Garcia looks over. “Proof?”
“Of Pat’s crimes,” I say. “You don’t honestly expect us to hand over a resident on your say-so. You provide a description and proof—”
“Proof is for a court of law. You know that. I’m arresting someone, not sentencing them.”
“By removing them from our protection you are sentencing them. I’m not asking for irrefutable proof of guilt. I’m asking for a warrant.”
He starts to laugh. Then he sees I’m serious.
“You say we’re fellow law enforcement?” I continue. “Then as the sheriff said, treat us like it. Give us the warrant. The proof that Pat is a fugitive, whom you have been sent to retrieve.”
“Yeah, that didn’t make it into my luggage.”
“Would you expect a sheriff in the States to hand you over a Federal fugitive on your say-so?”
“Actually, yes. The badge is usually enough.”
“Not here. Not with people who’ve never seen a USMS badge. For all we know, you bought that online.”
“So it appears we’re at an impasse.”
“Seems that way.”
He gets to his feet. Crosses the room and picks up his backpack. Then he turns to Dalton. “Gun or phone. Give me one.”
“What I’ll give you is a chance to explain yourself,” Dalton says. “In detail. And then we will fly you to Dawson. You’ll provide a warrant. You’ll provide proof.”
“How the hell would I get that in Dawson City?”
“It’s called the internet.”
Garcia shakes his head. “You’re being unreasonable, Sheriff.”
“Sounds reasonable to me,” I say.
Garcia’s jaw clenches. It lasts only a second, but it’s enough to shatter the good-ol-boy persona.
“You’re making a very big . . .” He trails off before finishing that cliché, and his jaw tightens again. Then he hefts his backpack. “I’ll give you time to think about it, Sheriff. It’s late. You’re tired. You’re not working this through. So take your time. I’ll call again in the morning.”
He heads for the back door.
“Eric,” I say, leaping to catch Dalton’s arm. “Let him go.”
Dalton hadn’t made a move to go after him, but he grumbles, “Fine,” as if I had indeed yanked him back. Then I hurry to grab Storm. As Garcia strides past, she growls. He ignores her and keeps going.
As the door shuts behind Garcia, Diana spins on us. “You’re really just going to let him walk away?”
Dalton ignores her and watches out the window as Garcia disappears into the woods. Then he turns to me.
“See if Will’s radio is working,” he says. “By now, he’s out there with the boys. Nicki’s patrolling in town. Have her wake everyone Will didn’t roust earlier.”
SEVEN
Dalton has gone after Garcia. He gave him enough of a head start, before he left the house and loped silently into the forest to pursue.
I leash Storm and go out the front.
“You don’t think he’s really a marshal, do you?” Diana says as she jogs to keep up.
“I have no idea. That’s the problem.”
“But if you had to speculate . . .”
“If I had to speculate, I’d say he’s trouble either way.”
Which is not entirely true. If Garcia is a U.S. Marshal, he is a far more dangerous threat. That would mean his superiors know where he’s gone and what he’s doing. A Federal officer can’t just jump in a plane. Even on vacation, he needs to file his plans and check in daily. A marshal is not a bounty hunter. Not a lone wolf. That’s what makes Garcia’s story suspicious. I wasn’t lying when I said I wouldn’t know a USMS badge if I saw one. I’ve met FBI. I’ve met CIA. I’ve even met US Postal Service agent. I have never met a marshal. Which means I don’t know what their badge looks like or how they operate. Yet I cannot believe they operate like this—one lone agent flying into the wilderness.
So what is he? A bail bondsman is one possibility. A bounty hunter is another, and sometimes they’re the same thing, but that’s isn’t always the case. A bail bondsman is looking for a fugitive who skipped bail. A bounty hunter may be looking for anyone he’s paid to find.
If this is not an actual marshal, I’ll bet my inheritance he’s a professional, and not just some guy out to settle a score. Garcia knows what he’s doing. He knows how to act like an officer of the law. He has the badge and the confidence, as if he’s played this role many times. Which he might very well have done, if he’s a bounty hunter. Swagger into town, pick up his target, and if the local cops interfere, waving that badge probably would be enough, as he said.
