Deadfall by Robert Liparulo

“The Nazis were willing to do things good people weren’t willing to do.”
    Declan thought about it. “True, but that’s more of a how than a what , isn’t it? What things were they willing to do?”
    â€œAtrocities.”
    â€œRape? Murder?”
    Tom watched the other man. As organized as he seemed, as much as he appeared to possess inside knowledge of the town—as his quick confiscation of the satellite phones suggested—as well planned as this operation was, Tom believed Declan was making this part up as he went. He was drawing from his education, from his knowledge of history, not from experience. What did that mean to the town, to Tom? Inexperience led to mistakes, maybe ones that Tom or someone else could exploit. Then again, not every mistake would necessarily favor Fiddler Falls. Oops. I guess we shouldn’t have killed everybody.Kyrill, next time remind me to keep some hostages.
    â€œDid you know,” Declan continued, “that most of the rapes and murders were not random? The Nazis were cunning.They used scouts and informers to find out whose rape, whose murder would best break the citizens’ spirit of rebellion. In one town, maybe they needed to take an old lady, sort of the town matriarch. In another place, maybe it was a little girl, someone whose innocence and beauty represented the townspeople’s values. Every place was different, but the person selected was always someone whose agony or death cut to the bone, broke their hearts. Sometimes they would shoot the town priest or the old wise man everyone turned to for guidance. But most of the time they chose the strongest, the toughest, the most outspoken. Someone who not only had power and skills, but also knew how to motivate people. He was a leader.”
    Tom gave in. “I’m that leader?”
    â€œThat’s what I’ve heard.”
    â€œWhat do you mean, what you’ve heard?”
    â€œA little bird told me.”
    Tom remembered. A few months ago, a man had come in on a floatplane. Stayed a few days at the same B&B Declan and his cronies now occupied. Took pictures, asked questions. He had said he was doing research for a series of articles on quaint small towns for Canada’s leading newsmagazine. He’d stopped by the RCMP substation to ask Tom about the town’s police services, its medical facilities, and its ability to call in emergency help in the event of a fire, weatherrelated catastrophe, or serious hunting accident. Other townies had said he’d asked questions of them as well. He closed his eyes. How many of them had unwittingly helped Declan plan this invasion of their town? It was painful enough that he had contributed. He pictured the spy. Mousy guy, kept pushing his thick-framed glasses back up his nose. His name was Jonathan Bird.
    Opening his eyes, he said, “No article in Maclean’s , then?”
    â€œSorry. Jon’s a good man. A top-notch researcher. Used to be a journalist, but I pay better. His report told me that Black Lake is bigger. More people. More visitors. More cops.Too big for our purposes. And Fond-du-Lac’s too small. Just a campground, really, for a bunch of Indians.”
    â€œWe call them First Nations up here. Or Dene.”
    Declan shrugged. “I have a binder this thick about your village.” He made a four-inch-wide C with his hand. “Says the town manager spends more time bellied up to the bar than his desk.You have a conservation officer who sometimes packs a piece, but her expertise is forest fires and hunting licenses. Ben at the hotel says she’s out in the backcountry right now. I love small towns.” He rolled his eyes. “Not really. Then there’s you.”
    Tom’s eyes dropped to the pistol in the man’s hand.
    As if to show he had other plans, Declan turned away and tucked the weapon into his pants at the small of his back. He lifted his tight Under Armour shirt and let