by Sam Burns
Danger?
He took a minute to realize that wasn’t his thought. Maybe, he agreed, but we should try to work together. Maybe we can find a safe place for you.
The sense of relief was overwhelming, and Fletcher knew it wasn’t just his. Careful. He comes.
The image of Hector MacKenzie came to him again—or rather a series of images of the man—one on top of the other, over many years. Bad years. The book didn’t want to think about them; it shied away from MacKenzie. Fletcher scowled at that. Not because he wanted more, but because no one should live like that, trapped with a monster and not even able to say anything, let alone escape.
He couldn’t go back and fix that, but there was a problem he could solve. A name? He thought. You must have a name. You’re a person, not a book.
There was a pause, so long that he thought maybe he’d imagined it all. Then hesitantly, the voice came again. Aldric. Name?
Fletcher.
Fletcher. Arrow maker?
No, just my name. I’m a cop. Um. A law man?
Scribe.
And there was Fletcher’s mind, blown. The book was a man. Aldric the scribe. He didn’t even call himself a witch. Most people didn’t, even in the modern day—it was always a little dangerous. Still, he needed to know. Witch?
The little ball of energy in his gut seemed to quiver. Mistake. Unforgivable.
He wanted to assure the book that nothing was unforgivable, but he wasn’t sure that was true. Some things were beyond his ability to forgive, at least.
Girl came. Helped. Well? Aldric gave him an image of Isla, and there was a jolt of some emotion attached that he struggled to identify. Something like sadness, or like the way Fletcher felt when he thought of his mother.
Yeah, Isla’s okay. She’s trying to find a way to get you out of me. Do you know how we could do that? When Aldric gave him a picture of another book, and a wordless question, he shrugged. I don’t know. Maybe. Is that bad?
The answering emotion felt ambivalent. He didn’t seem thrilled with the option of going back into a book, but there was relief there too. Enough damage done. You will be safe.
He didn’t know what that was supposed to mean, but before he could ask, a sound caught his attention. His eyes snapped open, and he looked at Oak, whose head was turned to look further into the forest.
“The men are here,” they said. “One of them is damaged.”
Fletcher’s stomach almost heaved. “Damaged? What happened?” If the local wolves had attacked them, or one of them had seen a forest creature and attacked—
“I believe he fell down. One of his limbs has cracked.” Oak turned back to look at him. “You should go lead them from the forest. It is not safe for them to be here, less so when they are injured. Fearful men in pain are inclined to do foolish things.”
Fletcher nodded and stood. “I will. Thank you.”
Oak inclined their head to him. “I am always pleased to be of service, Fletcher Lane. I will see you again soon, I think.”
There was a distant yell, and Fletcher looked up. He needed to get the men out of his forest. If they hurt something other than themselves, he’d never forgive himself.
It didn’t take much work to find the men. They were crashing through the brush with all the subtlety of an angry bear. Part of him hoped that they were usually sneakier. He hated to imagine that they had success finding and killing supernatural creatures if they could be heard coming half a mile away.
When he realized which of them had the broken arm, it took every ounce of self-control he had not to turn around and go back the way he’d come. Bob. The man who had murdered his mother had a broken arm. Badly broken, if the bloody sleeve and the way they were supporting him was any indication.
Conner noticed him first. “Fletcher!” He gave the hint of a smile before his attention shifted back to his compatriot. “You don’t have a car nearby, do you?”
Fletcher shook his head. “Left it at home. You guys are pretty far out here. You think White is camped out in the middle of the woods?”
“We, uh, may be a little turned around,” Conner admitted sheepishly, even as the older guy tried to stare him into silence.
“We were fine until Bob fell in a damn hole,” the boss grumbled. “Never been lost in the woods before in my damn life.”
Fletcher didn’t doubt it. He suspected that the forest creatures were having a little fun at the expense of the strangers.
“Anyway,” Conner said, ignoring the older men. “We’re glad to see you. Is this even the right way out?”
