Watcher in the Woods: A Rockton Novel

by Kelley Armstrong

  “And what exactly does that have to do with us?” I say. “This guy was covertly following a private bush taxi, so you go after the pilot of the taxi?”

  “Our client owes us money.”

  “I got that. But if he’s covertly following us, obviously we knew nothing about it.”

  “It’s a lot of money.” He scowls. “Lyd—Lynn cut a shitty deal. Twenty-five percent up front. Seventy-five on pickup.”

  So this guy got someone at the airport to let him know if our plane returned. Then he bullied Lydia into coming after us to see what happened to their client. It was obvious from the encounter at Dalton’s truck that she knew this was a stupid idea.

  “Our client paid a lot to come after you,” our captive says. “That means something’s going on. Something worth you guys paying me the rest of my money to keep my mouth shut.”

  “What do you think we’re doing? Running a meth lab in the wilderness?”

  “I don’t know but—”

  “Think,” I say. “Stop and think really, really hard. It’s the Yukon. No one is running an off-the-grid drug lab in the forest. No one is keeping a warehouse of guns out there.”

  “Mining,” he says. “You have a rich find—”

  “Do we look like miners to you? Could it possibly be something even more secret and completely legal? Like a matter of national security?” I lower my face to his. “Do you know the penalty for treason?”

  “W-what? No. Even if it is government work, following you guys isn’t treason.”

  “Bringing a foreign operative to a government facility is.”

  “What?” His voice rises.

  “Oh, did an American secret agent fail to disclose his status to you? What a surprise. Did he look like a miner? Like a drug lord? Gun runner? Or, now that you think about it, did he look more like a cop? Or a soldier? Something about the way he talked. The way he carried himself. The way he dressed.”

  The man pales. Then he shakes his head vehemently. “He never said anything about being a . . .”

  When he trails off, Dalton says, “Yeah, spies don’t go around introducing themselves. My partner here is pissed, but you can relax. The situation was handled. We sent him on his way.”

  “He had a second pilot for the flight out,” I say. “If you want to file a formal complaint to the Canadian government, you just need to tell them what you did. I’m sure they’ll have something to say about that.”

  “I-I had no idea there was a government facil—”

  “We didn’t say that,” I say.

  “Nope, we did not say that,” Dalton says. “But if we hear that completely untrue rumor being whispered around Dawson, we’ll know who to talk to.”

  The guy actually buys our story. Now, I love my country, but it’s not exactly known for its high-end military programs. Turns out, though, that our guy is quite the patriot, and he goes on at length about how thrilled he is to hear that Canada is taking our national security so seriously because, you know, we normally just rely on the States to protect us. As far as he is concerned, this a step in the right direction—well, it would be if there was a facility up here, nudge, nudge, wink, wink. But if there is, then he is so very sorry for anything he might have done to endanger it, and he will definitely do his patriotic duty by keeping his mouth shut.

  His attitude toward us does a one-eighty, too. We’re no longer a couple of low life criminals stiffing him on a job. We’re . . . I have no idea what we are now, in his mind, but whatever it is, it’s terribly cool. He praises me for my skills—my tracking and my throw-down and my dirt bike riding and, “Wait, did you hitch a ride in my truck bed? That is awesome.” He even compliments Dalton on his boots, which are . . . regular boots. And the fact that you two did all this without pulling a gun? That is so fucking awesome. Go, Canada!

  His attitude well and truly adjusted, he’s happy to talk. His airport contact is a guy who does part-time groundskeeping, and please don’t give him any grief, because he knew nothing about the scheme. Our captive told the groundskeeper that he’d noticed Dalton flying in and out, and he’d love to pitch his own bush-plane taxiing services, so if his buddy would let him know when Dalton came in again, he’d really appreciate that.

  The client approached them through Lydia. Our guy doesn’t want to say what Lydia does for a living. Whatever business she’s in, it’s not one where you ask potential clients a lot of questions. Mark Garcia said he wanted to follow a plane that regularly flew in and out of Dawson. The next time it arrived, he needed to be called immediately, and he needed a pilot waiting when he arrived in Dawson, so he could follow the plane on its exit trip. For that, he promised ten grand. For a name, he’d given Mark Marshall. Cute.

