he says nothing. Does nothing. I glance back, and his face is ashen. He isn't in shock, though. He says nothing because he knows he doesn't need to. I had to shoot Val . . . and I don't have to shoot Brady.

  "Start walking," I say to Brady.

  "Hell, no. I am not--"

  He stops talking. I think that means he's realized there's no point arguing. Then I see the blood blossoming on his chest.

  His mouth works. He falls to his knees. And he topples face-first to the ground.

  I spin, gun raised. That shot did not come from me. It did not come from Dalton. I didn't hear a gun fire, meaning it came from one with a suppressor. We don't have suppressors in Rockton.

  Both of us turn, our guns raised, scanning the empty forest. Then I see a flash of motion. A killer in flight.

  I tear off. Dalton passes me, but the gap is too wide, the killer dressed in camouflage, little more a than blur through the trees.

  I let myself slow, gait smoothing as I squint at the shooter.

  A slight figure. Narrow shoulders. Hips just as wide. It's a woman. She's fast and she's agile, and she knows how to move in the forest, racing down the path, leaping over obstacles, outrunning Dalton.

  He shoots. The sound of that shot surprises me. It's wild, though. Intentionally wild--no matter what has happened, he's not aiming to bring down someone who shot a serial killer. He's just trying to get her attention. He does, and she glances over her shoulder, and I catch a flash of pale skin and light hair and a face I recognize.

  Even from this distance, I recognize it.

  She doesn't slow, though. And in trying to surprise her, Dalton got a shock himself, one that has him stumbling. Then she's around the corner, too far ahead to ever catch.

  After a pause he heads back to me as I cover him. I will fire--if she turns and I see her gun trained on Dalton, I will shoot her.

  She doesn't turn.

  Dalton breaks into a jog and says, "Did you see . . . ?"

  "I did."

  "That was--"

  "Petra."

  We leave Val's and Brady's bodies behind. We cover them and mark the spot. Then we set out to Rockton.

  "I killed Val," I say.

  "You did what I couldn't. Last winter. With Peter."

  He's looking straight ahead as we walk.

  "I froze up," he says. "All I could see was Peter holding a knife on you, and I panicked. I should have shot him."

  "No, you couldn't. If you had killed him, we'd have lost Nicole."

  A few steps before he says, his voice low, "I didn't care. Not at that moment. I just froze."

  "And I just reacted. I panicked. With another result."

  He shakes his head. "You thought it through. Made a choice. I still regret not shooting Peter. I go over it and over it in my head. What if I lost you because I froze up? And now you'll second-guess making the opposite choice."

  More quiet walking. Then he says, "We're both going to suffer. Wonder if we made the wrong decision. But I guess that's better than the alternative."

  "Which is?"

  "Not giving a shit." He looks back in the direction of the bodies. "Being like them."

  61

  We're nearing town when we meet Anders, pacing the path. He looks behind us and says, "You didn't find Brady."

  "We did," I say. "Someone didn't want us bringing him back alive."

  Anders swears. "The sniper."

  I make a noise he can interpret as assent for now.

  "How's Kenny?" I say, dreading the answer.

  "Stable. That's all I can tell you. We got him back, and now we're getting the swelling down so Mathias and I can see the bullet. Unfortunately, that's not our biggest problem right now. Phil is ready to put Wallace on a plane and fly him out of here. I was giving you guys another sixty seconds before I stopped him at gunpoint."

  We break into a jog, and I say, "Is Phil in on it? Or is this the council?"

  "No idea. I told Phil what Wallace did. Told him you think he's the killer, not Brady. It seemed like he believed me. Then he starts packing. I say hell, no, not until you guys get back. He reminds me that, in Val's absence, he's in charge. I argued, but he ignored me. Acted like the walls were talking and then went to check the plane."

  "Where is he now?"

  "He ordered me to bring Wallace to the hangar. I told him to go fuck himself and came to see if you guys were nearby."

  We head straight for the hangar. Anders tells us Jacob and Storm are fine. He managed to persuade Jacob to sneak into my old place through the back door, and he's recovering there.

  We're nearing the hangar when we hear the plane start.

  "Shit!" Anders says.

  We're about twenty meters away when Phil appears, doing a last visual check of the runway.

  "I'm taking the prisoner, Sheriff," he calls when he sees us.

  "The hell you are," Dalton says.

  "Actually, yes, I am, and while I know you need to bluster in front of Will and Casey, let's skip that part. Your protest is duly noted. But it doesn't change the fact that you are not in charge here. I can assure you, Mr. Wallace will be properly dealt with."

  "We have a patient in urgent need--" I begin.

  "And you have Dr. Atelier. Plus the sheriff's plane, should the council decide to extract
Kenny."

