Burning Bright (Peter Ash #2)(10)

“Well,” she said. “You don’t look like one of them.”

Her voice was rough and scratchy for her years, which he put at late twenties to early thirties. Around Peter’s own age. She didn’t look like a chain-smoker. From her T-shirt logo, he figured it was from screaming at punk rock shows. Or maybe smoking Humboldt County’s finest. Northern California was filled with strange characters gone a few extra steps around the bend. Like a Riot Grrrl in a tree with a bow and arrow.

“What do they look like?” he asked.

She just shook her head. “Better you don’t know.”

“Give me a hint,” said Peter. “Bikers? Dopers? Cops? Aliens?”

The corners of her mouth quirked up in the hint of a smile. She let the tension out of the bow, but still held the arrow nocked to the string. Her shoulders sagged, and for the first time he saw how tired she was.

“Can I put my hands down?”

“No,” she said. “You’re leaving, back the way you came. The only question is, are you going slow, or the express route?”

“I’d prefer slow,” he admitted. “What are you doing up here, anyway?”

“I don’t know you well enough to have this conversation,” she said.

“I’ll tell you anything you’d like to know,” Peter said. “I was born outside of Bayfield, Wisconsin. My dad’s a builder. My mom’s an artist and a teacher. I was a lieutenant in the Marine Corps, honorably discharged. My hobbies are backpacking, carpentry, and current events.” He smiled winningly.

Her mouth quirked again, just slightly. Maybe she wouldn’t put an arrow into him.

“Not many people could free-climb it up here,” she said grudgingly. Then, “Not many people would be that stupid.”

“I prefer the term ‘eccentric,’” said Peter. “How did you get up here?”

She turned the bow slightly. “See the fishing reel?”

It was bolted to the composite above the grip. Peter had known guys who went fishing with a bow with the same kind of setup, although this seemed like an odd place to do it.

“You shoot a weighted arrow through the bottom loop in that green rope, which pulls the fishing line through the loop. Use the fishing line to pull a leader rope, then another rope large enough to climb. Clip on your ascenders and up you go. The only challenge is when you have to jump the knot. Then untie the first rope and pull it up behind you. Keeps the local idiots from climbing up and killing themselves on our gear.”

Peter was clearly the local idiot in this scenario.

Something caught his eye, a kind of golden glint in the sky. He looked out over the undulating land. A half-dozen turkey vultures rode the thermals with their broad square wings, using their superb sense of smell to search for carrion to eat. But they weren’t the source of the flash. It was something high above them. He shaded his eye but couldn’t make it out. Maybe a small plane?

“Am I boring you?”

He looked back to Riot Grrrl, still holding the bow. “Sorry, I was watching the birds. You have an excellent view.”

From far below, over the sound of the breeze through the branches, Peter heard a hard staccato sound. Takatak. Takatak.

He’d heard the sound before. Automatic rifles in disciplined bursts. Takatak. Takatak. Then sustained, magazine-emptying fire, multiple weapons. Takatakatakatakatakataka.

He didn’t hear the distant roar of Mr. Griz. If Mr. Griz hadn’t woken up and wandered off, Peter figured the last California grizzly was dead or dying by now. He hadn’t thought it would make him so sad.

He looked at Riot Grrrl. “You hear that?”

From the way her eyes had gone wide, she’d heard it. Scared but trying to play it cool.

She sighed. “They’re not fucking aliens, all right?”

Peter figured she should be gearing up to get herself out of there. But she wasn’t moving. The bow hung from her hand, her feet seemed glued to her branch. He knew the look. She was paralyzed.

Peter kept talking. “So who are they?”

She looked past him at the reaching limbs. She sounded tired. “I don’t know. I’ve seen them three times. My mom’s lab, on the street, and at my mom’s house two days ago.” She put her hand to her face. “I didn’t think they’d find me here. I’m running out of places to go.”

“How many?”

“Four so far. Men in dark suits. Two black Chevy SUVs.”

“Sounds like government.”

“Their IDs say they’re from the Department of Defense. But I don’t believe them.”

“Why not?”

“I’m pretty sure DoD employees don’t use stun guns to try to kidnap journalists in broad daylight.”

“That happened to you?”

Her eyes jumped back to him. “Yes.”

He saw the anger blazing there, and heard it in the hard edge of her voice. Anger was good. Anger was action. He could work with that.

“Why would they try to kidnap a journalist?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I haven’t had a chance to do much digging yet.” But there was something there, something she wasn’t telling him.

“What do you write about?”

“Technology. Big data. Information privacy in the modern age. Investigative stuff.” She shook her head. “But I don’t think that’s why it happened.”