Instead, she frets. Is it really safe to let the cab leave? Shouldn’t we just grab my snack and go? My God, is that loaf of bread actually seven dollars?
“It’s the north,” I say. “Everything’s expensive.”
Dalton proceeds to buy a bag full of baked goods—bread and scones and cookies—and a few pounds of coffee. We get our snack and chat to an athletic senior couple who retired here after a chance visit. That is the story I hear, over and over, people who came to the Yukon for a work trip, for vacation, on a temporary placement, and never left.
The Yukon isn’t an easy place to live—with long, dark winters that never seem to end—but it is a place that people choose. A place that seduces. I don’t need my sister to be seduced, but I want her to see the magic. As Dalton and I talk to the couple, she picks at her scone and keeps checking her watch. We still have an hour to go—plenty of time for the five kilometer drive to the airport and the non-existent security line—but her anxiety is contagious and finally, with regret, I surrender to it.
* * *
The first time I came to Rockton, we drove from Whitehorse to Dawson City. Dalton and I have made that trip a couple of times since, when he needs supplies he can’t get in Dawson. If he’s picking up newcomers, he’ll usually fly that leg, if only to avoid being in a car with a stranger for six hours. That’s what we do today. We fly into the tiny Dawson airport, and then we head into the hangar, where our bush plane awaits.
“Are you going to be okay with a small plane?” I ask.
She stares, uncomprehending, and I remember my first walk to this hangar, when Dalton handed me a couple of pills. Mild anti-anxiety meds for the flight. The former town doctor had known my background and sent the pills. I’d given Dalton a look not unlike April’s, as I’d tried to figure out why anyone would think I needed medication.
“Your parents?” he’d said.
Because my parents died in a small plane crash. I’d been walking to a small plane without even thinking about that. Ashamed, I’d hurried to cover it up, to not be the cold bitch unaffected by the tragic death of her parents.
When April gives me that look, I realize she’s not making the connection either. I won’t make it for her. I won’t put her through that discomfort. So I just say, “Bush planes aren’t for everyone.”
“If you’re referring to Mom and Dad’s crash, I am well aware of the statistical unlikelihood of perishing under the same circumstances. I am many times more likely to die in a car accident, and yet I don’t see people swearing off motor vehicles when a loved one passes that way.”
Sorry I mentioned it.
I want to mutter that, as I would have when I was young. Instead, I stick to my adult method of dealing with April: I ignore her.
As we fly, the noise of the plane makes conversation difficult. Dalton and I still manage it, mostly in gestures, him pointing out something in the forest or me doing the same. April doesn’t say a word. By the time we touch down, I’ve forgotten she’s even there, and I jump when she says, “Where are we?”
“Nowhere,” I say. Then I grin at Dalton. “Everywhere.”
April rolls her eyes. “I know I’m not supposed to ask for details. I simply didn’t realize it was quite so . . .” A scrunch of her nose. “Remote.”
“Yep,” Dalton says. “That’s why we warned you. No wifi. No cell service. We’ve got electricity, but it’s strictly rationed.”
“You’ll be able to use whatever you need with Kenny, though,” I say.
I haven’t used his name before, and I expect her to comment. She only waits for the door to open.
As I help Dalton unload the plane, April wanders outside. I hear the thump of running footsteps and then a happy bark that makes me grin.
Storm must circle around April, wide enough that my sister doesn’t notice a charging eight-month-old Newfoundland pup. The dog skids to a stop at my feet and dances with excitement until I give her the command. Then she jumps on me, front legs planted on my shoulders. After I hug her, she takes off to greet Dalton.
I step outside. April is about twenty feet away, at the edge of the clearing. I’m about to move away from the dark hangar when Anders jogs up behind April and pulls her into a hug.
“Didn’t go well with your sister, huh?” he says.
April jumps like she’s been knifed.
Anders falls back fast. “Shit. You’re not . . .”
“Not the sister who allows strange men to hug her?” she snaps.
I jog out from the hanger.
“So you let strange men hug you?” Anders calls to me. “Guess that explains how you ended up with the sheriff.”
