Watcher in the Woods (Rockton #4)(97)

Roy has Mindy bent over the railing, and as much as that position enrages me, he isn’t attempting to do what it looks like. If he was, I’d shoot him from here. Mindy is fully dressed, and he’s standing at her side, his hand forcing her neck against the railing. That’s still enough to run faster and pull my gun. And it’s enough for Isabel to resume striding toward them. It is also enough to have Dalton coming at a run, yelling, “Get your fucking hands off her!”

“Holy shit,” Sebastian whispers behind me.

I keep advancing through the forest. When I’m alongside the building, I motion for Sebastian to stay where he is. While I can no longer see what’s happening, I can hear it. Dalton is snarling at Roy. Anders has come from somewhere, and he’s calmly but firmly ordering Roy to release Mindy, with Isabel echoing it. Roy keeps shouting, his words making no sense.

Once I’m at the rear porch, I hop onto the railing and then I climb to the bedroom balcony. The set-up is the same as our house, and I’ve used this route before to startle Dalton. I balance on the balcony railing, climb onto the roof, crouch and cross partway. Then I’m on my belly, slinking forward.

When I near the edge, I see them below. Dalton is climbing onto the porch. He’s right there, and Roy doesn’t even seem to care. Roy’s shouting something while holding Mindy down with one hand, his other dropped down in front—and I’m pretty sure I know what he’s doing with it.

“Let her go or—” Dalton begins.

Mindy kicks. Roy has changed position, partly behind her, and when she kicks, the foot goes straight between his legs. He lets out a screech, but he doesn’t fall back, doesn’t let go, doesn’t even stop what he’s doing. She kicks again, harder, and then wrenches from his grip and falls on him, kicking and pummeling. Dalton grabs Roy by the hair and yanks him aside. Roy attacks Dalton, and I drop onto the porch.

My assistance is not required. Roy is swinging his arms, flailing like a child as he smacks at Dalton, who simply grabs him by the arm and throws him down. Roy keeps fighting, and Dalton motions to me to take his arm. We switch places, and I twist Roy’s arm behind his back as Anders pins his kicking legs and Dalton crouches in front of Roy, telling him to stop fighting, that he’s only making it worse.

Roy doesn’t care. He’s practically vibrating beneath me, and it reminds me of a time when I’d thrown down a suspect who was high as a kite. Some “under the influence” suspects make no effort to fight, just rant and yell. Others fight with preternatural strength. But this suspect had just flailed under me, a ball of adrenalin that she didn’t know how to use. Roy is securely pinned, but he keeps flopping like a fish on the bank. When he ignores Dalton’s orders to stop, I twist his arm. He doesn’t care. I push it up until sweat beads on his broad face, and he pants in pain, but the sensation doesn’t seem to register beyond that. I have to raise my voice to be heard over the sounds Roy makes—snarls and howls and grunts, as if we’re pinning a wild animal.

“He’s not responding,” I say to Dalton. “We’re going to need—”

“Excuse me,” a voice says, cutting through the clamor. “Excuse me.”

April strides up the porch steps, syringe in hand.

“This will stop—” she begins.

“Thanks,” I say, taking it from her. I jab it into Roy’s upper arm. He doesn’t seem to feel it. He keeps flopping and flailing until he drops with one last gasp his eyes bulging, like that fish breathing his last. Then his head hits the porch with a thunk.

I go to Mindy as Dalton and Anders handle Roy. The house here is empty, being used for storage, and I shuttle her inside, away from the crowd. She walks, stiff-legged. As the door closes behind us, the rear one opens, Isabel coming through.

“He grabbed me,” Mindy says, as if still struggling to understand what just happened. “I was walking home after my shift, and he grabbed me right in the middle of the road. I didn’t have time to fight. I know how to fight, but I didn’t get a chance. He came up behind me, grabbed me by the hair and dragged me onto the porch.” Her eyes fill with tears of sudden rage. “That bastard. That son of a bitch. I told him no. Three times I told him, and I was polite about it, and I was discreet about it, and then he . . . he . . .”

“He’s gone,” Isabel says. “Not just from the Roc. He is gone.”

I shoot her a glare and then say to Mindy, “We’ll tell the council we want him removed from Rockton. I cannot promise that they’ll allow that, but we will insist. If they don’t listen, we’ll impose so many sanctions on him that he’ll beg us to leave.”

I check her injuries—scalp abrasions and contusions—and as I do, I am reminded of how quickly an attack can happen. It doesn’t need to be a dark alley, facing four thugs. Grab someone midday, and by the time anyone can react, the situation has escalated to a point where interference becomes dangerous, and all the onlookers can do is shout for real help.

With Roy being taken to the clinic, I don’t suggest Mindy go there. April can make a house call, while Mindy rests at Isabel’s.

As Isabel takes Mindy out the back, I open the front door to find Anders and Dalton loading Roy onto a stretcher. April examines him.

“He appears to be under the influence of an intoxicant or drug,” she says.