“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 voice mail, 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 quick.”
“And they weren’t there,” I say.
“We had a midafternoon 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.”
“I know. I’ll remain behind, but Petra can stay with me. We also have the blind guy.”
“I trust him more.” He shakes his head. “Nah, that’s not true. Petra saved you from an arrow last winter. You’ll be fine. I’m just fretting.”
“He is injured. Maybe we should take him back to April. I could be underestimating the damage. Especially with that blow to the head.”
“Now you’re just humoring me.” He slings an arm around my neck and leans down to press his lips against my cheek. “You have Petra. I have Storm. We’ll both be fine, and the longer I fret, the less daylight I’ll have.” He squints into the sky. “I keep telling myself those dark clouds aren’t moving closer
.”
“So do I.” I squeeze his hand. “Go on.”
* * *
Dalton quickly checks Colin’s pack before he goes, but it’s a cursory look. I want more. I motion to Petra to distract Colin. She does an excellent job of it, simultaneously engaging his attention and making enough noise that I’m able to slip the pack aside, go through it properly, and then return it before he even realized I’d stepped away.
I found exactly what I’d expect. Well, no, he’s missing one important item—one that makes me wonder whether he’s almost as inexperienced as his clients. He doesn’t have a gun. No handgun. No rifle.
While I’d never set foot out here without one or the other, though, that only shows my law enforcement bias. Colin has a big hunting knife, and he likely considers that sufficient protection. It would be, too, if he’d been carrying it when he was attacked.
He also has bear spray, which I will argue is equally pointless when you leave it in a zipped knapsack. Still, wilderness experience can be measured on a continuum, and with a large knife, bear spray, food, water, and a sat phone, he does have the essentials. He’s even carrying a first aid kit.
I also find ID showing him to be Colin Berger, a small-plane pilot out of Whitehorse. Before I return to Petra, I hunker down and consider what I’ve found. Consider the implications of it. I haven’t had time to do that, and I wish now that I had before Dalton left.
The fact that Colin is blind is, in the most callous terms, a godsend. We could conceivably bring him into Rockton for treatment and then back out again without him getting a good look at the town. Just as long as he doesn’t regain his sight.
That’s a horrible thing to wish for, isn’t it?
Oh, I certainly do hope you get your sight back, Colin. But could you hold off until we get you back to civilization? Thanks!
Even if he regains it in Rockton, we can deal with that. Once he’s ready to get out of bed, we can slip him a sedative and let him wake up in a hastily erected encampment outside town, where he can recover—briefly—and then we’ll escort him to his plane. And, maybe, if we can finagle it right, we’ll tell him we’ve stumbled over the remains of the tourists in the interim, so he can take those home with him.
Off you go, Colin. So sorry about your clients. Good thing you managed to kill that crazy mountain man who murdered them!
Yep, that makes me feel like a callous bitch. Doesn’t stop me from liking the plan, though. We’ll take good care of Colin, and we will find who killed his clients. That’s far from callous.
I slip back into the clearing as Petra says to Colin, “Hey, we haven’t asked if you’re hungry. I have a protein bar in my pack.”
As I return his pack to its spot, my gaze catches the dead hostile. I hadn’t forgotten him. It’s just … well, he wasn’t going anywhere.
I head over to him, saying, “I’m going to check out the guy who attacked you. Can you tell me anything more about him?”
“I was kind of hoping you guys could,” Colin says. “Like what the hell he is.” He shifts. “Sorry. I mean, obviously he’s a man, but the way he attacked, it was…” He shivers. “Like he was a wild animal.”
“Tell me more about that,” I say as I bend beside the hostile.
Colin explains as I examine the dead man. I don’t see any evidence that he isn’t a hostile. Maybe that should be obvious—looks like one, acts like one, smells like one—but after what happened with that settler family, I’m extra careful.
Striking the back of Colin’s head with a rock is classic hostile modus operandi. He’d hit hard enough that he expected Colin would at least be incapacitated. When he wasn’t, that caught the man off guard, and he blindly slashed with his knife.
I find the knife still clenched in the man’s hand. It’s a homemade weapon, as I’d expect.
There is nothing in the attack to suggest anything except a hostile. The man didn’t cry out in perfect English when he realized he was in mortal danger. He isn’t carrying a hidden gun in his waistband. His matted hair is real. The tattoos and ritual scarring are real. It’s all real. A real hostile, and a real hostile attack.
I rise and—
And there is someone in the forest. A figure, watching me. I can make out what looks like a young man. I see a face, that’s all. A smooth-cheeked male face, light brown skin, dark hair, and wide eyes, staring at me like he’s just spotted a hostile. I open my mouth and take a step forward—
“Casey!” Petra shouts.
Even as she calls out, I catch a blur of motion as another figure charges from the opposite direction.
