A Stranger in Town

by Kelley Armstrong

  Chiding us about resident safety is bullshit. Every resident who goes home is a security risk. Sure, they might not know our GPS coordinates, but like Sophie, they could provide a general distance from Dawson plus directional cues if they understand the basics of the “sun rises in the east and sets in the west.”

  But there are ways around this, too. We can tell Sophie that this is a secret scientific facility devoted to climate change research, and she’d almost certainly keep our secret, given that outdoor enthusiasts tend to be more concerned about the environment than the average person.

  I suffer the council’s condescending bullshit in silence. I don’t just sit there and listen, though. The lack of a visual screen means it’s like being on a telephone conference where my input is not required. I take out my notebook and start writing down questions to ask Sophie, along with avenues of investigation. When Phil glances over, I’m tempted to pretend I’m taking notes from the meeting. Then I decide “screw it” and let him see.

  Phil glances at my notes and then snatches the pen from my hand. I’m reaching to take it back when he draws the beginning of a hangman game. I stifle a laugh and guess a letter, and we proceed, with random verbalizations of “uh-huh,” “right,” and “I understand” as we play our game.

  Dalton couldn’t do this. He couldn’t make notes for his day. He couldn’t play hangman. He definitely could not manage those meaningless verbalizations. He’d need to argue and debate, his blood pressure rising until he stalked off, requiring a good hour of forest prowling before he was fit company.

  After the hour-long reminder of why I hate the council, I return to the clinic to find Sophie unconscious. She’d woken and flown into a panic. Before they could find me, April sedated her again, since she’d been in danger of ripping open her stomach with her flailing.

  That’s where my day hits a brick wall. Dalton has gone looking for Jacob, whom we need to find the missing tourists. The missing tourist we have is unconscious, and I’m not sure I’ll ever get more out of her. I’m not even sure she has more to give.

  I spend the afternoon and early evening doing regular police work. There isn’t really enough in Rockton for a full-time detective. The last case I worked was a sexual assault: guy expects sex after a date, woman says no, he tries to change her mind by demonstrating his skill with a nonconsensual make-out session behind the Red Lion. All it took was a cry to bring someone running, and by then, she’d escaped. Dalton sentenced the guy to two months of literal shit duty, emptying toilets. Curfew from 9 P.M. until 7 A.M. One-drink limit. No access to the brothel.

  I check in on both parties today. Is she okay? Is he still grumbling that we overreacted? We’re fine on both sides. She’s had no further contact with him, and he’s embarrassed and contrite. All good.

  Then I follow up on a complaint between neighbors and a workplace-harassment charge. I also take a militia shift patrolling town, and finally I join Anders doing community policing—wandering about, chitchatting with folks heading out for the evening.

  The community service part is not Dalton’s forte, which is one reason Anders is such a critical part of our force. Everyone likes Will Anders. Everyone’s happy to talk to him. Today, our socializing has a purpose—seeing how many people know we have a stranger in town. According to Jen’s spy research, a few know there was an emergency, and many realize the clinic is closed except for emergencies, but their curiosity is purely the gossip-fodder kind. Rumors are currency here, and they want tidbits to share.

  After dinner, I’m in the station doing that most dreaded of law enforcement duties: paperwork. We have less than 5 percent of what I did down south. There’s zero council day-to-day oversight, so there’s no need to keep records beyond Anders jotting down something like “Jen is in the cell overnight for Jen crap.” Case notes are only for ourselves. There are no trials. Dalton is judge, with us playing jury as needed, and our idea of court proceedings is having a beer on the back deck to discuss what to do with an offender.

  At first, I’d been horrified. This is not due process. But … well, if we are completely sure we have the right person, and they did what they are accused of, then I’ve realized I’m okay with skipping the formalities. As I discovered, in Rockton, we are always sure. The old Mountie motto has never held truer: We always get our man … or woman. It’s too small a community to steal something, assault someone, or break any law without leaving proof or witnesses.

