“I know. I’ll remain behind, but Petra can stay with me. We also have the blind guy.”
“I trust him more.” He shakes his head. “Nah, that’s not true. Petra saved you from an arrow last winter. You’ll be fine. I’m just fretting.”
“He is injured. Maybe we should take him back to April. I could be underestimating the damage. Especially with that blow to the head.”
“Now you’re just humoring me.” He slings an arm around my neck and leans down to press his lips against my cheek. “You have Petra. I have Storm. We’ll both be fine, and the longer I fret, the less daylight I’ll have.” He squints into the sky. “I keep telling myself those dark clouds aren’t moving closer.”
“So do I.” I squeeze his hand. “Go on.”
* * *
Dalton quickly checks Colin’s pack before he goes, but it’s a cursory look. I want more. I motion to Petra to distract Colin. She does an excellent job of it, simultaneously engaging his attention and making enough noise that I’m able to slip the pack aside, go through it properly, and then return it before he even realized I’d stepped away.
I found exactly what I’d expect. Well, no, he’s missing one important item—one that makes me wonder whether he’s almost as inexperienced as his clients. He doesn’t have a gun. No handgun. No rifle.
While I’d never set foot out here without one or the other, though, that only shows my law enforcement bias. Colin has a big hunting knife, and he likely considers that sufficient protection. It would be, too, if he’d been carrying it when he got attacked.
He also has bear spray, which I will argue is equally pointless when you leave it in a zipped knapsack. Still, wilderness experience can be measured on a continuum, and with a large knife, bear spray, food, water, and sat phone, he does have the essentials. He’s even carrying a first aid kit.
I also find ID showing him to be Colin Berger, a small-plane pilot out of Whitehorse. Before I return to Petra, I hunker down and consider what I’ve found. Consider the implications of it. I haven’t had time to do that, and I wish now that I had before Dalton left.
The fact that Colin is blind is, in the most callous terms, a godsend. We could conceivably bring him into Rockton for treatment and then back out again without him getting a good look at the town. Just as long as he doesn’t regain his sight.
That’s a horrible thing to wish for, isn’t it?
Oh, I certainly do hope you get your sight back, Colin. But could you hold off until we get you back to civilization? Thanks!
Even if he regains it in Rockton, we can deal with that. Once he’s ready to get out of bed, we can slip him a sedative and let him wake up in a hastily erected encampment outside town, where he can recover—briefly—and then we’ll escort him to his plane. And, maybe, if we can finagle it right, we’ll tell him we’ve stumbled over the remains of the tourists in the interim, so he can take those home with him.
Off you go, Colin. So sorry about your clients. Good thing you managed to kill that crazy mountain man who murdered them!
Yep, that makes me feel like a callous bitch. Doesn’t stop me from liking the plan, though. We’ll take good care of Colin, and we will find who killed his clients. That’s far from callous.
I slip back into the clearing as Petra says to Colin, “Hey, we haven’t asked if you’re hungry. I have a protein bar in my pack.”
As I return his pack to its spot, my gaze catches the dead hostile. I hadn’t forgotten him. It’s just . . . well, he wasn’t going anywhere.
I head over to him, saying, “I’m going to check out the guy who attacked you. Can you tell me anything more about him?”
“I was kind of hoping you guys could,” Colin says. “Like what the hell he is.” He shifts. “Sorry. I mean, obviously he’s a man, but the way he attacked, it was . . .” He shivers. “Like he was a wild animal.”
“Tell me more about that,” I say as I bend beside the hostile.
Colin explains as I examine the dead man. I don’t see any evidence that he isn’t a hostile. Maybe that should be obvious—looks like one, acts like one, smells like one—but after what happened with that settler family, I’m extra careful.
Striking the back of Colin’s head with a rock is classic hostile modus operandi. He’d hit hard enough that he expected Colin would at least be incapacitated. When he wasn’t, that caught the man off guard, and he blindly slashed with his knife.
