The biggest question remains: Do we have another survivor? Without DNA, April agrees we cannot confirm or refute the possibility that the foot belongs to the male corpse here. By the time we got that DNA processed, any survivor would be dead from exposure. We’ll take the foot and a tissue sample from the male corpse. In the meantime, Dalton and I must search for a potential survivor.
* * *
April returns to Rockton with Anders. We’d left him with Storm and the vehicles. And no, he didn’t accept that without complaint. Anders has been to war. He’s seen friends blown up by IEDs. There was no way in hell we were letting him near that crime scene when it was completely unnecessary. So he waited and then handed over our camping gear before he took April back to town.
Dalton, Storm, and I set out on our search. It is meticulously slow work. We take Storm on wider circles around the crime scene, in case that helps her pick up a trail. At one point, I suspect she’s following the killers. Their trail soon breaks up, and while it might seem that we’d try harder to hunt them down, they aren’t our priority. I’m not even sure what to do about them. The obvious answer should be that they’re murderers, and we need to bring them to trial. Which is kind of like tracking a grizzly and bringing it to trial.
Catching the hostiles responsible doesn’t solve the problem. The situation must be resolved in a permanent manner, preferably by the council stepping up and following Maryanne’s recommendation to begin the process of capture, assessment, deprogramming, and reintegration.
For now, I want to focus on finding the potential survivor. Of course, he may be with his hostile captors. If so, then I hope he’ll play along until we can rescue him. He will be safe enough if he does that. My bigger concern is that he’s alone in the forest, without supplies, possibly wounded.
We return to the second campsite in search of anything we overlooked. A clue or, perhaps better, a piece of clothing we could use to ensure Storm has the right scent. We only confirm that there did indeed seem to be only one tent here, which is now gone, the entire camp cleared as thoroughly as if it’d been packed up.
Are we misinterpreting the evidence? If this camp looks like it was properly dismantled, then maybe the two couples hadn’t decided to sleep apart.
“Or they did and then didn’t,” Dalton says.
I nod slowly, processing. “They plan to sleep apart, and then have second thoughts. Maybe it was a fight, and they resolved the issue. Maybe they had dinner together at the other camp, and couple number two decided to just stay and sleep on the ground. No, wait. That wouldn’t explain the packed camp. They must have made up and reunited but it was too late to set up the second tent. Warm night. They have their sleeping bags. Set those up outside.”
“That would explain how Sophie escaped. She was in the tent with her partner. Hostiles attack the two outside and kill them quickly. Go after Sophie and her partner next.”
“They kill him, and Sophie escapes. Or he makes a run for it, and she’s injured, and he doesn’t come back to check. Presumes she’s dead.”
Dalton snorts. “Asshole.”
That’s harsh. Yes, I would come back to check. So would Dalton. Of course, we wouldn’t run in the first place, not unless we could escape together. I’m sure most people would say the same. Only a coward runs. Only a coward doesn’t return. But until you’re in that situation, it’s impossible to judge it.
I only know that we’d both stay because we can fight. If Sophie’s lover didn’t have those skills? If he’d been sleep-groggy and panicked? If he’d been so certain she was dead that he never considered returning? I won’t judge. I just want to find him.
We do not find him. Nor do we find any sign that he survived. The more we search the more certain I am that his body was dragged off by a predator. Maybe our local cougar or one of her full-grown cubs. Take the body. Cache it in a tree. We’ve seen her do it with a settler.
When the sun begins to drop, we declare it a day and declare our searching at an end. If he’s out here, he’s not close by, and we could hunt for weeks and never find him. At the very least, we can get more information from Sophie. And we can take that DNA test to Dawson and ship it south for testing.
We debate going back to Rockton. It’s barely dark, but it’s 11 P.M., and we’ve been awake since four. We’re exhausted, fueled for nineteen hours by water and energy bars, and too little of both. We have our camping gear. We have food packed by Anders, and when we open the box to find both dinner and breakfast, that seals the deal. We’ll head back first thing tomorrow.
