“Oh, yeah, she was having nothing to do with me. As soon as she realized I was following her she retreated to her hotel. Typical stuck-up bitch. Figures I’m trying to get in her pants and marches off, nose in the air, like I’ve got some nerve, thinking I stand a chance with her.” He snorts. “Anyway, you got eyes on the pilot?”
Pilot?
He’s talking about Dalton.
“I’ll come help with that,” the guy says.
A moment of silence.
“No, I’m coming,” he says, firmer. “This bitch isn’t going anywhere. Probably figures I’m mooning around the front door, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. Tell me where you are—”
The person on the other end cuts him off.
“Hey,” the guy say, the word coming hard and fast. “Don’t pull this shit on me. We had a deal, and I’m sticking close until this is sorted. It’s my money on the line, too.”
A pause.
“No, actually, I don’t trust you. This whole thing is starting to sound fishy, and I want my damn money. Tell me where you are, or I march up to this bitch’s room and tell her what’s going on.”
I cross my fingers that the person on the other end calls his bluff. But the threat works, and the guy heads for the street, phone still to his ear.
I follow. That isn’t easy. Even on a “busy” day in Dawson, once you’re off the main street, the sidewalks empty. Ahead, a trio of ravens pick at roadkill, adding to the Wild West ambiance. The guy slows to watch them, and I hopscotch along from one point of cover to the next. When he picks up speed again, I let him get a good head start. It’s not as if I’m going to lose sight of him. He makes a left onto Hanson, heading for the back of town. Yes, only a few roads away the main drag, is the back of town with forest beyond. Go in the other direction, and once you pass Front Street, you’re in the Yukon River.
I keep my distance. The guy is passing Berton House, heading toward the Jack London Museum and Robert Service cabin. He doesn’t seem the literary tourist type, and he swings left on Eighth Ave, the last road in town. I kick it up a notch and see him veer toward a side street as he turns left again, onto Hanson. Ahead is a pickup.
He heads straight for it. He’ll climb into it and drive away, leaving me standing on the street, gaping after him. I look around. For what? An Uber? This guy is about to drive off to parts unknown, where he will meet up with his partner, who has “eyes” on Dalton.
Shit.
THIRTY-FIVE
I spot an older sedan to my left. Last night, I quizzed Sebastian on his car-jacking techniques. He’d failed the test. I could pass it. An informant once spent an hour teaching me—we were on a very dull stakeout together. Jacking an old car like this one is easy, especially when the windows have been left down. Hell, the keys are probably under the mat.
I don’t do more than idly consider the fact that I could steal it. I wouldn’t. Anything I do out here puts Rockton in danger. I have another idea. It’s not a good idea, but hey, it’d been a few days since I threw that bear cub. High time for another crazy plan.
I edge along the wooded property while the man does indeed walk straight for that pickup. As he climbs in, I duck behind a bush. The moment the door claps shut, I run, hunched over, toward the back end.
The tailgate is not open. That would make this far too easy. He puts the car into drive, the carburetor thunking. As soon as the vehicle lurches forward, I pitch a rock over the cab. Then I leap onto the rear bumper. My timing is perfect. The rock hits the hood just as the truck dips under my weight. He slams on the brakes, and I dive into the truck bed.
Okay, I don’t dive. That would make far too much noise. It’s more of a slide. Then I hold my breath.
My hope is that he’ll look out the front windshield, realize he hasn’t hit anything and drive off. Instead the door thumps open. His footsteps thankfully head around to the front. I wriggle forward and plaster myself against the front of the truck bed.
Please do not come around the back. Please do not look in the back.
There’s a pause as he tries to see what he might have hit. A grunt. Then the door clanks again as he opens it. He gets in and shuts it.
I exhale.
The truck makes a u-turn and heads back toward town. I stay where I am, up at the front of the bed, so he won’t spot me if he looks in the rear view mirror. We reach Front, which is also the Klondike highway, leading in and out of town. When we pause at a four-way stop, a tracker-trailer pulls up behind us. The driver can see me. I wave and grin and do an exaggerated “finger to the lips.” The guy only smiles and shakes his head.