They were technically headed in the right direction to get back to town, though the path would have led them through Oak’s grove, and Fletcher didn’t even want them to see the dryad’s tree. Who knew what men like that would do when faced with a majestic and ancient thing, even if they didn’t know about the dryad within.
“Close,” Fletcher ceded, not even sure why he gave that much. He pointed in a different direction. “This way will be better. And I’ll call for help.”
“Don’t you think we thought of that, y’damn hick? No reception in the woods.” Bob, whom Fletcher would not excuse, regardless of how much pain he was in, glared at him.
Casually, Fletcher pulled his phone out of his pocket, thumbed the button to turn it on, and dialed Wade.
“Hunter,” the man answered on the first ring.
“Hey there, partner,” Fletcher drawled, meeting Bob’s eyes and letting a smile curl one corner of his mouth up. “It seems our uninvited guests never took their forest-safety course, and one of them has fallen down and given himself a boo-boo. Could you meet us at the park on Holly Street?”
Wade huffed a canine sigh and took longer than normal to agree. “Fine, but they better not dirty up the back of our patrol car.” He hung up.
Fletcher glanced down at the men’s muddy boots and shook his head. Wade would be peeved. “Come on, then. Wade is meeting us over here.” He motioned for the men to follow him and turned. “It’s the closest street to this part of the woods.”
“What are you doing out here?” the boss called after him. “Long way into the woods, isn’t it?”
Turning back to him with a raised eyebrow, Fletcher didn’t bother answering.
“We appreciate the help,” Conner added. His voice was a little strained, and they were lagging as Bob sagged between them. Fletcher waited for the man to gather himself and start walking again, and Conner gave him a thankful look.
The exchange with Conner was almost enough to make him feel bad that he wasn’t helping carry Bob, but that was a step too far. He would not leave people to die in the woods, not even this lot, but he’d be damned if he was going to willingly touch the man who’d destroyed his family.
While he didn’t lead them through the thickest section of underbrush and rough terrain, he didn’t go out of his way to avoid it, either. It was small, petty, and made him happy.
It was only a fifteen-minute walk before Fletcher saw the patrol car come into view by the side of the road.
Wade had gotten there quickly. He sighed, put upon, when the men behind Fletcher came into view. “Help,” he told Fletcher, just loud enough for everyone to hear. “We need help to hunt down a guy who’s not even in town anymore, and this is helping?”
Fletcher didn’t laugh, but it was a near thing. He turned back to the men, and again, Conner looked a little embarrassed. The other two just looked annoyed. Well, Bob also looked like he was in a lot of pain, judging by the grimace on his face.
Wade held open the door to the back seat. “Come on, then. I called ahead to the clinic, so they’re ready for you.” That was probably more for Fletcher’s benefit than theirs, to let him know that Wade had taken care of everything he couldn’t, since any calls he’d made would have been overheard. Fletcher’s father was supposed to be working a shift at the clinic that afternoon, so Wade saying he’d called ahead was Wade saying his dad was safe.
They climbed in to the back seat, and
for the first time since signing onto the police force, the cage keeping the men in the back of the car made Fletcher feel safer. Even at his worst, holding Isla prisoner, Sol White hadn’t scared Fletcher. It had been a long time since he’d been in the presence of people who truly frightened him. He’d almost forgotten what it was like.
Wade followed every traffic law on the way there, making no haste and fully stopping at every stop sign and crosswalk. It wasn’t obvious since he was the kind of guy who usually followed every traffic rule, but Fletcher knew his partner, and this was Wade being an asshole. The town was inclined to dislike men like these, but he knew that Wade’s anger was on his behalf, and something about that made him happy.
Wade pulled into the parking lot instead of the hospital’s emergency entrance and walked around to let the men out.
“Fuckin’ small-town cops,” Bob hissed, as though he’d forgotten Fletcher was still in the car.
Conner scowled at him, brown eyes flashing as Fletcher watched in the rearview mirror. “They found us in the woods, led us to safety, and are taking you to get patched up. What the hell do you want from them, Bob? You want them to suddenly like us because we’re wasting their time?”
