A Stranger in Town: a Rockton novel

by Armstrong, Kelley

  Something moves twenty feet ahead, on the other side of a bush. Brown fur shimmers, and my heart thumps double-time. My grip on my gun slides as my palms sweat.

  Dalton scans ahead. I do the same. We won’t be caught off guard this time. There’s no sign of a second beast, but it’s dense forest, and we can only make out that fur-shimmer of the first.

  Dalton passes the leash back to me. I’m to stay where I am while he investigates. A wave tells Petra to circle wide and cover him. As I take the leash, he glances back and our eyes meet. He catches something in mine that makes him do a double take, and I cover my fear with a reassuring nod.

  He returns my nod, and then his gaze is back on the bush, now shaking as the bear brushes against it, still snuffling, the occasional snort mixed in. Then a grunt that tells me it’s eating.

  The beast is distracted. That’s good. Stay distracted.

  Dalton pauses and then chooses his direction. Petra fans out farther. I wrap the leash around my hand and then take a careful step in the other direction. Another step. Another. I’m trying to get a visual on the bear’s head without attracting its attention.

  One more step, my gun raised, as my gaze sweeps the scene, making sure we aren’t missing a second bear—

  I stop, heart slamming as I catch sight of something on the ground. A brown lump. My mouth opens to get Dalton’s attention, but there’s no way to do that without alerting the feeding bear. I swallow hard and step to the right, ducking to peer under the foliage.

  A long length of tan tops the dark brown lump. My brain tries shoving the image into bear shape, but it doesn’t fit. I blink, and then I realize what I’m seeing. A boot and a leg and, above it, the dark hump of a body. Someone lying in the clearing. Lying on their back, while a bear is ten feet away, feeding—

  I clamp my jaw shut against the urge to warn Dalton. My stomach twists, but I know I can’t say a word. I also know, as horrifying as this is, that it doesn’t actually matter what the bear is eating. Not at this moment.

  I stare at the boot and I struggle to remember what Felicity and Edwin had been wearing.

  With Storm on a tight lead, I step forward until I can make out the shape of the bear’s head as it yanks back, a sickening wet noise as it rips into its meal, snorting and . . .

  I see hair not fur. Bristly hair and upright ears and a snout longer and smaller than a bear’s.

  “Hie!” Dalton shouts, and I swear I jump two feet in the air. “Hie, hie!”

  He rushes forward, a dark shape charging at what I now realize is a boar. The beast tears past us. Storm whines and dances in place, but I don’t release her.

  This isn’t my first encounter with one of the wild pigs. Technically, they don’t exist in the Yukon, but years ago, Rockton experimented with livestock, including a crossbreed for northern climates. The herds had escaped and gone feral.

  I keep my gun aimed at the fleeing porcine as it crashes through the undergrowth.

  “Hey, Casey,” Petra says as she tramps toward Dalton. “You had a perfect shot there. Could have caught us some bacon.”

  “I don’t think anyone would have wanted it,” I say, cutting my gaze toward where the boar had been feeding.

  “Why—?” Another step, and she can see what I meant. “Oh God. I . . . I don’t think I’m going to be eating forest pork ever again.”

  A man lies on the ground. A stranger with a bloody gaping wound at his stomach where the boar had begun eating.

  It’s a hostile. The clothing, the rudimentary tattoos, the mud-smeared face and matted hair—they all leave no doubt. The man’s face is scored with deep gouges and there’s a bloody divot in his temple, where someone struck a fatal blow.

  My chest tightens, and I spin toward what I’d seen earlier. The sight I’d almost forgotten.

  A boot protruding from the undergrowth. Tan khakis over that boot, a leg ending in the heap of a human body. A second body.

  “Fuck,” Dalton exhales.

  I move toward the man on the ground. It is a man. A stranger, I can see that from here. He’s covered in blood and dirt.

  Despite the modern clothing, he could be a hostile or settler, having stolen the clothes from the Danish tourists. His hands tell me otherwise. So does his hair—worn a little long, but fashionably so. Despite the blood and dirt, it’s not the hair of someone who lives in the forest and makes their own soap.

