A Darkness Absolute (Casey Duncan #2)(55)

I’m in the forest. Alone. Far enough from town that I can’t hear the laugh of anyone heading home for the evening, can’t see the swing of a lantern in hand.

He ran, and I didn’t stop to wonder why he was running. I presumed he was fleeing. Never considered that he might be luring me into the forest.

I put my back to a conifer and scan the forest. When something moves to my left, I spin, gun raised. It’s the cross fox from my yard, looking up at me, nose twitching as if to say, What are you doing out here? It has a mouse in its jaws, and as the fox watches me, the mouse revives, giving a mad struggle. The fox chomps down, gaze never wavering from mine. Then it takes off, sliding through the trees, heading for home.

I look around again. The forest remains still. Not silent, though. I catch all the usual noises. Does that mean the man has fled? Or that we’ve both just gone so silent ourselves that—like the fox—the forest has decided to ignore us?

I take a step away from the tree. Then another. With each movement, I pause and listen for an echoing sound, the suggestion he’s masking his movements with mine. On the fifth step, I catch the barest swish of a boot in snow. I hold myself still as I register the direction. Then I take a step that way. Silence. Step. Silence.

A crack, barely audible. He’s behind a tree, hidden from sight, watching me.

“I know you’re there,” I say, my voice echoing. “I have a gun. If you don’t want me to use it, step out and identify yourself.”

The slow crunch of snow under a boot. He’s retreating, trying to do it silently. When I take another step, he breaks and runs, and I take three running steps before realizing I’m falling farther into his trap.

I have to pull myself up short and hold there, every muscle clenched to keep from going after him. To follow is madness. To not follow feels like cowardice.

I grip my gun and hold myself in place, waiting until the crash of undergrowth tells me I’ve lost my chance. And if that stings, well, then it stings.

I take my time going back, listening for any sign that my target has looped around to halt my retreat. When I catch a sound deep in the forest, I start walking backward, one foot deliberately down after another, eyes and ears straining for that distant spot—

A hand closes around my ankle. I spin as it yanks, and I go down on all fours. I kick and flip onto my back, gun flying up, aiming at—

It’s Shawn Sutherland, lying prone in the snow.

“H-help…” He can barely get that out, lifting his blood-streaked face and blinking at me as if in confusion. His hand still holds my ankle in a viselike grip. When I reach down to peel off his fingers, he lurches forward on his belly, the movement yanking my foot back.

“Shawn,” I say. “It’s me. Casey. Detective Butler. From Rockton.”

“H-help me. Please…”

“I will. You’re safe. I’ll get you to town. Just let go of—”

“No!” He convulses, both hands gripping my ankle now. “Don’t leave me.”

“I’m not going anywhere. Just—”

A branch cracks in the forest. My head jerks up. Through the trees, I see the outline of a man. He’s holding something in his hand, something long and thin, like a metal rod.

I scramble to get away from Sutherland, but his fingers dig in, eyes burning with fever as he says, “Don’t leave. Don’t leave.”

“I’m not—”

I yank hard, to no avail. The figure approaches. I lift my gun and focus on that. He glances over his shoulder, and I see the beard and know it’s the man I chased from my house. He continues toward me, his weapon raised.

“There is a gun in my hand,” I call. “I will not hesitate to use it.”

He stops. Tilts his head. Seems to consider, his gaze going from me to Sutherland.

“I will shoot you,” I say. “Put that down, or I will fire this gun.”

He shifts the weapon from one hand to the other. I take aim.

“Shoot him,” Sutherland croaks.

I look down to see he’s lifted his head, and his gaze is riveted on the man.

“Shoot him.”

The man dives into the undergrowth. I scramble after him, but Sutherland still has my foot. As I go down again, the figure rises and starts toward me, and as I’m tangled there, my leg twisted. I kick to get free. Sutherland lets out a howl as my foot makes contact. He finally lets go and I’m on my feet, but the figure is gone. I stand there, poised, my gaze traveling over the dark woods.

“Should have shot him,” Sutherland croaks. “Should have shot the bastard.”

He collapses.





THIRTY-THREE

I drag Sutherland back to town. When I yell for help, three residents come running. Soon he’s at the clinic, Anders attending, me helping, Mathias nowhere to be found, damn him.

Sutherland is badly dehydrated. We don’t find any injuries requiring an emergency airlift, but we are, once again, reminded exactly how vulnerable we are without a doctor.

Anders washes the crusted blood from the back of Sutherland’s head and examines the wound that left blood in his toque. It’s a serious bash. Other than that, we find rope burns on his wrist and lower legs, splinters in his hands, and mild frostbite. He’s feverish, regaining consciousness enough to mumble that he needs to get back to Rockton.