A Stranger in Town

by Kelley Armstrong

  Her blue eyes flash. She doesn’t like that. But she only says, “I want more coffee, and I want condoms. Owen says Rockton has lots of both. I also want money. Five hundred dollars before my next trip to Dawson.”

  “Two pounds of coffee. Two hundred and fifty dollars. And as many condoms as you two need to keep from reproducing.”

  She snickers at that. “Funny girl. You’re going to regret that offer, though. We need a lot.”

  “We get them by the caseload.”

  “Five pounds of coffee. Three hundred and fifty dollars. If you see what I have and you can convince me it’s not worth that, I’ll reopen negotiations. But I don’t think you’re going to be able to do that.”

  “Then we have a deal.”

  TWELVE

  Cherise won’t tell me what she has. She needs to show me. Which means more time spent in their company, but it’s quicker to endure than to argue. First, though, we need to return to our camp and dismantle it. We manage to talk Cherise into meeting us partway to her “spot,” so we don’t leave the ATV and dirt bike behind. We break camp quickly and ride the vehicles to the rendezvous spot where the couple are already waiting.

  When Owen eyes my dirt bike, Cherise says, “No.”

  He glances over.

  “First, you’re too big for that. It’s a child’s toy. Fortunately for Casey, she’s child-size.”

  I could point out that I’m not abnormally small for an adult woman—just small compared to her. That would make Cherise think she’d found a sore point, though, so I keep quiet.

  “Two,” she continues, “it runs on gas. Not air. Not wood. Not water. Not anything we have in abundance.”

  She motions for us to follow her into the woods. She’s carrying one of the rifles and nothing more. Owen gets the pack. He doesn’t complain. As Cherise said, he’s a simple man—food, shelter, and sex, and he’s good, especially if he doesn’t need to bother with the logistics of attaining any of that.

  Behind their backs, I motion from my pack to Dalton and lift my brows. He hooks a thumb at Storm, offering her services instead. I laugh under my breath and shake my head. I wouldn’t want a guy who uncomplainingly carries my backpack when I’m perfectly capable of doing it myself. No more than I’d want one who insisted on carrying it to be chivalrous.

  As we walk, we talk. Or Cherise and I do, while Dalton eyes Owen as one would a rabid wolf. I swear Dalton growls under his breath every time Owen gets within three feet of me.

  In that conversation with Cherise, I learn that they didn’t just happen to come across us yesterday. They’d been keeping an eye out, and hearing us yesterday, they’d abandoned the hunt in favor of more profitable prey.

  They had something to show us, and it wouldn’t keep forever. They knew better than to stop by Rockton, though. We’ve set the town off-limits, with the warning that Owen was still wanted for crimes there. A good excuse for not letting them in, where they might be able to woo residents with the promise of goods we tightly regulate—booze, cigarettes, and, of course, sex.

  Cherise leads us to a mountainside. We hike up it about a hundred feet, and then she motions to Owen, who drops his pack and rolls back a rock over a small cave entrance. It reminds me of going to Easter services with a friend in elementary school, when I’d been transfixed by a painting of disciples rolling back the rock that sealed a crypt. When the smell of decomposition hits, I think it’s triggered by that memory. Then Dalton scrunches his nose and turns to Cherise.

  “What’ve you got in there?” he says.

  “A gift.”

  “Well, we’re not going in after it.”

  “Didn’t say you had to. That service is included in the price.”

  Another wave at Owen. No “please.” No imperious wave either. She isn’t haughtily commanding him to do her bidding. She just expects it … and he obeys with neither grumbling hesitation nor groveling obsequence. Maybe this was what the old marriage vows meant: your husband expected obedience, and you delivered without resentment. I can’t imagine being either party in that arrangement.

  Owen has to drop to all fours to enter, and even then, his grunts tell me how tight the passage must be. A moment later, he backs out, boots first, pulling a long, wrapped cylinder after him, and that Sunday-school image flashes again.

  Before I can comment, Owen crawls back inside.

