Watcher in the Woods: A Rockton Novel

by Kelley Armstrong

  “Lowered.”

  “Holstered.”

  He doesn’t argue. So he has a holster, which means he’s accustomed to carrying a gun. In Canada that suggests he stands on one side of the law or the other. I’m not sure which side would be more troubling.

  “Yours goes in the holster first,” he says. “I’ll follow.”

  “Not a problem.”

  Diana snorts at that. It’s a little ragged, but she meets my gaze with a smirk. She knows how fast I can draw my weapon. She also believes I won’t hesitate to pull the trigger. She’s been my friend since I did exactly that, once upon a time. Pulled the trigger and changed my life. Ruined my life, but I don’t think Diana ever fully understood that.

  I do the countdown from three, and we lower our guns together. Mine goes into my holster, but my fingers linger on it until the man lifts his empty right hand. Then that hand grabs Diana’s upper arm. She jumps and starts to twist.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “He’s going to bring you over here. You two will sit on the couch. I’ll take the chair. We’ll talk.”

  “First, lock the front door,” he says.

  “That’s a bad—” Diana begins.

  “It’s fine,” I say.

  I walk to the door and turn the lock. He makes me pull on it, proving I’ve done as he asked. Then we head into the living room. He waits until I sit before he prods Diana to the sofa. As he lowers himself to it, I take a closer look at him in the moonlight.

  In size, he’s somewhere between Dalton and Anders. Formidable enough. He’s older than us, maybe early forties. Dark hair salted with gray. Brown skin. I won’t guess at the racial makeup—I get tired of people doing that with me.

  “You have someone here that I need,” he says.

  I don’t reply. To say a single word risks betraying Rockton.

  “I know what you have in this town,” he says. “You’re hiding criminals.”

  “You have been misinformed.”

  He meets my gaze. “I don’t think so.”

  “Look at the woman beside you,” I say. “Please tell me, what’s her crime?”

  His gaze flicks to Diana. “I have no idea.”

  “Mass murder possibly? She does look dangerous. I’d sit further away if I were you.”

  The corners of his mouth twitch, and his chin dips, acknowledging my point. Pink tips still linger on Diana’s blond hair. She’s cute in a pixie-girl way. Even her body language says she’s no violent criminal, as she struggles not to flinch.

  “Pretend she is ‘hiding’ as you say,” I continue. “Is it not more likely she’s hiding from someone?”

  “That’s none of his business,” she says, and she pulls her hands into her sleeves, looking smaller as her gaze drops to her lap.

  Ah, Diana. We might have a hellishly complicated relationship, but there are times when I remember why we used to be best friends. She understands what I’m doing, and she comes to my aid, playing the role of abused wife. It helps that she was abused, though, again, that was complicated, as everything is with Diana.

  She really is here hiding from a crime: conspiring with her abusive ex to steal a million bucks from her employer. But this guy’s never going to look at her and see a double-crossing schemer.

  “Theoretically,” I say, “what if people here were hiding . . . under our protection.”

  “Some might be,” he says. “Maybe even most. I’d suggest, though, that you may have residents who’ve come under false pretenses.”

  Buddy, you don’t know the half of it.

  “That would make it your word against theirs,” I say. “Maybe you can start by telling me who you are.”

  “I’m going to reach into my back pocket and take out my ID.”

  I tense. I know what that means. Even the way he says it—warning me that he’s about to reach for something—tells me what he is.

  “Left hand,” I say. “If it goes near your holster, I’ll draw,”

  “Fair enough.”

  He takes out a wallet and passes me a badge. U.S. Marshall’s Department. The branch of federal police who, among other things, chase down fugitives.

  He meets my gaze. “I saw you in the forest. I see the way you’ve handled yourself. The way you handle your gun. The way you’re handling this situation. I believe we’re on the same side.”

  “Whatever you’ve heard about our town—”

  “I’ve been told my target is here. That’s what matters.” He locks gazes with me. “Nothing else.”