  That night, my paperwork is just jotting notes in the logbook for the two complaints I followed up on. I’m finishing when night-chilled hands slide around my waist, and I jump as Dalton lifts me from my chair. I twist in his grip, and before I can give him shit, he kisses me, deep and hungry, backing me onto the desk and easing between my knees.

  When he breaks the kiss, he nuzzles my neck with, “Missed you.”

  “I see that. Long day?”

  “Very long.”

  I try not to tense. “And unproductive?”

  “Nope. Very productive, which is why I return to you in a very good mood.”

  I wrap my legs around him, pulling him closer. “I see that. Also feel it.”

  He chuckles. “I return bearing excellent news, which is going to make you very happy and that makes me very happy. Like returning with a stag over my shoulder. Only cleaner.”

  I wriggle closer, hands entwined at the back of his neck. “You found Jacob.”

  “I found Jacob, who told me exactly where we need to look. Also, you’re going to be an auntie.”

  I blink up at him. “What?”

  “Yep. April just told me she’s—” He sputters a laugh. “And I can’t even finish that sentence.”

  “So no baby?”

  “Yes, baby. No, April.”

  I pause. Then I gasp. “Nicole and Jacob?”

  Dalton nods.

  I let out a whoop and kiss him, only breaking away to say, “Is Nicole here? She needs to see April. She—”

  Dalton cuts me off with a kiss. “She’ll be here next week. They’re in a good hunting spot, and she feels fine. They’re already planning to spend the summer closer to Rockton, and they’ve agreed to overwinter here so they aren’t in the bush for the birth.”

  I kiss him again, pouring all my joy into that kiss and getting all his back. A year ago, this might not have been such cause for celebration. We’d have been happy for them, of course, but it would have brought up the question of babies for us—a difficult subject in light of my medical history. But now we can be genuinely, unabashedly thrilled at the prospect of a baby in our lives, having come to realize that it’s possible to love kids and not be ready to have one ourselves just yet.

  “So…” Dalton says, tracing his fingers down my cheek. “Make my day complete and tell me how the council congratulated us for our compassionate choice and careful handling of the situation.”

  He sees my expression and winces with, “Shit. Sorry,” and a quick hug. “I was kidding. While I’m sorry you had to deal with that shit, I’m not sorry I got to skip it, which is probably part of my good mood.”

  “They were pissy. I handled it. Phil did his part, too. He’s really stepping up.”

  “I want to say I’m glad, but part of me wonders if it might not be better if…” He shakes his head. “I’m overthinking it. I’m glad he’s stepped up, too. You can tell me all about it later. For now…” His lips lower to my ear. “I think Storm is really eager to get home.”

  I glance at the dog, who’d followed Dalton in and collapsed by the fire. Storm sees me looking, lifts one furry brow and sighs.

  “She really wants to go home,” Dalton says.

  “Or someone does.”

  “Someone who had a very good day.”

  “And wants a very good ending to it?”

  “Seems fitting, don’t you think?”

  I kiss his cheek and turn to Storm. “Come on, girl. Time to head out.”

  * * *

  We get to bed early, and even if it’s aw
hile before we actually sleep, it still counts as rest, and we’re up at dawn to head out. While Dalton grabs food, I pop into the clinic. Diana is on night duty and reports no change with Sophie. I pack an extra-large medical bag—we have no idea what we’ll find out there.

  We take the smaller ATV and my dirt bike. Storm happily lopes behind us. It’s a good thing she’s young and in excellent shape, because it’s a long run, which can be particularly hard on a large breed. We stop regularly to give her water and a rest. Normally, going so far on motorized transport, I’d have left her behind, but we’ll need her tracking nose once we’re there. After a couple of hours, the forest is too thick to continue with the vehicles, and we’re off and walking.

  We don’t need to go far on foot. Even before we find the spot, Storm whines and presses against my legs, nearly toppling me into the underbrush. When I bend, she gives an apologetic look, but only crowds closer, anxiety strumming through her.

