This Fallen Prey (Rockton #3)
Kelley Armstrong
For Jeff
1
The season may have officially started two months ago, but it isn’t truly spring in Rockton until we bury our winter dead.
Dalton and Anders are digging the shallow grave. I’m wandering, trying to calm Storm. As a future tracking dog, she needs to know the smell of death. I’ve read books that say cadaver dogs can’t do the job for long because every “success” leads to a dead body. I dismissed that as anthropomorphism until I showed Storm the corpses . . . and she promptly set about trying to wake the dead.
We’re walking in ever-growing circles around the grave. Dalton’s occasional “Casey?” warns me to stay close, while Storm’s insistent tugs beg me to let her explore and forget what she’s seen. The tugs of an eight-month-old Newfoundland are not insubstantial.
“Switch?”Anders walks over and holds out a hand.
Storm isn’t the only one who needs a break from this task. Every year, Dalton orders his deputy to stay behind. Every year Anders ignores him. As a former soldier, Anders might not need to see more death, but being a former soldier also means he refuses to grant himself that reprieve.
I give his hand a quick squeeze as I pass over the leash. “Remember, you gotta show her who’s boss.”
“Oh, she knows who’s boss.” The dog yanks, nearly toppling Anders. “And it’s not me.” He plants his feet. “Fortunately, I’m still a whole lot bigger. Go help Eric. We’ll be fine.”
I walk along a narrow caribou trail bounded by towering spruce. Green shoots have snuck up in patches of sunlight, and the air smells of a light shower, the rain already evaporating. I see no sign of Dalton. The forest here is too thick. Endless forest, the quiet broken by the scolding of a red squirrel as I pass.
I stay on the trail until I find Dalton standing beside one hole dug down to the permafrost. Three bodies lie beside it. Two are long dead, partly mummified from having been stashed in a cave by their killer. The third looks as if she could be sleeping. Sharon was the oldest resident in Rockton until we found her dead of a heart attack this morning, prompting Dalton to declare the ground soft enough to bury our winter dead.
A shallow grave. Unmarked. As a homicide detective, I should be finding these, not creating them. But this is Rockton.
These three women came here in secrecy, fleeing threats from elsewhere. They came to the Yukon to be safe. And we failed them. One can argue it wasn’t our fault. Yet we accept responsibility. To say “We did our best” is a slippery slope in Rockton.
We lay the corpses in the hole. There’s no graveside service. I wasn’t brought up in any religion, and our sheriff was raised right here, in this forest. I’m sure, if pressed, we could find a few lines of half-remembered poetry for the dead. But that isn’t our way. We stand there, and we remember, and we regret.
Then we fill in the hole.
When we’re done, Dalton rubs his face. He looks at his hands, as if thinking about what they just handled. I reach into my pocket and pass him a tiny bottle of hand sanitizer. He snorts at that and takes it, and when he’s done, I lean against his side for a moment as he puts his arm around my shoulders. Then we both straighten, job done, moment passed, time to get back to work.
“Will?” Dalton calls. There’s exactly one heartbeat of silence, and Dalton’s face tightens as he shouts, “Will?”
“Over here,” Anders calls back. “Pup found herself a rabbit hole and—” A grunt of exertion. “And she really wants bunny for dinner.”
We walk over to find him only lightly tugging on the leash, his big biceps barely twitching. I sigh and yank the lead with a “Hut!” Storm gives me a look, not unlike a sullen teen, and walks over to brush against Dalton.
Anders chuckles. “If Mommy gives you shit, suck up to Dad. Nice try, pup but—”
He stops, as we all hear the whine of a small plane engine.
Dalton shields his gaze to look up.
“Does that sound way too close to Rockton?” Anders says.
“Fuck,” Dalton mutters.
“That’d be yes. Come on, pup. Time for a run.”
We kick it into high gear. Dalton scans the sky as he tracks the sound. It’s not a supply delivery—it’s exceedingly rare for anyone other than Dalton to handle those, and he’s scheduled to head out later today, releasing a few residents. But from the sound, that plane is heading straight to our airstrip.
The pilot shouldn’t be able to see our airstrip. No more than he should be able to see our town. Structural and technological camouflage means that unless the plane skims Rockton, we should remain invisible.
I look up to see a small plane on a perfect trajectory with our landing strip.
Dalton curses again.
“Has anyone ever found the airstrip before?” I ask.
“Ten years ago. Guy was lost. Rookie pilot. I fixed his nav, gave him fuel, and pointed him to Dawson City. He was too shaken up to question. I just told him it was an airstrip for miners.”
Having anyone stumble over Rockton even by land is rare, but we have a pocketful of cover stories. Today, Dalton decides “military training base” will work. We’re all physically fit. Anders keeps his hair stubble-short, and Dalton recently reverted to his summer look—his hair buzzed, his beard down to a few days’ growth. Suitable for a backwoods military camp.