Watcher in the Woods: A Rockton Novel

by Kelley Armstrong

  I pass over ours.

  He shakes his head. “I mean he’ll go to water. That’ll be step one once the sun’s up. Find water. Wash. Refill his bottle. My guess last night was that he’d head for the mountain. I can’t track him over rock, and he probably hoped for shelter there. With the late sunset, there’s a good chance he found it. If he’s smart, he’ll have picked a cave near water.”

  “Perfect.”

  “Nah. Perfect would be a mountain spring near a cave. In the direction he headed, the water sources are all at ground level, meaning I can’t just match up a cave and a stream. Fuck, he might not even have found a cave—or know enough to pick a spot near water. Face it, I’m flying blind and pretending I can see.”

  “No, you’re flying in fog, knowing you can’t see very well. You have a search area in mind. I know you do, or you wouldn’t mention it. Unless you’ve come up with a better idea in the last thirty seconds . . .”

  “No.”

  “Then you’re explaining your reasoning while telling me not to get my hopes up. You can skip the last part, Eric. It’s just me here.”

  “Yeah, I know. Thanks.”

  What Dalton has is a theory that provides a better sense of purpose than wandering aimlessly in the woods, hoping to stumble over the marshal’s sleeping body. Yet for the rest of the searchers, stumbling over his body is really their only hope. Their orders are to stay close to town and sweep in groups, which is more about guard duty than searching. Their presence will convey a message to Garcia: that he has no hope of sneaking into town again. We can guard our border longer than he can survive in the wilderness. Best to just come out and negotiate. Hot meal and lukewarm shower included.

  We check a few shallow caves close to ground level, within easy reach of streams. There’s no sign of Garcia. Then Dalton cuts through thicker trees, off the main path, following a wildlife trail—a thin line of trampled undergrowth and broken twigs. We’re quiet, me moving behind him, mimicking his rolling walk, putting each foot down with care.

  When a brace of ptarmigan fly up, I fall back. Something whistles through the still air overhead. A ptarmigan thumps onto my head and then bounces to my feet with an arrow through its breast. I yank out my gun, my gaze sweeping the forest for the archer.

  Dalton grabs the arrow and curses under his breath. Then he shouts, “Jacob!”

  A figure appears through a stand of trees. He’s a little shorter than Dalton. A little thinner. His light brown hair is much longer and neatly tied back, and he has a short beard. Squint past the differences though, and Jacob is the spitting image of our sheriff. Not surprising, considering this is his little brother. Like Dalton, Jacob grew up out here, with their settler parents. Unlike Dalton, he has stayed in the forest.

  “That is not funny,” Dalton grumbles.

  “No, that is breakfast.” Jacob takes the ptarmigan. “Hey, Casey.”

  “Don’t hey her. Ask if she’s okay, after having a dead bird fall on her head.”

  Jacob’s eyes round. “Are you all right? I didn’t mean—”

  “I’m fine. Your brother’s just being cranky.”

  Jacob’s smile returns. “Nothing new, huh?” He turns to Dalton. “Got your message. Something’s up?”

  The “message” would have been exactly that—Dalton setting out an indicator that he wants to talk to Jacob. Jacob is illiterate, with no interest in changing that, which drives his book-loving brother crazy.

  Dalton starts to explain when I see another figure in the forest. A huge one, rearing up on two legs, its shaggy brown hair having me reaching for my gun before I see that the bear wears clothing.

  “Could you cut your hair, Ty?” I call. “Or shave? Otherwise, one of these days, I’m going to see an actual grizzly and start chatting with him.”

  “Probably a better plan than shooting him,” Cypher says as he lumbers over to us. “That little gun won’t do more than piss him off, kitten.”

  “You got my message?” Dalton says.

  “Yeah. Got it. Then found Jakey here, crashing through the forest.”

  Jacob arches a brow. “I’m not the one who makes enough noise to scare game for miles.”

  Tyrone Cypher. Six foot four. Well over two hundred pounds. With his grizzled brown hair, he does indeed resemble an aging bear. Cypher is a former sheriff of Rockton. Before that, he was a hit man, which in Rockton apparently qualifies as law-enforcement experience.

