Watcher in the Woods (Rockton #4)(10)

When we spot a figure in the woods, Dalton opens his mouth, ready to launch a profanity-laden tirade that’ll send the trespasser tearing back to town like a dog caught off its property. But before he can say a word, I grab his arm, my fingers tightening.

He looks down at me.

“Can you tell who that is?” I whisper.

He squints and then shakes his head. It’s a figure in a dark jacket, hood pulled up. The size looks male, but even that is an educated guess.

“If you shout, you’ll lose him,” I say.

Most times, Dalton would be willing to just do that. It’s not worth his time to punish someone for being ten feet outside town. Yet when the town’s under a strict lockdown, a scare isn’t enough.

Dalton slips off. I count to ten, and then I circle the other way, approaching the figure from the rear.

The man is just standing there, looking toward Rockton. Which is odd. The point of sneaking out is to put town life behind you for a while. The only reason to be on the edge looking toward it is . . .

If you’re watching someone inside.

Did someone spot April? See enough in the shadowy twilight to realize she wasn’t me?

Yet we aren’t near my old house. Nor are we near the clinic.

My next guess is, unfortunately, a male resident paying unwelcome attention to a female one. Guys make up three-quarters of our population. At least a third of the women are here to escape a partner—a stalker or abusive ex—which means they aren’t exactly looking to strike up a new relationship. That leaves a serious shortage of available partners for heterosexual men, which can lead to guys having trouble hearing the word “no.”

I mentally map the town. Two of the border buildings nearby are storage units, and the only house belongs to Anders. That doesn’t mean this isn’t a stalker. Our deputy gets his share of unwanted attention from both sexes.

I ease to the side for a better look and realize this guy isn’t behind Anders’s house. He’s looking between the two storage buildings. He has one hand raised. I didn’t notice that at first—it’s on the other side of his body—but when I move, I see he’s holding something to his face.

Binoculars. I’m trying to remember whether we have a compact pair like that when a shadow moves through the trees. A dark figure heading right for the man.

Dalton.

I swear under my breath. Of course Dalton is coming. While I’ve been trying to solve this puzzle, he’s been waiting for me to approach the guy. If I don’t, he will.

“Did you miss the goddamn announcement?” Dalton says, his voice ringing out. “We’re under a fucking cur—”

He stops. Goes completely still and then says, “Casey!” as his hand flies to his holstered gun. The guy wheels, and I see his face.

A face I do not recognize.





FIVE

I go for my gun. The guy lunges to the side and hits the ground.

Dalton yells for the guy to stop, stay where he is or we’ll fire. The man scrambles into the underbrush, and even a warning shot from Dalton doesn’t slow him. The guy disappears in the bush, and I’m racing after him, gun in hand, but by the time I get there, he’s on his feet, a distant shadow in the twilight. I don’t aim my gun. From here, there’s no chance of anything except a potentially fatal shot. Instead I run. I get about twenty feet before a hand grabs the back of my jacket, Dalton saying, “No.”

Adrenaline pumping, I spin to knock his hand off, but I stop myself before I do. I take a deep breath and holster my gun. Dalton’s right. It’s nighttime in the forest. Tearing after a fleeing man is a very stupid idea.

Dalton holsters his weapon and gives his arm a shake. It’s still weak from last week’s injury, and he’s been too busy to bother with the sling. When I point at his arm, he waves me off and scowls into the forest. Then he looks toward town. Wondering whether we should track the guy ourselves or call out the militia.

He doesn’t glance over for my opinion, which means there’s no real question in his mind. He gives an abrupt nod and starts circling around the border.

I don’t ask what he’s doing. “Equal partners” can’t apply to our professional lives. He’s the sheriff. He’s in charge.

Dalton actually has a harder time with that than I do. I’ve always frowned on supervisor-and-underling relationships. If a guy is your boss at work, isn’t that going to carry over at home? For Dalton, the discomfort goes in the opposite direction—he’d rather be partners across the board. But Rockton requires a leader. One leader.

Dalton still only gets about twenty steps before he glances over his shoulder and then lowers his voice, saying, “We’ll get Storm and track him. Leave the militia out of this for now.”

I nod. By not chasing the guy, we let him think he got away. Let him slow down. Let him get careless.

“He’s definitely not a hostile,” I say.

“Yeah.”

“A settler?” I ask. “Not from the First Settlement—his clothing’s too new for that—but has anyone left recently?”

Dalton shakes his head.

Rockton has been around since the fifties. That means thousands of people have passed through, and almost all complete their stint and go home. Some, though, choose the forest instead.

Rockton was born as an exercise in idealism. A place for people who needed refuge, and in those earliest years, it was often their ideals that brought them there—fleeing McCarthyism and other political witch-hunts. But as with so many lofty humanitarian ideas, eventually the coffers ran dry and someone saw the opportunity for profit. When capitalism moved into Rockton, a group of residents moved out and formed the First Settlement, which is now in its third generation.