A Stranger in Town

by Kelley Armstrong

  Giving Owen money to buy a knife wasn’t a sop to shut him up about the gun. It was, in its way, an apology. I cannot let you have that thing you want, so I will give you a different thing instead.

  I think of the kind of life Cherise has led, where paper and pencils are luxuries she cannot afford. No, she can afford them—the family is wealthy, in settler terms—but she cannot justify the expense, however small, for something as frivolous as a hobby.

  “It’s a cheap pad of paper and a pencil,” I say. “Five bucks, tops. I’ll take it out of what I owe you.”

  He shakes his head. “Take the twenty and bring more. She’ll need a sharpener, too.”

  This time, when Cherise starts to protest, I accept the money and hold out the sketch, saying, “Is this to scale?” I pause. “Are the distances—”

  “I know what ‘to scale’ means. I can read a map. It’s not perfect, but it’s proportionally correct.” She looks at me. “Would you like me to define ‘proportionally’?”

  “No, thanks.” I look at Owen. “Did you move anything before Cherise arrived?”

  “Hell, no. There were three hacked-up people on the ground. You think I wanted her walking over to see my hands covered in blood?”

  “So they were lying just like this?” I show him the sketch. “Around the fire?”

  “Yep. Like I said, looked as if they’d been attacked during their dinner. Coals were still hot.”

  He’s wrong. Not lying, just not playing through the scenario enough to understand that his conclusion is inaccurate. Dalton glances at the sketch and grunts, telling me he sees the problem. Not so much a problem, really, as confirmation of our original theory.

  Owen says they were attacked over dinner. Technically correct, but he means someone set on them with a knife while they ate. If that happened, at least one would have had time to rise and fight, moving the action—and their corpses—away from the fire.

  The placement of the bodies means all three were shot quickly, not giving the victims time to do more than rise from their seat on seeing their loved one fall.

  “Tell me about the blood,” I say.

  Cherise’s brows shoot up, but Owen nods.

  “You mean the blood patterns.” He looks at Cherise. “Cops can tell how people were killed by the way the blood falls.” He looks back at me. “There was a lot of blood, but they must not have fought very hard, because it was all under them, soaked into the ground. It wasn’t, like, dripping from the trees or anything.”

  “Did you notice any blood spatter?”

  “‘Spatter,’ that’s the word. No, their stuff was clean. It must have happened fast.”

  Again, Owen’s mistaken here. Blood doesn’t spatter because people fight. It can, but most of it would be arterial spray. The family fell from the gunshots and were stabbed where they lay.

  If Cherise and Owen caused the damage themselves after they found the bodies, they’d have noticed a lack of blood flow. Rather like butchering after the blood has settled. Without a crime scene—and no way to contest their story—they’d make up something consistent with what you’d expect in a frenzied attack, with blood dripping from trees, as Owen said.

  I ask more questions, poking their story from every angle. Owen happily answers. This is all very interesting to him. Cherise is mildly intrigued and doesn’t complain when I backtrack over old ground. Their story has just enough consistency to give it the seal of truth. Sometimes they disagree. Sometimes they admit they aren’t sure. Not a rehearsed recital. An honest witness account.

  They didn’t shoot the settlers, because they don’t have a handgun. And they didn’t stab the bodies to trade as hostile kills, because if they had, they’d do a better job of selling it as a frenzied knife attack.

  They did exactly what they said. Found three bodies that they presume were killed by hostiles, wrapped them up, and stored them for us. Nothing more.

  EIGHTEEN

  Dalton, Storm, and I are heading back to Rockton. Am I relieved Cherise and Owen aren’t the perpetrators? The last thing we need is to have to confront Cherise with murder. But if they’d been guilty of staging the hostile attack on otherwise dead settlers? It would mean I could never trust them again, but I’m already uncomfortable with them. Maybe I’d have appreciated the excuse. I do feel as if we need an excuse.