  The clincher, though, is the hands. There’s blood under his nails, those nails have been manicured, and his fingers are smooth. Not the digits of a man accustomed to chopping logs or hauling water.

  The man lies on his back, eyes half open, mouth agape. Staring up at the forest as he breathed his last. Blood plasters down his hair. His shirt is bloody and shredded. A knife attack.

  There’s also a rock clenched in one hand.

  The hostile attacked with a knife. The man managed to hit him in the head with a rock and kill him, then collapsed over here and died alone in the forest. He defeated his attacker, but too late to give him more than a moment of satisfaction.

  “Two feet,” Dalton says.

  I blink up at him.

  “He’s got two feet. Two boots.”

  That means he’s not the missing fourth member of the Danish tourist party. This man is dark-haired, and the leg we’d found seemed to have lighter hair, but that wouldn’t have precluded it being the same guy. This man, though, clearly has all his appendages.

  He seems dressed like the Danes, but on closer inspection, I amend that. He’s dressed in a similar manner. Khakis, hiking boots, lightweight shirt. Except the brand name is one I wear myself, the kind of good-quality outerwear worn by serious outdoors types, unswayed by trendy brands.

  I tell Dalton.

  “Shit.” He rocks back on his heels, looking down at the dead man. “Searcher?”

  “I really hope not.”

  I reach into the man’s pocket, leaning over him to get my fingers in at the odd angle. When I touch something like an ID wallet, I tug . . . and the man jerks up, gasping.

  28

  I yelp and scramble back, crablike. Dalton swings his gun on the man, and Petra does the same. The man is flat on his back again, his eyes half open, mouth open, exactly as he’d been a moment ago.

  “We . . . all saw that, right?” Petra murmurs. “The dead guy leaped up.”

  “Yes.”

  “Like something in a horror movie?”

  “Yes.”

  She gives a tight laugh. “And instead of jumping for joy, we all pulled our weapons on him?”

  “Except me,” I say, my voice still shaky. “I just shrieked.”

  “It was a very small shriek.”

  Storm approaches the motionless man and snuffles him.

  “I believe the dog has a question,” Dalton says. “Like why are we standing here talking when there’s a dead man who isn’t actually dead.”

  We’re all staring, as if waiting for him to lever up again, maybe give a zombie moan. Even as I crouch beside the man, Petra and Dalton keep their weapons aimed.

  I pause over the man, overcome by indecision so strong I could almost laugh at the ridiculousness of it. I should be jolted into EMS mode, jumping in to evaluate his condition. I mean, he’s obviously alive and in need of medical attention. But I’m weirdly unsure of how to proceed. Talk to him? Shake his shoulder? See if I can wake him? Or just start a medical examination, risking giving him another jolt of shock, maybe one strong enough to stop his heart?

  “Hey,” I say, tentatively, and to their credit, neither Dalton nor Petra laughs.

  I lay my hand on the man’s shoulder and give a soft squeeze. “I’m here to help, okay?”

  Again, it’s ludicrous dialogue. The guy isn’t dozing. He’s . . . Well, I don’t know what state he’s in, which is the problem. His eyes are half open, mouth ajar, and that is not the look of an unconscious man, yet he’s been that way since we arrived, which made us certain he’s dead.

  Is he brain-damaged?
In severe shock? I need my sister here. I really do. I’m looking at a man who has almost certainly undergone some sort of neurological trauma, and we have a neuroscientist in Rockton. But that doesn’t help when she’s a two-hour walk away, and he may be in severe medical distress.

  I grip his shoulder tighter. “I’m going to examine you, okay?”

  No response.

  “Can you hear me?”

  No response.

  I adjust my position, shifting in discomfort. I’m certain I’ll make the wrong move, and both Petra and Dalton are relying on me to get this right.

  “Is he definitely alive?” Petra whispers.

  It seems like a silly question. We saw him sit up. I’m 99.9 percent sure that can’t happen as a postmortem reflex, and now that I’m up close, I can see the artery pulsing in his neck. He is alive. But there’s physical death and there’s brain death. Is it possible that this man’s brain is only alive enough for that physical reaction to being touched?

