How do I help you get out of this?
Maybe that’s basic human empathy or maybe it’s projection, seeing myself at nineteen, trapped in an alley, going down under a rain of blows, waking in a hospital to be told I might never walk again and then walking out … and putting a bullet through the heart of the guy I held responsible. At that age, I’d been so lost and so alone. I saw those street kids, as I see this boy, a distorted reflection of who I’d been at their age, trapped in their eyes.
How do I help you get out of this?
That passes in a split second before, thankfully, I remind myself I am in the forest, during a storm, surrounded by hostiles, and this boy is one of them. I have my gun in hand, and I should point it at him. I should let him know I will use it. I will kill him. Yet my hands don’t move.
The boy stares at me. There’s no malice in his gaze. Certainly no rage. He’s staring at me, eyes clouded with what I saw the first time we met Maryanne. The confusion that only comes with a glimmer of recognition, as if he’s saying to himself, “Something about this situation is familiar, and I don’t know why.”
Maryanne looked that way when she saw Dalton. The expression on this boy’s face, though, isn’t quite the same, and I may be misreading it entirely. Seeing what I want to see.
“I’m not—” I begin, but he slices a finger under his throat. It could be a threat. I know it isn’t. It’s the sign for urgent silence.
He shakes his head, eyes widening to confirm I’m not misidentifying his gesture. He is afraid the others will hear. That they will realize he’s close enough to attack … and he has not.
He lifts his finger to his lips. Then his gaze sweeps the landscape. I know there are hostiles nearby—at least the injured woman—but they remain out of sight. The rain beats down, sky dark and rumbling, and in that moment, it is only the boy and me, standing in the rain, both on guard, every muscle tensed as water sluices over us.
He motions for me to approach. I adjust my grip on the gun and mentally tap the knife at my side, reassuring myself it’s within easy reach. As I approach, though, he moves to the side. That gives me pause, and my gaze shoots past him, looking for an ambush. No, he’s just getting out of my way.
I jerk my head, telling him to come closer. He doesn’t even dignify that with a response. I have a gun, and I suspect even if I didn’t, he wouldn’t risk his companions seeing him with me. I still take a step his way, but he backs up fast, his hands rising.
Come with me, I mouth.
He shakes his head. I doubt my face is more than a blob in the pelting rain, but no matter what I’m saying, the answer is no.
“I can help,” I whisper as loud as I dare.
Head shake. Hands raised. Then a finger pointed left.
Whatever you’re selling, lady, I’m not buying. Not today. The door is over there. Have a lovely day.
I can’t linger. I saw what happened to Colin. Whether the hostiles are responsible for the death of the Danish tourists or not, they are still dangerous as hell. This boy is offering me a safety hatch, and I need to take it. Now.
“Find me later,” I say aloud. “Please.”
Without answering, he slips away. Then I’m gone, moving fast through the rain, watching my feet, watching my surroundings, telling myself I am fine. As if I can see more than a couple of damn feet in front of my face as the rain slams down in torrents. As if I’ll hear a twig crack over the constant rumble of thunder. As if I’ll sense someone there even with my brain preoccupied, worrying about Petra, worrying about Dalton and Storm, worrying about that damned kid I just left behind.
I keep moving until I spot the pale blur of Petra’s face and blond hair, and it’s a good thing I do, because otherwise, I’d have walked right past, my treacherous brain insisting they were fifty feet to the right of where they actually are. I pick up speed and reach her in a few heartbeats.
She’s poised over Colin, her gun raised to protect him. When she sees me, she swings that barrel my way with, “Stop right there!”
“It’s me!” I call, and then add, “Casey!” as if I could be a hostile in disguise. She shifts her gun to cover my approach.
“Is she gone?” Petra says, never stopping that slow surveillance.
“Yes, but there are others.”
“Huh. What a surprise.”
I don’t answer. She knows me well enough to realize I’m already smacking myself over my mistake.
“How many?” she says as I back into position on Colin’s other side.
