Rockton was born as an exercise in idealism. A place for people who needed refuge, and in those earliest years, it was often their ideals that brought them there—fleeing McCarthyism and other political witch-hunts. But as with so many lofty humanitarian ideas, eventually the coffers ran dry and someone saw the opportunity for profit. When capitalism moved into Rockton, a group of residents moved out and formed the First Settlement, which is now in its third generation.
There are also smaller settlements, plus people who chose not to join one, like Dalton’s birth parents. They were twenty-first century pioneers, living off the land, hunting and gathering, building shelters and sewing clothing from skins.
Then there are the hostiles. People who have left Rockton and reverted to a more . . . I want to say primitive form. They are tribal. They are also ritualistic—painting and scarring themselves and setting out totems to mark territory. But in no way should they be confused with tribal societies. The hostiles are a grotesque stereotype of that, as if someone read too many National Geographics as a child. I used to think they’d lost what makes us human, but that implies they’re animalistic, and the hostiles’ sheer capacity for violence is far more human.
“His clothes were clean,” I say. “Dark jacket. Jeans. Boots. He didn’t have any more beard stubble than you do. So he likely hasn’t been out here longer than a week.”
“Yeah.”
Dalton opens the back door to our house. Storm races into the kitchen and skids to a stop, knowing better than to barrel through an open door. Dalton goes inside and returns with two flashlights and a Newfoundland on a leash.
“His clothes seem to rule out a miner or trapper,” I say, picking up where I left off. “I don’t think he’s a hiker either. Those weren’t hiking boots, and that jacket was too heavy. Dark hair. I couldn’t make out eye color. I think brown skin, but he didn’t seem Aboriginal.”
I’m running through all the possibilities because I don’t want to jump to the paranoid conclusion. I’m hoping Dalton will find an angle I’ve missed. Instead, as we head into the forest, he says, “You think it’s connected to Brady.”
I don’t answer. I’m hoping not. We both are. Oliver Brady was the serial killer foisted on us two weeks ago. He’s gone now, but I suppose someone could have come looking for him.
“That’s possible, but it doesn’t feel right.”
“You think it’s a new problem.”
“I hope not.”
God, I hope not.
* * *
Getting Storm is a good idea—she’s a tracking dog. However, she’s still in training, and so far we’ve always given her an article of clothing to sniff. We don’t have that for our mystery man.
We take her to the spot where we saw him, and I have her sniff the ground, but I can tell she’s confused. I know the direction he went, so I head that way as she sniffs. Dalton has grabbed treats, which helps her think this is a new phase of training.
Storm seems to understand what we want, but after about a hundred feet, she loses the trail as it crosses a path. There are other scents there, familiar ones, and she keeps trailing those and then stopping, as if realizing that’s not correct. She backtracks, as she’s been taught, and tries again.
After a few rounds, she gets bored and requests her treats in that half-hearted way that says she knows she doesn’t deserve them. At some point the work outweighs the reward, particularly for a well-fed and well-loved dog. She tracks for the fun of it, and when that wears off, so does her interest.
She can’t pick up the man’s trail on the other side of the path, which may mean he followed the path itself. So we walk her along that. It’s a major trail, though, and well traveled, and I’m not sure she’d be able to find his scent on it. Someday, yes, but at eight months, she’s a little young for tracking training at all.
We stop and peer into the darkness. Storm nudges my hand. She knows she’s failed, and while she may not care about the treats, she hates to disappoint us. I pat her as Dalton motions that we’ll return to where we last detected our intruder, and he’ll use his tracking skills from there.
We’ve walked about ten paces when Storm lets out a happy yip and lunges into the undergrowth. Her nose is up, not sniffing the ground, which means she’s catching a scent in the wind.
“Could be him,” Dalton says.
“Or could be a bunny rabbit.”
He shrugs. “Let her have her fun.”
Even if this scent is our mystery man, we won’t catch him. We have an eighty-pound puppy hot on a trail through dense forest. A charging bull moose would be quieter.
