A Stranger in Town

by Kelley Armstrong

  Last night, April and Anders looked after the stomach wound, sterilizing it better and using the ultrasound to get an internal look. Those images rest at my elbow, and they add nothing to the story of this woman’s trauma. As predicted, the weapon pierced mostly muscle. It was intended to kill her. I’m certain of that. The only question is whether her attacker expected her to immediately perish from her injury … or knew it would take time, leaving her to a slow and agonizing death alone in the forest.

  I’ve barely taken a few sips from my coffee when a soft rap sounds on the exam room door. Dalton opens it to find a dark-haired woman hovering uncertainly.

  “Hey, Maryanne,” I say. “Come in.”

  As she does, her gaze flits to the patient and then quickly away. Anyone seeing that would dismiss Maryanne as a nervous woman. I know better. I understand that what’s making her uneasy is the patient lying on that bed and what she represents.

  “Kenny came by the stable this morning to take Champ for an early ride,” she says, “and he mentioned you’d brought back a woman. A tourist who was attacked in the forest.”

  “Kenny talks too much,” Dalton grumbles, but there’s no rancor in it. We both know there’s a reason Rockton’s carpenter—and head of militia—let Maryanne know. The same reason that brought her here this morning.

  Maryanne came to Rockton nearly fifteen years ago, yet no one here except Dalton had ever met her before last winter. Rockton is a town of transients. It’s meant to be a way station on the journey back to an ordinary life. You come, and catch your breath and wait for the storms to pass, and then you return. Residents are guaranteed a two-year stay. After that, they may apply to extend their stay for up to five years. We do have two who’ve gone beyond five years—Mathias and Isabel—but they secure those extensions by blackmailing the council.

  When Maryanne came to Rockton, fleeing a nightmarish marriage, she’d fallen in love. Not with a person, but with the wilderness. She’s a biologist, and the child of hippies, and here she rediscovered her passion for wild places. She joined three others and set off into the forest.

  That isn’t an officially sanctioned choice. In reality, it depends on the sheriff. If someone wanted to go these days, Dalton would try to talk them out of it. If they weren’t equipped to survive, he’d dump them in Vancouver before he’d let them walk into the wilderness. But if they could handle it and truly understood what that life entailed, then, as a child of the forest himself, he would look the other way.

  Gene Dalton took a very different view, not surprisingly given that he stole Dalton from that wilderness life. Gene aggressively pursued would-be settlers, and he’d done that with Maryanne, gathering the militia for an all-out search. When they found the camp, a week later, it’d been empty, supplies ripped apart, mementos abandoned, the ruined remains of their temporary settlement telling a tragic story.

  The true tragedy, though, came later.

  As Maryanne leans over the mystery woman, her graying hair falls in a curtain and she reflexively starts to tuck it behind her ear. A pause, then she tucks it back anyway, and that’s partly defiance, but partly, too, because she knows there’s no one here who hasn’t seen the frostbite. The elements don’t explain the odd pattern of scarring on one cheek. Ritualized scarring. She speaks carefully, her lips hiding teeth that will get dental caps this spring to hide the damage. That damage wasn’t tooth decay—it was intentional filing.

  What happened in Maryanne’s camp all those years ago wasn’t a bear attack. It was humans. Humans that belong more in a badly researched prehistoric movie than in twenty-first-century reality.

  We call them hostiles. They’re former Rockton residents who have reverted to something more primal, adopting a hodgepodge of tribal elements and presenting as wild people barely capable of communication, more dangerous than any creature out here.

  To the people of Rockton, hostiles have always been the bogeyman. An urban legend created by law enforcement to keep residents out of the forest. Dalton knew better. Yet to him, they were as much a part of the wilderness as the settlers and caribou, and he’d accepted the council’s explanation that this was what happened when people immersed themselves too fully in the wilderness life. They lost what it means to be human.