  It’s like when I’d been on the force, my first partner retiring, and it looked like I’d be set up with a guy I knew was dirty. I absolutely did not want that. Yet what could I do? Make vague excuses about his racism and sexism, which were, let’s be honest, only garden-variety? I’d breathed a huge sigh of relief when he was paired up with someone else. Likewise, I think I’d have been happy to discover Cherise and Owen did the damage, giving me an excuse not to work with them.

  The problem with that, though, is that they did me a favor here. Okay, so maybe “dumping more dead bodies at my feet” doesn’t seem like a favor, but it is something we needed to know about. They preserved the bodies and, sure, they sold them to us, but it proved they could be the sort of eyes and ears Rockton needs in the forest.

  I’ll cross them off our suspect list and not think too much on whether I’m disappointed by that. It does put us back to the original question. Well, beyond “Who the hell did this?” The question of whether we’re looking at one situation or two. Did someone shoot the settlers and then stage a hostile attack? Or one party did the shooting and another did the staging? Without the crime scene, I can only go by Owen and Cherise’s account, which suggests enough blood that the two events happened in a tight time frame. Murder and then staging. Most likely by the same people.

  Yep, that gets me pretty much nowhere.

  When Dalton changes the subject, I don’t think much of it. We’ve talked this one to death—last night, on the walk out, on the walk back …

  Then Storm makes a noise, and he pats her head. I figure it’s an animal—caribou or moose—and he’s thanking her for the warning. Mid-conversation, he says, “Hello, Felicity. If you’ve come to take us to Edwin, you can turn around right now. Casey isn’t in the mood for a fucking summons.”

  “This isn’t a summons, Eric,” a voice says. A voice that is not Felicity’s, though when I glance over, I do see her standing just off the path.

  “Oh for fuck’s sake,” Dalton mutters.

  “You know, Eric, if you used less profanity, people might have a higher opinion of your intelligence.”

  “Why the fuck would I want that?” Dalton stops in front of Edwin, towering over the old man by nearly a foot. “Now turn your wrinkly ass around and toddle back to your settlement.”

  “My, my, you are in a mood. You usually manage a veneer of respect.”

  “Yeah, I did, before you started haranguing my detective, kicking her ass like she’s sitting on it, twiddling her thumbs. Now your granddaughter here has told you about the woman we found, and you gave us a few days to swing by and talk to you. When we didn’t—because we’re too fucking busy solving the problem—you came to hassle Casey in person.”

  I lay a hand on Dalton’s arm. “It’s okay. I’m happy to talk to him. Saves me a trip.”

  Dalton’s brows rise only a fraction before he catches my expression and nods with a gruff “Fine, but he’d better not make this a habit.” He turns to Edwin. “You ever show up again unannounced, and your granddaughter won’t be welcomed back.”

  Felicity stiffens. That’s not fair, but the message is for Edwin. This isn’t like an Amish community, where a youngster slipping off to hang out with the English may be cause for concern. Edwin knows she isn’t enviously eyeing our lifestyle. She’s forming a valuable relationship that benefits the entire First Settlement. A relationship he wouldn’t want to jeopardize.

  That doesn’t mean Edwin appreciates the threat, and his gaze hardens as he says, “Understood,” and then turns to me and says, “May we speak somewhere private?” in Mandarin. That makes Dalton’s lips twitch in amusement. It’s an obvious brush-off, c
lumsily done, which proves Dalton’s annoyance hit its mark. Edwin knows he’s overstepped by showing up. Good.

  We’ve only gotten a few steps when Kenny appears on the path ahead. Despite the leg braces, he moves steadily, but I don’t fail to notice the way Edwin’s gaze sweeps over him, landing on the rifle under Kenny’s arm.

  “Your militia, I presume?” Edwin murmurs. “The situation has indeed declined.”

  “Grandfather,” Felicity says under her breath. It’s a warning. Telling him he’s embarrassing. I have to smile slightly when his face tightens at the rebuke. Felicity may act the dutiful granddaughter, but she knows how to herd him, just a little.

  “Everything okay?” Kenny says, nodding at the newcomers. “I saw them out here an hour ago, and we’ve been keeping watch. I know Felicity is allowed in, but I’ve never seen him.”