TWENTY-NINE
I wheel, my gun rising as I bark “Stop!” at the same moment Petra fires. It’s a warning shot, and it does what it’s supposed to—halts my would-be attacker in her tracks.
It’s a woman. A hostile. She looks to be in her sixties, with graying hair, but she might be as much as a decade younger. She stares at me, lip curled as her face darkens with blazing hate.
“You,” she snarls.
“Stay where you are,” I say.
“Or you will shoot?” she says, her voice guttural and hoarse, but her words clear. “Shoot me, too?”
“Yes, I will shoot. But I’d like to speak to you, since you seem to be able to do that.”
“Able to talk?” She sneers. “You mean that I am not an animal? Will that make it harder to kill me?”
“Not if you attack me.” I motion for Petra to hold her fire. “Now—”
The woman’s gaze drops to the dead man at my feet. Her blue eyes widen. Then she howls and rushes at me. I kick her away before Petra decides to shoot.
“I didn’t hurt him,” I say as she staggers back. “That wasn’t me.”
Her gaze swings past Petra to Colin. A flash of recognition, telling me they must have been stalking him. In a heartbeat, she realizes who killed her companion, and she flies at Colin, screaming.
I shoot her. It’s all I can do. My bullet hits her in the shoulder and whirls her around. She catches her balance to see Petra’s gun and mine both aimed at her. She’s lucid, and she knows what those guns mean. Her hand claps over her shoulder wound.
“I can treat that,” I say. “Just—”
She backs away, growling. That sets me back. Despite the snarls and the curled lip, she has, until now, struck me as more “human” than any hostile I’ve met. That growl, though, is a pure animal sound. It takes me a split second to recover, and by the time I do, she’s bolted into the forest.
I take off after her. Behind me, Petra shouts my name. Tells me to get the hell back there or—
A thunder boom cuts off the rest. Ahead, the woman is running, hand to her shoulder, weaving through the forest as if she’s suffered a mere scrape.
“I know you can understand me!” I shout. “Just let me—”
Movement to my left. I wheel so fast my boot slides, and I have to grab my gun with both hands to keep hold of it. I may fall, but goddamn it, I am not letting go of my weapon.
Steadied, I survey the forest. Lightning flashes across the sky. As it fades, it is as if someone flicked off the lights. Those ink-black clouds roll in, swallowing the evening sunlight and casting me into near dark. The wind whips past, my ball cap smacking up and then dangling from my ponytail. I don’t reach to fix it. I don’t dare. I saw movement in the forest. I know I did, and now I can see nothing but trees and shadows. I strain for the running hostile’s footfalls. Everything has gone silent.
I’ve run straight into a trap.
No, not a trap. I might actually feel better about that. This is an ambush of my own creation. I saw from the woman’s reaction that she knew both the dead man and Colin. They must have been tracking him, and she became separated from the dead man. It isn’t only the woman out here, though. I’d seen a young man, and while I hadn’t thought he was a hostile, I hadn’t seen enough of him to be sure.
When the injured hostile ran into the forest, what did I do? Gave chase, ignoring Petra’s shouts
and curses. Ran into the forest even as I knew—beyond a doubt—at least one other person waited here. I’d known it … I just hadn’t processed what it meant. That I could run straight into an entire troop of hostiles.
I breathe deeply. I don’t see anyone yet. I’ll start backing toward Petra, gun raised, gaze canvassing for even the slightest movement. Listening, too, for a cracking twig, for the swish of soil underfoot.
All that would be so much easier if it wasn’t nearly dark out here, if the thunder wasn’t rolling overhead, if drops of rain weren’t splashing my face. I can look and listen all I want, but if I can’t see or hear—
A sound behind me. I spin, gun pointed. No one’s there. I know I heard something, though, and when I squint into the dusk, I realize it won’t be Petra and Colin. I’ve chased my target farther than I intended.
Lightning cracks open the sky, and in that split second of illumination, I see someone to my left, crouched and watching me. A hostile between me and Petra. Waiting for me to run back toward them.
Another sound. No, not a sound. The sense of a person to my right. I turn twenty degrees that way, so I can still see where the first hostile waits, now hidden in shadow. When I spot someone to my right, I give a start.
He’s right there, less than ten feet away. It’s the young man. Hope leaps. Hope that he’s a settler, an ally. Hope that detonates as I take in his makeshift clothing and his wild hair.
But he’s so young.
God, he’s so young.
That trips me up, my brain screaming that I am mistaken. This cannot be a hostile because they don’t have children. Yet he’s not a child. He’s Sebastian’s age. To me, though, all I see is a boy, one who should be in college or starting his first job, and how the hell did you get here?
That’s the question screaming in my head, blocking rational thought.
How did you get here?
And how do I help you get out.
Those whispers of rational thought remind me he is not a child, not trapped, not in need of my help, no more than kids I saw in the streets when I was a cop. Still, that never stopped me from seeing them and thinking the same thing.
A Stranger in Town Page 25