  I need April. I need her so badly, and I don’t care how much side-eye she’d give me for these questions. I’ll take it, if it means I don’t make a mistake here and shock-kill a living victim.

  “He’s breathing,” I say. “That’s all I know.”

  I raise my voice, as if hearing impairment might be the problem. “I need to examine you. I’m going to start by touching your head to check for skull fractures.”

  That seems the most likely answer, given his mental state and the blood in his hair. With extreme care, I touch his skull, where there’s a thick clot of blood. I verbalize my every move—I’m going to touch your head, I’m going to clean this wound, I’m about to press a damp cloth to your forehead.

  He doesn’t react until I wipe at the blood. Then his eyes fly open. That’s it. Just those open eyes, staring at nothing as I jerk the cloth away.

  We all go still, no one even seeming to breathe. The man blinks. Once. Twice. I’m opening my mouth to speak when he croaks, “Is someone there?”

  I ease into his line of vision, but he doesn’t react. Just that wide-eyed stare past me.

  “Shit,” Dalton mutters.

  The man’s head swings Dalton’s way, and then he pushes up onto an elbow.

  “Hello?” the man says.

  “We’re right here,” I say, as calmly as I can. “My name is Casey. I’m with a camp nearby. I have two other people with me.”

  His head swings, following my voice. “I can’t see you. It’s too dark. I need a light.”

  I look up at the soft yellowish light of early evening. Then I take a deep breath. “I . . . I think you’ve suffered a head injury. You appear to be temporarily blinded.”

  Is it ethical to say this when I have no idea whether it’s temporary? Maybe not, but it’d be a hell of a lot less ethical to panic a man when I don’t know how badly he’s injured.

  “You’re okay,” I say. “We found you, and you’re okay. I was just examining you before we get a doctor.”

  Silence.

  “Can you understand me?” I ask.

  He nods.

  “You’ve suffered a head injury,” I say. “Your eyes look fine. It’s probably just trauma. Do you remember what happened?”

  “I—I was attacked. Some guy from the forest. He looked like . . . I don’t even know what.” He swallows. “I’ve heard stories. About crazy folks. Criminals. Killers. People who escape into the woods out here, and I thought they were just stories but . . .”

  “All right. I have questions but first, I need to examine you. You’ve been stabbed.”

  He shakes his head. “Not stabbed. Just sliced up.” A hollow laugh. “Suddenly, that distinction seems really important.”

  Another swallow, and he sits upright and rubs his eyes. “Go ahead and examine me, but I suspect I’m okay other than this . . .” A wave at his eyes. “The guy clocked me in the head. With a rock, I think. Snuck up behind me. I fell, and he seemed to think I was unconscious, so he flipped me over. I jumped up, and he came at me with the knife. I’d put my pack down, so all I could do was follow his example and grab a rock. After he slashed me a few times, I managed to hit him and . . .”

  His voice trails off, coming back in a whisper that is half awe and half horror. “I don’t even know how I did it. Something inside me just took over. An instinct for survival, I guess. I hit him, and I just kept hitting him until he went limp. Then . . .”

  He shakes his head. “It’s a blank after that.” He pauses, that empty gaze lifting to mine. “Is he . . . ?”

  “He is.”

  A moment of silence. Then, “What was he?”

  “We can talk about that in a minute. I know you don’t think you’re badly injured, but I’d like to examine you. We found you while searching for other people. If you’re badly hurt, we’ll abort that search to get you to a doctor. If you’re okay for now, though . . .”

  I look up at Dalton, who gives an abrupt nod. While getting this poor guy to April might seem like the obvious next move, if he’s stable, we need to consider Felicity and Edwin.

  “My injuries can wait,” he says. “But go ahead and double-check.”

  “Thank you. If you’re fine, one of us will stay with you, but we were following their trail, and we’d hate to lose it.”

  The man nods. “I understand.”

  I ask his name—Colin Berger. Then I remove his shirt. His injuries do look worse than they actually are. There’s a lot of blood, but it’s surface damage. I don’t even see any cuts in need of stitching.

  “You aren’t going to ask who we’re hunting for?” Dalton asks after a few minutes.