“I saw the woman and a kid, but the kid’s not a threat.”
She snorts.
“He’s not an immediate threat,” I amend. “He helped me get away. There are probably more, though.”
I’m not sure how much of that she hears in the rain. I realize only then that she’s moved Colin. I orient myself by the dead hostile, who is now farther to my right than when I left. Colin’s sitting with his back against the biggest tree in sight.
As soon as I ran, she strategically repositioned so she could protect them both. Colin is behind a tree, with thick brush to one side, impossible to pass, allowing her a 180-degree window to watch. Now with me, we can each cover half of that while Colin sits between us.
We stay poised and silent, as the rain pelts down, thunder gradually rolling away, lightning falling farther behind, until the rain is only a steady drumbeat and the sun peeps through cloud cover.
Soon the sky brightens to twilight. One last bit of illumination before the sun will sink past the horizon.
“They’re gone,” I say. “If they were going to attack, they’d have done it during the storm.”
Petra spins on me. “What the hell were you doing?”
That gives me a start. Apparently, her silence was only a reprieve, granted because arguing while under ambush would be stupid.
“I made a mistake,” I say. “Let’s drop it. Right now, I’m worried about—”
“You are always worried about someone,” she snaps. “That’s the problem, Casey. You’re out here searching for a man you don’t like and a girl you barely know.”
“I know Felicity quite well,” I say. “Also, they aren’t the people we were looking for.” I cut my gaze down at Colin, warning her against saying too much.
“Right, you were looking for total strangers. Risking your life for them, and then risking your life to help an attacker. Oh, I’m sorry, did I shoot you? Let me help fix that. Wait, come back!”
I say nothing. She grunts, as if in satisfaction that I’m listening, while a kernel of rage rolls in my gut, growing with each revolution.
“These people aren’t worth your time,” she says. “They’ve chosen—”
“Maryanne chose nothing,” I say, my voice low.
Petra has the sense to flinch at that, but only rolls her shoulders and says, “All right, Maryanne was there under duress, but that doesn’t make them all your problem.”
“No, they’re the problem of whoever gave the Second Settlement that tea.”
She blinks. It could be confusion at the seeming segue. It is not. That blink evaporates every foolish hope that I am wrong.
I am not wrong about the tea. I am not wrong about Émilie’s involvement. I am not wrong that Petra knows, and that she’s been watching me like I’d watch Storm when she was a clumsy puppy searching for a particularly well-hidden treat.
Petra egged me on and tossed clues my way. She patted me on the head when I got one right, all the while certain I’d never get the whole thing, but gosh, I was so adorable to watch, wasn’t I?
Now, instead of pretending she has no idea what I’m talking about, she just looks at me, waiting. Waiting to see if the puppy has figured it out.
“The First Settlement revolted,” I say. “Two Rockton residents died. Later, when the Second Settlement left, they seemed harmless enough—modern-day hippies—but no one dared take the chance. Not when it’d be so easy to take advantage of that hippie vibe and source them a locally grown
happy tea. That’s where your grandparents came in, with their big-pharma company. Send a researcher to source the brew and convince the commune to drink it. Sounds reasonable, right? No harm in that.”
She still says nothing. Just listens.
“I agree,” I say. “No harm in that. It’s a bit patronizing, but the settlers weren’t forced to drink the tea. They made a choice. And when someone breaks away from the group and tweaks the recipe and things go awry? It was an unforeseeable consequence. The fault lies in the cover-up. In turning a blind eye to what happened next. In telling every goddamn sheriff that they were imagining wild people in the forest. In hearing stories like Maryanne’s and saying ‘not our problem.’ Worse, hearing those stories and telling us it’s not our problem, that we shouldn’t help. You’re right, I shouldn’t run into the woods after a woman who attacked me. But maybe, just maybe, I can’t help it because I feel complicit.”
“You aren’t.”
“The hell I’m not. We all are—everyone who knew and did nothing, said it wasn’t our problem.”
A moment’s silence. Then she asks, slowly, “So what are you going to do about it?”