  I’m sure that can happen, but …

  In Rockton, Dalton and Maryanne had been friends, as much as a teenage boy and a thirty-something woman could be. She’d taught him biology, and he’d taught her naturalism. Two keen and curious minds eager to discover everything the other knew. A year after she left Rockton, he met her in the forest and she attacked him. Nearly forced him to kill her to escape. She’d become a hostile. That kind of deterioration cannot naturally happen in a year.

  I’d had lots of theories about how it did happen, most more outlandish than I care to admit. The key came, fittingly, with Maryanne herself. Dalton met her again last year, and she did recognize him. Thus began six months of encounters in the forest, until finally, she was in a mental place to accept help. She’d spent four months living in a cave once inhabited by a friend. She had recently agreed to move into town, taking over from the stable worker who left this winter.

  So what happened to Maryanne in the forest? Two words that often go together. Cult and drugs. The hostiles have two narcotic tea-like brews, which they seem to have adapted from the Second Settlement.

  Rockton gave birth to two settlements out here, unoriginally known as the First and Second Settlements. Both were created by residents who didn’t want to go home. The first is led by Edwin, now an old man. The second, founded in the seventies, reminds me of a commune, complete with mildly narcotic teas.

  I believe the hostiles began as a small group who left the Second Settlement to pursue a more nomadic life, not unlike Maryanne and her comrades. They took the settlement’s tea recipes with them, and at some point, the brew went from mild intoxicant to hardcore drug.

  The Second Settlement has two teas, referred to as the peace tea and the ritual tea. The former acts like a nice glass of wine. The latter, which they only use for rituals, induces mild hallucinations. The hostiles created stronger versions of both, brews that can no longer be called anything as benign as “tea.”

  The first keeps them in a state of moderate euphoria where their former life becomes a shadowy dream they no longer care about. The second whips them into the frenzied state that Dalton first encountered with Maryanne, when she tried to kill him.

  What does all this mean for the woman lying in the bed? She isn’t a hostile. She might look as if she’s been living rough, but clear polish clings to her ragged fingernails, her hands are smooth and soft, and she was wearing contact lenses, which April removed.

  Maryanne has come to see this woman because, in what we know of her story, Maryanne sees echoes of her own past: the horror that began her years as a hostile.

  Her quartet had made camp a few nights after leaving Rockton. Having lost Gene Dalton and his men, they didn’t post a guard. Healthy bears won’t attack four sleeping humans around a smoldering fire. Fellow settlers were known to be territorial and unfriendly, but not thieves or murderers. As for the hostiles, well that was just a story, and a rather silly one at that.

  That night, they learned the truth about those silly stories. The hostiles attacked while the quartet slept. They wanted the women and the supplies. They slit one man’s throat before he woke. The other, though? They used a stone knife on his stomach and abandoned him to die in agony, alone.

  FIVE

  This is, of course, what both Dalton and I thought of first when we realized what happened to our mystery woman. It’s what Maryanne thinks of when she hears the story. It’s why she’s here—to help determine whether hostiles attacked a group of tourists. Whether there might be other survivors out there, women like her who’d been given the choice between a narcotic brew and a horrible death.

  When Maryanne was captured, she drank the drugs, thinking she’d play along and then escape. Her companion ref
used and thought Maryanne weak for giving in. For that, the other woman was bound to a tree, with someone nearby, waiting for her to surrender. A week later, Maryanne got to see what remained.

  Is that the scenario playing out right now? Our mystery woman escaped and others are being held captive and given that horrible choice? Or perhaps it was the men who were captured, and the women killed. Which they chose would depend entirely on what the group needed.

  What we need is answers from this woman sleeping in our clinic.

  Who did this to you?

  Did people from the forest attack you? Or was it your own companions? Or is there a chance we’re misreading the evidence, and you were in a horrible accident?

  Tell us something, anything, before we set off into that forest, chasing the wrong answer. Each potential solution to this mystery requires a very different tactic.

  I am hoping that when the woman wakes, lucid, she will speak English. Most European tourists know at least enough to communicate. In her fevered state, she’d been unable to tell that we were speaking English and had reverted to her native tongue. That’s all.