I shake my head. “Will, this is my sister, April.”
“Yeah, I figured that.” He extends a hand. “Will Anders. Local deputy and the remaining third of the police force.”
She gives his hand a perfunctory shake. Then she sees Storm and startles.
“Not a bear,” Anders says. “Well, supposedly. Eric says she’s some fancy purebred, but I’m still convinced someone conned our sheriff and sold him a black bear cub.”
“She’s a Newfoundland,” I say, rubbing Storm’s neck. “She’s big, but she’s well trained. You just need to watch out for flying fur and slobber.”
“Isn’t that . . .” April peers at her. “Didn’t Aunt Becca’s boyfriend have a dog like that?”
I light up in a grin. I can’t help it. “He did. Nana—named after the Newfoundland in Peter Pan. I kinda fell in love with that dog, so Eric bought me this one.”
She mutters something under her breath. It sounds like “Of course, he did,” but when I look up, she’s only shaking her head.
“Her name’s Storm,” I say. “Because of . . .”
I rumple her white-streaked ear. April looks at me blankly.
“X-Men,” Anders says. “Your sister is not afraid to let her geek flag fly. She’s even got us playing D&D.”
“Which was your idea,” I say.
April stares at Anders. Admittedly, he is kind of stare-worthy. Her look, though, is pure confusion. If there’s a stereotype of a guy who knows every rule in the D&D handbook, it is not Will Anders. He’s six foot two, with a military buzz cut and a US Army tat on one bulging black bicep.
“Do you have an actual patient that I’m supposed to see?” April says finally.
“Casey and Will were waiting for me,” Dalton says as he walks out of the hangar. “We have to sneak you into town, and I needed to put the plane to bed first. Now, let’s talk about how we’re going to do this.”
THREE
Dalton and I have already discussed how we’ll manage this situation. As we walk to town, we let Anders in on the plan.
If we play this right, we’ll get April in and out of Rockton, and the only other person who’ll know she was here is Mathias, our psychiatrist-turned-butcher. There’s a reason Anders mistook April for me. Before we boarded the bush plane, I had her change into my spare clothing. She’s wearing my T-shirt and jeans, and after we left the plane, I gave her my jacket and ball-cap, too. I had her pull her hair into a ponytail and tug it through the back of the cap, the way I wear mine.
No one will walk up to April face-on and presume it’s me. The thing about Rockton, though, is that there are no strangers. As long as people only spot her in passing, they’ll see who they expect to be wearing that ball-cap and jacket.
We don’t take her through town, of course. As soon as we draw near, she’s in Anders’s custody. Then Dalton and I continue on with Storm. Dalton marches into Rockton and straight to the first gaggle of residents he sees.
“Where’s Phil?” he says.
They all turn with blank looks.
“The council guy,” I say. “Val’s replacement.”
“I think he’s holed up in her old place,” one says.
Dalton grunt a thanks and strides in that direction.
People tag along, hoping for scraps of information about Kenny. I promise an update soon.
That would usually be enough to placate them, but Dalton uses the excuse to snarl and curse and make a whole lotta noise about how if the “fucking council found us a fucking new doctor, Kenny wouldn’t be in this fucking mess.” It’s pure theater—getting people’s attention while Anders spirits April around to the clinic. Fortunately, the town is accustomed to seeing their sheriff on a rant, and no one thinks twice about it. They just draw closer in hopes of some real entertainment once Dalton reaches Val’s house.
“Philip!” Dalton shouts when we’re within fifty feet. “Get your goddamn ass out here!”
It takes a few moments before the door creaks opens. When Phil sees Dalton, he seems to contemplate the possibility of retreat. Dalton’s striding toward the house, looking like he’s two seconds from putting his hand on his sidearm and challenging Phil to a duel at high noon.