When I reach the station, I hand Storm to Diana, go inside and call Anders. Tonight, I get lucky and the radios actually work, probably because . . .
“I’m five minutes away,” Anders says when he answers. “Three if I run.”
“You don’t run very fast then, do you?”
“Yeah, yeah. What’s up?”
I tell him, starting with “Don’t come back to town.” Otherwise, by the time I finished, he’d have been here. It’s not a short story, as much as I condense it.
When I finish, he says, “Shit. You think he’s really a—” He stops himself. “Doesn’t matter right now. Point is to get him and bring him in, right?”
“No. We could have stopped him if we wanted to. Garcia thinks he’s giving us time to reconsider, but he’s got things a little backward, considering where he is.”
“In the middle of the Yukon wilderness, armed with a few protein bars and a bottle of water.”
“Yep. No gun. No phone. He’s screwed and—”
The station door opens, Diana leaning in. “Casey? Tell Will to come back to town. Now.”
“Uh, no,” Anders says on the radio. “I’m sure you have this under control. I’ll pull the militia back, but I’ll look for this Garcia guy—”
“You don’t need to.” Diana pushes the door wider, and I hear a distant commotion. I turn to follow it, and I wince as I realize what it means.
“Will?” I say.
“On my way.”
* * *
We’re outside. Diana still has Storm, and we’re running across town. Doors swing open. People poke their heads through. Someone asks what’s wrong. Someone else asks if we need help.
It might be not yet five in the morning, but the sun is rising, and up here, it is as if we adopt the old ways of adjusting to the seasonal light pattern. In winter, people routinely get ten hours of sleep. Now, the bakery opens at seven to a lineup.
This is one time when I wish—I really wish—people slept in. I can hear raised voices at the edge of town, anger and confusion and fear, and I know what it is. I hope I’m wrong, but I know, and I wish it was two AM, everyone too deeply asleep to know what is happening.
I’m telling people it’s okay, go back inside, but more doors open. That’s when I channel Dalton, snapping, “Inside! Now! Stay in your fucking houses!”
As doors slap shut, Diana snickers and says, “Nice.”
I hear running footsteps behind me and snarl over my shoulder, “Get back—!”
“That doesn’t apply to me, Detective,” Jen says. “Or it better not.”
“Keep people inside,” I say. “If that fails, just keep them away. Please. Diana? Take Storm and go with Jen.”
“I don’t need Blondie—” Jen begins.
“Diana, go with her. Jen, put Diana to work. Keep people back.”
I can see the situation ahead, and it is exactly what I feared. Garcia stands on a front porch near the town border. It’s a duplex, with both residents outside, demanding to know who the hell he is and what the hell he’s doing in Rockton. A few others are gathered around, which tells me this isn’t the first house Garcia has tried.
As I jog, a young man leans over a second floor balcony. “Everything okay, Detective Butler?”
It’s one of our newest residents. At twenty-one, Sebastian is also our youngest, an
d he looks even younger tonight, watching the scene ahead with obvious dismay, as if thinking this place isn’t nearly as safe as he’s been told. Great . . .
“It’s fine,” I say. “Go back inside.”
He does. I keep jogging and shout, “Marshal! Get the hell out of our town.”
Garcia ignores me and strides off the porch. “I have my job, ma’am, and if you won’t help me do it, I’ll do it myself.”
My heart pounds so hard I can barely breathe. I’m panicking. Honestly panicking. Every face he sees is a face we have sworn to keep hidden. I’m also keenly aware of the dilemma I’ve been trying not to think about.
A stranger knows about Rockton. A stranger can tell the world about us if he does not get what he wants. He can tell them even if he does get his quarry. He’s seeing face after face, and he knows they could all be fugitives, could all have a price on their heads. If he’s a bounty hunter, this is his Klondike gold.
What the hell are we going to do about that?
What am I going to do about this?
Handle it.