  So, Garcia works in Washington state. He gets the call Wednesday when we arrived. We’d done the quickest turnaround possible getting back to Dawson, but that’s not exactly speedy, given the infrequency of flights. He’d have had time to drive overnight Wednesday to Calgary, fly to Whitehorse, drive up to Dawson and be waiting for us when we picked up the plane late Thursday.

  Next we have a tire to change. Our captive does that for us. Very happily does it, and when Dalton gives him a hundred bucks, he’s stammering and blushing, like we’ve just paid him for a very different kind of service.

  “No, really, I shouldn’t,” he says. “We slashed it. Hell, if you guys want me to cover a new tire, I’ll do that, too.”

  Dalton sticks the money into the guy’s shirt pocket. “It was a misunderstanding. I understand. You’re out a helluva lot of money. That asshole stiffed you.”

  “Americans,” I say, rolling my eyes.

  The guy snickers. “They’re always give it us the shaft, huh?” He goes off on a brief diatribe, and we let him, nodding where appropriate.

  “Would you talk to Lynn for us, please?” I say. “Tell her we’re sorry you two got messed up in this, but please impress on her the importance of silence, for reasons of national security.”

  “If it was a matter of national security,” Dalton says. “Hypothetically speaking.”

  Once the guy and his partner are gone, Dalton exhales, “Well, that was interesting.”

  “That’s one way of putting it. Crisis averted, though. We lucked out. He might not keep his mouth shut after a few beers, but it’s not the worst thing if people think there’s a government facility out there.”

  “It’s a good cover story.”

  “It is. And we now know how they found us, and it’s not our security lapse. It’s a flaw in the system. If someone knows about Rockton and knows we fly in and out of Dawson, they can easily find a pilot to trail us.”

  “Yeah, which means we shouldn’t be using Dawson. I’ve argued that before. There are a few places I could put the plane down, stash a 4x4 nearby and avoid this bullshit runaround.”

  “Flying into a municipal airport has never seemed wise.”

  “No kidding. But this is how the council has always done it, so this is how I had to do it. At least now I have a valid reason to say ‘fuck tradition.’ Any chance you can extend my winning streak and tell me your research revealed that Mark Garcia isn’t actually a U.S. Marshal?”

  “No, he is. I confirmed that.”

  “Fuck.”

  “But I don’t think he was here on marshal business.”

  “What?”

  I lift the dirt bike onto the tailgate. I’m kind of hoping Dalton will appreciate the impressive show of physical strength, but he just prods me with, “Go on . . .”

  “So you promised to tell me the story of this thing.” I nod at the bike.

  “Sure, after you tell me what the hell you meant. Now talk or I take away your toy.”

  “It’s mine?”

  “Do I look like I’ll fit on that thing?”

  I start to grin. Then I sober, look at the bike and say, “You don’t need to bribe me, Eric.”

  He opens his mouth to protest.

  “I said I’d love a dog, and then I get one.
I love chocolate chips, and I get them. I say a dirt bike would be good for town, and now I get that. While the twelve-year-old in me is giddy, the adult worries.” I turn to face him. “It’s like a guy I dated in high school—the one who got me started on dirt bikes, actually. When I drifted, realizing the relationship wasn’t working, I suddenly got a necklace. And then a bracelet. And then a ring.”

  “Moron. Anyone who knows you wouldn’t buy jewelry. Dogs and bikes work much better.” He catches my expression and leans in, arms around my shoulders.

  “Are you drifting from this relationship?” he says.

  “What? No. Absolutely not.”

  “Then this isn’t the same thing.”