I motion that Dalton could give me the dog and circle around, in hopes of seeing our target, but he shakes his head. He won’t leave me. A stranger in the forest is always trouble.
We keep going, Storm straining at the lead, snuffling and slobbering. Finally, she gives a giant-puppy pounce and lands in the middle of a clearing. Then she looks up at me, her dark eyes glittering.
“Uh, great,” I say. “You’ve found . . .” I look around. Then I grin, lower myself and hug her. “Good girl. Very good girl.”
“Shit, yeah,” Dalton says.
Storm hasn’t found her target, but she’s discovered something that could prove equally valuable: his camp. It’s only a couple of hundred feet from Rockton, and it doesn’t look as if he’s actually slept there. He’s just left his pack. Abandoned it in the middle of the clearing, like he’s on a beach, dropping his stuff to go exploring. Not a guy accustomed to the forest. Otherwise he’d know that, presuming there’s food in that pack, it won’t last long.
Dalton reaches to open the backpack.
“Whoa, hold on,” I say, grabbing him back. “It could be a trap.”
He frowns. “In the bag?’
To Dalton, a trap is a literal one, like a bear trap.
“An IED,” I say.
When his frown deepens, I start to say, “A bomb,” but he nods and says, “Improvised explosive device.” While he might never have encountered such a thing, he’s read more than anyone I know.
“It’s unlikely,” I say. “But I want to be sure. This screams set up. Can you hold Storm back, please?”
He hesitates.
“I’m not going to attempt to disarm a bomb,” I say. “I’m just looking, and I don’t want to have to worry about either of you.”
He backs off with Storm. I examine the ground for signs of a trigger. Out here, it’d need to be a literal trigger—tripwire or such. I get close to the bag and crouch. It’s an oversized backpack, the sort campers use. This one is so new that it smells of polyurethane. I can even see a plastic fastener around the handle, where he’s ripped off the tags. That sets my alarms flashing—he could have bought this to house an IED. Then I notice open pockets, and when I aim my flashlight beam inside, I see energy bars and a bottle of water.
I examine the main zipper. It isn’t quite closed, and I poke at the hole with a twig and shine my light through on rolled up clothing
Next I pick up a tree, which sounds more impressive than saying I haul over a downed sapling. I use it to prod the backpack. Nothing happens.
None of this proves the pack isn’t rigged to explode, but without any way to test it, at some point I need to make a judgment call. My call is that it’s exactly what it looks like. The guy doesn’t know his way around the Yukon forest, and he’s bought a bag, stuffed it with supplies and dumped it to go check out the town unencumbered.
Of course, this would all make far more sense if we weren’t a week’s hike from the nearest town. There’s no way an amateur can buy a few supplies, set off into our forest and reach Rockton. Not unless he’s seriously lost, wandering for days, about ready to give up all home when he finally sees signs of civilization and . . . Takes off at the first sign of a rescuer? Not a chance.
I wave to Dalton that the backpack is fine. Then before he’s close enough to get hurt, I yank down the zipper and there’s a tremendous boom—
No
. That isn’t what happens. Even my paranoia cannot imagine the point of putting a triggered explosive device here. It’s not exactly like dropping it off in the middle of Union Station.
I open the zipper all the way and start unpacking while Dalton moves closer to stand guard. As I go, I tell him what I find, so he can keep his attention on the forest, in case our mystery man returns.
“Water and energy bars, like what you’d take on a day-long hike. There’s a change of clothes. Sweatshirt. Tee. Track pants. All brand new. And . . .” I pull out a smaller case. “A toiletry bag. With toothbrush, paste, comb, razor . . .”
“Did he think he was going to a hotel?”
“Actually, it looks like that. Half-emptied paste. Used razor. Old bag. It’s what I kept in my bathroom to grab for work trips. Judging by the new clothing, though, his ‘work trips’ aren’t usually into the backwoods.”