  "I want to talk to Wallace," I say. "I have questions that require answers."

  "No, Casey, you have questions you would like answered, and you wish to stall me while you figure out how to stop me."

  "I want to figure out how you can take him safely," I say. "He's a dangerous psychopath--"

  "Yes, yes, I know," Phil says, as if I'm telling him Wallace might prove an annoying seatmate.

  Dalton's gaze swings toward the hangar. Then he starts to run.

  Phil holds his ground, saying, "If you physically try to stop me, Eric--"

  Dalton swerves around the hangar instead, heading for the rear door. I follow, and Phil calls, "Whatever you two have in mind, it is a waste of time. If you attempt to stop me, there will be consequences. I would suggest, Casey, that you . . ."

  I don't catch the rest, drowned out by the sound of the plane.

  The back door to the hangar stands open.

  Dalton circles into the trees to sneak up on the other side. Anders has joined us, and he gets into the trees, angled where he can cover me.

  I swing through the doorway. There's a figure at the open passenger side. A small one wearing a hooded jacket. When I see her, there's a moment of confusion as complete as when I first spotted Val. Then it's like dominoes falling, connections made in an instant.

  "Harper," I say. "Step away from the plane."

  She turns and sees the gun. Hers starts to rise, but Anders barrels through, saying, "Drop the weapon!"

  She looks toward the open main doors. Dalton appears there with his gun trained on her.

  "Weapon down!" Anders barks. "Now!"

  "Do as he says, hon." Wallace's muffled voice emerges from inside the plane. "They will shoot you."

  She lowers her gun to the ground.

  "Shit, it's just a kid," Anders says, as he gets his first good look at her.

  "A kid who murdered three of her fellow settlers. Including her own grandmother."

  Harper just levels her gaze on me, and I've seen that look before, in teens I've arrested. Some cry. Some rage. Some just give me this look, a cold So what?

  It's chilling enough when it's a kid I've arrested for breaking into a house. For this? "Chilling" does not begin to describe it.

  I want to ask, "Why?" But I know better. I'll just see another look like I did when I arrested those kids, when I felt compelled to ask why, and they rolled their eyes like I was just another stupid grown-up, asking stupid questions.

  The "why?" isn't about motive. It's more of a "how?" How could you do such a thing? That is a question Harper cannot answer. No one can.

  "You said Albie wanted to go back and steal the horses," I say. "But your grandmother and the other man stopped him. You still wanted to do it, though. You told Albie that, after the others went to sleep, didn't you?"

  "He acted like I was a little kid. He ignored me. I had a plan for getting the horses. He wouldn't listen. When I said I'd go myself, he threatened to whip me. Whip me. Then he said even if I stayed in camp, he was going to tell my grandmother. She'd have to tell Edwin, and I'd never get to go on another hunting trip again."

  "So you waited until he went back to his guard post, snuck up, and slit his throat. Except the old man heard, so you had to kill him. And then your grandmother. She tried to get away. You couldn't let her. You chased her down and stabbed her."

  "It was Albie's fault. He was going to tattle on me because I offered to help him get those horses."

  "It wasn't the horses you wanted. It was the dog."

  Her lip curls. "I don't care now. I don't need a dog. I'm going down south."

  "And Mr. Wallace here is going to buy all the puppies you want, right? You really are a child, aren't you, Harper?"

  She yanks a knife from her pocket. I just hold my gun on her.

  She sneers. "You won't shoot me."

  She reaches into the cockpit to cut the strap on Wallace's hand. I lunge to grab her, but a voice says, "I can't let you do that, Casey."

  Phil's pointing a gun at me.

  "She's a child," he says. "I know you're upset, but we can resolve this without violence."

  Anders lets out a ragged laugh. "Please tell me you're part of this escape attempt. Because otherwise you're the biggest idiot alive."

  He's not part of it. If Phil planned to spirit Wallace off to safety, Wallace wouldn't be letting Harper free him. She's cut the strap on his hands, and now she's pointing the knife at me as Wallace climbs into the pilot's seat.

  "Guess you have your pilot's license after all," I say.

  "Of course," Wallace says. "Harper?"

  She backs into the passenger seat.

  Phil comes around the side of the plane. "This is pointless, Gregory. You will be a hunted man. Don't take a child into that."

  "Oh for God's sake," I mutter. "You really are an idiot." I raise my gun. "Wallace? Get out of the plane."

  Harper's hand swings up, and I'm thinking it's just the knife. It's not.

  I backpedal. Phil grabs me as if I'm . . . I don't know. Fleeing? Out of the corner of my eye, I see Dalton lunge. Then Harper presses the button, and the pepper spray hits me full in the face. I double over, blinded. Phil howls in agony. Even Dalton curses, as stray particles hit him.