If Conner’s attitude was an act, it was a damned good one. It was fooling Fletcher. The tiny quiver in his stomach vibrated, suspicious and unconvinced. Aldric was not so easily swayed.
As Wade let the men out and led them into the clinic, Fletcher climbed out of the passenger seat of the cruiser. He wanted to stay there. It was where he sat when all was right in Rowan Harbor, and his partner was driving them on their rounds. He wanted that to be now, for everything to be simple and easy again. But it wasn’t, so he turned to follow them into the building.
Dr. Jha met them just inside the door to the clinic, where she stood next to a plastic bin. She pointed to it. “Weapons.”
“Beg pardon?” the boss asked.
She turned her head to him and, as though speaking to a child, repeated herself. “Weapons. You will disarm and put all weapons you carry on your person into the box, or you will not come into my clinic.”
After a second’s hesitation, Conner walked over and pulled out his firearm, removing the clip and setting both in the box. Then he reached down to his ankle and removed a wicked looking knife, followed by two more, and an extra clip of ammunition.
Frank, the boss, wasn’t so ready to give up. “You’re refusing to—”
“I am not,” the doctor said, without letting him finish. She watched Conner disarming, face blank, like heavily armed men came into the clinic every day. “Anyone may come here to receive medical care, regardless of whether I like their vocational choices. But there is no rule saying I must allow them inside armed.”
“I’ve got a permit to—”
“Then feel free to use that permit and carry your weapon. Outside my clinic.”
Conner turned to her and pulled out a pocket knife. “This too?”
She considered for a second, looked at the men behind him, and nodded.
He dropped it in the bin and then turned to his compatriots. “Come on, you guys. If we want to get Bob’s arm in a cast sometime today, you better get started.”
And he was right. If Fletcher had thought Conner was excessively armed, he’d been wrong. Bob had a similar array, but Frank had so many dangerous objects that Fletcher wasn’t sure he wanted to know where the man had hidden them all.
One of the items made his stomach clench. It looked a little like a hand grenade and stunk of silver. It was exactly the kind of thing Solomon White had used to almost kill Wade. He wanted to take it and run, get it as far from the clinic as possible.
Wade, still looking a little bored, raised an eyebrow. “You’re here for one guy and brought all that? Is that a grenade?”
“It’s not. Just a little something homemade,” Frank denied.
Dr. Jha snorted. “And perfectly legal, I’m sure.”
He gave her an innocent look. “No controlled substances in it.”
She looked him over, unimpressed. Her expression said she didn’t believe he’d fully disarmed. “If you attempt to harm anyone while in my clinic, you will not be pleased with the results. Even if the man you’ve come for shows up. There is no violence in my clinic for any reason.”
Frank tried to play it off as though he weren’t worried, but Fletcher knew what it felt like to have Dr. Jha’s attention, and the man was either faking it, or wasn’t emotionally capable of being scared. That was a worrying thought.
Of course, Frank didn’t know what had happened to the last person to hurt someone in Dr. Jha’s clinic. He hadn’t looked her in the eye and told her that the man was dead, burned alive in a horrible fire, and watched her nod coldly and say, “Good.”
Fletcher shivered, and she looked to him, concerned. “Are you all right? There’s a nasty strain of influenza going around. You should get a shot.”
He had no idea what she was talking about, he’d never had a flu shot in his life, but he nodded, and she turned her attention back to Bob.
“Come along, then.” She motioned to Nurse Cormier, who came over with a clipboard with a thick packet of papers on it. “You’ll fill out the paperwork while I look at the injury.”
Frank waved the nurse off, looking at Conner, who sighed and went to take the clipboard.
“We’re going to need him,” Fletcher said on impulse, taking the clipboard and shoving it in Frank’s direction. “We’ll need to fill out an incident report, since police property was used.”
The man looked like he wanted to argue, but Fletcher looked him in the eye, then looked at Wade and back. He raised an eyebrow as though to say, “Do you want the paperwork, or the cop who doesn’t like you?” Frank looked like he was going to refuse. He gave the guns a longing look, then glared at Fletcher, snatched the board, and followed Bob and Dr. Jha.