  In case that’s not all, though, I need a backup plan.

  After Maryanne leaves, I turn to Dalton.

  “Can you find me a German speaker? In the files?”

  He doesn’t even need to respond before I see the answer in his eyes.

  “And that’s a no,” I say as I slump against the counter.

  “I thought of that last night,” he says. “You’d think it’d be there, under useful skills, but…” He shrugs. “Residents must speak fluent English.”

  Rockton is diverse when it comes to race, religion, and sexual orientation, because none of that has any impact on your ability to survive in this environment. Otherwise, though, we’re a homogeneous bunch. Sebastian is our only resident under twenty-five and Mathias is one of the oldest at fifty-five. The most serious disability is Kenny’s—he wears leg braces after taking a bullet in the back.

  Kenny would never have been allowed in like that, though, even if he’s perfectly capable of Rockton life in his current condition. The council wants able-bodied adults. They also want English speakers, because struggling with the language would be a disability. Therefore we don’t need to know if residents speak other languages, because we’ll never require their skills for translating.

  Resident privacy comes first. Even what does make it into the files is for Dalton’s eyes only, and he can’t share it with me unless it directly impacts a case.

  “Any hints?” I ask.

  When he hesitates, I wince. “Sorry. I shouldn’t ask. If you know of any residents who lived in Germany, will you speak to them? You could conduct the witness interview to protect their privacy.”

  “Nah, it wouldn’t come to that,” Dalton says, stretching his legs. “Can’t imagine language skills being top-secret personal details. But yeah, there’s someone who mentioned being stationed in Germany during their entrance interview. I can see whether they speak the language. If that doesn’t pan out, you can call a meeting and ask for German speakers.”

  “I need to call one anyway to explain the stranger in our clinic.”

  Dalton grumbles under his breath. Before I arrived, there would have been no announcement. Not that he could keep the woman a secret. People saw Sebastian and Baptiste race into town for the doctor. They’d be asking who got hurt, and we’d need to reassure them that it wasn’t a resident, and then they’d realize the clinic is closed for a reason—because a stranger is in their midst.

  As far as Dalton is concerned, that’s “none of their damned business.” I disagree. A stranger in town is a valid concern for people who’ve been promised sanctuary. Better to explain the situation than deal with false rumors.

  I’m about to say more when the door opens and a woman says, “Did I hear you say you need someone who speaks German?”

  “Did I hear you knock on the goddamn door, Diana?” Dalton says.

  “I’m here for my shift, Sheriff. I don’t knock for that.”

  Diana walks in carrying a bag that smells like breakfast sandwiches, and my stomach grumbles. Hearing it, she laughs, walks over, and waggles it in front of me.

  “Tell me what you have here, Case.” She nods at the mystery woman. “And I’ll give you my sandwich.”

  “Deal.”

  She hesitates and slants her gaze Dalton’s way. He plucks the sandwich from her hand and passes it to me.

  “You’re actually going to tell me why there’s a stranger in Rockton?” she says.

  “Yep.” I unwrap the sandwich and take a big bite, groaning softly as hot sriracha-spiked scrambled egg fills my mouth. “Because you’re my friend, and I trust you.”

  She snorts.

  “Because you’re the damned nurse, Diana,” he says. “April’s going to need help, and you can’t provide that if you don’t know what happened to a patient.”

  “Wait, did you say I’m a nurse? You’re actually admitting—”

  “Health-care provider,” he says. “Providing nursing.”

  “I’ll take it. Just make sure you finally get around to officially changing my designation on the duty roster.” She turns to me as I lick my fingers. “Did you even chew that sandwich, Case?”

  “I skipped dinner last night,” I say. “Before we went to the lake, I was called out on a problem.”

  “Shit,” Dalton says. “I forgot all about that.”

  “I was counting on a late dinner of cold beer and burnt marshmallows. Instead, I got a mystery woman who doesn’t speak English.”