ELEVEN
It’s not yet six the next morning, and I’m cuddled on a campfire log with Dalton as he roasts breakfast sausages. The smell of venison brings a red fox, who watches Storm from the forest, as if the dog is the only thing preventing the small canine from stealing our breakfast.
Storm glances at us, checking whether we want it scared off. There’s a cross fox that lives behind my old house in Rockton, and the vixen has made peace with Storm, realizing that the larger canine provides an excellent deterrent to any predator who’d bother her annual litter of cubs. Storm and the fox certainly aren’t friends, but they tolerate each other, and when I give Storm the signal that chasing off this fox is optional, I’m not surprised when she only settles in to watch the beast.
We’re dining with both a dog and a fox nearby, yet it’s Dalton who senses trouble first. Storm’s on her feet then, staring to the left, hackles rising in a warning growl that makes the fox decide it’s time to disappear.
Dalton tilts his head, nostrils flaring. He takes a few steps and sniffs again, sampling the breeze. This isn’t something he’d do with others around. He’s well aware of how it looks, and even if few people in Rockton know his past, he will forever feel like that “savage” child, brought back and taught civilized manners, which include not sniffing the air.
Dalton’s sense of smell isn’t any better than mine. He’s just more accustomed to using it, and when I do the same, I catch what he does. Campfire smoke. Not surprising, given that there’s a campfire crackling right behind us. But this smell wafts over on the breeze. Someone else has a fire close by.
There are approximately as many settlers in this region as Rockton residents. If I’d known that before I arrived, I’d have imagined those settlers fighting for hunting territory and fresh water. Having experienced the reality, though, I’ve discovered that thought is laughable. Dalton estimates one settler for every three square kilometers. That’s nearly a thousand acres for each person, and most share their land by choice—they live in one of the two settlements or with a family group. If you don’t want to be social, you need never encounter another person. So this fire is too close to be a coincidence.
I motion for Storm to stay where she is. She grumbles, but she’s accustomed to this indignity. We cannot sneak up on anyone with a Newfoundland lumbering after us.
Dalton sets out, and I fall in behind, covering him. He places each step with care, and I follow in his literal footsteps. When we’re close enough to see the fire—and two figures sitting by it—the smell of cooking meat wafts over, along with … Is that coffee?
Dalton tilts his head and inhales as he considers. He peers into the bush, and we both look for other figures. There appear to be none except the two at the fire.
He gestures for me to circle while he takes the straight-on approach. I keep my eye on him as we creep toward the campfire. Halfway there, I pause and motion to Dalton. He hesitates and then nods.
Unnecessary risks are not my thing, but in this case, I’m compelled to make an exception.
I take it slow, easing through the forest until I’m directly behind the two. A man and a woman, pressed as close as Dalton and I had been, sharing a log and body heat in the chill morning.
The woman talks as the man eats. While she’s speaking, I step from the forest. Five paces separate us. I eye the rifle at the woman’s side. Another rests within the man’s reach.
I pause when the
woman stops talking to sip from a tin mug. Then she resumes the one-sided conversation about plans for a trip into Dawson next month.
Two more steps. One …
I press my gun to the woman’s blond hair. “Hello, Cherise.”
Her partner, Owen, gives a start.
Cherise doesn’t even flinch. “Hey, girl. Wondering when you’d join us. Coffee?”
Owen and Cherise. Or, more accurately, Cherise and Owen, because in this relationship, there’s no question of who is in charge. Also no question that Owen likes it that way.
Owen is a former Rockton resident who took off after one too many clashes with Dalton. He went into the woods and met Cherise, the oldest daughter in a family of traders. Her mother died last year, and she took over the clan, despite being younger than me.
When I first heard about this family, I’d had a very clear idea of what they would be. Downtrodden women enslaved by a patriarch. After all, they were best known for their particular goods—three pretty blond daughters who’d been available for rent soon after they passed puberty.