  “But—”

  “But yeah, I worry you’ll leave. Rockton can be shit, and these days it’s shittier than ever, and you have no reason to stay. You aren’t actually hiding from anything. But me worrying is just me worrying. Gotta give my brain something to do, ‘cause god knows, I don’t have enough to think about. I buy you stuff because it makes you happy. I bought you Storm because a dog is a good idea, for tracking and protection. I bought you this because a dirt bike is a good idea, too. We discussed that. I was getting supplies and chasing leads when I saw this at the end of a driveway with a For Sale sign on it. I had cash in my pocket, and the price was right, so you’ve got a dirt bike.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You are very welcome. Now, tell me about your marshal theory, or I’m taking the bike back.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  We’re in the truck, heading for the airport. With everything that’s happened, Dalton wants to get the hell out of Dodge. Or Dawson. Don’t tempt fate. Don’t give our patriotic captive time to reconsider and intercept us at the airport.

  On the way, I explain about Garcia.

  “He’s clearly a marshal. Spokane office, Washington. I found photos that are undeniably him. I located a reference as recent as last year in a newspaper.”

  “Okay . . .”

  “So this marshal is in the Yukon, alone, pursuing a fugitive, with no apparent assistance from Canadian law enforcement. That’s weird.”

  “We knew that.”

  “Right. But from the moment I learned he was really a marshal, I’ve trying to reconcile his behavior with his position, and the only answer I could come up with was that the council lied, and he’s not a marshal. I failed to see the obvious other explanation.”

  “Which is?”

  “I’m a homicide cop.”

  “Just figured that out, did you? Good timing, considering I’m relying on you to investigate a homicide.”

  “Ha-ha. I wasn’t done. I’m a homicide cop. I have the credentials. Look me up online, and you can verify that. But I’m not here as a member of Canadian law enforcement. Just because he’s a marshal doesn’t mean he was here on official marshal business.”

  “I thought you said it was different for federal cops. They’re kept on a tighter leash.”

  “They are, which is why it took me longer to consider this. We know that as of a year ago, Garcia was a marshal. Is he still one? Could he be on sabbatical? Medical leave? With the story that guy just told, there’s no way this is official marshal business. Ten grand to fly him out and back? Arranging it through a shady local? Hell, no. It was personal. More than that, there’s money in it. Serious money.”

  “Enough to drop ten grand on a round-trip ticket to Rockton.”

  “Yep.”

  “Bounty work, then. Not the kind Brent did either, bringing in people who’ve jumped bail.”

  “It could be, but it’d need to be a helluva big bail. A bondsman gets ten to fifteen percent. On a million-dollar bail, that’s a hundred grand easy, enough to hire someone like Garcia if his client skipped out. More likely, though, it’s not legal bond work. I don’t think a marshal would be allowed to do that. It could cost him his job, and if you’re risking that, you might as well go all the way as a private bounty hunter or hitman.”

  “So his target wasn’t necessarily someone who committed a federal crime.”

  “Yep.”

  “We don’t even know if we’re looking for someone who committed a crime. Just a resident that someone wanted brought back—or killed.”

  “Yep.”

  * * *

  I tell Dalton about Sebastian as we’re walking to the plane. He says nothing. Not a word. He just grunts and then conducts his checks on the plane. Only when he finishing does he turn to me.

  “His parents.”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “When he was eleven.”

  “Yes.”

  “Premeditated murder.”

  I nod, and he runs a hand through his short hair.

  “I don’t understand,” he says.

  “I don’t think anyone can understand. Except maybe Sebastian.”

  Dalton exhales and leans against the plane. “If this is what happens down south, that’s one more reason to stay up here.”

  “Except that we send all those people up here to you.”

  “Yeah, stop that. Just fucking stop.” He shakes his head. “And I can’t even say that. We grow our own here. That’s what Harper is, isn’t she? Like Sebastian.”

  “In her way.”

  “How many people are like that?”

  “Very, very few. That’s the thing. I can joke that we send all our killers to Rockton, but you’re going to get more than your share, considering its purpose.”

  “I know.”

  “And while life in the forest isn’t going to turn a kid like Harper into a killer, there aren’t any safeguards in place out there. No one to recognize what she’s becoming.”