  “Ah,” Diana says, “so that’s why you’re looking for a German speaker. Well, here I am. Nurse, translator, and breakfast delivery all in one.”

  “Since when do you speak German?”

  Diana and I have known each other for more than half our lives. She’s the reason I came to Rockton … only to discover that she’d tricked me into it. That should have annihilated our friendship, but while we won’t ever be what we were, we can manage a comfortable level of companionship.

  “I took a year of German in high school,” she says. “Remember?”

  “Oh, right. You had a crush on that German exchange student.”

  “Two German exchange students. And it was not an unrequited crush. That summer, they taught me more than my course ever did.”

  “We’re still talking about the language, right?”

  She waggles her brows suggestively, and I can’t help laughing.

  “Fine,” I say. “You can take a shot at translating, but since our patient shows no signs of waking, we don’t need your nursing just yet. If you could grab us some breakfast with your replacement sandwich, I’d appreciate that.”

  Her gaze shoots to Dalton, and I want to say, Really, Diana?

  “Fine,” I say. “Please get my breakfast. I want two of everything.”

  Dalton pushes to his feet. “I’ll do it.”

  “Oh, sit down, Eric,” Diana says. “I’ll bring your breakfast. I was just hassling Casey.”

  “No, I gotta get to work anyway. Casey doesn’t need me here, and she might need a nurse. You stay. I’ll bring you both a sandwich.”

  He’s gone before she can argue. Not that she doesn’t want the sandwich—she just doesn’t want Dalton to bring it, which would mean she might actually need to say thank you. We may be fifteen years out of high school, but in many ways Diana never left.

  And as soon as I think that, she proves why it’s hard to cut her loose. She pours me a fresh coffee and then pulls up a chair, eagerly awaiting my story. When I’m done, she’s full of questions, but none of them are challenges, none feel like subtle jabs, the way April’s can. Diana is genuinely interested in my case and how she can help, and she trusts that I can solve it and keep Rockton safe from whatever lurks in the forest.

  As we talk, Dalton silently delivers our breakfast, with only a squeeze on my shoulder before he’s gone again. I’m unwrapping my sandwich when I catch the
smell of warm chocolate chip muffins. Diana hands me one and laughs as I devour half in a bite.

  “Didn’t your mother teach you to eat your meal before dessert?”

  “My mother didn’t let me have dessert, as you may recall. Besides, muffins aren’t dessert.”

  “Put chocolate in them and they’re icing-free cupcakes.”

  “Then, as someone who only eats the icing, you won’t mind me having yours, too.”

  As she passes her muffin over, I notice her hot-pink nails. “Got the care package, did you?”

  “Yes, and thank you. I’ll put the hair dye in later.”

  On yesterday’s supply run, I’d bought Diana nail polish and pink dye, which she uses to streak or tip her blond hair. Cosmetics aren’t a priority here, and most women—like me—are happy for the excuse to go without. But they make Diana happy, and I don’t begrudge her that.

  “You think it’s hostiles, don’t you?” she asks as we settle in again.

  “I think everything is hostiles.” I sigh as I nibble the muffin. “The object of my obsession.”

  She pulls her feet up under her. “Your brain needs puzzles. This is a good one. You’ve already figured out how people turn into hostiles.”

  “I didn’t figure out anything. Maryanne told me.”

  “After you made it your mission to rescue her.”

  “Help her. She rescued herself. As for figuring out what to do about the hostiles…”

  I grumble under my breath. To the council, hostiles are like cult members. It doesn’t matter if they’re being brainwashed, we have no right to remove them. The fact that most are former Rockton residents? Irrelevant. The fact that most were kidnapped, which makes it 100 percent our jurisdiction? Also irrelevant, because they’d all chosen to leave Rockton before their “indoctrination” and therefore weren’t our responsibility anymore.

  The council treats our requests like we’re asking to euthanize all grizzlies. Hostiles don’t bother us any more often than brown bears, and so our request is unconscionable. These people chose to be out there, so leave them alone.