Watcher in the Woods (Rockton #4)(49)

“Okay,” I say. “I’ll talk to her tomorrow. Shouldn’t you be done, too?”

“That’s what I came to talk to you about. Paul was supposed to take over for me at one-thirty. I figured he was just running late, but when I went by his apartment, no one answered. Do you know if he’s been reassigned? I can’t find Will to ask.”

Anders is in charge of the militia scheduling. With so much going on, that schedule exists only in his head, subject to constant juggling as he makes sure everyone gets enough time off.

“I saw Paul heading home earlier this evening,” I say. “I was busy gathering alibis, but I think he was grabbing a few hours of shut-eye before his next shift. Given how much you guys have been working, he’s probably just overslept. Go on in and check.”

“I would, but his door’s locked.”

I curse under my breath. “Right. Because I told everyone to keep them locked. Let me find Eric and grab the master key. You can call it a night. I’ll get Paul up and on duty.”

*

I get the skeleton key from Dalton. Paul lives on the second floor of a four-unit building. I climb the external staircase and head along the balcony to his apartment. His windows are dark. Everyone’s are—blackout blinds must be pulled at sundown to minimize our glow to passing aircraft. Some light still seeps out at the edges when the occupant has a light on. At this time of night, they’re all dark, including Paul’s.

I knock twice. Then I unlock the door and crack it open.

“Paul?”

No answer. As I slip inside, I do see a faint glow from the bedroom at the back. The door’s shut, and I walk in, calling Paul as I go. I rap on the bedroom door. Still no answer.

“Paul?”

Knock. Call. Knock again. A light definitely shines from beneath the door. A wavering one. Has he fallen asleep with a candle going? I’d hate to report one of our key militia for what seems like a minor infraction. But it’s not minor. Fire is our greatest threat, and while we allow candles, they’re meant for winter, when it’s dark by four in the afternoon. They aren’t even supposed to be taken into a bedroom.

I’m tempted to leave. I know that’s wrong. But it’s two-thirty in the morning, and I’m tired, and I do not want to chew out an over-worked militia guy.

I try one last knock and call, in hopes he’ll wake up and put out the candle himself.

He’s not responding though, so I take a deep breath and decide, if it is a candle, I’ll let him off with a warning. I’ll also tell Dalton. I have to be careful with that. As the detective sharing the sheriff’s bed, I need to tell him when I issue warnings for serious infractions. Otherwise, it’ll look like I consider my authority equal to Dalton’s.

I ease open the door. The first thing I see is that damn candle, flickering beside the bed. And then Paul himself, sound asleep in bed.

All the simmering frustration of the day ignites. I slam open the door and march in with, “Get your ass out of bed. Sam’s been waiting for you to take his shift, and you’re sleeping with a goddamn candle on.”

Paul doesn’t move. I pull short, heart pounding. But then I see his chest, rising and falling. I catch the faint wheeze of his breathing. I set my lantern on his nightstand and pinch out the candle. As I do, I spot the bottle. It’s a glass pill bottle with a mailing label neatly affixed. On that label is Beth Lowry’s careful script.

I lift the bottle. It’s a prescription for a midlevel sleep aid. The date is two years ago, around the time Paul arrived. He must have had trouble sleeping then—not surprising given that he came at this time of year, when the sun only naps. He must have saved the pills to use as needed. That explains his deep slumber. I sigh. There’s no point waking him. If he’s this deeply asleep, he’ll be in no shape to work.

I’m taking my lantern as I set down the pill bottle. As I do, I realize nothing jangles inside. The bottle is empty. The hairs on my neck rise, but I tell myself I’m overreacting. He used up his last ones. That’s all. Still, I glance at Paul’s sleeping form, and when I do, I spot two pills on the sheets . . . and a bubble of foam in one corner of his mouth.





TWENTY

I’m in the clinic. We’ve brought Paul there, which means we had to put Garcia’s body on the floor so we’d have a bed for Paul. Dalton can’t even fit in the damn examination room with us—there’s no room with a corpse on the floor. In the closet, Kenny’s awake and asking what’s going on, and I want to throw up my hands and walk out and clear my head. I haven’t had more than a few hours’ sleep in three days, and my brain is about to shut down from overload.

It doesn’t, of course. We have a man who just attempted suicide. That’s a problem that cannot wait until I get my shit together.

We pump Paul’s stomach, and even that makes me feel like I’ve slid into some twilight zone nightmare. A few months ago, we had to pump Diana’s stomach when she’d been drugged. We also did it with Brady, who poisoned himself. And before that, Anders had never even assisted in a stomach pumping in Rockton. It seems impossible that we’d be doing it for the third time in six months. The truth is that situations like this are contagious. Someone drugs Diana with sleeping pills . . . and then Val remembers that when she needs to get Brady out of the jail cell. And then, I suspect, Paul recalls both those cases when he decides to take his own life.