  “It’s fine,” I say. “Thank you.”

  Despite Edwin’s sarcasm, this is the militia Rockton needs. Someone who recognized that the two people hovering on our outskirts did not pose a threat and therefore did not need to be confronted.

  “Kenny?” I say. “I’m going to take Edwin and Felicity to the station. Could you ask Phil to join us? And Petra’s roommate, please?”

  At that Dalton nods, his eyes glinting. He wondered why I’d let Edwin off so easily. Now he has his answer.

  “I’ll stop by Petra’s,” Dalton says. “Kenny, you can grab Phil.”

  They head off together down another path as Storm and I lead Felicity and Edwin into town.

  * * *

  One advantage to the rapid turnover in Rockton is that most people don’t notice when the status quo changes. If we started allowing more picnics and hikes, they’d presume there’d been a reason why we hadn’t during their first year. It also means we can walk into town with a stranger and people only glance over in curiosity. As the only witness to twenty years of town history, Dalton tells me he can count on one hand the number of times a stranger passed the town borders. It’s not exactly a regular stream now, but people do come, and the council isn’t saying much about it, so we see no reason to sneak Edwin in the back door.

  People have seen Felicity before, and so they only glance over with nods, their gazes resting on Edwin, thinking perhaps that if not for his clothing, he would no more match their idea of a forest dweller than she does. He’s small but straight-backed and still strong, a gray-haired second-generation Chinese-Canadian who’d been a lawyer before coming to Rockton.

  I don’t know Edwin’s exact history with the First Settlement. There are no records from that time—Rockton has always been cagey about its backstory. Edwin is cagier still—if I asked how he came to the First Settlement, he’d wonder what I hoped to gain from the information and, with the lack of records, how he could tailor his story to suit.

  I know he’s been in the First Settlement since near its inception. I’ve heard a couple of variations on the story, the prevailing one being that he founded it, though Dalton’s grumbled that it seems more likely Edwin slid in and took over after the hard work was done.

  With Émilie’s arrival, I have a way to get the truth. If Dalton is the witness to Rockton’s recent past, she is the archives. Of course, I could just ask her about Edwin. I have a feeling, though, that this will be much more interesting.

  I take Edwin and Felicity to the police station and start coffee. As I make it, I tell him what happened to the tourists. I don’t see any point in dissembling. The information I wish to temporarily withhold is the death of the settlers. Obviously, I don’t care to give him more ammunition for his “riling up the hostiles” rhetoric, but more than that, well, someone staged their deaths to look like hostiles did it. That someone had a reason, and I suspect it was less about hiding murder than about laying a crime at the feet of the hostiles.

  Look at these savages. They’re running wild, slaughtering hunters and tourists and settlers. Someone needs to do something about them.

  Who’s bellowing that demand the loudest? The old man sitting in our police station. He has the most reason to stage a hostile attack. Stack a few more logs on the fire he’s already set blazing under our asses.

  I hold out a cup of coffee. Edwin only looks at it disdainfully.

  “I do not drink that,” he says.

  Felicity reaches for the mug, but Edwin’s hand shoots out to block her reach. “Neither does she.”

  She reaches past him and takes it.

  “Do you prefer tea, Edwin?” I say. “I have a special blend here we got from the Second Settlement.”

  His eyes narrow. “Is that your idea of a joke, Casey?”

  I shrug. “I just thought you could use a cup. I hear it’s very relaxing.”

  “Humor does not become you. For a woman, jests mean you will not be taken seriously.”

  “Or it means I’ll be underestimated,” I say as I settle in with my coffee. “I can tell a few jokes if you like. Perhaps the one about the old lawyer who walks into an armed camp confident he has the upper hand.”

  “You’re in far too fine a mood today,” Edwin grumbles. “That, too, is unbecoming. It tells others they can take advantage of you.”

  “Nah, it just means that I am, at heart, a nasty bitch who takes far too much pleasure in the discomfort of those who’ve pissed her off.”