I run to the next porch he’s climbing. I shoulder him aside, and I slam my back against the door, and I take out my gun.
“You don’t want to do this,” he says.
“Whoever is inside?” I say, raising my voice. “Do not come out. We have a situation.”
I continue raising my voice until it echoes through the still morning. “There is a stranger is town. He tells us he’s looking for a fugitive, and that he will take that person when he finds them.”
“Hey!” Garcia says.
“We do not trust this man,” I shout. “Remain in your homes. The sheriff and the militia are on their way.”
“You’re—” Garcia begins.
“Making a mistake?” I say. “Yes, this time, I think you’re right. Letting you walk away was a mistake.” I aim my gun. “One I should probably rectify right now. How about you give me the excuse?”
“You’ve got balls—”
“No, actually I don’t. And you’re a broken record, Mr. Garcia. Like one of those dolls. Pull the cord, and it gives you another prerecorded line. I do not have balls. I am not making a mistake. I do want to stop you.” I lift the gun. “And I really want to use this and solve our problem for good. So go ahead. Move me aside. Try that house over there. Walk farther into town. See what happens.”
Someone claps. I don’t take my eyes off Garcia, but I know who it is, and I say, “Looks like the cavalry is here, Mr. Garcia.”
“Looks like you don’t actually need us,” Anders says as he walks over, two of the militia following. “Whoever you are, sir? I’m going to suggest you move along.”
Garcia glowers. As he strides off the porch, he bumps Anders with a look that says he really hopes Anders will bump back, give him an excuse. Our deputy just stands there, his arms crossed, lips curved in a smirk that sets Garcia seething as he heads from town.
“If you want to talk,” I call after him, “you know where to find us.”
Garcia keeps going. When he nears the edge of town, I turn to Anders and lower my voice. “I’m going after him. We need to see where he sets up his new camp so we can keep an eye on him.” I raise the radio. “Tell Eric I have this, and he can join me as soon—”
The thump of boots on wood cuts me off. It’s the sound of someone climbing onto a porch, coming from Garcia’s direction.
There’s only one house past this one, and it’s empty. It’s been empty since I moved in with Dalton—
“April,” Anders whispers.
Oh, shit. That house is not empty.
We both take off at a run. Garcia is on my old porch, raising his fist.
“Hey!” I shout. “Get away from that house.”
Garcia pounds on the wooden door. The sound echoes in the quiet morning.
“She won’t answer,” Anders murmurs beside me. “I was very clear on that. She’s not supposed to answer unless one of us announces ourselves.”
Garcia bangs again. We’re almost there when a figure emerges from the forest, running full tilt toward my old house. It’s Dalton, and I swear he’s breathing fire.
“Eric—!” I begin, to tell him it’s okay, we have this under control.
Anders’s hand lands on my shoulder, cutting me off. “At this point, it’s probably best we just let him do his thing.”
Garcia is lifting his fist to knock again when Dalton hits him. Garcia staggers. Dalton grabs him by the shirt front and throws him clear through the railing, the wood cracking and splintering.
Garcia thuds onto the ground below. Before the marshal can even start to rise, Dalton is off the porch and on him. Behind me, footsteps pound, and I turn to see the onlookers from earlier, having caught up with us, ignoring the militia’s orders to get back. This spectacle is too entertaining to miss, even if it earns them a few days of chopping duty.
Dalton lets Garcia stagger to his feet, and our sheriff stands there, fists clenched, waiting for it. If Garcia had an ounce of brains, he’d see that look in Dalton’s eyes and surrender. You win, Sheriff. Now let’s talk.
Garcia swings. Dalton blocks and hits him with a right hook to the jaw. Garcia slams into a tree. The marshal recovers, massaging his jaw, looking like he’s ready to give up. Dalton straightens, as if he’s falling for it, but when Garcia swings, he grabs him by the arm and throws him into the side of my house.
Dalton’s bearing down on Garcia when my front door opens. April rushes onto the porch. She sees the two men and her mouth forms an “Oh!” Then she’s quick-stepping back inside when she spots the others: Anders and the militia and the half-dozen local onlookers.