Fletcher worried about the doctor for a second before realizing how stupid that was. He had little doubt she could handle those two if the need arose. At least Frank walking away from the weapons meant that they hadn’t realized the people of Rowan Harbor were anything other than ignorant, small-town folk who didn’t want them around.
“Watch our stuff,” Frank yelled back at Conner.
“Yeah,” Conner murmured. “The empty waiting room and the cops are going to steal your guns.”
Wade looked at Fletcher. He was obviously confused as to why Fletcher had intervened, and Fletcher couldn’t answer the question in his partner’s eyes. Wade seemed to understand that, so he shrugged and spoke up. “You never know. Maybe I’m looking for a new”—he looked into the bin and rolled his eyes—“Desert Eagle. Might be I’m feeling a little insecure about my masculinity today.”
Conner almost choked on nothing, closing his eyes and covering his mouth with one hand. “Frank likes them big. No, I mean—”
Wade burst out laughing, and Fletcher chuckled too. It felt good to laugh at something after the last few days.
Conner moved his hands to cover his whole face for a second, scrubbing his eyes and then looking at them as he dropped his hands to his sides. “I’d promise I’m not usually this awkward, but you’ve got no reason to believe me.”
“I don’t think we’re gonna judge based on one ill-chosen sentence,” Wade dismissed. He didn’t look happy, but added, “I guess if we’re leaving, you can take your stuff back.”
Conner looked at Fletcher, blushing as he had on Wednesday night and turning to retrieve his weapons.
“You can bring that stuff with us if you want,” Wade told Conner, waving at the bin. “We can lock it in the backseat of the cruiser if you’re worried about someone taking it. I can tell you now, though, Harborites aren’t big on guns, let alone stealing them.”
Conner looked at them, then Wade. “Still, in case any kids come through here. Might be safest to lock them up.”
Wade nodded, approval clear on his face. He looked at Fletcher. “It’s your day off. Why don’t y
ou go have lunch with your dad?”
Go check on your dad, Fletcher translated. Since his father was supposed to be on shift, not Nurse Cormier, it was the smart thing to do. He pulled his phone out and turned to go.
“Thanks again,” Conner called after him, and Fletcher half turned back to nod.
What the hell was up with that guy? Fletcher felt like he’d done the bare minimum, as slowly and rudely as possible. Maybe the actions deserved thanks because of the surrounding circumstances, but there was no way for Conner to know that.
His father answered the phone, “I’m fine. Wade just told me I needed to get Leetah to come in and go home.”
“Hello to you too, Dad.”
His father paused for a moment as though Fletcher had surprised him, which was strange. “You sound tired.”
“Probably look tired too. Want me to come over so you can insult me to my face?” He tried to infuse his voice with humor, since it was meant to be a joke, but he sounded wrong even to himself.
“Yes,” his father agreed. “Come over. We’ll have lunch, and then you can take your nap. If you’re good, maybe you can watch cartoons after that, though I don’t think I get the right channel anymore.”
Fletcher didn’t even pause. “You know what, Dad? That sounds amazing. I’ll be there in half an hour.” He hung up the phone and started walking.
5
What Fear Makes
The next morning Fletcher was heading back into the woods to see Oak again.
He’d tried to go to work, but Sheriff Green had taken one look at him and pointed to the door. “You look like hell, Lane. Go home.”
He hadn’t needed to ask what his boss meant. He had to look in the mirror every morning to trim his beard, and he knew he looked like he ought to be in a bed at the clinic. Everyone was acting like it was a new thing, though, when it had started right after that night in the woods with White.
There were continually darkening circles under his eyes, and his cheeks were starting to hollow. Not that he’d stopped eating, but he skipped the odd meal because the squirming in his stomach was unpleasant enough without drawing attention to it. He was trying to pretend he hadn’t noticed how more hair fell out than usual when he washed it. Maybe he was losing his hair, never mind the fact that his father was nearing fifty and didn’t have a receding hairline.