When Jacob doesn't answer, Nicole quickly says, "Oh, I'm kidding. Maybe another trip."
Jacob shoves his hands into his jacket pockets. "No, this might be a good time. I could use the help. Let me check a few things. If it'll work, I'll leave a message in two days."
One might think it'd be easier for Jacob to just pop into Rockton, but very few residents know he exists, and while I'm uncomfortable adding Brady to that list, there's nothing to be done about it now.
Dalton says he'll check for the note. As they talk, Anders subtly directs my attention to our left, where I see another figure in the forest. My hand goes to my gun again, but slower this time. With Jacob, I could clearly see a human shape on the path. This is a big shape in a tree about fifty feet away. The only creature that size you'd find treed up here is the one we were just talking about. The cougar.
Anders's gaze shifts to Dalton, asking if we should tell him. I shake my head and take a step off the path, trying to see past a tree that partially blocks my view.
For the most dangerous creature in these woods, humans win hands down. But after that, the runner-up is a matter of debate. Grizzly or cougar? Pick your poison. One is seven hundred pounds of brute force. You'll see it coming. Question is whether you can stop it. The other? About my size. Much easier to kill. The problem is getting that chance--before it silently drops onto your back and snaps your neck.
Yet in this particular situation, a grizzly would worry me more. If this is a cougar, we see it, and that's really all we need. The question is whether it's the big cat we're looking for. She was the only one around--we're north of their usual territory--but we've seen signs that her cubs may have stayed. If it's the mother, I don't want to miss the chance to kill her. She's a man-eater, which makes her an indisputable threat. But her offspring?
Here is the question we face, not unlike our dilemma with Brady. If we see one of the younger cougars, do we exterminate it, just in case? That isn't our way. But if we let it live, and it kills someone, we have to take responsibility for that death . . . and then deal with a proven threat.
I edge around the tree. The figure is still too hard to make out, between the distance and blooming tree buds. All I can say for sure is that it's the right size for a cougar or a human, and it's lying on a branch watching us, which fits for either, too.
I glance at Anders. He gives a helpless shrug. We don't have binoculars--we were so distracted by Brady that we didn't grab our hiking pack. I survey that shape on the tree, and I know we can't walk away without seeing what it is. But we'll need to send at least two of us in for a closer look, and that leaves only two with Brady. No, wait, there's also Jacob. That'll work. Jacob and Dalton can go--
The figure moves and sunlight glints off--
"Down!" Anders shouts. "Everyone down!"
10
Anders's hand hits me square between the shoulder blades. Even as I fall, I look up to see Dalton spinning toward me. That's his first reaction. Not to drop, damn him, but to make sure Jacob and I are. Both of us are dropping, and I'm shouting "Eric, get down!" but he's already doing that. Then he sees that one person hasn't moved.
Brady.
Our sudden movement threw him into defensive mode, his hands rising as if to ward us off.
"Oliver, get--!" I shout.
Dalton lunges at Brady just as I see the distant muzzle flare. I shout "No!" and I'm scrambling up, as Dalton knocks Brady out of the way. Then blood. I see blood.
Anders grabs my leg, but I yank away and lurch, bent over, toward Dalton, as I shout, "In the woods! Roll into the woods!" Anders echoes it with his trained-soldier bark, and Brady, Nicole, and Jacob crawl off the path.
Dalton doesn't move.
He's on the ground. And there's blood. That's all I register. Dalton is on the ground, and there is blood.
Even when I see him rising, I think I'm imagining it. My brain has already seized on the worst possible scenario and refuses to let go.
"Down!" Anders says. "Both of you! Now!"
I'm close enough to grab Dalton, and then Anders is there, and we both get him off the path as Dalton says, "I'm fine, I'm fine."
There are no more shots. When Jacob tries to rise, though, Anders says, "Stay down! It's a sniper."
Jacob stares at him, uncomprehending.
"There's a shooter in the trees," I say. "Get off the path. We have Eric."
"I'm fine, Jacob," Dalton calls. "He winged me. That's all."
