This Fallen Prey by Kelley Armstrong
"I think I love you," he says.
"Fickle man."
"We all are. So, what does Casey Butler wish me to do? Assessment? Or assassination?"
"I haven't decided yet."
After talking to Mathias, I walk to the hangar. Inside, Kenny and Paul stand on either side of Brady, watching him so intensely I suspect they literally haven't taken their eyes off him.
"Hey," I say to Kenny. "You didn't need to be here. Your ride out of Rockton might be delayed, but you are officially retired from duty."
"Hell, no," he says. "As long as I'm here, I'm working. Especially something like this."
"We appreciate that, but for now, you can both head back to town. I've got this."
Paul looks over my shoulder. "Where's the boss?"
"Busy."
Paul opens his mouth to question, but Kenny shoulders him out, saying, "See you back in town."
They leave, with Paul casting regular glances my way. I wait until their boots tromp down the well-used path. Then I walk to Brady. His hands are still bound, feet chained.
I lower myself in front of him. He's watching me carefully. Analyzing the situation and struggling to hide his confusion.
I don't cut the most intimidating figure. I'm barely five foot two. A hundred and ten pounds. I just turned thirty-two, but the last time I was in the US, I got carded in a bar. My mother was Filipino and Chinese, and physically I take after her more than my Scottish father. In other words, absolutely nothing about me screams threat.
When I reach out, Brady draws back. Then he steels himself, shame flooding his eyes, as if he's been caught flinching from a Pomeranian.
I tug down his gag.
"I didn't do it," he says.
I shove the gag back up, and his shame turns to outrage. He doesn't move, though. Not one muscle. Still considering. Still analyzing. Still confused.
"Never been in prison, have you, Oliver?" I say.
He doesn't respond.
"If you'd like, you can blink once for yes, twice for no, but nodding and shaking will be easier. In this case, it's a rhetorical question. Guys like you don't go to jail. That's why you're here instead. But having probably never even spent the night in a drunk tank, you need some advice. Telling the guard you didn't do it is pointless. He doesn't care, and even if he did, he can't help you. No one here is your judge or jury. We're all just guards. Now, let's try this again."
Gag down.
"My goddamn stepfather--"
Gag up.
"Your escort was right," I say. "Best to leave that on."
His eyes blaze hate. Hate and powerlessness from a guy who has never known a moment of either in his life.
"Do you have any idea where you are?" I ask.
He doesn't respond.
"Nowhere," I say. "No place that exists. No place that falls under any law or jurisdiction. If I shoot you, the sheriff's just going to say, Oh hell, another body to bury. We buried three this morning. Our winter dead. And sure, it's easy enough to reopen the mass grave and toss your ass in, but I wouldn't do that. None of those people deserves to share their final resting spot with thrill-killing trash."
His mouth works behind the gag. He so desperately wants to tell me he didn't do it. I don't look forward to six months of hearing how this is all a big mistake. Could be worse, I suppose. Could be six months of him regaling us with the details of his crimes.
"My job here is to protect people," I say. "And you threaten my ability to do that. Yet killing you seems problematic. I'll have to give it more thought. I haven't worked out all the factors."
"In other words, don't give us an excuse," Dalton says as he strolls in.
"I wasn't going to say that."
"It's the truth."
"Far too Clint Eastwood for me."
"Which is why I'm the one who said it." He stops in front of Brady. "Did you take off the gag?"
"Twice. I got 'I didn't do it' and cursing about his stepfather." I turn to Brady. "Get up. We're taking you to town."
A press conference in Rockton is a strange thing. First, we don't have a press, which may make the entire endeavor seem rather pointless. Instead, it only makes it all the more critical. Without official media, the only way to disseminate information is word of mouth, and as anyone who's ever played telephone can imagine, that's a dangerous game when you're dealing with a matter of public safety.