I might complain about being underestimated, but let’s be honest—I get a ton of mileage out of it. This trucker sees me in the pickup bed, and he does not for one second think the driver is in danger of having his truck jacked on a lonely road.
We leave town. I peek up periodically to get my bearings. I’ve been to Dawson a half-dozen times since I arrived in Rockton, and I know the surrounding land well enough. We’re heading south. We pass the road leading to the Midnight Dome—one of our favorite spots—and take the next left.
We’re rolling over rough road for a couple of minutes. When it smooths out, a sudden “Bingo!” startles me. Then I realize it’s the guy talking on the phone with his window down.
“I see him right up ahead. His tire just blew. Very conveniently.” The guy’s braying laugh drifts back to me. “Okay, I’ll take this. I’ll pull up—”
A pause.
“Hell, no, I’m right here. I don’t even see you. I’m—”
Pause.
“Fine. Fuck you, but fine.” The pickup swings to the right. “There. I’ll park right here, and you’d damn well better come pick me up or . . .”
I don’t hear the rest. The moment the pickup stops, I’m vaulting over the tailgate. I’m sure he’ll see me but he’s too wrapped up in his phone call.
I run into the forest. Before we turned that last corner, the guy said he could see their target at the side of the road, fixing a flat tire. Their target is Dalton. I’m sure of that. The guy’s partner must have tampered with Dalton’s tires while he’d been out of the truck, in the expectation that one would blow on these empty roads, stranding Dalton.
I make it to that intersection. When I look out, I expect to see Dalton’s truck just ahead. I’ll zip to him, and we’ll work out a plan.
Instead the truck is a dot at least a kilometer away. I’m going to need to hoof it there before—
Tires rumble along the dirt road. I look right to see an SUV. It pulls up across from my fake-admirer’s pickup. A woman leans from the driver’s seat and calls something to the guy, who’s already getting out. He jogs to the passenger side.
I need to warn Dalton, but I can’t even cross the road right now, not with them spotting me. Before I can make a decision, the SUV is moving again. As soon as it’s through the intersection, I cross to Dalton’s side, but I’m still a kilometer away.
I run. I don’t care how much noise I make. The two in the SUV won’t hear me over the rumble of their tires. If Dalton does, all the better. But that’s overly optimistic, given the distance and the fact I’m not an Olympic sprinter. The SUV reaches Dalton before I’m even halfway.
I slow. Now is not the time to startle him. The SUV crosses the road and stops in front of Dalton’s truck. I jog, straining to hear the conversation.
“Lost a tire, huh?” the woman calls. Her door clicks as she gets out.
“Yeah,” Dalton says. “Must have run over something.”
“My husband’s a mechanic. Let me give him a shout.” A pause. “Damn. No phone signal. Typical. Been up here two years, and I’m still not used to that. Let me give you lift to town.”
“Thanks, but I have a spare.”
“I see that,” she says as she walks toward him. “The question is whether you know how to change it. And, if you don’t mind me saying so, it doesn’t seem as if you do.”
“I’ll figure i
t out.”
She snorts. “Men. It’s not a black mark on your masculinity if you can’t fix a flat tire.”
Dalton says something I don’t catch, his voice muffled, as if he’s under the vehicle.
The woman laughs. “All right. I won’t give you a hard time. But at least let me drive you into cell range, and you can call someone yourself.”
There’s silence as I creep closer. I pass the SUV, and I glance at it, but I can’t see through the tinted glass. I do have a sightline to Dalton’s truck. The flat is on this side, and the woman stands by the passenger door. Dalton is indeed bent on one knee. He’s rising slowly, gaze on the woman, and I’m close enough to see his expression. It looks calm, blank even, but there’s a slight squint that I know well. He’s realized this woman is pushing the good samaritan routine too hard, and he’s wondering what the hell she’s up to.
I’ve given Dalton shit for being overly protective, but I can do the same. Yes, he lacks experience when it comes to the real world, but that’s no reason to presume he’s going to blithely stumble into this trap. He’s cautious by nature. Very, very cautious, and also very aware of his lack of experience out here.