  Colin’s head jerks up, tracking the voice.

  I don’t stop Dalton from asking the question. I should have asked myself—I’d been too focused on the man’s injuries to realize it’s odd he didn’t question us about the search.

  “For the Danes, right?” Colin says. “Or, at least I certainly hope you are, and I definitely hope you did find their trail. I’ve been hunting for two days without a trace.”

  “What’s your interest?” Dalton asks.

  “Not sure I need an ‘interest’ in finding missing hikers.” Colin’s tone cools. “But I know folks out here can be private, so I’ll respect that. I dropped them off last week. They were . . .” He rubs his chin. “I’m a pilot and I love my job, but I hate how many people like them we get.”

  “They were difficult?” I ask as I plaster the worst of his cuts.

  “Yes and no. As customers, they were damn near perfect. Paid their deposit. Showed up on time. Didn’t make any demands. The problem is inexperience. Oh, sure, they’ve done plenty of backwoods hiking at home. But they don’t understand the sheer scope of this wilderness. Part of me always wants to refuse to fly people like them. But if I did, someone else would. As long as they have some experience and proper equipment, I can’t rightly say no. Doesn’t keep me from worrying they’re making a huge mistake. I lost a couple of Germans about five years back. Ever since then, if they don’t have a satellite phone, I bury the rental fee in my charge and insist they take it and call me every forty-eight hours. My buddies joke I’m a mother hen but . . .” He shrugs. “I haven’t had so much as a scare since the Germans. Until now.”

  “When did the Danes stop calling?”

  “I last heard from them six days ago. When they didn’t make their next call, I wasn’t too worried. They were late with the first call, too. I gave it forty-eight hours more. Then I called them. I hate doing that. It crosses a line, you know? Treating clients like children. Also, the last time I did it, the people complained on their online reviews. That’s a lousy excuse but . . .” Another shrug. “Every little bit counts.”

  “So you called the Danes, and they didn’t answer?”

  “It went straight to the warning message. There’s no voicemail, but a message will tell me if it’s powered off. I told myself not to overreact. Yesterday, though, was the day they were due to be picked up, so I flew my ass out here damn q
uick.”

  “And they weren’t there,” I say.

  “We had a mid-afternoon pickup. That gave me a few hours to search after I was sure they weren’t just running late. I slept in the plane and headed out first thing this morning. It was maybe noon when that . . . person attacked.”

  Colin pauses, his gaze lifting in Dalton’s general direction. “You are tracking my clients, right? Please tell me yes.”

  Dalton grunts. The guy takes that as confirmation and nods.

  “We’re losing our light,” I say. “I’m going to stay with you while Eric picks up the trail again. Storm?”

  Colin blinks. “Shit. That’s right. There’s a storm in the fore—”

  The dog brushes against him, and he jumps.

  “Sorry,” I say. “There’s a dog here. Storm. Our tracker.”

  He gives a shaky laugh. “I thought I smelled a pup, but I figured I was hallucinating.”

  “There’s another person here, too.”

  “Paula,” Petra says.

  I nod. “I’m going to leave Paula with you for a minute while I speak to Eric.”

  I’ve been picking up the hints that Dalton wants to talk. I tell Storm to sit beside Petra, and then I slip off with Dalton, getting far enough away that we can still see them, but they can’t overhear us.

  “So . . .” he says. “He seems okay?”

  “Physically? Or his story?”

  “Story seems legit. Matches what we can see—clothing and whatnot. I’d like to check his pack . . .”

  “Easy enough to do when he can’t see you.”

  A short grunt of a laugh. “Yeah. You think the blindness is temporary?”

  “Only April would know, and even then, it’d be an educated guess. I want to say it could be temporary damage to the optic nerve, but I’m not sure that’s an actual thing or just me quoting a line from a novel.”

  Another snort as he smiles. “Yeah. I was thinking the same thing. Must have read the same book. I’ll check his pack. I meant, does he seem okay physically? I know you’d say if he didn’t. I’m just . . .” He rubs a hand over his beard. “I don’t like leaving anyone alone in the forest, after what happened to him.”