“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 person who’s been here longer 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, Dalton says, “I have no fucking idea.” In private, he suspects that Artie is one of our white-collar criminals and he’s buying his longer stay.
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 be character witnesses, convinced that 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 radio beeps with an incoming call. I answer, keeping it close to my ear so Artie won’t hear.
“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, and when I speak, I do it loud enough so Artie does hear my side of the conversation, “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.
I slip back into the clinic. Then I hide in the room with Garcia’s body, crouched behind a chest of instruments. Yes, that feels ridiculous, but it’s a small room, and I don’t have a lot of options. A moment later, Artie tries the door. I locked it, but I didn’t pull it shut all the way, and there’s a sharp intake of breath as he discovers it isn’t actually closed.
Artie slips inside and shuts the door behind him. He looks around and sees the partly open door into Kenny’s room. He creeps to it and peers through the gap. Then he pulls the door shut. A moment’s pause as his gaze sweeps the tiny exam room. There’s moonlight coming through the window, and thankfully he decides that’s enough and doesn’t light the lantern I just extinguished on the counter.
Artie looks down at Garcia’s still form. The marshal’s eyes are shut, the sheet pulled to his chin. An IV drip is attached to his hand. He looks like he’s sleeping, and from here I see nothing to destroy the illusion. April even left an open bottle of disinfectant to cover any odor of decomp. Artie certainly seems fooled. He’s not paying close attention to Garcia, just gazing at his body, as if trying to drum up the courage to act.
He watches Garcia for at least thirty seconds. Then he glances at the back door. Garcia. Door. Artie marches toward the door and grasps the handle. Damn it. He’s changed his mind, and he’s about to leave. I’m ready to step out and confront him before he goes. But then he releases the knob and moves into the room again.
His shoulders straighten, and his gaze sweeps the room. It stops on a pillow left on a chair. That is not accidental. This room has been staged. A pillow on the chair. A scalpel left on the tray. Even a bottle marked MORPHINE with a needle beside it. So many ways to kill a man, should you have forgotten to bring a tool. I’m helpful that way.