It’s true that he’ll be struggling to fix a truck tire, but he’ll figure it out, being our main mechanic for the plane and ATV. If he can’t, he’d rather walk an hour to get cell service than hop into a stranger’s SUV in the middle of nowhere. Now that’s he’s suspicious, his guard rises as he gets to his feet.
“I appreciate the offer,” he says. “But I’m fine, and I’m sure you have other things to do.”
“Not really,” she says with a chuckle. “And I do hate leaving anyone stranded on this road. Stop being stubborn. We all need a helping hand now and then. If you feel guilty, you can buy me a coffee.”
Dalton answers, but I don’t catch it. Instead, I’ve caught something else—a flicker of movement behind the truck. I don’t even have time to wonder what I’m seeing before the woman’s partner swings around the rear bumper. Dalton wheels, but too late. A fist slams into Dalton’s jaw.
Dalton reels, and I’m running, crashing through the trees. No one even hears me. The guy has grabbed Dalton by the collar and yanked him upright. Dalton stiffens, and I know something’s being pressed into his back. I skid to a halt. I don’t think I breathe until I see the knife in the man’s hand, and I exhale.
Yes, a knife is dangerous, but it’s not a gun.
I still stay where I am, breathing hard, watching and resisting the urge to break through the last few meters of forest between us. Startle them, and that blade will slam into Dalton’s back.
“My wallet is in the truck,” Dalton says, his voice calm. “It’s in the console. There’s five hundred bucks in it.”
“We’re looking for a bigger payoff than that,” the man says. “We want the money we were promised.”
From my angle, I see the woman’s mouth set. She doesn’t appreciate her partner jumping in. Before she can speak, Dalton’s face screws up and he says, “Promised? From me? You’ve got the wrong guy if you think—”
“You’re the pilot of that Super Cub that comes in from the bush every couple of months,” the man says. “Don’t pretend you’re not. We—”
The woman cuts him off. “Last Thursday, you flew in. My partner here flew our client out. That client hasn’t been seen since.”
“And he owes us money,” the man adds.
The woman’s jaw flexes, and she shoots her partner a look, telling him to shut up.
“What the hell does that have to do with me?” Dalton says.
“You tell us,” the man says.
“You do realize I have no fucking idea what you’re talking about, right?” Dalton says.
Dalton keeps talking, but all I see is the man’s arm draw back, knife clenched. Then it slams toward Dalton’s shoulder.
“Eric!” I shout.
The knife hits, but Dalton is already in motion, spinning away from the blade. Blood drops fly as I run.
Dalton’s fist hits the man’s arm. The knife goes flying. Dalton hits him again, this time in the jaw. The man sails off his feet. Then the woman is on Dalton. She grabs the back of his shirt, battering at him. He turns, and she falls back, and he hits her. She comes at him again, and he punches. She’s a good six inches shorter than him, and the blow strikes the side of her head. She flies into the back of the truck, her head cracking against it. Then she slides to the ground.
The man has recovered. He runs for the knife, but I’m already there. I put my foot on it. He looks like he’s ready to tackle me, but Dalton is barreling toward him, and the man changes his mind. He veers to the side and runs. Dalton starts after him, but he turns too fast and slips on the dirt. By the time he finds his footing, the guy has too much of a head start.
I grab the knife and run to the unconscious woman to get her keys. “He’s got a pickup around the corner. That’s where he’s going. I need her keys . . .” Her pockets are empty. “Damn it. Where—?”
Dalton slaps keys into my hand. I don’t take time to wonder how he got them. I’m on my feet and running for her SUV. Then he calls, “They aren’t for that. They’re for this.”
He points to the truck’s tailgate. Inside, I see a dirt bike.
“Where did that—?” I begin.
“You can still ride, right?”
I don’t answer. I race over and open the tailgate.
THIRTY-SIX
It’s been years since I rode a dirt bike, but it’s the same type as I remember, and motor memory guides me. Make sure the bike is in neutral. Hold the front brake and clutch. Kickstart the bike. Stay upright. That last part is really important, especially at the speeds I travel.