Which is a slight exaggeration. Dalton has been shot in the upper arm. A small-caliber bullet passed through what I hope is just muscle. It should be, but blood streams from the entry and exit holes, and I'm still fighting the panic that insists that it's more serious.
When I prod Dalton into thicker brush, he doesn't argue. I get my belt and shirt off and fashion a padded tourniquet around his arm.
"It's fine," he says. "We need to--"
"I know."
Anders motions. I peek around a bush and see what he's trying to show me--that the sniper's perch is empty.
"Go on," Dalton says. "You and Will."
I hesitate. I'd rather have Anders stay to properly assess him, but Dalton's stable and our shooter is on the move. He squeezes my fingers with his good hand and says, "Be careful."
"I'm not the one leaping in to save serial killers."
"Yeah, didn't think that one through. He'd better appreciate it."
I shake my head. Oliver Brady will consider rescue no less than his due. While Dalton can say he didn't think it through, I'm not sure that would have mattered. Brady is under his protection. Dalton isn't going to stand by and watch him die.
Anders and I slip from bush to tree to whatever will hide our approach. Every few moments, we stop to listen. There's nothing to hear, just the usual noise of the forest.
When we're about halfway to the tree, I pop up enough to scan our surroundings. Anders does the same. A shake of his head says he sees nothing either. When I frown, he jerks his chin, asking what's bugging me. The calm suggests our shooter has retreated, but I'd have expected to hear that--in the thump of a foot on hard ground, the crackle of undergrowth, the cry of a startled bird.
Our sniper hasn't beat a hasty retreat, crashing through the forest. Has he retreated at all? I whisper that possibility to Anders, and he nods, his gaze shifting to where we left the others. As much as we want to go back and warn them, Dalton will keep them safely hidden until we say the coast is clear.
We continue on, step by careful step. Listen. Step. Look. Step. Feel. Yes, that last one seems strange, especially if I admit I'm trying to catch a sense of someone nearby. Out here, I've learned not to be too quick to dismiss the raised hairs on my neck, the sense that I am not alone.
Dalton is the most pragmatic person I know, but he'd also be the first to tell me to pay attention to my sixth sense. He puts it into a context his brain understands--humans are both predator and prey out here, and so logically we might have something that is not quite premonition, but rather an awareness of another presence. Maybe it's vibrations underfoot or a scent in the air or a sound too soft to be identified.
I detect none of that.
We reach the tree and circle it, guarding each other while scanning the forest.
"Gone," Anders whispers.
I process the scene, but there's nothing to find. Not even a fiber trapped in the bark where he climbed. I shimmy onto that limb and find nothing. Then, as I'm climbing down, I catch the glint of metal in the undergrowth.
"Will . . ." I say carefully.
He's been circling the tree, searching. Now he halts, one foot still raised.
"Stay right where you are," I say.
"Can I put my foot down?"
"Very carefully."
He does that as I say, "There's something metallic on the ground to your left."
"Bear trap?"
"Not unless they come in long, barrel-shaped form."
"Shit. There's a gun pointed right at me, isn't there?"
/>
"Yep."
"Of course there is." He curses some more. "Okay, if it's a trap, you're looking for a trigger. Presumably it would be tripped from the direction the gun is aimed. It could be a pressure plate under the soil."
"I don't see any soil disturbance around you."
"Good start."
I crawl out on the tree branch over him to conduct a full visual sweep. I don't see a trip wire, and I tell him that, adding, "But don't take my word for it."
"Oh, I'm not. Sorry. Can you climb out over the gun?"
"Yes, but I can already tell that won't help. It's nestled in the vegetation. I'm going to check it out. Just hold on."
I retreat down the tree. Then I circle wide. When I'm on the far side of the gun, I walk toward it, checking before putting each foot down. Finally, I reach the spot. I crouch. Then I swear.
"That doesn't sound good," Anders says.
"No, it's--Just hold on."
I swore because I know this gun. I'm temporarily putting that on the "not important" shelf, along with the ramifications of having a sniper in our forest.
I hunker down. Then I lie on my belly, getting a straight-on view of the gun.