  “Shit,” Dalton mutters.

  There is very little that scares our dog. Less than I would like, if I’m being honest. The only wolf she’s encountered tried to mate with her … and still occasionally sneaks around, a would-be suitor whose behavior borders on stalker but doesn’t quite cross the line. She has a wary respect for caribou and moose after catching a hoof in the ribs. Black bears confuse her, and she’s never seen a grizzly. Settlers get a happy bark if she knows them and wary caution if she doesn’t.

  There is only one situation where Storm reacts like this, seeking not protection but comfort. I crouch and hug her and assure her everything is fine, even if it’s not. Once she’s settled, I say “Wait?” with a questioning inflection. Her answer is the withering look of a police cadet who’s been given the option of staying outside a crime scene.

  Yes, she’s uncomfortable, but this is her job.

  As I rise, Dalton slips his hand into mine for a quick squeeze. I’m never really sure who is reassuring whom. Mutual comfort, I guess. Mutual understanding that this is never easy, and the moment it became easy, we’d need to take a long look inside ourselves and find the path back to the empathy we need to do the job right.

  Hoarse croaks lead us in. We arrive to see two ravens diving at a weasel, which zooms our way before spotting Storm and nearly backflipping as it races off in another direction. Storm glances toward the weasel and sighs, seeing a potential distraction she cannot accept.

  “I know,” I say as I pat her head.

  I take a deep breath … which is a mistake. I cough, Dalton thumping my back as I shake my head, face screwed up.

  He takes another step and then lunges, his sudden cry scattering the ravens. Storm happily accepts this distraction, joining him with a deep baying woof. The ravens are gone in a blink, and we are alone with the scene they’ve left behind.

  I see the campfire first. The remains of a long-dead fire, logs pulled over, a tent still standing. Like any other camp … until you see that the tent lists to one side, slashed fabric fluttering in the breeze.

  I walk to where the ravens had been, in a tangle of winter-bare brush behind the fire. From the brush protrudes what had once been a human arm. It’s the humerus only, the radius and ulna and hand having been taken by something larger than a raven.

  I start to take another deep breath before the smell reminds me why I don’t want to make that mistake again.

  Dalton is already at the edge of the clearing, looking my way. He isn’t hesitating to get closer. As the child of doctors, I was raised to have an iron stomach, yet he far surpasses my comfort with internal views of the human body. He grew up hunting and butchering, and to him, what lies in the brush is nothing more than human remains. The person who once inhabited those remains is long gone. Dalton will be respectful, but “squeamish” isn’t part of his vocabulary. He waits because I’m the homicide detective and this is a murder.

  I walk to him and survey the rest of the scene. Initial assessment: at least two adult human bodies in advanced stages of predation. I see two heads, both attached to torsos, and a minimum of two separated limbs. That’s the way my brain assesses. “Separated limbs.” It’s a cold and clinical wording, as if these are mannequins. The alternative is to see at least two horribly mutilated corpses and start thinking about what happened here, how much they suffered, whether their bodies will ever lie in graves that their loved ones can visit …

  Keep it cold and clinical. Watching my footing, I take three more steps. A third limb appears, attached to one of the torsos, the arm having been hidden by the thick brush. Before I can say a word, Dalton is handing me a sturdy branch, which I take and use to push through the brush, searching for more parts without moving from my spot.

  I clear my throat. “At least two victims. Both adult, between the ages of twenty and fifty. Both Caucasian with light hair. Eye color will be impossible to assess.”

  “Fucking ravens.”

  I nod and continue. “One torso has retained a partial leg and an arm which appears tucked under the body. The other has a partial humerus. There is an unattached humerus and an unattached femur. That appears to be the total— Oh, strike that. I see a partial foot over here.”

  “Two torsos, five limbs and a foot. So predators hauled off three complete limbs and several partials.”