When I first met Dalton, I’d thought he looked like a Wild West sheriff. The way he carries himself. The strong jaw. The sun-weathered skin. The crow’s-feet forming at the corners of gray eyes that have spent too long squinting into the sun. Put him into Rockton, with its dirt roads and simple wooden buildings, and he seems right at home. Today, he’s even wearing the hat, one that’s meant to keep the sun off and slow that early damage but yes, I may have picked out one that bears more than a passing resemblance to a ten-gallon hat.
Phil, on the other hand, looks like the kind of guy who, if asked to “draw,” whips out his cell phone at lightning speed. Mid-thirties. Impeccably dressed. Chiseled face. An Armani suit model come to life. After a few days in Rockton, he’s forgone the jacket and tie, but he still wears the white shirt, trousers and loafers. The shirt, admittedly, is beginning to look a bit rumpled. We don’t have ironing boards in Rockton.
Before Phil arrived, he’d been a faceless voice on our satellite receiver, and I’d always pictured a nebbish middle-aged pencil pusher with a comb-over and paunch. I was still fighting the disconnect.
Phil steels himself and walks out, his chin lifting. “Is there a problem, Sheriff?”
“Yeah. This”—Dalton waves the satellite phone—“is a fucking piece of shit.”
He whips the phone. To Phil’s credit, he doesn’t hit the deck. He just takes a quick step back as the phone smashes into the wall, pieces flying.
“That—that is an expensive piece of technology, Sheriff.”
A few of the gathering locals titter. I hear at least one whispered request for popcorn.
“No, that is fucking piece of useless shit,” Dalton says, bearing down on Phil. “Or did you fall asleep?”
“What?’
I answer as I walk up beside Dalton. “We hoped to speak to April before she went into work. You’d said the phone would be manned at all hours.”
“It was. I had a nap, of course, but Sam was watching it while I slept. I was awake at daylight, which up here, is four in the morning apparently.”
“We called at four-thirty,” I lie. “And five. And five-thirty. And six . . .”
“The fucking phone didn’t work,” Dalton says. “Which is a problem when it’s the only fucking way we have to get in touch.”
“I’m sure there was some other way—”
“Like what?” Dalton says. “Smoke signals?”
“It’s a direct link satellite phone,” I say. “If it fails, we can’t just buy a new one. This is what happens when you refuse to give us another method of communication.”
“One fucking method of communication,” Dalton says. “We had a trained neurosurgeon on hand, ready to give Kenny the best goddamn care possible, and you fucked it up.”
“The council—” Phil stops himself and straightens. “I apologize, Sheriff. Yes, the council has very strict communication protocols, as you know, but in this case, you are correct that we needed redundancy.”
“Well, you can tell that to Kenny. The lack of fucking redundancy cost him the use of his legs.”
Phil clears his throat. “Redundancy means—”
“It means a backup plan,” Dalton says. “So just say you didn’t have a backup plan. You decided Kenny’s future mobility wasn’t worth making an exception to your goddamn rules.”
“The rules are there for security, Sheriff. Providing an unsecured satellite phone introduces the possibility of an intercepted call. Even letting you take that phone was dangerous. We allowed it to show that we do care about Kenny’s situation. Now we’ll need to get him someplace else, which means he cannot return to Rockton.”
“Not yet,” I say. “My sister gave me detailed notes based on the x-rays and photographs. Mathias and Will will attempt to remove the bullet. My sister believes that will be enough. Then, on Monday, we’ll fly to Dawson and provide a phone update.”
“I don’t think the council will want you leaving again so soon—”
“We are,” Dalton says. “For Kenny.”
A chorus of approval from the crowd. This isn’t just about Kenny. It’s us versus them. Rockton versus the council.
Not everyone here is a fan of our sheriff. He’s tough as hell, and even those who obey our laws don’t appreciate his endless rules. But they know each of those rules is designed to ensure they are safe here and return home alive.
Dalton is the one living with them, enduring the same conditions, and he’ll be here long after they return to twenty-first century life down south. In contrast, the council represents nameless, faceless bureaucracy. They enjoy hot showers and fine dining and modern technology from their high-rise towers, while dictating our conditions here. Even when they do show up, they’re like Val and now Phil, sequestered in their house, putting in time until they can flee back to civilization.