"And . . ." Anders says.
"I don't see any sign of a trigger device. It looks as if the shooter just left it behind."
"That's actually kinda disappointing."
"At the count of three, I'll knock the barrel aside, and you'll dive for cover. We'll tell everyone else it was rigged, and you narrowly escaped death. Plus, of course, I saved your life, and you owe me forever."
"Yeah, no. But you can move the barrel aside. Carefully please."
I lean over the gun and take another good look, running my fingers along the perimeter for a trip wire. The trigger is clear, and the gun seems fine. I ease the barrel away from Anders.
"Thank you."
I start to rise, and he says, in a low voice, "Stop."
A low growl sounds behind me. I look over my shoulder to see a muzzle and eyes peering from a clump of weeds.
11
"Is that a . . . ?" Anders begins.
He doesn't finish, but I know what he was going to say. It looks like a wolf--the size, the build, the ears, the muzzle shape, and the white and gray fur. But there are brown spots in that gray, and its face is freckled.
"Wolf-dog," I murmur.
"Shit," Anders says.
It's the dog part that worries me. I hear wolves almost every night, but I've only spotted them deep in the forest, as they catch wind of us and disappear like ghosts. Dogs are another matter. They're feral, descended from those either released or escaped from Rockton, back in a time when pets were allowed. Those canines don't always slip away like wolves. Even a few generations removed, they retain their fearlessness around humans.
I aim my gun. I don't want to. But this is Dalton's rule. If a feral dog makes an aggressive move, we must shoot to kill.
I can't tell with this one. It's watching me just as carefully as I'm watching it.
"Got your gun ready?" I ask Anders.
"I do."
"Count of three. Three, two, one--"
I lunge at the wolf-dog and let out a snarl. I'm hoping it'll run. It doesn't. Nor does it attack. It just hunkers down and snarls back, fur bristling. Anders curses some more, and I agree. We like our decisions cut-and-dry, and the universe isn't complying these days, not even with a damned dog.
"Protocol is to shoot," Anders says. "If it doesn't back down, we put it down."
I notice he doesn't actually shoot. He's waiting for me to say yes, that's what we have to do. When I say, "Wait," he exhales in relief.
I hunker to crouch.
"Good idea," Anders says. "Submissive pose. See if it attacks."
Which isn't what I'm doing at all. I'm taking a closer look at something I've spotted.
"She's nursing," I say. "Her cubs must be nearby."
"Right. Okay. So we leave her."
"As long as she doesn't attack, yes. I'm going to pick up the rifle, and we'll back off slowly."
The wolf-dog stands her ground, allowing me to get the gun and start backing up. Then she follows, stiff-legged.
"Making sure we leave?" Anders says.
"I hope so."
When we've made it about halfway to the others, I call, "Eric?"
"Here."
"Our shooter is gone. He left his gun. But we've got a wolf-dog backing us off. It's a nursing mother."
"Fuck."
I don't ask if he wants us to shoot. If he does, he'll say so. Instead, he calls, "Jacob?"
There's a murmur of voices. Jacob appears. He ducks to peer under a branch and gets a look at the canine.
"That's Freckles," he says. "She's not usually a problem. It's the cubs making her defensive."
I don't comment on him "naming" the wolf-dog. That's not what he's done. It's just a way to identify her, the same way people name ponds and hills and other landmarks.
Jacob tells us to keep backing away. When the canine continues to follow, he lunges and growls, and she freezes. There's a five-second stare-down. Then the wolf-dog snorts and stays where she is, letting us retreat.
"You need to be more intimidating, Case," Anders says.
"Nah," Jacob says. "You just need to learn the stare . . . and know which animals you can use it on. Do that to a boar grizzly, and you're dead where you stand. She was just making sure you got away from her litter."
We return to the others. Anders and I go straight to Dalton. That's when our sheriff sees the rifle.
"Fuck, no," he say.
"Fuck, yes," Anders says. "Now give me that arm."
"We need to--"
"Arm. Now."