  “That Brady kid get away on you again?” Cypher says when Dalton tells them we’re looking for a fugitive.

  “Not unless he’s a zombie,” I say. “And Eric has promised that whatever else we have in these woods, there are no zombies.”

  “Yet,” Dalton says.

  “No, you said there were no killer rabbits yet. You said there were no zombies at all. You were very, very clear on that.”

  “Which only means I’ve never seen one.” He turns to the other two. “Brady’s dead. This fugitive is a different problem.”

  While the three of them talk, I wander off. As always, Dalton keeps one eye on me. I joke that he’d like to have us all on leashes . . . with shock collars that will zap us if we stray too far.

  I check out what looks like a berry bush. I’m hunkered down examining it when something moves in the undergrowth. It’s the size of a rabbit. Too dark to be an Arctic hare, though, or any of the other small critters we get out here. When I squint, I realize it’s twice the size I thought—it just looked small because it’s lying on the ground.

  When the thing gives an odd bleat, I go still.

  Another bleat and then it snuffles, raising a black furry head with a black nose. It reminds me of what Anders said yesterday, joking about Storm being a bear cub. That’s exactly what I’m looking at: a black bear cub.

  It lifts its head and bleats, and it is so adorable that I stifle an “Awww” of appreciation. I know enough to leave it alone, so I just smile and step backwards.

  Then a snort sounds behind me.

  I turn slowly to see Mama Bear twenty feet away.

  ELEVEN

  I take a deep breath to call my stuttering heart. I’m not bothering her cub. I’ll just step sideways, get farther from it and hope she hasn’t noticed me . . .

  Mama Bear rises up on her rear legs, and her nearsighted eyes lock on me.

  I open my mouth to shout. That’s how we deal with black bears: stand our ground, make ourselves as big as possible and shout in hopes of scaring them off.

  Thankfully, before I shout, I realize the logic flaw in that. If I’m standing between a sow and her cub, I really don’t want to put on a threat display.

  The bear keeps snuffling the air, her head bobbing as she assesses. When I step away from the cub, the sow snarls, baring her teeth.

  “Casey?” Dalton’s voice, sharp with anxiety.

  I slide my gaze his way. He’s on the other side, just out of the sow’s sightline.

  “I thought you said black bears aren’t like grizzlies,” I say. “They don’t attack if you get between a sow and her cubs.”

  “I said that’d always been my experience.” He’s right, of course. He’d never say such a thing couldn’t happen, only that he’d never known it to. Apparently, this sow has not read the black bear behavior guide.

  “Advice?” I say.

  His gaze is on the bear, assessing just as hard as she is. He has his gun in hand. When he shifts, the sow glances his way and waves one paw, brandishing inch-long claws. I’m closer, though, and I’m the threat to her baby, so her attention swings back to me.

  “She doesn’t want me to move,” I say. “But I need to get away from her cub.”

  “Yep.”

  “Which requires moving . . .”

  “Hold on a sec.” He squints over, still assessing. Also lining up the shot.

  I have my gun in hand, but I haven’t lifted it. A voice in my head says we haven’t reached that level of threat. Which is ridiculous. This isn’t a human, who might be provoked b
y me raising my weapon. So I do, but I feel guilty about it. I know, better than anyone, never to raise my weapon unless I am prepared to fire, and I really don’t want to fire. I am between an animal and her young, with no way of telling her I don’t pose a threat.

  I do not want to kill her for protecting her baby. But I still raise my gun. I must.

  “Take one step directly to your right,” Dalton says. “Away from the baby and the mother.”

  The sow growls as soon as I lift my left foot, and Dalton quickly tells me to stop.

  “You’re gonna have to shoot her, kitten,” Cypher says. “No way around this.”

  “Casey?” Dalton says. “I have my gun trained on her, but you know it’s my bad hand. Jacob has an arrow nocked. Neither one of us has a sightline to the best shot.”

  “But I do.”

  “Yeah.” A pause. “Sorry. We’ll try something else, but I need you to be absolutely ready to fire if she charges. She’ll drop to all fours. Aim downward at her head. Empty your weapon. Do not hesitate.”

  “I know.”