  Just give me my fugitive, and let me leave. That’s what he’s saying. He’s also making it clear that he’s not walking away empty-handed, which is a helluva lot bigger problem when he’s holding a badge.

  “And your target is?” I say.

  “At this point, I’m not prepared to say. We will call my target Pat. I use the male pronoun for simplicity, but do not presume that to mean my target is male.”

  I open my mouth to say I obviously need to know who he’s here for, but he continues.

  “Pat told someone that he was going away. He apparently wasn’t supposed to say more, but this person is close to him, and he wanted her to know he’d be safe. He said he was going someplace where he was guaranteed safety. Hints from what he said reminded me of something I’d heard. Long story short, I found you. Your settlement.”

  “How—”

  “That’s all I’m saying. Don’t ask for more.”

  I need more. I’m sure that over the years more than one of our residents has broken the rules and reassured a loved one that they were going someplace safe, someplace off the grid, some secret town. But getting from that to Rockton itself involves much more, and we have to know where our vulnerabilities lie. That conversation can come later. It will come, though. It must.

  “So you found us and—” I begin.

  Footsteps sound on the step. Heavy boot falls, accompanied by the scratch of dog nails.

  The man’s head snaps up.

  “Yeah,” Diana says. “That’d be her boyfriend. The local sheriff, with their very big dog.” She points toward the rear of the house. “The back exit is that way.”

  Dalton tries the door.

  “I need to let him in,” I say. “Otherwise—”

  “Otherwise he’s ten seconds from knocking down that door,” Diana says.

  I stand. Dalton’s twisting the knob a second time, certain that he’s mistaken about it being locked. Then—

  His fist booms against the door. “Casey!”

  The guy on the couch rises, and his mouth opens, like he’s ready to tell me not to answer, but he can already see that’s not an option, and as I reach for the lock, he hesitates only a second before grabbing Diana’s arm.

  She lets out a yelp.

  “Case—!” Dalton begins . . . and I pull the door open.

  Storm lunges. I grab her before she makes this situation a whole lot worse. Then I stay in Dalton’s way, so he can’t see inside.

  “We have a visitor,” I say.

  “What the—?” He tries to shoulder past.

  “Eric, hold on a sec. I’m going to let you in.”

  “No,” the intruder says. “Please ask your sheriff to stay—”

  “Not happening,” I cut in, Dalton echoing my reply in far less polite language.

  “Eric?” I say again. “Hold on, please. He has Diana.”

  “Really?” Diana says. “Could you tell him it’s Nicki? Petra? Isabel? Someone he wouldn’t actually like to see dead?”

  Dalton aims a glower her way. I roll my eyes for him. He doesn’t want Diana dead. He just doesn’t like her very much . . . and the feeling is mutual.

  “The situation is under control,” I say. “I’d like you to put Storm in the kitchen, and then come back, sit down and join the conversation. Okay?”

  He nods. There isn’t a moment of hesitation. My speech is more for the guy on the couch. Diana has painted our sheriff as a hothead. A man our intruder might not want to mess wi
th. True, but Dalton’s also never going to shove me aside and roar in, guns blazing. He isn’t an idiot. Diana just prefers to think he is. Again, the feeling is mutual. Which is going to make this fun. Really.

  As Dalton passes the living room, he doesn’t fail to stop and give the guy a slow onceover. Taking his measure. Nodding, as if to say, Yeah, I can handle this. Then he continues on and locks Storm in the kitchen. She sighs, and the door thumps as she settles against it.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Dalton says as he strides into the living room.

  I pass him the man’s badge.

  “Mark Garcia,” Dalton says.

  “That’s not the important part,” the guy says.

  Dalton tosses the badge back at him. “It’s the important part for me. You’re a U.S. Marshal. Your jurisdiction?” He jerks his thumb west, toward Alaska. “It’s a long walk. I’d start now.”

  “I’d like to get through this without the posturing, Sheriff.”

  “I’m not posturing. Get the fuck out of my town.”

  Garcia opens his mouth.

  “Yeah, you’re going to remind me that I won’t want you going to the authorities. And I’ll say ‘go ahead.’ The Mounties have a station in Dawson. It’s only a two week walk. Watch out for the grizzlies. And the moose.”

