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For Jeff
ONE
I have not seen my sister, April, in two years. Nine months ago, I called her before I fled to a hidden town in the Yukon, where people like me go to disappear. I didn’t tell her where I was going. I only said that I had to leave, and she might not hear from me for a few years. Maybe I’m imagining it, but I thought I heard relief in her voice.
After our parents died, I would call before April’s birthday, before Thanksgiving, before Christmas, and I’d suggest getting together. For the first year, she made excuses. Then she stopped bothering, and I stopped calling. I worked through every holiday and pretended it didn’t matter. Of course it mattered.
Late last night, I called from a pay phone in Dawson City and told April that I needed her help, that a man’s life depended on it. She hung up on me.
Now I’m outside the Vancouver hospital where she works. She’s a neuroscientist, but also has her medical degree and consults on neurosurgery. According to her assistant, she’s been here all night on an emergency call and should be leaving at any moment.
I’m standing by the parking garage. I’ve confirmed her car is inside. Now it’s just a matter of waiting.
“Looks like good weather today,” says a voice beside me.
I slant my gaze to a guy about four feet away. He’s six feet tall, with light brown hair in a buzz cut. He’s got a few days’ worth of beard scruff, and he’s wearing a ball cap, T-shirt and shades. His leans against the building, paperback novel in hand.
“Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to speak to strangers?” I say.
“Nah. She told strangers not to speak to me. And I won’t be a stranger after you come back to my hotel room tonight.”
I laugh. “Does that line ever work?”
“Never tried it.” He lifts the shades. “I can offer further incentives, if you’d like.”
“Like a room-service dinner?”
“Sure . . . eventually.”
I slide over and lean my head against his shoulder before putting space between us again. Eric Dalton, the sheriff in Rockton, that hidden town where I’ve been living. Also the guy I’ve been living with. April doesn’t know Dalton, so we’re keeping that distance until I introduce him. Dalton can be a tad intimidating when he wants to be. And given the run-around I’m getting from April, he really wants to be.
“You could just wait at her place,” he says.
“That would require knowing her address,” I say. “She moved here a few years ago, and I only realized it when my birthday gift for her bounced back.”
“Bitch.”
I shrug. “Maybe I did something to piss her off.”
“Yeah. It’s was definitely you, Casey. You’re such a pain in the ass.” He lifts his glasses again, so I don’t miss his eye roll. “Your sister is a bitch, and if this wasn’t Kenny’s best chance, I’d say fuck it. If she doesn’t want to know you, that’s her loss.”
I smile. “Thank you.”
He starts to answer and then quickly lifts his book and murmurs, “I’m gonna guess that’s her coming out now.”
I look up. Dalton has never seen a photo of April, and if asked, I wouldn’t have said there isn’t much of a resemblance between us. Our mother was Filipino and Chinese; our father Scottish. April can pass for white where I cannot, and to me that has always meant that we look very different. She’s a few inches taller than my five-two. Her skin is lighter. Her eyes are blue, their shape more Caucasian.
But we have the same straight dark hair, the same heart-shaped face, the same cheek bones and nose, all inherited from our mother. When I see April through Dalton’s eyes, the similarities outweigh the differences. It’s just that the differences have always loomed larger in my mind, wedged in by every acquaintance who met my sister and commented on the fact she “looked white.”
It always seemed like one more way we were different. One more way that she was “better,” and I feel a flare of outrage thinking that now. I am proud of my heritage. I wouldn’t want to be able to “pass” for anything but what I am. Yet I cannot deny that when I was young, looking like April seemed better. Easier.
April spots me and slows. Her lips compress, and I am flung back to my childhood, seeing that same look from every time I careened or bounced into a room. A moue of distaste for the wayward little sister who was always causing trouble, always disrupting April’s orderly life. I’m only five years younger, but that gap always felt huge. Insurmountable.
“No,” she says as she walks straight past me.
“I just want to talk.”
“Did I say no last night?” April doesn’t even glance over her shoulder. “Go back to . . .” She flutters a hand over her shoulder. “Wherever you went.”
Dalton surges forward, but I stop him as I follow her into the garage. “I need your help, April.”
“If you’ve frittered away your inheritance, I’m not lending you money.”
If anyone else said this, I’d snap back a response. We both inherited seven figures from our parents, and mine has done nothing but grow since their death. Anyone who knows me—at all—wouldn’t be surprised by this. Yet the person who should know me best is the one thinking I’d blow through a million bucks and come to her for a handout.
But I don’t snap. I don’t even feel the urge. With April, I am forever that little girl scrabbling up a mountain to get her attention. Forever trying to win her approval.
“I haven’t touched my inheritance,” I say evenly. “As I tried to explain on the phone, I need your medical assistance. For a friend who’s been shot in the back.”
She slowly pivots to stare at me. “What kind of trouble are you in, Casey?”