I find the knife still clenched in the man’s hand. It’s a homemade weapon, as I’d expect.
There is nothing in the attack to suggest anything except a hostile. The man didn’t cry out in perfect English when he realized he was in mortal danger. He isn’t carrying a hidden gun in his waistband. His matted hair is real. The tattoos and ritual scarring are real. It’s all real. A real hostile, and a real hostile attack.
I rise and—
And there is someone in the forest. A figure, watching me. I can make out what looks like a young man. I see a face, that’s all. A smooth-cheeked male face, light brown skin, dark hair, and wide eyes, staring at me like he’s just spotted a hostile. I open my mouth and take a step forward—
“Casey!” Petra shouts.
Even as she calls out, I catch a blur of motion as another figure charges from the opposite direction.
29
I wheel, my gun rising as I bark “Stop!” at the same moment Petra fires. It’s a warning shot, and it does what it’s supposed to—halts my would-be attacker in her tracks.
It’s a woman. A hostile. She looks to be in her sixties, with graying hair, but she might be as much as a decade younger. She stares at me, lip curled as her face darkens with blazing hate.
“You,” she snarls.
“Stay where you are,” I say.
“Or you will shoot?” she says, her voice guttural and hoarse, but her words clear. “Shoot me, too?”
“Yes, I will shoot. But I’d like to speak to you, since you seem to be able to do that.”
“Able to talk?” She sneers. “You mean that I am not an animal? Will that make it harder to kill me?”
“Not if you attack me.” I motion for Petra to hold her fire. “Now—”
The woman’s gaze drops to the dead man at my feet. Her blue eyes widen. Then she howls and rushes at me. I kick her away before Petra decides to shoot.
“I didn’t hurt him,” I say as she staggers back. “That wasn’t me.”
Her gaze swings past Petra to Colin. A flash of recognition, telling me they must have been stalking him. In a heartbeat, she realizes who killed her companion, and she flies at Colin, screaming.
I shoot her. It’s all I can do. My bullet hits her in the shoulder and whirls her around. She catches her balance to see Petra’s gun and mine both aimed at her. She’s lucid, and she knows what those guns mean. Her hand claps over her shoulder wound.
“I can treat that,” I say. “Just—”
She backs away, growling. That sets me back. Despite the snarls and the curled lip, she has, until now, struck me as more “human” than any hostile I’ve met. That growl, though, is a pure animal sound. It takes me a split second to recover, and by the time I do, she’s bolted into the forest.
I take off after her. Behind me, Petra shouts my name. Tells me to get the hell back there or—
A thunder boom cuts off the rest. Ahead, the woman is running, hand to her shoulder, weaving through the forest as if she’s suffered a mere scrape.
“I know you can understand me!” I shout. “Just let me—”
Movement to my left. I wheel so fast my boot slides, and I have to grab my gun with both hands to keep hold of it. I may fall, but goddamn it, I am not letting go of my weapon.
Steadied, I survey the forest. Lightning flashes across the sky. As it fades, it is as if someone flicked off the lights. Those ink-black clouds roll in, swallowing the evening sunlight and casting me into near dark. The wind whips past, my ball cap smacking up and then dangling from my ponytail. I don’t reach to fix it.
I don’t dare. I saw movement in the forest. I know I did, and now I can see nothing but trees and shadows. I strain for the running hostile’s footfalls. Everything has gone silent.
I’ve run straight into a trap.
No, not a trap. I might actually feel better about that. This is an ambush of my own creation. I saw from the woman’s reaction that she knew both the dead man and Colin. They must have been tracking him, and she became separated from the dead man. It isn’t only the woman out here, though. I’d seen a young man, and while I hadn’t thought he was a hostile, I hadn’t seen enough of him to be sure.
When the injured hostile ran into the forest, what did I do? Gave chase, ignoring Petra’s shouts and curses. Ran into the forest even as I knew—beyond a doubt—at least one other person waited here. I’d known it . . . I just hadn’t processed what it meant. That I could run straight into an entire troop of hostiles.