  Garcia tries again and gets a single syllable out before Dalton says, “Next, you’re going to remind me that you come from this big American agency and can call down giant fucking helicopters on our heads. And I say, yeah, you’ve got a point. So hand over your satellite phone.”

  The guy laughs. “You’ve got balls, man. I’ll give you that much.”

  “I do. What I don’t have? A fucking gun to my head.”

  Garcia starts to smile. Then he follows Dalton’s gaze to me, standing beside the sofa, pointing my weapon.

  “Yeah,” Dalton says. “I’d suggest spending a little more time in our forest. Develop a proper sense of awareness for your surroundings.” He puts his hand out. “Phone.”

  Garcia’s gaze slide my way. “If she shoots me, she’ll also shoot her friend.”

  “Don’t think that’ll stop her,” Diana says. “I might have kinda earned it.”

  “The trajectory is wrong,” I say, “as you can see. Just give the sheriff your phone and your gun.”

  “Right,” Dalton says. “Forgot about his gun.”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  “You two are cute,” Garcia says. “And I really do admire your balls—both of you—but there is no way I’m handing over—”

  Diana attacks. I don’t see it coming. Even when it happens, I’m not quite sure what is happening at first. Garcia’s sitting there, holding her arm, his head turned to address us, and then she’s on him, scratching and kicking like an enraged kitten.

  Dalton and I recover from our surprise at the same time. I go to grab Garcia, but Dalton beats me to it, catching the front of the marshal’s shirt and hauling him from the sofa while Garcia is still fending off Diana.

  Garcia reaches for his gun—finally—but Dalton snatches it from the holster and tosses it aside. Then he has Garcia on the floor. The marshal tries to throw a punch . . . and I press my gun to his shoulder. That stops him faster than if I put it to his head.

  “Good idea,” Dalton says. “I wouldn’t call her bluff on that shot.”

  He pats the man down. He lets Garcia keep his wallet but takes a satellite phone from his jacket and a knife from his jeans.

  When Dalton straightens, I say, “He’s here for someone. He wants us to turn them over.”

  “Figured that. Wasn’t going to ask because I don’t actually give a fuck. Whatever he wants, he’s not getting it.” He pauses. “No, that isn’t right. He’s a fellow lawman. I gotta show some respect for the badge.”

  He marches into the kitchens and comes out with the backpack. He opens it, takes out the ammo and a knife, then tosses the bag at Garcia.

  “You want those directions again?” Dalton says. “Sun sets in the west.”

  “You’re—”

  “Making a mistake? Please don’t tell me those were the next words out of your mouth. I hear them all the time, and they don’t seem to mean what folks figure they do, because they’re never right. Same with ‘you’re going to regret this.’ A man reaches a point where he actually hopes he will regret it, just for a change of pace.”

  Garcia looks up at Dalton and shakes his head, a smile playing on his lips. “I like you, Sheriff. I get the feeling you and I could sit down with a beer and have a really good talk.”

  Dalton vanishes into the kitchen and comes back with a bottle. He sets it on the floor as Garcia sits up.

  “There’s your beer. Now give me your next line, about how this guy you’re hunting is a dangerous bastard, and I need to let you take him for my own good.” He looks at me. “Is it a guy?”

  “He won’t establish gender. Apparently, it’s Pat.”

  Dalton’s lips tighten. It’s a split-second reaction, and anyone looking at him would see only calm resolution. But he’s furious. While he’s keeping the upper hand, to him it feels like treading water, one second away from going under.

  This is deep water. Piranha infested. We both know it.

  “Fine,” Dalton says. “So Pat is dangerous. That’s the next thing you’ll tell me, whether it’s true or not.”

  “True or not?” Garcia uncaps his beer and rises to the chair I vacated earlier.

  “Are you gonna tell me Pat ran a Ponzi scheme, cheated little old ladies out of their retirement savings? No. You could try that, hope I want to kick the fucker all the way over the border myself, but you don’t know me. I might hate little old ladies. If you say Pat’s a dangerous bastard, though, I’ll pay attention. So consider it said and skip that part.”