  “If we presume two victims. Sophie was with three companions. We could have detached limbs from a missing torso.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Yep. Given the advanced state of predation, it’s not a simple matter of putting the pieces back together. We may need to resort to DNA.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Hopefully not. The problem right now is knowing whether we have the remains of three people to transport back to Rockton or the remains of two … plus a survivor in need of rescue.”

  NINE

  It’s two hours later, and I don’t have my primary answer. I have answers to other questions, but not that all-important one, and I am well aware that I might be fussing with dead bodies … while a survivor is dying somewhere in the forest. On the other hand, I could race off into the woods hunting for a survivor, only to later discover that I have the remains of three people here. Better to see what I can assess first.

  I definitely have two victims. One man and one woman. I’d been generous in my age estimates, but I’d peg them both close to Sophie’s age.

  All she told us about her group is that it’d been four people—two heterosexual couples. Am I looking at one couple? Or Sophie’s lover and Sophie’s female friend? Getting more information had been on my to-do list, but it’s really not important at this moment. It’s just the romantic in me who wants to believe this is the other couple, and Sophie’s partner is out there, alive, and I can return him to her when she wakes.

  I’m guessing all four are Danish or at least Scandinavian, and while there are certainly people of color in Denmark, all the body parts I have come from the stereotypical Scandinavian light-haired, light-skinned Caucasian. That makes body-part matching tougher.

  I attempt to separate limbs based on muscle mass and body-hair density. The torsos suggest that both were the same body type as Sophie—average height and lean-muscled. Even that is tough to judge when, well, the limbs are no longer whole.

  What I’m looking for is a male limb that doesn’t fit. One that’s too thin or too muscular to belong to the dead man before me. Perhaps one with a different color or density of body hair or a different skin tone. In the end, I can reasonably identify one humerus as belonging to the woman, judging by bone size, and the femur matches up with the dead man. That leaves a humerus that cannot belong to the woman … because she now has both of hers. I can’t tell if it belongs to the man. The foot, though? That’s definitely male, still encased in a hiking boot. The hair on it seems darker than the other dead man’s remaining limbs.

  Does this mean I’m holding the foot of the missing man? I imagine taking it back to town for Sophie and having her fly into a flurry of excitement, certain it means her lover is out there
somewhere, only missing a foot. No, sadly, he is not, and I hope I don’t need to delve into the gruesome realities of that foot and the torn flesh and the gnawed bone, all of which leave zero doubt of what happened to the second man.

  No, I’m sorry. The wild men of the forest did not hack off his foot before he escaped. No, he did not hack off his own foot to escape. This is scavenging. A predator found his body and chewed on his leg, and when they hauled him away, this was left behind.

  No one needs that much detail on a loved one’s final moments, even if I can assure Sophie that he was dead when it happened. Also, the fact that I don’t have a body means I can’t assure her of anything. I would lie, of course, but if Sophie is a smart woman, she’ll figure it out and spend a lifetime imagining her lover’s final moments as a grizzly ripped into his living body.

  It might not be her lover.

  It might not even be the second man’s foot.

  Even if this isn’t his foot, judging by the remains, the degree of decomposition tells me the attack happened at least three days ago. Sophie was extremely lucky to survive. The missing man—even if he has both feet intact—probably wasn’t as lucky. If he was, he’d have been with her, right? They’d have fled together or found each other afterward. Still, we will search, just in case.

  As for what else the bodies tell us, the short answer is “nothing new.” I’m hoping to get more from the autopsy, but at this point, I see evidence of stabbing on both torsos. While that isn’t easy to determine, given the degree of predation, there are stab wounds through the man’s back, preserved because he fell onto them, leaving the scavengers to work on his chest instead. As for the woman, her throat has been slit. Yes, ripping out the throat is a common method of killing prey, but there’s a huge difference between ripping and slitting, and I don’t need an autopsy to see the clean edges on the wound.

  Two tourists, murdered by what seems to be hostiles. I hate jumping to that conclusion, but from what Sophie said, I can’t imagine she mistook “settlers in desperate need of a shower” for wild men of the forest.