Watcher in the Woods (Rockton #4)(45)

I snort at the last.

“Oh, that’s as important as the rest,” Isabel says. “We just don’t like to admit it. Good girls don’t care about such things.”

“Then I was never a good girl.”

“Nor was I. Thank God.” She pauses to skirt a spider web. “On that topic, I shouldn’t presume your sister would be interested in men. Or that she has any interest in sex at all. Is there a chance she’s asexual?”

“I-I don’t know.”

I assumed April was straight because she dated guys in high school, but I realize now it’s just a presumption, my mind settling on the default. Since high school, I haven’t heard her talk about dating, and I’ve learned not to ask about my sister’s life.

“It’s not important,” Isabel says. “What matters is opening your mind to the possibility. If you or I are rude or abrasive, it’s because we wish to be. With April, it might not be a choice, and it could help you to remember that. At the very least, that might help you survive the weekend.”

“We talked earlier. Had a bit of a blowout actually. She—”

My arm flies up to stop Isabel as I spot a figure in the woods. It’s Artie, the guy who’d been so eager to give his alibi at the town meeting. I never did get one from him——he vanished when we insisted on two-person alibis. Now he’s hovering behind the clinic, watching the guards.





EIGHTEEN

I mentally race through what I know about Artie. He’s in his fourth year here, and Dalton is pissy about that. Residents get a minimum of two years, maximum five. Other than Dalton, the only persons who’s been here that long is Isabel. In her case I’m certain she’s blackmailing the council with tidbits from her bag of secrets, gathered from years as the local bar-and-brothel owner. Mathias is coming up on five years and has expressed an interest in staying. Again, the council may agree out of self-preservation—I’m sure Mathias has filled his own treasure chest of secrets.

Getting past five years is damned near impossible. Getting beyond the minimum currently only requires you pull your weight and don’t give us trouble.

Artie did not qualify for an extension. He’s gone through seven positions since he got here. I’m not even sure what he does now. While he isn’t a troublemaker, he’s constantly whining and complaining, and honestly, I think Dalton prefers the troublemakers.

So why is Artie now in his fourth year at Rockton? When other residents complain about Artie’s extensions, he says, “I have no fucking idea.” In private, he suspects Artie is one of our white collar criminals and he’s buying his extensions.

I’m surprised to see Artie staking out the clinic. I can’t imagine him shooting Garcia. But I’ve learned that in Rockton, those assessments are bullshit. Maybe they’re bullshit everywhere. As a homicide cop, I never actually knew the people I arrested. Yet even down south, how many times were a killer’s friends and coworkers stunned? How many offered to give character witnesses, convinced the police had made a horrible mistake?

As Artie watches the clinic, I motion for Isabel to take Storm and retreat the way we’d come. I slip through the trees until I emerge two houses down from the clinic. Then I loop along the street and through the clinic front door, after briefly speaking to Sam, who’s stationed there.

Diana is inside, watching over Kenny. I talk to her. Then I grab the radio we left in the clinic and head out back, where one of the militia stands guard. As I walk out, I’m talking into the radio.

“He’s out here. You want me to send him over?”

Pause.

“Sam’s on the front door. That’s covered. Diana’s looking after Kenny and Garcia, but Kenny’s fast asleep. I’ll send both and cover nursing and back-door duty myself.”

Pause.

“Got it. They’re on the way.”

I send the back-door militia guard inside, murmuring, “Talk to Diana.” He doesn’t question. A minute later, they’re on the front porch, telling Sam that they need to go handle something for Dalton. Then their footsteps retreat along the hard-packed dirt road. Five minutes later, my walkie-talkie beeps with an incoming call. I answer.

“I can’t find Eric or Will,” Diana says. “I’m using the radio at the station.”

Shit. That’s not ideal.

“Okay,” I say, loud enough for Artie to hear, “It’s quiet here. I really can’t imagine the shooter would dare try again. Between you and me, Will, I think Eric’s overreacting.”

“Eric’s always overreacting,” Diana says. “Sadly, he usually has good reason. And I can’t believe I admitted that.”

“Sure,” I say. “Give me five minutes, and I’ll be there. Sam’s got the front door. Good enough. Just don’t tell Eric.”

“I wish I could tell Eric this plan of yours,” Diana mutters. “You’re going to handle it on your own, aren’t you?”

I laugh. “Okay, sure. I’ll be right there.”

“And I’m going to find Eric or Will,” Diana says. “Hold on, okay. Don’t try this without—Oh, hell, why do I bother? Just be careful, Case, okay?”

I sign off and head inside. I walk through and out the front door, where I speak to Sam. He takes off across the road, giving the sound effects I need—those running footfalls.