In a Rockton press conference, I am the physical manifestation of the printed page. I climb onto the front porch of the police station, give the news, and take questions. Dalton stands off to the side, arms crossed, his expression warning that those questions better not be stupid.
Brady is safely ensconced in the station cell. We brought him in through the back door. So no one has seen him yet as I stand on that porch and tell them that the council has asked us to take custody of a dangerous criminal. I get that much out, and then I wait, knowing exactly what will come.
"How dangerous?" someone asks.
The first time I spoke to a community group, my sergeant told me not to give details. They don't need to know, he said brusquely, and I bristled at the implication that a frightened community didn't deserve to know the exact nature of the predator in their midst. Which wasn't what he meant at all. It wasn't patronizing; it was protective.
I must know what Brady has done to fully understand what I am dealing with. That's the nightmare I must welcome into my head so that I can do my job. No one else needs that.
Even Dalton, who'd insisted on listening earlier, now shifts behind me, porch boards creaking, that subtle movement screaming his discomfort at the memory. Whatever Dalton has seen, whatever tough-guy face he puts on, I know his overwhelming thought on Brady's crimes.
I don't understand.
I cannot fathom how one person could do that to another.
I don't either, but I must stretch my imagination there as much as possible.
For the town, I provide the roundabout blather of the bureaucrat, words that seem like an on-point answer.
He's dangerous.
Murderously dangerous.
While I understand that you may wish more, you must also understand that he comes to Rockton as a prisoner, to await a decision on his fate, which means we are not at liberty to discuss his exact crimes, for reasons of security.
Words, words, more words, spun out until I see nods of understanding. Or, at least, of acceptance.
I continue talking, imparting data now. He will be here six months. He will be confined for the duration. He is being held in the station until we can construct a special building to house him.
"How long will that take?" someone asks.
"We're assessing the feasibility of constructing a new versus retrofitting an existing one," I say. "We're aware that the holding cell is far from ideal. That's why we want to move quickly on an alternative."
"Can't we just free up a house? Guard the exits?"
"No," says a voice from the crowd. Everyone follows it to Nicole. When they see who has spoken, a murmur runs through the assembled. They remember what happened to her.
"We understand that whatever this man has done, he is due his basic human rights," I say.
I feel that creak of the boards, Dalton recalling what Brady did and not convinced he concurs. I would agree. As far as I'm concerned, Brady can get comfortable in that cell. But that isn't an option, because the people of Rockton would not allow it without hearing the extent of his crimes.
I already see the crowd pulse in discomfort. I could tell them what he has done. Do not let yourselves be concerned on his behalf.
Just tell them.
Take the outrage and the anger and the impotence that Dalton feels. Multiply it by two hundred. An entire town, furious that the council has done this, furious that we have "allowed" it.
If we tell them his crimes, any civil rights we've accorded Oliver Brady will be held against us. Mob mentality will rise. Against him. Against us.
I love my town
5
I'm in the station. It's a small building, with one main room and a door leading to the cell area. I've got that door open.
Brady is pretending to sleep. When I turn my back, moving about the station, I know he peers out to assess. I'm here alone, and again, he doesn't know what to make of that. But he is pleased. He gives that away in the curve of his lips. He's growing confident that this will be easier than he dared hope, that the alpha dog foolishly leaves the weakest in the pack alone with him time and again.
Kenny comes in while I'm settling behind the desk.
"No, Eric is not here," I say as he looks about.
He glances at Brady, slouched on the floor, knees up, eyes closed. Kenny lowers his voice and moves closer to me. "I know you can look after yourself, Casey, but maybe . . . You know."
I arch my brows.
"Look, I don't want to know what this guy did. If you say he's violent, that's enough for me. But whatever it is, I'm sure it involves women. Maybe leaving you here isn't . . ."
"Because I'm a woman?"
"No, just . . ." He makes this awkward motion, waving at me, top to bottom.