  Anders shouts "Stop!" but he's the farthest away, unable to fire from his angle. I hear the door slamming, the plane rolling, Anders yells. A shot fires. Another, hitting metal. Then the engine roars as the plane takes off.

  62

  Wallace and Harper escape. Dalton goes to get our plane out, but Harper has cut wires in the engine. By the time he could fix it, they'd be gone.

  The council claims they'll go after Wallace. I don't know if that's true. I don't think Phil does either. I don't bother asking him. I can barely get him to tell me what they've said. He walks out of that radio meeting and says, "I have to stay."

  "Until they figure this out?" I ask.

  A slow shake of his head, his gaze blank. "I don't know. I don't . . . They said this is my fault. So I stay."

  At that moment, seeing the look on his face, if I could muster any sympathy for him, I would. But I can't. All I can think is Not again. Once more, we are saddled with a leader who does not want to be here. The council has learned nothing from Val.

  I must talk to Petra. That is obvious, but my gut screams at the idea. It tells me I'm mistaken--that both Dalton and I were obviously mistaken. Petra? No. Never Petra. She's my friend.

  Which doesn't mean shit, does it? Diana was my friend. Beth became my friend. Even Val had been inching toward something akin to friendship.

  I can tell myself no, not Petra, but then I remember her on the back deck of the station, going after Jen. I remember the look in her eyes.

  I tell Dalton that I want to do this alone.

  I find Petra at home, working on a sketch, and she welcomes me in, as she always does, with a big smile, and again I tell myself I'm wrong. I must be wrong.

  She starts to lead me inside, but I stay in her front entryway.

  "I saw you in the forest."

  "Ah."

  That's what she says. It's all she says, and I feel anger surge, outrage and yes, hurt.

  "I saw you shoot Oliver Brady," I say.

  "Are you sure?"

  Are you sure?

  Not a moment of surprise, just a cool semi-denial, a lackluster defense that cuts deeper than any feigned confusion.

  The anger flares, white-hot, and I advance on her. She doesn't step back. She doesn't flinch. She just meets my gaze with a level stare.

  "I saw you," I say, "Eric saw you. We were not mistaken."

  She says nothing.

  "I just told you that Oliver Brady is dead, and you didn't bat an eye. No one else in town knows. That alone proves you were there, Petra."

  "I'm not denying I was there. I'm asking if you're sure I'm the one who shot him."

  "You--"

  "Am I your friend, Casey?"

  It takes everything I have
not to throw her against the wall, like she did to Jen.

  "Don't you dare--" I begin.

  "I'm not asking you to drop this because I'm a friend. I'm asking you to trust me because I'm a friend."

  "Trust that you didn't kill--"

  "Just trust me." She meets my gaze. "I am your friend. Yours. Eric's. Rockton's. Whatever happened out there wasn't a tragedy. It was cleanup."

  "Who gave you the right--?"

  "I'm not saying I shot Oliver Brady, Casey. I'm saying that it doesn't matter who did. Not really. He's dead, and that's what had to be done, and if you'd like to come in and discuss it . . ."

  I turn and walk out.

  This isn't over. This isn't like it was with Mathias, a resident who saw our predicament and solved it for us. Petra might play it that way, but it isn't the same. Even with Mathias, he is no "random resident," no ordinary citizen driven to act outside his nature.

  This was an execution. An ordered execution. Otherwise, we have a resident who somehow found a gun and silencer lying around and wandered into the forest in hopes of finding us, then saw and shot Brady to protect us. Despite the fact that, at that moment, he posed no threat.

  Someone told Petra to kill Brady. And she did. Which means there is so much more to this--and to her.

  Dalton doesn't know what to say about Petra. For now, there's no time to discuss it, much less pursue the matter. We have Kenny to worry about.

  A bullet that close to the spine is a dangerous thing. Even moving him may have made the situation worse. To take him up in a plane and fly him to Whitehorse? We could do no more than pray we don't make things worse. We almost certainly will.

  Dalton and I sit on the back porch of the clinic, after seeing Kenny and assessing the situation.

  "Fuck," Dalton says. "I don't even know what to do."

  "Is there any chance the council will fly in a surgeon?"

  He shakes his head. "They can't even get us a doctor. Where the hell will they find a neurosurgeon?"

  I take a deep breath. "April."

  He looks over. "Your sister? Right, she's a neuroscientist, isn't she?"

  "Yes, but she was a medical doctor first. She specialized in neurosurgery. She didn't care for it, so she got her doctorate and went into research instead. Did I mention I come from a family of overachievers?"

  I give a wry smile. Dalton lays his hand on mine, and I realize I'm tugging a thread on my shirt, anxiously winding it around my finger.

  "Are you sure you want to do that?" he says. "I know you and April . . ."