  The sow growls and bears her teeth. She’s getting impatient.

  “Walk backward,” Dalton says. “It’s clear ground behind you. Don’t hurry, or you’ll trip. Keep your gun ready. If she drops—”

  The sow drops to all fours.

  “Casey?”

  “Got it.”

  She’s going to charge. Her muscles bunch. Her eyes fix on me. She will charge, and I can empty my gun, but I’m still not certain it will save me.

  The cold thud of that hits me square in the gut. This is a black bear. Up until now, I’ve paid them only healthy respect. It’s the grizzlies I worry about.

  This bear can kill me, though. She has fangs and she has claws and she’s twice my weight, and I’m between her and her baby.

  She can kill me.

  And I’m not sure anyone can stop her.

  I run. Dalton shouts. The bear snorts in rage. A gun fires and an arrow thwangs . . . and I race straight for the cub. I scoop it up in my arms. As it bleats in alarm, I throw it, a low and easy pitch that sends the cub smacking into its charging mother. The sow skids to a halt, and then I do run—toward Jacob’s shouts of “Over here!”

  Nine months ago, I’d never have led an enraged bear toward anyone I cared about. If I made a mistake, I’d pay the price alone. But Jacob is correct. I need to run to where three people stand ready to help me.

  When I reach the others, I wheel to see the bear prodding her cub, making sure it’s all right. She glowers and snarls our way, but there are four of us, a tight-knit mass of large predators. She has her baby. That’s all she wanted. She picks him up by the scruff of the neck and marches into the forest.

  “That was . . .” Cypher begins. “I am torn between ‘awesome’ and ‘the fucking craziest thing I’ve ever seen.’”

  “I’ll go with the latter,” Dalton mutters.

  “Nope,” Cypher says. “I think we gotta admit to both. Awesome and crazy. She threw a cub. At a charging bear.”

  Jacob snickers. “It was kind of—”

  “No, no it was not,” Dalton says. “You know what you’re supposed to fire at a charging bear, Casey? Bullets.”

  “I know.”

  “What if you just pissed her off more?”

  “I know.”

  “Actually,” Jacob says. “The first thing any momma’s going to do is make sure her baby is okay, so—”

  Dalton wheels on him, and Jacob steps back, his hands raised.

  “I wouldn’t have done it with a grizzly,” I say.

  Dalton glowers at me. “Well, that’s good to know.”

  “I didn’t drop my gun. If the baby toss failed, at least it would have startled her enough for me to get a good shot. As long as I kept hold of my weapon, I was okay.”

  “She has a point, Eric,” Jacob says.

  Dalton turns his glower on Jacob.

  “In any other circumstances, I’d have shot,” I say. “But if I killed her, we’d have had an orphaned cub, and we’ve already given Mathias the wolf-dog. I don’t know who’d take the bear. It just seemed unwise.”

  Dalton turns to me again. “You know what’s unwise?”

  A hug throws him off-guard. “I know. I’m sorry. I won’t say I’ll never do that again, but I promise I won’t try it with a grizzly.”

  “You couldn’t lift a grizzly cub,” he grumbles.

  “Nah,” Cypher says. “Casey’s got some guns on her. She could lift a bigger cub—just couldn’t throw it.” He slaps me on the back. “Creative thinking there, kitten. And it proves my point: you don’t always need to use a gun. Now let’s split up and get out of here before Momma comes back.”

  * * *

  Cypher and Jacob each go their own way. They’re both experienced trackers—with very different methods—so it’s best if they separate. Also, too much of Cypher could drive even Jacob to justifiable homicide.

  Dalton and I stick together. I’m just lucky he doesn’t tie a rope around his waist and make me hold onto it. As it is, he settles for checking over his shoulder every dozen steps to be sure I’m still there.

  When we reach a wider path, he brings me up beside him, his hand locked in mine. I know that bear standoff spooked him even more than it did me. Dalton’s world is one of both endless wonder and endless danger, and he fears that one day, he’ll lose me to it. Either I will fall prey to those threats or I’ll simply declare “enough” and leave. So I let him grumble about the bear, and I let him clutch my hand, and I push branches aside to walk beside him along a path that’s really too narrow for both of us.