Is my grandmother in danger? That’s what she wants to know. Am I a threat to Émilie.
I’m opening my mouth to answer when I notice the man sitting between us, and I give a start, as if he’s appeared from nowhere. I’d wiped him from the scene. It’s me and Petra, butting heads as he sits silent and invisible, out of our line of sight.
Colin sits quietly, like a kid overhearing something juicy when his parents have forgotten he’s in the room. Keeping his mouth shut and hoping they don’t remember he’s there.
He’s heard, and I panic until I replay my words and realize how little I’ve actually said. No names. No details. Just vague references to settlements and some kind of tea. I’m sure he realizes that’s what I’m blaming for the wild people we just encountered, but it is indeed like overhearing a parental conversation, most of it flying past without context. Tantalizing glimmers of secrets and nothing more.
“I’m sorry, Colin,” I say stiffly. “You don’t need to hear any of that.”
“You think you know what’s wrong with these people, right?” he says. “Then you should help.” An empty-eyed look toward Petra, half puzzlement, half wary concern. “I don’t know why anyone would say otherwise.”
“No one is,” I say. “It’s just an internal dispute. Now—”
A bark. My head jerks up. There’s not a split second where I wonder whether that bark comes from any canine but Storm. It’s not just that I know my dog, it’s that a Newfoundland’s bark is very distinctive, especially when they’re in distress, and that’s what I hear. Storm’s deep woof of warning and rage and fear.
“Don’t you dare,” Petra says.
I turn and lift my middle finger between us. Then I walk away. I don’t run—she’d only accuse me later of running blindly into the forest at every provocation. I wouldn’t give a shit about what she thinks except that she has the power to get me fired, get me sent back down south.
I have never been more aware of that than in these last few minutes. Petra isn’t simply a resident. She isn’t just a comic-book writer or a friend. She’s a spy whose grandmother might be at the top of the Rockton food chain. That last gives her a power I hadn’t recognized because she hides it so well, taking on a shop clerk position in town, pulling her weight, accepting a tiny apartment. Camouflage, all of it, and I failed to see the threat hiding in the center.
So I walk from that clearing with a brisk and purposeful stride, as if I’ve just decided to go patrol the area. Nothing alarming, certainly not the fact that my dog is freaking out in the forest, a forest filled with angry hostiles, where she’s alone with the man I love. Nope, none of that. One agonizing step after another until I’m far enough away. And then I run.
THIRTY
On that run, I imagine every horrible scenario, and I will my muscles to move faster, my damn fucked-up leg to do better, driving myself through the rain-soaked forest, slamming down each foot hard, as if that will keep me from sliding. I run, heart hammering, the sun dropping as I strain to listen in the silent forest.
The barking has stopped, and my first thought was Good, they’re fine. Then other scenarios play, all the ways that a cessation in barking means anything but “they’re fine.”
I’m tearing through the woods in the direction I last heard Storm, and I’m telling myself that I’m still aware of my surroundings, despite the near darkness, despite the blood pounding in my ears. I’m certain I’m fooling myself, until a movement to the side has me spinning, gun up, and I see Dalton and Storm running toward me. I don’t ease my stance until Dalton waves.
As I jog to meet them, my gaze scans both, looking for injury. The only thing I see is that they’re both soaked, Storm a black mop impersonating a canine and Dalton dripping wet, his T-shirt sculpted to his body in a way that makes me temporarily forget I’d spent the last ten minutes running in abject terror. He catches me looking and laughs.
“You checking me out, Butler?”
As relief washes over me, I grin wider than the soft teasing warrants. “Looking good, Sheriff. Wet T-shirts suit you.”
“I’d say the same back, except I can’t see your T-shirt under that sweatshirt. You look like a bedraggled kitten. Adorably bedraggled.”
He starts to put his arms around my shoulders, but I throw mine over his, hugging him tight.
“Hey, you okay?” he asks, hugging me back.
“I should be asking you that. I heard Storm freaking out. Let me guess, just a fox or a hare, right?”