I breathe deeply. I don’t see anyone yet. I’ll start backing toward Petra, gun raised, gaze canvassing for even the slightest movement. Listening, too, for a cracking twig, for the swish of soil underfoot.
All that would be so much easier if it wasn’t nearly dark out here, if the thunder wasn’t rolling overhead, if drops of rain weren’t splashing my face. I can look and listen all I want, but if I can’t see or hear—
A sound behind me. I spin, gun pointed. No one’s there. I know I heard something, though, and when I squint into the dusk, I realize it won’t be Petra and Colin. I’ve chased my target farther than I intended.
Lightning cracks open the sky, and in that split second of illumination, I see someone to my left, crouched and watching me. A hostile between me and Petra. Waiting for me to run back toward them.
Another sound. No, not a sound. The sense of a person to my right. I turn twenty degrees that way, so I can still see where the first hostile waits, now hidden in shadow. When I spot someone to my right, I give a start.
He’s right there, less than ten feet away. It’s the young man. Hope leaps. Hope that he’s a settler, an ally. Hope that detonates as I take in his makeshift clothing and his wild hair.
But he’s so young.
God, he’s so young.
That trips me up, my brain screaming that I am mistaken. This cannot be a hostile because they don’t have children. Yet he’s not a child. He’s Sebastian’s age. To me, though, all I see is a boy, one who should be in college or starting his first job, and how the hell did you get here?
That’s the question screaming in my head, blocking rational thought.
How did you get here?
And how do I help you get out.
Those whispers of rational thought remind me he is not a child, not trapped, not in need of my help, no more than kids I saw in the streets when I was a cop. Still, that never stopped me from seeing them and thinking the same thing.
How do I help you get out of this?
Maybe that’s basic human empathy or maybe it’s projection, seeing myself at nineteen, trapped in an alley, going down under a rain of blows, waking in a hospital to be told I might never walk again and then walking out . . . and putting a bullet through the heart of the guy I held responsible. At that age, I’d been so lost and so alone. I saw those street kids, as I see this boy, a distorted reflection of who I’d been at their age, trapped in their eyes.
How do I help you get out of this?
That passes in a split second before, thankfully, I remind myself I am in the forest, during a storm, surrounded by hostiles, and this boy is one of them. I have my gun in hand, and I should point it at him. I should let him know I will use it. I will kill him. Yet my hands don’t move.
The boy stares at me. There’s no malice in his gaze. Certainly no rage. He’s staring at me, eyes clouded with what I saw the first time we met Maryanne. The confusion that only comes with a glimmer of recognition, as if he’s saying to himself, “Something about this situation is familiar, and I don’t know why.”
Maryanne looked that way when she saw Dalton. The expression on this boy’s face, though, isn’t quite the same, and I may be misreading it entirely. Seeing what I want to see.
“I’m not—” I begin, but he slices a finger under his throat. It could be a threat. I know it isn’t. It’s the sign for urgent silence.
He shakes his head, eyes widening to confirm I’m not misidentifying his gesture. He is afraid the others will hear. That they will realize he’s close enough to attack . . . and he has not.
He lifts his finger to his lips. Then his gaze sweeps the landscape. I know there are hostiles nearby—at least the injured woman—but they remain out of sight. The rain beats down, sky dark and rumbling, and in that moment, it is only the boy and me, standing in the rain, both on guard, every muscle tensed as water sluices over us.
He motions for me to approach. I adjust my grip on the gun and mentally tap the knife at my side, reassuring myself it’s within easy reach. As I approach, though, he moves to the side. That gives me pause, and my gaze shoots past him, looking for an ambush. No, he’s just getting out of my way.
I jerk my head, telling him to come closer. He doesn’t even dignify that with a response. I have a gun, and I suspect even if I didn’t, he wouldn’t risk his companions seeing him with me. I still take a step his way, but he backs up fast, his hands rising.