He's trying to come up with a respectful way to say that I'm attractive. When I arrived, Kenny was one of those guys who wouldn't see a problem with telling a coworker that a pair of jeans really showed off her "assets." He wasn't a jerk--he honestly didn't realize that was inappropriate. But as soon as someone points it out, he trips over himself to correct the behavior. Sometimes to rather comic effect.
"He's not that kind of killer," I say.
Kenny frowns, like he can't imagine any other kind. I could also tell him that those predators don't always target women they find attractive. At some point, though, that starts to sound like lecturing. So I just say, "He's an equal-opportunity killer, so watch yourself."
"Sure, sure. But then, maybe no one should be alone with him."
"Mmm, I'm not worried." Through the open doorway, I see Brady's lips twitch. "I am sorry it screwed up your departure, though. I know you were looking forward to getting out today."
Kenny shrugs and sits on the edge of the desk, positioning himself between me and Brady. "It's not like I have plans. I'm going to bum around, visit a few places before I decide where to settle. Which reminds me. . . . I know Eric got Storm because you like Newfoundland dogs. How about Newfoundland itself? You been there?"
I shake my head.
"You know much about it?" he asks.
"I had a detective partner who came from there. He said he spent his life waiting to leave . . . and now can't wait to retire and move back. City life wasn't what he expected, and he missed the open spaces, small towns, slower pace, friendlier people."
"That's what I'm looking for I think. A place like here but . . ."
"With Wi-Fi? Microwave ovens? Real indoor plumbing?"
He chuckles. "All the twenty-first-century amenities, which are the only things I missed from down south. I might even build my own house. Never imagined that before I came here. I barely knew how to hold a hammer."
"Join the team."
"Yeah, but at least you had the muscles to lift one. I want to keep doing carpentry. Become that local guy people call if they need a new bed or cupboards."
He settles on the desk, gaze going distant. "Maybe I'll meet someone, have a kid or two. Never did that. I always figured I would--it just seemed natural, you know. Then it didn't happen. I'll try harder this time. Put myself out there. Find someone who might not mind settling down with a guy like me."
Jen walks into the station, saying, "You want my advice, Kenny? Skip Tinder and go straight to mail-order brides."
"Personal experience, huh?" he says. "Or is that the real reason you stay in Rockton? There are so many guys, even you can get sex. You can get them to pay for it, too. Not much but . . ."
She scowls at him.
I shake my head. "You walked into that, Jen."
She walks around the desk, where she can put her back to Kenny, and then shoots her thumb toward the cell. "I want to talk about him."
"Casey doesn't need--" Kenny begins.
"It's fine," I say. "We should refill the wood, though. We're going to need to run the fireplace all night."
Kenny hesitates, as if considering whether he can pretend not to get the hint. Then he says he'll grab some logs and be back soon.
Once he's gone, Jen looks around. "Where's the fur beast?"
"With Eric."
"So you're here doing paperwork alone while lover boy walks the pooch . . . and we have an allegedly dangerous killer in town?"
"When is the last time you saw us walking the dog during work hours?" I say.
Her jaw sets, like that of a petulant child countered with the indignity of a reasonable response.
"Eric is working," I say. "Storm is with him because she's a work dog."
"Then shouldn't she be here, guarding you?"
"Nah, if this guy escapes, I'll throw you into the line of fire."
Her snort awards me a point for the comeback. I'm trying to work with Jen, no matter how many people tell me it's a waste of time. I must be that idiot who keeps trying to pet the stray cat, knowing I'm just going to end up with bloody scratches. One could see this as a sign of deep compassion and the belief in inherent human goodness. It's not. As Dalton says, I'm just stubborn. Jen is an obstacle I will overcome. Which is not to say I'm winning the battle. We have reached an uneasy truce, though. I champion her continued role in the town militia, and she doesn't address me as "Hey, bitch." At least not in public.