The guy hasn’t reached the corner yet. He hears the whine of the dirt bike, and when he glances over his shoulder, the look he gives is one I will treasure for days to come. It’s is unadulterated “What the hell?” followed by a wide-eyed “Oh, shit!”
He runs faster, as if that will help. I zoom up behind him, and he glances back, and that earlier look is magnified ten-fold. He dives to the side. I veer past him.
I resist the urge to look back at his expression as I continue around the corner. I’m sure he hesitates, wondering if he’s made a mistake, and the woman on the bike was just some other random chick zipping past on a jaunt.
He’ll know better, of course. Especially when Dalton finishes securing his partner and comes jogging after him. But it still takes him a few minutes to cautiously approach the corner and peer around it.
I sit on the dirt bike beside his pickup tailgate.
“Feel free to run into the forest,” I shout. “I’d appreciate the challenge.”
The guy looks over his shoulder. By now, Dalton will be on his way. The guy glances from me to him and back. Then he bolts for the woods.
I hit the throttle, and the bike jumps to life. It’s a small one. A 125CC. More for a kid than an adult, but yes, I am kinda kid-sized, so it’s perfect for me. It’s also perfect for this sparse forest. I catch up with the guy easily. Then I play with him for a while. I can’t help it. There’s no way he can escape, but it’s fun to see him try.
I ride up on his heels. Then I whip around and cut him off. Finally, I spot Dalton in the forest, his arms crossed, shaking his head. So I hit the guy. Not too hard, naturally. I wouldn’t want to hurt myself.
I bump him and then shove him into a tree as I pass. I stop the bike, hop off and give chase on foot. When I catch up, he tries to hit me. I grab his wrist, throw him down and pin his arm behind his back.
Then I lean over him. “Not a surgeon. Not a musician. Not a fashion model.”
He writhes under my grip, half-hearted at first, as if figuring he can get free easily. When that fails, he puts some actual effort into it, until I twist his arm up far enough to make him hiss in pain.
“Last guy who did that got his wrist broken,” I say. “You could ask him about it. But he’s dead.”
He stop
s struggling and looks back to see if I’m joking.
Dalton catches up. “Let me do that. You have questions for him.”
Dalton isn’t nearly good at literal arm twisting, but people presume he’s the type who will break their arm, so they don’t test him.
I hunker down in front of our captive. “Let’s back up and smooth out your story. On Wednesday, my partner piloted his plane into Dawson. The next day, you flew your client out, following my partner, yes?”
“I—”
“Just nod.”
The guy grumbles but nods.
“Someone notified you that he’d flown in, yes?”
He hesitates. Then nods, abruptly, angrily.
I don’t ask for the client’s name. I will, but when interviewing a suspect who is hostile yet cooperating, the “hostile” part will outlast the cooperation. At some point, he’s going to get pissy and shut up. So I prioritize my questions.
“Someone told you that the plane had flown in. And then you contacted this client?”
He nods, shoulders relaxing, as if relieved I haven’t asked him for a name.
“This client wanted to know when that plane arrived, and then he wanted to be flown out after it. Yes?”
He nods.
“Pick up the story from there. Client arrives. Client says ‘follow that plane’ . . .”
“I didn’t set it up. That was Lyd—my partner. I’m just the pilot. She’s the one who got the call and notified the client. He busted ass up here. Then after you guys left, we followed. Only I’d warned Lyd—my partner . . .”
“Let’s just call her Lynn,” I say. I’m sure it’s Lydia, but I’ll let the guy retain the illusion.
“Right. Lynn. I warned her that I can’t exactly tail you. That’d be as obvious as following a car down an empty highway. I had to stay well back, so I only got a rough idea of where you landed. I thought I’d be able to get closer, picking up radio signals, but my receiver went all wonky. The guy said that was close enough. I set her down a few miles out, and he took off. I was supposed to come get him when he radioed, by Saturday at the latest. He never did.”
Watcher in the Woods: A Rockton Novel Page 26