  “If I seem uncomfortable to you, then I might suggest—”

  The door swings open, and in walks Émilie. Her gaze goes first to Felicity, eyebrows knitting in only the briefest flash of confusion before she smiles and gives a queenly nod. Then she turns to Edwin. She stops, and I hold my breath.

  “Sheriff Dalton?” Émilie says, her voice ice. “Please remove this man from Rockton. He is contravening the terms of his banishment.”

  NINETEEN

  “Banishment?” My brows shoot up in mock horror. “You never told us you were banished, Edwin. Well, this is awkward.”

  His look warns that I have lost ground here. I meet it with a level stare that tells him he already lost that ground when he decided to treat us like incompetent children. I have a feeling that’s the way he’s accustomed to treating law enforcement. Some lawyers are. Some people are.

  Yes, we’re public servants, but that doesn’t mean you can insult and pester us to the point of interfering with the job your taxes pay us to do. Also? Edwin isn’t paying taxes. We aren’t his law enforcement team to kick around.

  “Be careful on your way home, Edwin,” I say. “It’s windy today. I remember when I was a kid and a windstorm blew down a huge tree in our backyard. It fell partly into the neighbor’s yard. Dad hired a company to clean it up, but they were busy after the windstorm. The neighbor wouldn’t stop pestering, so my dad hired another company, at a higher price, and sent the neighbor a bill for the difference.”

  Felicity frowns, wondering why I’m telling this story. Then she realizes and pulls back with a nod. Edwin gets it right away and only sniffs, “Did your parents take an ax to the tree before it fell?”

  “No,” I say. “But it had been leaning precariously. They were trying to figure out a way to remove it safely. One could argue they waited too long, but when they discussed the matter with the neighbors, they offered no help. Just told us that, however we handled it, the tree better not fall on their side of the fence.”

  “As charming as this analogy is, Casey, I don’t believe it actually fits our situation.”

  “Mmm, no. I believe it does. You’ve never offered to help us deal with the hostiles, Edwin. They aren’t a new threat. We’ve been trying to figure this out, and you just sit there and warn us they’d better not attack your people. Which they never did before we ‘set them off’ by refusing to let them murder us, right?”

  I lean forward. “Tell me that you’ve never lost people to the hostiles before.”

  “I am here to help,” Edwin says through his teeth.

  “Yes,” Émilie says. “I believe we’ve heard that one before. Shall we tell them why you were banished, Edwi
n?”

  Dalton turns on her. “Are you sure, Émilie? Maybe you should wait. It’s not like we need this information. Not like the council wasn’t very aware that we were in communication with Edwin and didn’t bother to mention that he had been banished.”

  Dalton walks to his desk. “You can both leave. Felicity? If your grandfather had something to tell us, you’re welcome to stay behind and speak for him. But Casey and I have work to do, figuring out what the fuck is happening in the forest, and what to do about it to keep our residents safe.” He meets Edwin’s gaze. “Our residents. They’re the ones who pay our wages. You’re just the old man who sits on his porch banging his cane.”

  “What’s going on here?” asks a voice from the door. Phil enters carefully, his gaze sweeping those assembled. Kenny wisely lifts a hand in farewell and retreats.

  “Edwin and Émilie would like to speak to you, Phil,” I say. “While you do that, we’ll be at the clinic, talking to April.”

  “Casey,” Émilie says. “I understand you and Eric are both upset at being caught in the middle—”

  “‘Upset’ isn’t the word,” I say.

  “Fucking fed up with everyone’s fucking bullshit,” Dalton says.

  “I feel as if I’ve missed something,” Phil murmurs.

  I turn to him. “Did you know that Edwin was banished from Rockton? That he was forbidden to set foot in it again?”

  “No, but I’m sure…” His gaze travels across us, and he clears his throat. “I was about to say that I’m sure, whatever his crime, the council now considers him harmless, or they would not allow you to have contact with him. I will, however, amend that to the sincere hope that whatever he’s done is moot, given that they have allowed communication.”

  No one answers … which is an answer in itself.

  Dalton growls under his breath, and when a voice says, “Sedition,” everyone is caught off guard, turning toward the last person in the room we expect to speak.