Jen walks to the cell. She's spent her share of time in there, more than anyone else in Rockton. I first saw her at the Roc, Isabel having come by the station for help breaking up a bar brawl. There'd been no brawl. Just Jen, looking like a middle-aged schoolteacher enjoying a glass of wine with her significant other. Then Isabel tried to kick her out--for freelancing on brothel property--and that's when the brawl began.
I later learned that Jen really had been a schoolteacher. She still looks it to me--late thirties, average appearance, nicely groomed. When she walks to that cell, Brady cracks open one eye. He can't help it. He heard her talk--insulting Kenny, snarking at me--and he's looked, expecting to see a rough and bitter woman. Instead, she looks like the schoolteacher she'd once been, and his eye opens a little wider, just to be sure.
"How many?" she says.
I don't need to ask what she means.
"Five," I say.
"And you buy that?"
"I'm sure there's more. There always are."
"That's not--"
"You mean do I think he really did it. I don't give a shit. That's not my job, and after what we've been through, I'm not taking the chance."
"So the council--which I know you don't trust--tells you this preppy-assed brat has murdered five people, and you're just going to believe them?"
Brady's eyelids flicker, and I'm tempted to grab her by the arm and haul her onto the back porch. But it's too late, so I say, "And I'll repeat--I don't give a shit. If he was a citizen of this town, I'd care. He's not. And if I did decide he was innocent, you'd be first in line howling that I was putting your life in danger."
She looks at Brady again. "This just doesn't seem right."
"Well, considering I'd never expect you to agree with any choice I made, I'm not too worried."
Except I am. Jen is my Greek chorus--the voice that will never let me enjoy a moment of hubris. Every choice I make, she questions. So this should not surprise me. Should not concern me. But I expected her to walk in here and tell us we're underreacting, being too lax. When she instead says the opposite, I begin to worry.
6
I'm lying on our living room floor, fire blazing over my head. Dalton sleeps beside me. Storm whines, and I snap out of my thoughts and give a soft whistle that brings her bounding out of the kitchen. When she was a puppy, we'd barricade her in there whenever Dalton
When she bounds in, I signal for her to take the exuberance down a few notches. She creeps over and sniffs Dalton's head, making sure he's asleep. I give her a pat, and she settles in on my other side, pushing as far onto the bearskin rug as she can manage.
As I rub behind her ears, I pick up on her anxiety. She knows something is bothering us, our stress vibrating through the air even now, as Dalton sleeps.
I don't think he has taken an easy breath since Brady arrived. So I may have intentionally worn him out tonight. But I'm wide awake, tangled in my thoughts.
I give Storm one last pat, head into the kitchen, and pull tequila from the cupboard. One shot downed. Then a second. I'm standing there, clutching the counter edge, when I hear a gasp from the living room.
"Casey?"
I jog in, and Dalton's scrambling up, eyes open but unseeing.
"I'm right here," I say, but he still doesn't seem to notice. He's on his feet now, looking from side to side.
"Casey?" Louder now. I hurry beside him and put my hand on his arm. "I'm right here."
He turns, exhales hard. His arms go around me, and he's only half awake, as I lower us back to the floor. His head hits the rug, and he pulls me in, clutched like a security blanket, his heart rate slowing as he drops back into sleep.
An hour passes.
I'm still entwined with him, my head on his chest as I listen to the beat of his heart. That usually lulls me back to sleep after my nightmares. Tonight it doesn't. It can't.
I would get up and read a book, but if I leave, he'll wake, and he needs his sleep. So I lie there, listening to the dog's snores. Then Dalton's breathing hitches. His heart thumps, and he bolts up, gasping again.
"I've made a mistake," he says.
I don't answer. I just wait.
He says it again. Not "I fucked up," but "I made a mistake." His voice is soft, a little boyish, a little breathless. He's awake but with one toe in that twilight place.
I adjust so I'm sitting with him as he squeezes his eyes shut.
"With Brady," he says. "We need to do something else."
"Like what?"
He runs his hands through his hair. "I don't know. That's the problem."