Dalton lifts his arm for Anders to examine. Residents joke about Dalton being the alpha dog in Rockton. He is, and no one disputes that. But people aren't animals, and the idea of one person being in charge, at all times, in all situations, is bullshit. This winter, when Dalton contracted the flu in Dawson City, Anders happily turned to me and said, "You're up." You play sheriff for a few days. He didn't want the job. Yet all he has to do is adopt this tone, and Dalton shuts up and listens.
As Anders examines him, Dalton shoots glances my way. He's trying not to look at the rifle. Trying not to tip off Brady, who's watching us intently. He's also trying to hide the worry in his eyes.
"Does it matter?" I say. "Threat-wise? Six of one, half dozen of the other."
Brady's brows furrow. Dalton nods. He understands my verbal shorthand. This gun is from Rockton. That suggests our shooter is also from Rockton. On the surface, that's alarming, but what's the alternative? An external sniper would mean someone sent to kill Brady. Someone who came from Brady's world.
The two situations are equally dangerous.
Most pressing right now is Dalton's arm. Jacob and I are both hovering as Anders works. I see Brady watching, and I want to pull back, tug Jacob with me, but that's pointless. One glance at Jacob, and Brady can tell he's Dalton's brother. And if Brady hasn't figured out that Dalton and I are lovers, he's going to soon.
Dalton's injury isn't as serious as I feared, but it's still a bullet wound. It will be temporarily debilitating. Or so it will seem to a guy who agreed to stay in bed with the flu only when we warned he could infect others. It's his left arm, which is a problem.
When I say, "Good thing you're right-handed," there isn't even a moment of confusion. Instead, Dalton exhales, and says, "Yeah," and Anders agrees. Jacob looks up but covers his surprise fast. Having our prisoner realize that our sheriff has lost the full use of his dominant arm is the last thing we need. It really is.
In town, Dalton strides straight for Val's place. I catch his good arm. My gaze shoots to the station. He hesitates but nods, and we follow Anders and Nicole with Brady. When they head inside, though, we veer off to the supply shed.
The shed isn't part of the station--our building is too small to have the militia tramping in and out all day. Inside the supply building is
a secure gun locker, which I examine for signs of tampering. There are none.
We have two sets of keys for this locker. Dalton carries one. Anders has the other. The militia use handguns on patrol, and they typically just pass their weapon on to whoever takes over their shift. Otherwise, they need Anders to open the locker. He never just hands over his key. Neither does Dalton.
Dalton reaches into his pocket with his left hand--force of habit--and then winces. With that wince comes a growl of frustration.
"As tempting as it is to play the tough guy," I say, "please remember that every time you do that, you pull at the wound, and it's going to take that much longer to heal. I'm going to suggest--strongly suggest--that you let me put your arm in a sling, if only to remind you to keep it still."
"Fuck."
"Yes, but it'll heal faster."
He nods. Then he switches his key to his right hand. When he fumbles to get it into the hole, I resist the urge to do it for him. The key goes in, and the cabinet opens, and sure enough, one of our rifles is missing.
I read the log. "It hasn't been checked out since last weekend, when we took the rifles for hunting."
"It was here yesterday, when I had to grab a gun for Kenny. So how the hell--?"
"Someone picked the lock," Anders says as he walks in. "That's the only explanation."
"Agreed," I say. "But it's not a standard lock. Whoever did this has some serious skills."
"So we go to the council and demand . . ." Dalton begins, and then trails off, grumbling under his breath.
"Yeah," Anders says. "You can demand to know if we have any thieves in town, but they aren't going to tell us."
"Do you know, for a fact, that there are only two keys?" I ask. "I'm guessing you didn't install that locker yourself."
Dalton shakes his head.
"So there could be a third key floating around . . . or the council has always had one."
Anders looks at me. "You think the council brought in a sniper?"
"I'm afraid to even start considering the possibilities. We'll need to report the attempt, but I'm going to suggest we don't mention finding the gun or realizing it's missing. If the council is responsible, their sniper could have brought his own weapon. Using ours suggests they wanted to frame us. By admitting it was ours, we set ourselves up to take responsibility if they succeed next time."