Watcher in the Woods (Rockton #4)(118)

Paul has a hostage.

Sebastian.

He’s holding the kid backed into his chest, one arm around him, the other with a knife at his throat.

Paul’s trying to get Nicole to put the rifle down, and she’s trying to get him to let Sebastian go. I wave for Diana to stay where she is, as I slip through the forest. I come out behind Paul. Nicole sees me. I motion for her to set the rifle on the ground. She does, her gaze locked on Paul.

“Casey!” Paul shouts. “I know you’re out there. I heard you.”

I glance around and spot another figure by Diana. It’s Dalton. He’s leaning in as she explains the situation to him.

I turn back to Paul. I can’t shoot him from here. Not without hitting Sebastian, too. I could threaten, but I won’t with that knife at the young man’s throat. Even sneaking up and grabbing Paul is too risky. He could startle and cut Sebastian without meaning to. I have the advantage of surprise . . . and no way to use it.

“Casey!”

I holster my gun and pull my jacket closed. Then I clear my throat and say, “Right here.”

Paul wheels, taking Sebastian with him. The young man winces as the knife nicks him. Nicole goes for her rifle on the ground, but Paul expects that, and his head whips around with, “Anyone moves, and I kill him. I swear it.”

“I’m moving,” I say, my voice loud enough for Dalton to overhear. “I’m going to pass on your left side and walk over to stand with the others, okay?”

“Hands in the air.”

I nod, lift them and walk to Nicole and the other two residents. They’re unarmed. We leave the hatchets hidden at the chopping site—along with the wood—until week’s end when they haul it back with the ATV and trailer.

“I know you killed Marshal Garcia,” I say. “You admitted it to Diana, and Jen overheard. You know there’s no way out of this. Just let Sebastian go—”

“Why? If you know I’m guilty, this kid is the only leverage I have.”

Sebastian swallows, and when he speaks, his voice quavers. “If I ever did anything to you, sir, I’m sorry. It was an accident. A mistake. I’d never—”

“Shut up,” Paul says, and Nicole tenses, outrage fairly pulsing from her. Paul continues. “I didn’t even know your name until now, kid. You just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, so you’re going to help me get out of this. Just be a good boy and pray that Casey here gives a shit about you.”

“Paul, let him go and—”

“If he dies, it’s on you, Casey. Just like that stupid security guard who got me into this mess.”

I don’t ask what he means. I know he’s going to tell me. He’s itching to tell me.

“I used to take hostages all the time,” he says. “It’s the one thing people pay attention to when you’re robbing a bank. Grab some kid or old lady, and suddenly, everyone pays attention. They do what you ask, and no one gets hurt. Not until some doughnut-munching lard-ass security guard decides to be a hero. Then what can I do? If I don’t shoot the hostage, no one’s ever going to take me seriously again. I try not to kill the old lady. I shoot her in the shoulder. That’s what they always show in the movies. That’s even what ol’ Deputy Will taught us. You could cost someone the use of their arm, but it’s a damn sight better than killing them. The problem is when you aim for the shoulder, and they move. Suddenly, I’m not just a bank robber; I’m a killer. That’s when they pay attention. That’s when you get a Federal warrant on your head.”

“Agent Garcia found you,” I say. “And you bribed him to let you go.”

His head whips my way.

“He wouldn’t come here alone on a warrant,” he says. “He caught up with you once before. You made a deal with him. But something happened—maybe you stiffed him on his payment when you came up here—and so he followed.”

“I didn’t stiff anyone. I paid him in full, and he’s the one who got me up here. He knew about this place. I paid him to let me go, and I paid him for passage up here. Then . . . who the hell knows. Maybe he got greedy and followed. He wanted more.”

“Or he had a change of heart,” I say. “He regretted what he’d done and came up here to make you face justice.”

Paul laughs so hard the knife wavers, and Sebastian shoots me a look, the frightened kid facade slipping to show the unnervingly mature adult beneath, the one who isn’t terribly concerned about his situation but asks me to please refrain from anything that will get him killed. The look vanishes in a blink, and he starts breathing hard, eyes fluttering.

“L-look,” Sebastian stammers. “I—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Paul says. Then he turns back to me, and in him I also see another person, a stranger now. I have to remind myself that this is the same man I’ve known since I arrived, the eager and helpful militia guy I couldn’t quite rely on, but only because he was prone to screwing up, never because I doubted his loyalty.

No, that isn’t true. I think back to those screw ups. To times when Paul disobeyed an order—like when he failed to help me during Roy’s lynch mob—and I should have wondered whether it was truly a failure of nerve or a deeper problem. A lack of commitment to his job. A lack of loyalty to Dalton. We’d known not to put Paul in charge of anything critical, and I think we’d all just been hoping problems were “Paul screwing up . . . again” rather than anything serious.