April wears my oversized sweatshirt and a pair of my track pants, but even if I wasn’t standing ten feet away, there’s no chance anyone would mistake her for me. Her eyes round, and she darts back inside.
I jog toward the house. I glance at Anders, who motions for me to go on, they can handle this. The fight hasn’t stopped for April’s intermission. Neither man seemed to realize the door opened. Blows have been traded. Garcia’s nose streams blood, and his shirt is torn. There’s a smear of dirt on Dalton’s face, where one of Garcia’s swings made contact. I’m about to go inside when Dalton shakes his left arm.
His left arm. Shit. His injured dominant arm.
I glance at Anders, but he’s already seen it, and he’s jogging toward the men.
“Hey, boss,” Anders says. “You want this guy in lockup? Or you waiting to put him in the infirmary?”
Dalton snorts and moves back. “Yeah, lock him up.”
I open the front door. As I’m stepping through, Anders goes after Garcia while Dalton bears down on the assembled gawkers, now dispersing quickly.
I close the door behind me. April’s on my sofa.
“I’m sorry,” she says, and that stops me dead. Even makes me check over my shoulder, certain my sister is apologizing to someone behind me.
“I heard a commotion, and I thought the patient was in distress.” She pauses, and then adds, “Kenny,” as if she had to recall his name. “I thought that’s why someone was banging on my door. It didn’t occur to me that anyone would be up this early.”
I say nothing. I can’t tell her it’ll be all right. I have no idea how to handle this, and considering what’s happening with Garcia, this wrinkle is the last thing on my mind. It’s more than a wrinkle, though. We’ve smuggled my sister into Rockton. I don’t even want to consider the implications of that.
“Kenny’s fine,” I say. “This is a whole other situation, and I need you to stay inside. Lock the doors. Don’t open them unless it’s me or Will.”
She nods, and then gives herself a shake, throwing off the confusion of sleep. She stands, straightening, and when she speaks, there’s a snap in her voice I know well.
“They are being ridiculous,” she says. “The council or whatever you called them. You had a man in serious need of medical attention, for a spinal injury, and your sister is a ne
urosurgeon. They should be grateful that the”—she flutters her hands—“stars aligned. What is the chance of that? And the fact that they don’t have a full-time medical doctor is breathtakingly irresponsible. I cannot believe you allow such a situation, Casey.”
“Breathtakingly irresponsible is my middle name.”
She gives me such a frown that I half-expect her to say, I thought it was Analyn. Instead, she waves it off and says, “Your town needs a doctor.”
“Are you volunteering?”
The horror on her face makes me sputter a laugh, and she frowns again in confusion.
“Yes, April, I am well aware of our need for a physician. We lost ours last year, and we’ve been pestering for a new one ever since. Right now, though, I need you to stay put.”
I make it halfway to the door before there’s a shout. An angry shout. Then a gunshot.
“Was that—?” April begins.
“Yes, it was. Now stay put.”
EIGHT
I race out the door. There’s a distant commotion, and I have a flash of deja vu, of running out of the station what seems like only minutes ago.
No, it was only minutes ago.
This time, this disturbance is Anders and a couple of others. Dalton’s voice booms from another direction. “What the hell is going on?”
I ran toward Anders, which is also the direction of that shot. I see someone on the ground, and I catch a flash of dark skin, and my heart jams in my throat. It’s not Anders, though, I see that in a second, as I notice dread-locks.
“Sam?” I say as I race over.
He’s getting to his feet.
“Are you okay?” I say.
“No.” He gives an angry shake of his head. “I’m not. I’m a goddamn idiot. That’s what I am. He got away.”
“Garcia?”
“He—” Sam tries to take a step. His leg buckles, and he swears.
“Where’s Will?” I ask.
Sam gestures toward the forest, and I pick up the sound of people running through it.
“I heard a shot,” I say.
“That was Will,” Sam says. “Trying to spook the guy into stopping. It didn’t work and—”
Watcher in the Woods: A Rockton Novel Page 6