  “So Sebastian solves his problems with murder. What’s the chance Garcia came for him?”

  “About equal to the chance he came for anyone else. Also, we have no way of knowing that the killer was actually Garcia’s target. They just thought they were.”

  “Fuck.” He sighs, deeply. “So did we accomplish anything here?”

  “We found out how Garcia tracked us. We seem to have plugged the leak. I confirmed Paul’s story. Roy’s was bullshit—which I’ll explain later—but his crime wasn’t violent; just an asshole, as we already knew. I answered our questions about Sebastian. And I am certain that whatever Garcia was doing here, we won’t have a troop of marshals parachuting down on Rockton, looking for their lost man.”

  “So that’s a win?”

  “I got a dirt bike.”

  He smiles. “Okay, it’s a win. We made progress, then, even if we aren’t much closer to finding a killer.”

  “We’ll get there.”

  * * *

  No one comes out to meet us at the hangar. Anders knows that we can’t afford for him to leave Rockton right now, and Kenny obviously can’t come running to help. We could have gotten someone else to watch for the plane and help unload supplies, but we can handle it. We didn’t buy much anyway—this was an unscheduled run, so it was just taking advantage of the extra space. Treats and luxuries. Yes, bribes. It’s been a shitty two weeks. Here, have some M&Ms and new books and strawberry-scented shower gel. When the council promised us extra luxuries for the inconvenience of taking Oliver Brady, Dalton had muttered about bread and circuses. He understood, though, that up here, those little extras go a long way toward easing discontent.

  We load everything into the ATV. Then Dalton takes that while I follow on the dirt bike. When we get near town, I hop off it. Yes, that twelve-year-old in me would love to rip through Rockton on my new toy, but the thirty-two-year old knows that would be as welcome as the cousin at Easter who rips around on his new BMX when you got a pair of fuzzy socks. So I will quietly walk the bike to the shed and tuck it away until a better time.

  The shed is locked tight. The ATVs and snowmobiles—and now bike—represent the best chance of getting out of Rockton for anyone who’s changed their mind about putting in their full two years. I undo the double locks on the heavy metal door and it slides open w
ith a whoosh.

  Inside, it’s pitch black. It might be bright sunshine out here, but the angle of the doors is wrong for this time of day, and no light filters beyond the opening. I reach for my pack, to get my light . . .

  I came from the city. I’m not wearing my pack.

  No matter. There’s a lantern just inside the door, for this very situation. Eric Dalton is the quintessential Boy Scout, prepared for everything. I reach inside the door and . . . no lantern.

  It’s awesome that our boss thinks of everything. It really is. The problem is that he’s surrounded by people who aren’t nearly as conscientious. Someone has needed the lantern to put away a vehicle and left it farther in the shed. I could gripe about that, but it very well might have been me.

  I wheel the bike inside. Being a secure building, there are no windows, so once I pass that rectangle of dim light at the entrance, I’m running on memory. The snowmobiles are tucked at the very back until winter. Dalton has the side-by-side ATV. The two smaller ones should be on my left—Ow, make that my right. So the spot on my left should be clear and—Ow, it’s not.

  Having now stubbed my left toe and banged my right shin, I’m considering dropping the bike here. But that’s like running into the house and dumping my shoes at the door, and while I was that kid, I try not to be these days.

  Prop the bike up and then feel around for a place . . .

  A figure passes the doorway.

  “Will?” I call.

  No answer.

  “Is someone there?” I say.

  I take a slow step, hand dropping to where my gun should be, except, of course, I don’t have it. I take a deep breath and consider pulling my knife, but I’m better without it. Another step. Then a figure fills the doorway, and I stop short.

  “It’s me,” a male voice says.

  I don’t recognize the voice, and the shape is just that: a human figure. It doesn’t actually “fill” the doorway. It’s average size. Slight build. The head is slick and round, as if bald, and it comes to an odd point at the back. Then a hand rises and pushes back what was a hood, and light hair flops forward.

  “Bastion,” I say.