What I found was … I’m not even quite sure what I found. Dad was clearly not in charge. Mom had been, and now Cherise is, and she’s a viper of a woman, whip-smart and deadly. The middle sister clearly aspires to Cherise-hood, but lacks the intelligence. The youngest is the only one who seems in need of rescue, but when I quietly offered it, she was insulted. She accepts her lot until she can find a settler to marry and start her own trading clan. I don’t know what to do with that. I really don’t.
I lower the gun and step back. Cherise only sips her coffee. She’s mid-twenties, and model-pretty in a cool, Nordic way. Her partner is my age, dark-haired and dark-eyed, with a scar across his nose.
Dalton strides from the forest, gun still in hand.
“Hello, Sheriff,” Cherise says. “Coffee?”
“What are you two doing here?” I say.
“Waiting for you. I knew you’d smell the smoke eventually. Or the coffee. I should thank you for the coffee. It puts him in a much better morning mood.” She hooks a thumb at Owen.
“Why are you here?” I say again.
“Hoping to hook up with you guys.”
Owen waggles his brows. “You must be getting tired of this stick-up-his-ass by now.”
Dalton tenses. Owen is a sexual predator. Oh, I’m sure he doesn’t see himself that way. His type never do. Good-looking former frat boy known to slip a little something extra into a girl’s drink to ensure his evening ends with a bang. Owen came to Rockton claiming to be a victim and very clearly was the perpetrator. It doesn’t help that I’m apparently Owen’s type.
What would help is if Cherise took offense and shut him down. She couldn’t care less. If it’d help foster a valuable trade relation, she’d gladly loan me her partner. Yet that same shark instinct means she doesn’t fail to miss Dalton’s reaction, which does jeopardize this trade connection.
“Casey has made it abundantly clear she is not interested, Owen.” She pats him on the back, like a friend offering sympathy for a strikeout. “Now stop embarrassing yourself.”
His mouth opens.
“Stop embarrassing me,” she says, meeting his gaze.
He nods. “Sure, babe. I ain’t trying to cause trouble. Just goofing around.”
Cherise rises as I whistle for Storm. The dog’s there in seconds. When she sees who we’ve met, she growls.
“Yeah, I know,” Dalton says. “We’d have preferred hostiles.”
“Now, now, don’t be rude,” Cherise says. “I think I might be able to help with that.”
“With what?” I ask.
“Your hostile problem.”
“If there’s a hostile problem, it’s yours, too. Everyone out here is affected.”
“We can deal with the wild people. You’re the ones who riled them up by killing their leader.”
“Because their leader attacked us and—” I stop myself. “I’m not here to argue. If you have information, let’s talk trade. It won’t be worth much, though. The hostiles have been quiet lately.”
Her burst of laughter has me cursing my misstep.
“They left two people in pieces,” Cherise says.
I try not to give anything away in my expression as I say, calmly, “Two people were left in that condition by animal predation.”
“Oh, don’t mince words, Casey. The wild people killed them. Animals just ate the remains. We heard you two yesterday and got a look. We also overheard you talking to your sister. You believe it was a hostile attack. On outsiders.”
I glance at Dalton. He lifts one shoulder, telling me he doesn’t see any point in holding back.
“What do you have for us?” I say, in lieu of confirmation.
“Something you’ll want.”
“Eric? Could you take Storm to the stream for a drink? I think Owen wants to go, too.”
Owen snorts and leans back on his log bench. “I’m good.”
“No,” Cherise says. “You stink, and unless you plan on sleeping alone tonight, you’ll wash up.”
He chuckles. “That punishment would last until about midnight, when you remembered why you keep me around.” He kisses her cheek but rises to follow Dalton out.
Once they’re gone, Cherise says, “If you think I’ll go easier on you with him gone, you’re mistaken, Casey. I don’t need to prove to Owen that I’m a tough negotiator. He doesn’t actually care, as long as he has a roof over his head, food in his belly, and me in his bed.”
She pauses and eyes me. “But it’s not him you’re worried about, is it? You don’t want to break too easily in front of your man.”