Come with me, I mouth.
He shakes his head. I doubt my face is more than a blob in the pelting rain, but no matter what I’m saying, the answer is no.
“I can help,” I whisper as loud as I dare.
Head shake. Hands raised. Then a finger pointed left.
Whatever you’re selling, lady, I’m not buying. Not today. The door is over there. Have a lovely day.
I can’t linger. I saw what happened to Colin. Whether the hostiles are responsible for the death of the Danish tourists or not, they are still dangerous as hell. This boy is offering me a safety hatch, and I need to take it. Now.
“Find me later,” I say aloud. “Please.”
Without answering, he slips away. Then I’m gone, moving fast through the rain, watching my feet, watching my surroundings, telling myself I am fine. As if I can see more than a couple of damn feet in front of my face as the rain slams down in torrents. As if I’ll hear a twig crack over the constant rumble of thunder. As if I’ll sense someone there even with my brain preoccupied, worrying about Petra, worrying about Dalton and Storm, worrying about that damned kid I just left behind.
I keep moving until I spot the pale blur of Petra’s face and blond hair, and it’s a good thing I do, because otherwise, I’d have walked right past, my treacherous brain insisting they were fifty feet to the right of where they actually are. I pick up speed and reach her in a few heartbeats.
She’s poised over Colin, her gun raised to protect him. When she sees me, she swings that barrel my way with, “Stop right there!”
“It’s me!” I call, and then add, “Casey!,” as if I could be a hostile in disguise. She shifts her gun to cover my approach.
“Is she gone?” Petra says, never stopping that slow surveillance.
“Yes, but there are others.”
“Huh. What a surprise.”
I don’t answer. She knows me well enough to realize I’m already smacking myself over my mistake.
“How many?” she says as I back into position on Colin’s other side.
“I saw the woman and a kid, but the kid’s not a threat.”
She snorts.
“He’s not an immediate threat,” I amend. “He helped me get away. There are probably more, though.”
I’m not sure how much of that she hears in the rain. I realize only then that she’s moved Colin. I orient myself by the dead hostile, who is now farther to my right than when I left. Colin’s sitting with his back against the biggest tree in sight.
As soon as I ran, she strategically repositioned so she could protect them both. Colin is behind a tree, with thick brush to one side, impossible to pass, allowing her a 180-de
gree window to watch. Now with me, we can each cover half of that while Colin sits between us.
We stay poised and silent, as the rain pelts down, thunder gradually rolling away, lightning falling farther behind, until the rain is only a steady drumbeat and the sun peeps through cloud cover.
Soon the sky brightens to twilight. One last bit of illumination before the sun will sink past the horizon.
“They’re gone,” I say. “If they were going to attack, they’d have done it during the storm.”
Petra spins on me. “What the hell were you doing?”
That gives me a start. Apparently, her silence was only a reprieve, granted because arguing while under ambush would be stupid.
“I made a mistake,” I say. “Let’s drop it. Right now, I’m worried about—”
“You are always worried about someone,” she snaps. “That’s the problem, Casey. You’re out here searching for a man you don’t like and a girl you barely know.”
“I know Felicity quite well,” I say. “Also, they aren’t the people we were looking for.” I cut my gaze down at Colin, warning her against saying too much.
“Right, you were looking for total strangers. Risking your life for them, and then risking your life to help an attacker. Oh, I’m sorry, did I shoot you? Let me help fix that. Wait, come back!”
I say nothing. She grunts, as if in satisfaction that I’m listening, while a kernel of rage rolls in my gut, growing with each revolution.
“These people aren’t worth your time,” she says. “They’ve chosen—”
“Maryanne chose nothing,” I say, my voice low.
Petra has the sense to flinch at that, but only rolls her shoulders and says, “All right, Maryanne was there under duress, but that doesn’t make them all your problem.”
“No, they’re the problem of whoever gave the Second Settlement that tea.”
A Stranger in Town: a Rockton novel Page 26