My hand touches something familiar. I pull it out.
“Ammo?” Dalton says. “Fuck.”
“9 mil. Odd choice for up here.”
His brows rise.
“Yes, that’s what I carry,” I say, “because that’s what I’m accustomed to. But it’s a city gun.”
“For shooting people, not wildlife. Yeah, I’d be a whole lot happier if you found shotgun pellets in there.”
“Let’s switch spots,” I say. “Now that we know he’s armed, the person on guard shouldn’t be the one who’ll have trouble firing straight.”
He doesn’t say he’ll be fine. Until his arm heals, he’s hampered. I’m not.
Dalton isn’t nearly as good at announcing what he finds in that backpack. For years, it’s been just him and Anders, and our deputy is an army boy. When he trusts his commanding officer, he doesn’t expect details until that officer is ready to give them.
“Anything?” I say finally.
“Stuff.”
“Helpful.”
A jangle. “Car keys. Got a parking garage ticket, too. From the Calgary airport. Dated . . . Fuck. Dated this morning?”
“You can fly Calgary to Whitehorse, right?”
“In the summer, yeah.”
“So he flew in from Calgary, and somehow got out here. He sure as hell didn’t walk.” I squint up at the sky. “Where else could a plane touch down, if not our airstrip?”
“Plenty of clearings. With the right plane, if you know the area, you can do it.”
“Which means he hired someone to bring him in. Packed a quick bag, bought supplies for the woods, dropped off his car in Calgary, flew to Whitehorse and got a charter from there. Seems very . . .” I follow a noise in the forest, but it’s only an owl swooping past. “Seems very last minute.”
“It does.” Dalton rises. “You want this re-packed the way it was?”
I consider. “No, let’s take it. I can go over it better in town. And, if we take his food and water . . . He’s seen Rockton. He knows where to get more.”
* * *
One of the endless dilemmas we face as law enforcement in Rockton is also one I faced as a homicide detective down south. Only here, it’s multiplied a thousand times. How much information on potential threats do we release to the public? From a layman’s point of view, the answer is a no-brainer: tell them everything. Yet as cops, we know how wrong this can go. Tell people there may be a thief targeting their neighborhood, and you damned well better hope no teen tries sneaking through a window after breaking curfew.
Up here, it is so much worse. For the average resident, Rockton is an extended summer camp. To some it’s a grand adventure, the chance to experience another kind of life and go home enriched by the experience. To others, it’s like being sentenced to camp by working parents, forced to endure a cellphone-free and Starbucks-free hell before being released back to civilization. Either way, as the “camper” you are a guest. You don’t need to worry about paying bills or putting food on the table. Sure, you have chores. And rules. Plenty of rules. But you trust the grown-ups to lock the doors and arm the security system and replace the batteries in the smoke detectors.
We have had death in Rockton. Murder and kidnapping and assault, and yet no one looks around and says, “Holy shit, is this the murder capital of North America? Let me outta here!” They understand the issues with this life, the volatile elements we are dealing with. They see that we catch and deal with those responsible, as quickly as we can.
This does not mean, however, that it’s impossible for us to break their trust. I can use the analogy of children, but these are adults, and the more complicated the situation, the more armchair law enforcement we see, residents taking a critical look at our methods and saying, “That’s not how I’d do it.”
We have made mistakes. It’s unavoidable. It’s like installing a security system on your home. You think you’ve covered every possibility, and then someone breaks in through the chimney, and you kick yourself for leaving a point of entry unguarded. Sure, you weren’t expecting cat-burglar Santa. Yet others will judge the omission, and you feel the full weight of that.
Now we have an armed stranger in the forest. Which, in itself, is like saying we have grizzly bears in the forest. Yep, we do. Lots of grizzly bears and armed strangers, with the settlers and the hostiles. The difference here is that this guy seems to have come here for us. For Rockton. That is alarming on many levels.
So do we raise the alarm?
Yes, we must.
It’s how we raise it that’s in question.