  “I don’t think you want me to.”

  “You gonna tell me what Pat’s done?”

  “I will tell you that Pat is likely someone you trust, someone who seems like a very average resident, maybe even involved in the running of your town. A committed citizen . . . who should be committed to a psych hospital for the criminally insane.”

  I glance at Dalton. Dalton gives a nearly imperceptible nod, telling me to pursue this.

  “We had someone who might fit the description,” I say. “He was brought here a couple of weeks ago for safekeeping, but you’ll notice I’m speaking in the past tense.”

  There’s no hint of dismay in Garcia’s eyes as he shakes his head. “This would have been more than a few weeks ago.”

  “How long?”

  He gives me a hard look. “I’m not telling you that.”

  “Yeah?” Dalton leans over Garcia. “Fuck. You.”

  “Is that really how you want to play—?”

  “No. I want details. I want a name. I want to be treated the same way you seem to think you should be—like a fucking fellow officer of the law. I want some sense that you are what you seem to be—a righteous man on a righteous mission. But I’m not going to get any of that, am I?”

  “You have my word—”

  “Fuck your word. I don’t know you. Give me a name. Give me details. Treat me with a whole lot less of your patronizing bullshit.”

  “Patronizing?”

  Garcia’s brows shoot up, and even that gesture carries of whiff of exactly what Dalton is talking about. As a homicide detective, I met too many guys who remind me of Garcia. They’d pat me on the back. Tell me I was awesome. So talented. Such a hard worker. We were going to get along great, because I was a real cop’s cop, just like them.

  Which warned me I’d be fighting them every step of the way. All those pretty words were pats on my adorable baby-cop head. Tell the girl what she wants to hear. Make her feel important. Make her feel like part of the team. Then, as part of the team, she’ll toe the party line, do what we want, not get in our way.

  I can’t say that is Garcia. But it’s what Dalton’s picking up with the marshal’s smiles and “You’ve got b
alls” and “I like you” and “I feel like you’re a guy I could talk to over a cold beer.” A whiff of the snake oil salesman.

  “Name,” Dalton says. “Details.”

  “See, now here’s the problem.” Garcia lowers his bottle. “First, you might not know Pat by the name I have.”

  “A description will do.”

  “That can change.”

  “Gender? Oh, right—that can change, too. So what you’re asking is for me to gather my people and you’ll pick out Pat. Expose all my citizens. Trust you to take the right one . . . after you’ve just admitted Pat might not look like your mugshot. I don’t know what you’re actually here for—”

  “I will give you details, Sheriff. Descriptive details that will allow you to bring me a subset of people, and one of those will confess to being Pat. Trust me on that.”

  “I don’t trust—”

  “Neither do I.” He looks at Dalton. “I don’t trust you, Sheriff. Like you said, we don’t know each other. You might very well realize what kind of lowlifes you have here, the wolves among the sheep, but someone is paying you to keep the entire flock safe. If that’s the case and I give you a description, you’ll tell me to just wait here while you go round up the people who match it . . . and you’ll make damned sure I don’t see the one I’m looking for. Sorry, marshal, but Pat doesn’t seem to be here.”

  Dalton’s cheek tics, jaw flexing. This hits a little too close to the mark.

  We do indeed know about the wolves among the sheep, and I think, in some ways, it would be easier if we were mercenary shepherds, happy to protect the entire flock for the right price. But there is no price. And we are not happy. We’re just trapped.

  “Nice speech,” I say. “You know what ruins it? Not even being willing to tell us the gender of the person you’re looking for. There is no way in hell you can argue your point that far.”

  “I’m not trying to. I don’t want you to parade your town before me. I will provide you with details after we agree to a process. You three are the only ones who know I’m looking for someone. Therefore, if you want me to trust you, you will not leave my sight until I have Pat.”

  “We agree to stay where you can see us, so we can’t sneak off and hide Pat, and then you’ll give us a complete and full description, along with proof.”