  Two more bodies follow. Three crudely wrapped corpses, the stink of decomposition still seeping out. The wrappings are partly cured skins. Rejects, from the looks of them—too damaged to make proper trade goods.

  I bend to one knee beside a corpse. Gently, I peel back the wrap. The skin sticks a little, and I stop as soon as I can see the face. Male. Heavily bearded. A scar on one cheek, poorly healed, but it’s not ritual scarring. The hair is roughly cut, longer than usual and not exactly clean, but showing no sign of matting.

  “Too early in the year for miners and trappers,” I murmur. “Settlers, then?”

  I glance at the other two bodies. One is definitely female, the other taller but slighter, like an adolescent.

  I wince. “A family of settlers.”

  “If by settlers, you mean people formerly from Rockton or descended from them, then no,” Cherise says. “They came as trappers a couple of years back. Man, woman, boy.” She glances at Owen, who supplies, “Teenager,” and she nods.

  “Teenager. They came as trappers and stayed. Built a cabin maybe…” Another glance at Owen.

  “Ten miles,” he says.

  “Ten miles that way.” She points west. “They didn’t usually come this far, but the weather’s been good.”

  “Cabin fever, probably,” Owen says. “Long winter, early spring.”

  “We saw them last week and traded. They had skins. Not those ones.” Cherise pauses. “Well, yes, they had those, but they were trash. We only took the good ones. Still ended up with those.” She rolls her eyes. “Missy.”

  “Your youngest sister.” I nod. “She’s a good seamstress. She must have figured she could do something with them.”

  “No, she just wanted a romp with the boy but knows we don’t give that for free.” Another eye roll.

  Missy had taken the damaged skins as “payment” so she could have some fun with a boy her age … a boy who now lies at my feet, wrapped in those same skins as a death shroud.

  “Was there … a problem with that?” I say carefully. “An argument over it?”

  Cherise’s brows knit. Then she looks at the bodies and back at me and laughs. “You think we killed them because my little sister wanted sex? We aren’t savages. I told Missy if he goes around telling other people how cheaply he got her, I’ll tan her backside, but otherwise…”

  She shrugs. “Missy wants a man. This boy would grow into one soon enough, and he’d be a good choice. In the meantime, I wouldn’t begrudge her some fun. That took place last week. We found them like this three days ago. Owen said you’d want the bodies, and you’d want them in the best condition possible. So we wrapped them and put them in here, and then we were keeping an eye out for you.”

  I turn to Owen. “Why did you think we’d want them?” Even as I ask, I know the answer. I just hope I’m wrong.

  “I said you’d want them because of how they died. They were attacked.”

  “By wild men,” Cherise says. “Attacked in their camp, just like those tourists.”

  * * *

  We’re leading Storm through the forest as she pulls a makeshift stretcher with the three bodies roped onto it. While she can smell death, she seems to accept that she is performing a necessary task.

  We left Cherise and Owen once I got all the pertinent information from them. While the cop in me says they tampered with a crime scene, the realist acknowledges that, given the state of the other crime scene—and the bodies—I’m grateful for their interference.

  They found the corpses on a chilly morning, when the scavengers had yet to do more than nibble. The fire had still been smoldering, suggesting th
e family died during the night, which gives me a rough time of death. By wrapping the corpses and placing them in a sealed cave, Cherise and Owen provided me with three relatively intact bodies.

  They earned their pay on this one. As for the crime scene, I’m not sure there’s much point in visiting it. Cherise and Owen already stripped it of goods. As callous as that seems, the alternative would be animals ripping it apart or other settlers hauling off the usable items. Cherise described what they found, and that’ll be enough.

  As for what happened to this family and what it portends …

  “No,” Dalton says as we reach the ATV and dirt bike.

  “No…”

  “No to what you’re thinking.”

  “And tell me, O Psychic One, what am I thinking?”

  “That this is our fault.” He pauses as he unhooks the ropes from Storm’s harness. “Nah, you aren’t thinking that. You’re thinking it’s your fault. Ours—Rockton’s—but mostly yours.”