“None. Someone else—”
“A friend of yours has been shot, and you’re coming to me instead of taking him to a hospital? Did you shoot him?”
I flinch. I can’t help it. Thirteen years ago, I shot and killed a man. But April knows nothing of that, and it has nothing to do with the current situation.
Before I can answer, she turns away again. “Get this man to a hospital. Drop him off at the door if you need to. Then go away, Casey. Just . . . “ Another hand flutter over her shoulder. “Go away again. Please.”
Dalton strides past and plants himself in her path. “Your sister is talking to you. Turn the hell around and listen to her.”
Her gaze flicks over him. Then she looks back at me. “Tell your fuck-toy to move, Casey.”
“Hey!” I say my voice high, part outrage and part shock. My sister is never vulgar. Even the mention of sex usually has her flushing bright red.
She looks up at Dalton. “Yes, that’s what you are. If you haven’t realized it yet, take a tip from me. My sister doesn’t date men. She just screws them.”
“Huh,” Dalton says. “Well, then I don’t know who I’ve bee
n living with for the past six months, but I guess it’s not your sister. Or maybe I’m just special.” He looks over at me. “Tell me I’m special.”
I mouth an apology, but he dismisses it with a head shake. My sister isn’t far off, as he knows. Until Dalton, I hadn’t had a “boyfriend” since I was eighteen, and the reason for that had nothing to do with personal preference and everything to do with the fact that the guy I shot and killed was my last boyfriend.
April tries to walk around Dalton. He blocks her. He has his hands in his pockets, a clear signal that he will not physically stop her, but he’s not about to let her pass him easily either.
“This isn’t about me,” he says. “It’s about your sister. Who needs your help, and believe me, she wouldn’t be here if she didn’t.”
April opens her mouth. Then a woman in a nurse’s uniform enters the garage, and April straightens so fast I swear her spine crackles.
“Yes, I understand,” she says, in her most business-like voice. “Let’s discuss this outside.”
She leads us through a side door to a grassy area. It’s empty, but she surveys it twice to be sure.
“If you wish to speak to me, I can spare . . .” She checks her watch. “Ten minutes. Then I have a salon appointment.”
Dalton snorts a laugh before catching her expression. “Fuck, you’re serious.” He shakes his head. “Are you sure you two are related?”
“Yes, we are,” April says coldly. “We simply don’t share the same sense of responsibility.”
“Yeah,” Dalton says. “You could learn a few things from Casey.”
She looks at me. “Please tell your guard dog he’s using up your ten minutes.”
I explain Kenny’s situation, as fast as I can. I’m a homicide detective, but I grew up in a family of doctors and had been expected to take a career in medicine, so I know enough to give April a decent assessment of the damage and the treatment so far.
“You have doctors treating him,” she says.
“No, we have me, plus an army veteran who received some medic training, and a psychiatrist with an MD but no on-job experience.”
“This man needs a doctor. A hospital.”
“The situation . . .” I glance at Dalton.
He nods, telling me to continue.
“The situation is not criminal,” I say. “Let me clear that up right now. I’ve been working in a remote community. Very remote. We’re more than willing to take the patient to a hospital, but he refuses to leave. He fears that if he goes, he won’t be allowed back. The community is . . . a safe haven.”
“Witness protection?”
“Something like that. It’s complicated. That’s all I can say, April. I am not asking you to do anything illegal. I wouldn’t.”
She’s eased back, her guard still up but flexing. “I can’t go on site, Casey. I can recommend someone, but you really should get him to a hospital.”
“We know that. And we aren’t asking you to go on site. Just consult. The two guys working with him are excellent medics. Steady hands. Steady minds.” I force a tiny smile. “Which was always what Mom and Dad said made a good surgeon.”
She flinches, and I realize maybe I shouldn’t bring up our parents. She was always much closer to them than I was.
“We just need a consult,” I say. “Lead them through the process of removing the bullet.”
“Fine. We’ll go to my place and video link them in.”
“It’s not a video link.” I reach into my bag and hand her a satellite phone.
She stares at it. Then she looks at me. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Our town is very remote.” I pull pages from my bag. “But we have the medical equipment.” I flip through the stack. “Here are photos and X-rays . . .”
She flips through them and then slows for a second pass before slapping the pages back into my hand.
“This can’t be done by a satellite phone, Casey.”
“It’s that bad?”
“No, it’s . . .” She throws up her hands. “It’s actually not that bad. The problem is the location of the bullet. It’s a tricky extraction, and I don’t care how steady your psychiatrist’s hands might be, you need someone on site who knows what she’s doing.” She consults her cell phone. “I can give you three days. Possibly four.”
“What?”
“It’s Thursday. I was planning to work in the lab today and tomorrow, but that’s not necessary. I need to be back for Tuesday, when I’m consulting on a surgery. You can have me until then.”
TWO
I have no idea how we got from “I can’t spare fifteen minutes for you, Casey,” to “I’m yours for the next four days.”