  We do keep an ear and eye out for the black bear. I don’t know the chance she’ll come back. Bears aren’t as territorial as wolves and cougars. That might change if it’s a sow with a cub. Still, there’s no sign of her. I didn’t hurt her baby, and she seems to have decided retreat is the best option.

  When we catch a noise, at first it does sound like a bear. The hair-raising yowl of an ursine in distress. Then the yowl becomes a word.

  “Helloooo!”

  As we listen, it comes again, a very clear human cry echoing through the forest. Dalton breaks into a jog.

  The shouts are sporadic, as if the person knows he has little chance of a response. We run over a kilometer into mountain foothills. Then, as we draw near, I grab Dalton’s arm and say, “Trap.”

  I hate being the one who hears a person in need and immediately expects the worse. It makes me feel like a horrible human being. But that won’t stop me from slowing to be sure, even when those extra moments could mean the difference between life and death for another person.

  We continue slower now, tracking the sound, pausing when it stops. Finally, we’re close enough to hear ragged breathing. We still can’t see anyone, which worries Dalton. He slows and squints at the open rocky landscape.

  “Hello?” the voice calls. “Is someone there?”

  The sound seems to come from less than twenty feet in front of us. The only thing there, though, is a low boulder. Dalton’s eyes narrow as they fix on it.

  “I thought I heard footsteps,” the voice continues. “If someone’s there, I need help. Please.”

  It’s undeniably Mark Garcia. Calling to us from behind a boulder.

  “I’ve fallen,” he says.

  “And I can’t get up,” I mutter under my breath.

  Dalton only glances my way. A lifetime of incomprehensible pop-culture jokes has taught him not to ask.

  I motion a plan. It’s virtually the same one we had when we first encountered Garcia in the forest. Dalton will slip around the far side of that boulder, and I will be the bait.

  While Dalton lopes off to get in place, I scuff my boot against the rock.

  “Hello?” Garcia calls.

  I scuff again, distracting him from Dalton’s muffled footfalls.

  “Look,” Garcia says. “If you’re human, just say something.” A rasping cough. “I really don’t have the ener
gy to be talking to wildlife.”

  I take two thumping steps toward that boulder.

  “Please be human,” Garcia says. “Please be friendly human. I have . . . Oh, hell. I don’t have shit. That’s the truth. But I can get it. The couple hundred bucks in my wallet is useless to you, but I’ll bring you supplies. Whatever you need. Just help me. Please.”

  Another two steps. Then I lift my gun and check the ammo. It’s full, of course. I don’t leave without a full cartridge. But the sound will be unmistakable to a lawman.

  “Sheriff?” he says. “Is that you? No, you had a revolver. The deputy had a big-ass forty-five. That’s a nine mil, which makes it the detective. Or so I hope. Is that you, Detective? I don’t know your name. Seems we never progressed that far. But I heard someone call you a detective.”

  “It’s me,” I say.

  A loud, ragged exhale. “Oh, thank God. Please tell me you have the sheriff or deputy with you. No offense, but you’re going to need help. I can’t make it back to town on my own.”

  Why, no, I’m afraid it’s just little ol’ me, Marshal. All alone in the forest with my basket for Grandmama.

  “They’re out searching,” I say. “I can go get—”

  “No. Get me out of here first, please. Then you can bring help.”

  Of course.

  I continue forward, my gun out. I’m dividing my attention between the boulder and the forest behind it as I watch for Dalton. He appears and signals something, but the sun is blasting down, and I can only tell that he’s pointing to the boulder. Yes, Garcia’s there, Eric. There’s no place else he could be.

  I continue forward. The boulder is five feet away. Any second now, Garcia will lunge—

  “Casey!”

  Dalton’s shout startles me, and I pitch forward. My foot keeps going, and I stumble. Thankfully, my instinct is to pull back and right myself. I look down . . . way down.

  There’s a crevice right in front of me. Another step, and I’d have walked into it.

  “So the sheriff is here.” Garcia gives a hoarse chuckle. “Okay. I should have seen that coming.”

  I follow his voice. He’s to my left, wedged into the crevice. He’s fallen at least a dozen feet. Splotches of blood paint the rocks.