His pause tells me no, and I know better anyway. That was no animal-spotting bark.
“Ran into a couple of hostiles,” he says. “Well, didn’t run into them, thankfully. A woman and a guy. I heard people moving through the forest, thought it might be Edwin or Felicity, and we surprised each other. Had a bit of a standoff. The woman was hurt, though, so she backed off fast. Storm helped convince her.”
He lays a hand on the dog’s head. “The woman didn’t seem to know what to make of our pup and wasn’t eager to find out. The guy followed her lead.”
“Was he young? Maybe twenty?”
“Nah. Forty or so?” He squints down at me. “That was a bullet in her shoulder, wasn’t it?”
“I didn’t have a choice.”
“Shit.” His arms tighten around me.
“I think she came for the guy Colin killed. She saw he was dead, freaked out, saw Colin and really freaked out.”
Dalton curses. “They must have been tracking him together.”
“Exactly what I figured. Anyway, I’ll explain later. Right now, if you’re safe, we need to get back to Petra.” I pause. “I may have gotten a little pissed off at her.”
“Ah.”
“Yep, I planned to confront her, but not quite like that.”
“Did she deny it?”
I shake my head. “No denial. No anger. Totally calm and collected.”
“Bitch,” he mutters.
“Right?” I say. “Damn her for not waving a gun in my face, telling me I’ve got it all wrong and if I tell anyone my crazy theory, I’ll be sorry.” I hug him again. “Thank you for understanding that her reaction only pisses me off more.”
“It hurts you,” he says. “But yeah, we’ll go with pisses you off, if that helps.”
“It does.” I kiss his cheek. “Thank you.”
* * *
The place where I left Petra and Colin is empty.
Earlier, I’d almost overshot it, and then even when I reached them, I’d mentally mused at how unremarkable the spot was.
As I’d chased Storm’s barks, I’d taken note of my path as best I could, so I could find my way back. All that was unnecessary. I had someone with me who could have found their way back even if we’d still been in the middle of a thunderstorm. Apologies to Storm, but it’s not her.
Dalton led the way, and
as we approached the place, my mind began ticking off landmarks with small nods of satisfaction. Then we reach the actual spot, and I find myself hoping Dalton has made a mistake.
He has not made a mistake. There’s a dead hostile on the ground, exactly where we left him, leaving zero doubt that this is the spot.
“Paula!” I shout, my voice echoing in the night. “Paula!”
“Petra!” Dalton’s shout is a snarl that cuts above mine.
It’s possible the hostiles returned and kidnapped Petra and Colin. Neither of us even voices that idea, though, because if it happened, there’d be at least one more dead hostile on the ground. Petra had a gun, and she would use it.
Did she use it … to take Colin hostage?
I still want to believe she only retreated to Rockton. Took Colin back and left some message here that I can’t see. Yet I fear the scenario I imagined earlier, where Émilie and Petra flee. Where they don’t dare stand their ground and try to explain away Émilie’s culpability. Where they fear that we won’t let them explain—that we’ll demand truth and reparations, neither of which is in their interests.
So what are you going to do about it?
I knew she’d been worried about what I planned to do with my information, how it might affect Émilie. Yet I left her here and I ran, and I can seethe at that, but if it played out again, I’d do the same thing. Dalton and Storm were in trouble.
We comb the spot they left behind. The pack—with Colin’s sat phone—is gone. The dead hostile remains exactly as we left him and so does everything else. I do find signs of a scuffle in the dirt.
We follow Petra’s trail, even as we realize it’s pointless. She helped raise and train Storm. She knows what our dog can do, and sure enough, we haven’t gone more than fifty feet before the trail ends at a stream, where she must have ordered Colin barefoot as they waded in freezing-cold water. I only hope the poor guy doesn’t lose toes to frostbite.
I keep thinking about Colin. The guy who came here because he was worried about his clients. Came to save them and ended up attacked and blinded, and now kidnapped.
A Stranger in Town Page 26