“Eric trusts me to negotiate. I just want them gone so we can drop the bullshit and do that. Without posturing.”
Her lips tighten at the unfamiliar word. Then a sniff as she figures it out in context. She doesn’t argue, though. She might not need to prove herself to Owen, but she’s still the alpha here, and this is more easily done without her pack as an audience. Also, perhaps more importantly, I don’t want Owen here as a witness to the admissions I’m about to make.
“Yes, we have a hostile problem,” I say. “It isn’t just the deaths. It’s the fact that one of their women left them, and they may know she’s in Rockton. I want to resolve this problem permanently.”
As I realize what I said, and how it can be interpreted, I expect her lips to curve in a smile. Which proves that I don’t know Cherise as well as I think I do.
Instead, she just eyes me, assessing.
“I don’t mean exterminate them,” I say, and when her gaze shows no comprehension, I amend it to, “Kill them all.”
“That would resolve the problem, though, would it not? My father has suggested it for years. My mother called him a fool. She said it was like killing all the grizzlies. Yes, we’d be safer if they were gone, but we’d also be safer if the wolves and the mountain lions were gone. Then perhaps we could also be rid of the winters. Oh, and the cliffs we can tumble off or the vines that can trip us. All are part of the forest. We have even done minor trade with the wild people. Not enough to wish them to remain, but there are too many of them to ‘exterminate,’ as you put it.”
“Agreed, and we wouldn’t do that.”
“Because they’re human?” Her lip curls slightly. “This is where you prove yourself unfit for our forest, Casey. You are tough and you are strong, but you are softhearted, and that makes you weak.”
“Maybe, but imagine if we did kill the hostiles. Wouldn’t you begin wondering who we’d target next? The settlers? The traders? You?” I shake my head. “Extermination isn’t the solution. We have access to resources that can remove the hostiles and treat them.”
Her brows crease whenever I mention an unfamiliar concept or term, as when I say “access to resources.” It’s the barest line between her brows, smoothed quickly. It slows her comprehension down just enough that there’s a beat pause before she catches my last words and snorts a laugh.
; “Treat them? Why?”
“That isn’t your concern. What I need from you is an understanding that this goal benefits us both. Whatever trade you have with the hostiles, as you say, it’s not worth the threat they pose. To get them out of here, though, I need to convince Rockton’s leaders that we’re dealing with a serious threat.”
“Then show them those bodies. That should be explanation enough.”
“The council doesn’t live in town.”
One brow arches. “You allow yourselves to be ruled by outsiders?”
“Ask Owen how Rockton is run. He’ll explain. For now, yes, those with the money and the resources to solve this aren’t in Rockton. Of course I’m going to tell them about the bodies. I can even send photos. I’m hoping the fact that the victims are outsiders will help. The last thing anyone needs is a team from Dawson combing the forest for lost tourists.” I pause. “People visiting from outside the Yukon.”
She gives me a withering look. “We travel into Dawson, Casey. I know what a tourist is. That’s why I’m hoping to make a trip before summer, when they invade like mosquitoes. I can’t imagine how fewer of them would be cause for concern, but I will take your word on that.”
She leans back. “Now, I suppose I’m supposed to tell you that I understand and will provide my information for free.”
“No, you’re supposed to understand that I’ve shared information with you, information I would rather keep to myself. Whatever you have, I expect to pay for it. I just don’t expect the bullshit of posturing and negotiating and spending half my fucking morning prying it from you … only to realize I’ve paid for something I could have found out myself for free.”
She refills her coffee before sitting back on her log. “Oh, you won’t find it, Casey. And you are going to pay for it. Despite all this blathering that’s supposed to convince me it’s in my best interests to tell you everything I know.”
“I would never not pay for information from you, Cherise, because you’d hold it over my head. I want an even accounting. All this ‘blathering,’ as you call it, is supposed to convince you that I’m not screwing around. If you distract me with time-wasting bullshit, you won’t ever trade with Rockton again.”
A Stranger in Town Page 9