My sister is coming to Rockton, and I can’t quite wrap my head around that.
Dalton made the call to let her come. Not a literal call—he didn’t contact the council to ask permission. His excuse is that he has, and I quote, “no fucking idea what’s going on with the council.” That’s true. The situation back in Rockton is stable, but we haven’t had time post-chaos to reestablish procedures for dealing with the council.
Two weeks ago, the council sent us a serial killer for safe-keeping. We aren’t equipped for that, and he escaped. During the ensuing chase, Kenny got shot in the back, which is why we need April. We also lost our de facto town leader, Val. A few days ago, the council sent us Phil, who used to be our radio contact for communicating with them. That means we aren’t sure who to call about bringing April back. Or, at least, it makes a very fine excuse.
There’s an old saying about it being easier to ask for forgiveness than permission. That’s what Dalton decides to do here. We don’t trust the council to let us bring April in, and if we don’t, Kenny will spend his life in a wheelchair. So, we’ll sneak April into Rockton. She’ll treat Kenny, and then we’ll spirit her out of there. If we do this right, the only people who’ll know are those who have to know—all people we trust.
We cannot tell April where she’s going. In this, Dalton treats her like a new resident. She gets the usual spiel. Don’t ask where you’re going. Don’t try to figure it out. Leave your cell phone and all electronics behind. Make one call to the person others will phone if they can’t contact you. Tell him or her that you’re taking the weekend off. I suggest she says she needs a stress break, an offline Sabbatical. Dalton wouldn’t understand the concept. April will.
She balks at leaving her tech behind. I explain that we don’t have cellular or wifi access, and even recharging her batteries would mean plugging into a generator. She doesn’t care. She argues that she needs her laptop, even if it’s offline. I can tell Dalton’s frustrated—we need to get her on a plane ASAP—but I work it out. She can take the laptop, nothing more.
We escort April to her condo to pack. She doesn’t much like that either, but we’re taking a huge chance here, one that could blow up with a slip of the tongue when she makes that call. I overhear it. It’s brief, and I don’t ask who she called. I have her put an auto-reply on her e-mail and a message on her voicemail, explaining the offline weekend.
Then we’re gone.
* * *
Rockton is in the Yukon. It might seem like it’d be wise to hide that—fly commercial into northern British Columbia, and then take a small plane. That’s pointless really. Knowing Rockton is in the Yukon is like only knowing a hotel is in Beijing. The exact place would be impossible to find.
Rockton is a wilderness town of two hundred, hidden by both technological and structural camouflage. The Yukon is roughly the size of Texas with a population of thirty-five thousand people. When Dalton first told me that, I thought he was misspeaking. He had to be. In a place that size, even tacking on a zero would make it sparsely populated. Dalton never misspeaks when it comes to facts. There are indeed thirty-five thousand people, two-thirds of them living in the capital of Whitehorse. The rest is wilderness. Glorious, empty, achingly beautiful wilderness.
As the plane begins its descent, I’m like a
kid with my nose pressed against the glass. I see the mountains, the tallest still drizzled with snow. And I see trees, endless waves of green in more shades than I ever thought possible. Beside me, Dalton reaches for my hand. Across the aisle, April sees me staring out the window, and I catch her frowning reflection in it.
“What do you see?” she asks when I turn.
Home. That’s what I want to say. I see the only place I’ve ever truly considered home. She’d grimace at that, so I only say, “We’re in the Yukon.”
There’s no one in the seat beside her, and she leans to peer out her window for exactly two seconds before straightening with, “Trees.”
“Yep,” Dalton says. “That’s what you get in a boreal forest.”
She ignores him and opens her laptop to do some work. I think back to the first time I flew in. Even then, while I’d never consider myself outdoorsy, I’d been transfixed by the view. April has granted it only a fleeting glance, and with that, I’m five years old again, showing her an anthill or a turtle, waiting for a flicker of interest, and instead getting that two-second glance before she moves on.
We have a couple of hours before our connection to Dawson City, so I suggest popping into Whitehorse. Dalton’s quick to agree—sitting in the tiny airport really isn’t his idea of fun. April objects. It’s only a two hour wait. Leaving the airport is unwise. We’ll need to go through security again. And really, what’s the point?
“The point is that your sister wants a cookie,” Dalton says. “And probably a cappuccino.”
April stares, as if he’s obviously kidding. He waves her to the exit and then prods her along, like a shepherd with a balking sheep.
I talk too much on the cab ride. I can’t help it. I want April to see the incredible views and be stunned. To see the Yukon’s “wilderness city” and be charmed. We go to the Alpine Bakery, and I know she’s always been pro-organic, pro-natural foods, and I want her to be impressed at finding that here. I want her to get a cup of locally roasted coffee and a freshly baked cookie and relax.
Watcher in the Woods: A Rockton Novel Page 1