  “Isn’t it?” I watch as he hooks the stretcher up behind his ATV. “Everyone says we riled up the hostiles, and we can bristle at that, but we kinda did. And the reason we riled them up? Because I started getting curious. Wanting to know more about them. Wanting to solve a mystery I was not hired to solve.”

  “Stop taking all the damned credit. If they got riled up, it’s because of what Cherise said. We killed their leader … who’d been about to kill us. Are you saying I should have let them kill me to avoid this mess?”

  “Of course not. Yes, that was unavoidable, but it’s the fallout that’s the real problem.”

  “So when we found Maryanne after that, we should have ignored her? Better yet, tied her up and delivered her back to them?”

  I sigh and check the bindings on the bodies.

  “I’m exaggerating,” he continues, “but I’m also making a point you can’t argue. We didn’t have a choice. Not if we’re human. And, when you stop fretting about it, you’ll do the math and realize this might not have shit to do with us. It’s been a year. You think they’ve been stewing all this time and suddenly decided to start slaughtering tourists and settlers?”

  “Something set them off recently, and that wouldn’t be us.”

  “Exactly.” He tightens the strap. “Now, unfortunately, you have three more murders to solve.”

  * * *

  At the clinic, I help unwrap the bodies and find fatal wounds in all three—one slit throat and two chest stabs. There are more wounds, too. Brutal ones. With the other bodies, we’d ascribed damage to predation, but I’m no longer sure we didn’t jump to a false conclusion there. Yes, serious predation had occurred, but it could have been nonfatal injuries that the scavengers had used as entry points to feeding.

  Without this new information, we’d have reassured Sophie that her companions died quickly. Now I’m not so sure.

  On these bodies I see frenzied rage of exactly the sort others have described in hostile attacks. I also see a family. I’m not sure what their story was. Cherise only knew they’d come up from Whitehorse to trap two summers ago and decided to stay.

  I wondered what their son thought of that. He looks about sixteen. Had he happily embarked on this great adventure? Or resented his parents for pulling him away from a normal life? What had he thought of Missy? A bit of fun, sex between a couple of hormonal teens? Or had he seen in her the possibility of a partner?

  And this is why April makes me leave the autopsy. I cannot afford those melancholy thoughts, and yet in my state of exhaustion, they seep in like ghosts. I’m sad and frustrated and overwhelmed.

  My brain and my soul need a break, and so, once I’ve done my preliminary examination of the bodies, Anders volunteers to assist in my place, and before I can more than squeak a protest, I’m outside, with Dalton’s hand between my shoulder-blades, steering me into town.

  “Am I being sentenced to an afternoon nap?” I ask.

  “Would you sleep? Or make notes?” He doesn’t even wait for an answer. “I’ve got a couple hours of work. By then, April will be done, and you’ll have her report, which we can go over at dinner.”

  I smile. “You might be the only person I know who’d suggest reading an autopsy report as dinner entertainment.”

  “Yeah, not exactly a break from work, is it?”

  “For future reference, Eric, to most people, the problem wouldn’t be working through dinner. It’s reading that over dinner. My stomach can handle it, though, so we’ll do that, and I’ll take a break now instead. I have a few outstanding issues to follow up on—”

  “Your definition of taking a break is as shitty as my definition of suitable mealtime conversation.” His fingertips press into my back, that steering hand turning me left. “As your boss, I’m prescribing this instead.”

  I glance up to see we’ve stopped outside the Roc.

  Dalton says, “Earlier April wanted a drink. She can’t do that right now, but I’m going to suggest you have one for her. This is what they call ‘cocktail hour’ down south, isn’t it?”

  “Not quite. Also, the bar doesn’t open until five o’clock, and even if you have the key, I’m not drinking alone.”

  “You won’t be. Isabel’s doing inventory.”

  “She’s not going to want—”

  He shoves open the door and leans in to bellow, “Iz? Casey needs a drink.”

  A shadowy figure leans out from the back. “Oh, so I’m playing bartender now?”