The truth is that Phil could be the nicest guy imaginable, and the residents would still side with Dalton. The fact Phil seems like a real dick doesn’t help matters at all. He isn’t an idiot, though. He hears those rumblings, and he looks out over the crowd, and he’s very aware that he’s no longer hiding behind the safety of a satellite receiver a thousand kilometers away.
“All right,” he says. “I will convince the council that, in light of this mishap, you should be allowed to return to Dawson City to consult with Detective Butler’s sister. I will also authorize funds to purchase additional supplies, so long as you are making the trip.”
Phil raises his voice. “If anyone has items you need purchased, please compile a list. I will ensure the council authorizes extra funds, in light of everything you’ve been through in the past week.”
“Bread and circuses for all,” Dalton mutters.
Phil frowns over at us. “Hmm?”
“Nothing,” I say. Then I turn to the crowd. “I want to get working on Kenny, and I’m going to ask for minimal distractions. I know everyone is worried about him, but this is a delicate operation, without a trained surgeon. If you can give us time and space, we would appreciate it.”
“Sam?” Dalton calls into the crowd. “Jen? Nicki? Round up the militia. Those who aren’t on patrol, I want them keeping a wide berth around the clinic. No one comes in or out until I say so. That includes you guys. Last thing Kenny needs is someone slamming a door when Will’s got a scalpel next to his spinal cord.”
Nicole is closest to the front. “Understood. We’ll maintain a twenty-foot barrier and clear the houses on either side.”
“Thank you,” I say, and then we head to the clinic.
* * *
April is already in the clinic when we arrive. She’s assessed Kenny. Now, as he talks to her, she looks like she’s wondering how soon she can anesthetize him. Of everything she’s done, that pisses me off the most. While I’ll be the first to admit that Kenny can be a bit puppy-dog eager, what she’s doing feels like kicking that puppy, especially given his situation.
“Ignore my sister,” I say as I walk in. “She’s a scientist these days, and I think she’s forgotten her bedside manner.”
She shoots me a look of mingled annoyance and bafflement.
“Or,” Anders murmurs b
eside me, “that’s why she’s a scientist.”
Kenny gives a strained chuckle. ‘So it’s been a while since you put someone under the knife, huh?”
“No,” April says, with a glare for me now. “I have a medical license with a specialization in neurosurgery. I practiced full-time for five years before deciding my talents were better utilized in research, so I earned my PhD on weekends.”
“Oh, wow. That’s . . .” Kenny shakes his head. “You and Casey are living proof that pretty girls can be smart, too.”
I cringe, but this is typical Kenny.
“Of course they can,” April says as she assesses our equipment. “The genetics required for both intelligence and attractiveness are not co-dependent. Which doesn’t mean that one can achieve a medical license and PhD effortlessly, regardless of IQ. I worked hard. My sister could have done the same, despite her lower intellectual starting point.”
“Wow,” Anders whispers. “Just . . . wow.”
“I’m a slacker,” I say.
That makes Anders chuckle, but he still shoots me a concerned look, as if I might not be taking this so lightly. I am. Mostly. I grew up with this. My parents had my IQ tested as soon as possible. It’s 135. My sister’s—like theirs—is above 140. To them my “inferior” intellectual ability only meant I’d need to work harder. When I became a homicide detective, it proved I didn’t have the fortitude to do that extra work, to their everlasting disappointment. The fact that I’d dreamed of being a detective since I was a kid, running around with my finger print kit? Irrelevant.
Before anyone can speak, the door opens. In walks a slender man in his late fifties, carrying a wolf-dog cub.
“Uh, Mathias?” I say, pointing at the cub. “No spectators allowed.”
“He will be quiet. He is very sleepy.”
April blinks at the cub. “You can’t bring—”
“You must be the sister. It is a pleasure to meet you. Parlez vous francais?”
She stares at him.
“Non?” He looks at me and sighs. “Why did you not teach your sister French? This is most inconvenient.”
Watcher in the Woods: A Rockton Novel Page 2