“When we get back to town, I’m waking Will,” Dalton says. “Fucking shitty thing to do, after leaving him in charge, alone, for two days.”
“He’d want to be the first to know.”
“Yeah. I’ll also recall the patrols for the night so they don’t bump into him. First light, though, we’re tracking his ass down. I want you to stay in town. Pick two militia to stay with you. You’re gonna need to make a statement.”
I don’t argue. I’m the one who insists we make public statements. Before that, it really was a parental situation, where the grownups handle everything and explain nothing. That isn’t my way, and Dalton has come to see the value in these public statements, if only because they keep residents from pestering us to update each one personally.
Dalton and I part ways at the edge of town. I’m heading home. He’s keeping Storm—she knows what our mystery man smells like, and if he comes near, she’ll warn Dalton.
Our back door is unlocked, as usual. I make a mental note to add this to my morning statement—tell people to lock their doors. Most don’t. For them, there’s nostalgia in that, hearkening back to a time before most of us were born, when you could pop out for a few hours and leave your door open. For Dalton, an open door is also a statement. If someone wants to break in and steal his belongings, they can go right ahead—he’ll have fun tracking down their asses. Needless to say, Dalton has never had a break-in.
As I walk in, I’m thinking about that, and so when I hear a creak, I freeze, hand dropping to my gun. Any other time, I wouldn’t have even noticed. It’s a wooden house. It creaks. But I’ve just been reflecting on our unlocked door, so a creak puts me on full alert.
I scan the moonlit kitchen. Our dinner dishes are still out. Even the chocolate chip package is there, morsels spilled onto the table where I grabbed a handful as we left.
I shrug off my light jacket, so I can better access my gun. Then I take a step and . . .
Another creak sounds, this one from the bottom of the stairs. I ease forward, but even if I could see through the doorway, I wouldn’t have a direct sightline to the stairwell. So I withdraw, close the back door quietly and turn the lock. My intention is to lock the intruder inside, but I’m aware that I’m potentially trapping myself, too.
I pull my gun from its holster. Then I take one careful—
Footsteps sound on the front deck. Damn it. Dalton has circled back.
When a rap sounds, I go still. Dalton would not knock on our door. I check my watch. Who the hell would be—?
Diana? Seriously? It’s three a.m.
“I saw you head in the back way, and I saw Eric take off across town. I know something’s up. Also? I know who you’ve got in town, and I’m offering my help.”
Shit . . .
There is one resident who could catch a glimpse of April and not be fooled into thinking it’s me. Diana. The person I came to Rockton with. The person who knows my sister.
Go away, Diana. I appreciate the offer. I really do. But can we talk about this in the morning—
The front door knob rattles. It starts to open, and I’m lunging forward as I hear her step inside, the door shutting behind her.
“I know April’s here, Case,” she says. “And if you guys are up at three AM, you’re dealing with a problem, and you’ll need help taking care of Kenny.”
I wheel around the corner.
“There you are.” Her gaze drops to my gun. “What the—?”
A figure steps out behind her. My heart thuds.
“Stop!” I lift my gun. “Stop right there—”
Diana lets out a squeak . . . as a pistol barrel presses against her neck.
SIX
“Lower your gun,” a man’s voice says.
“You first,” I say.
“I’m the one with a target.”
I aim my gun over Diana’s head. “Mine’s just fine.”
He laughs softly. “Then we’re at an impasse. But I’m still going to suggest that you won’t want to take that chance.”
“Let her go—”
“No, sorry. She’s obviously a friend, which means I know the value of my target.” His voice is calm, conversational even. Just stating facts.
He continues, “You and I need to have a conversation. I propose we lower our weapons together, but I’ll keep your friend close while we chat.”
I could bluster. Say I won’t talk while he has Diana. But he can’t surrender his hostage and trust in a civil conversation. That’d be stupid.
“Count of three,” I say. “Guns holstered.”
Watcher in the Woods: A Rockton Novel Page 4