  Dalton nudges me inside before I can protest. The door shuts, and I’m immersed in cool darkness, lighting only as my eyes adjust to the candles on the bar. The shutters are pulled, both to keep out the strong sunlight and to warn off anyone who might consider sneaking into the Roc for their own private happy hour.

  I walk to Isabel, standing beside the bar. She wears an apron over a stylish sundress, her hair piled on her head, dust streaking one cheek.

  As she reaches for a glass, I say, “You don’t need to serve me a drink. I can get my own if I want one, and I don’t. Eric’s just fussing. I’m happy to help with inventory.”

  “Sit.” She pours something from a condensation-stippled jug and then adds a deft shot of vodka. “You can help by sampling my new cocktail. Blackberry-infused vodka with lemonade.” She puts the jug back into a basin and flips two ice cubes into the drink. “Those will cost extra.”

  “Naturally.” I take a sip. “Nice. Very refreshing. Is this what I’ll actually get if I order it? Or will the official version be a little lighter on the vodka and heavier on the lemonade?”

  “It’s getting warm out, and alcohol dehydrates.”

  I settle onto a barstool. “You know, you look good back there, Iz. No need to hire a new bartender. You can just do the job yourself.”

  She extends a middle finger as she rearranges the bottles.

  “Why not?” I say. “You were a shrink. You’re used to having people tell you their problems.”

  “I got paid for it.”

  “So? Make a new policy. Telling the bartender your woes is free. Getting advice, though? That’ll cost you.”

  She snorts and starts wiping the counter. “Obviously you haven’t ever been to therapy, Casey, or you’d know that’d be the worst moneymaking scheme ever. Most people don’t need advice. They just need someone who’ll listen to them.”

  “I actually have had therapy.” I sip my spiked lemonade. “And you are one-hundred percent correct. I wanted someone to listen to me talk.”

  “Listen to you confess, more like,” she says, slanting a look my way.

  “True enough. Now I have Eric for that. Problem is, he also gives advice. So much advice.”

  She chuckles. “Our sheriff is quite certain he knows what everyone needs. Sometimes he’s even correct. As in this case. I need a bartender, and I am ready to hire one.”

  “Mmm, pretty sure you’ve been hiring them. And firing them. And hiring more.”

  “Well, I’m ready to hire a proper one now.”

  I nod and
say nothing as she pours herself a lemonade even stiffer than mine. Isabel hasn’t had a real bartender since Mick died, eighteen months ago. Mick, former cop, expert bartender … and Isabel’s lover.

  When her glass is full, I clink mine to hers.

  “Guess it’s working out with Phil, huh?” I say as we toast.

  She flinches, just a little. I consider, and then sip my drink, saying as casually as I can, “Should we switch spots? Let me play bartender while you talk?”

  I expect an eye roll. Instead, she says, “Have you ever been in a relationship that scared you, Casey?”

  I tense.

  She shakes her head. “Not like that. I had a man lift a hand to me once, and I showed him the door.” She takes a drink. “A strategy that always works so much better in our heads. And in advice columns. He didn’t go quietly. Once he was gone, he didn’t stay gone. Old story. Women can say they won’t put up with that shit, but that presumes the men listen. Most don’t. Phil, however, is not remotely a problem in that way. The issue is…”

  She sets down her glass. “I almost screwed up the other night, Casey. The new guy. The one who just arrived. James?”

  “Jay.”

  “See? I don’t even know his name, but when he flirted with me, there was a moment where I considered taking him home for the night. I certainly flirted back long enough to give him hope.”

  “Are you and Phil exclusive?”

  “It hasn’t come up, but it’s clear that Phil considers it so, and unless I’ve said otherwise, that would be a poor excuse. The unforgivable part is that before Phil, I wouldn’t have flirted with James. He isn’t my type.”

  I start to ask why she did, then I remember what she said. “Ah, when you asked about relationships that scared me, you meant emotionally. You flirted back with Jay to convince yourself you aren’t serious with Phil.”