Watcher in the Woods (Rockton #4)(12)

He frowns. “In the bag?’

To Dalton, a trap is a literal one, like a bear trap.

“An IED,” I say.

When his frown deepens, I start to say, “A bomb,” but he nods and says, “Improvised explosive device.” While he might never have encountered such a thing, he’s read more than anyone I know.

“It’s unlikely,” I say. “But I want to be sure. This screams set up. Can you hold Storm back, please?”

He hesitates.

“I’m not going to attempt to disarm a bomb,” I say. “I’m just looking, and I don’t want to have to worry about either of you.”

He backs off with Storm. I examine the ground for signs of a trigger. Out here, it’d need to be a literal trigger—tripwire or such. I get close to the bag and crouch. It’s an oversized backpack, the sort campers use. This one is so new that it smells of polyurethane. I can even see a plastic fastener around the handle, where he’s ripped off the tags. That sets my alarms flashing—he could have bought this to house an IED. Then I notice open pockets, and when I aim my flashlight beam inside, I see energy bars and a bottle of water.

I examine the main zipper. It isn’t quite closed, and I poke at the hole with a twig and shine my light through on rolled up clothing

Next I pick up a tree, which sounds more impressive than saying I haul over a downed sapling. I use it to prod the backpack. Nothing happens.

None of this proves the pack isn’t rigged to explode, but without any way to test it, at some point I need to make a judgment call. My call is that it’s exactly what it looks like. The guy doesn’t know his way around the Yukon forest, and he’s bought a bag, stuffed it with supplies and dumped it to go check out the town unencumbered.

Of course, this would all make far more sense if we weren’t a week’s hike from the nearest town. There’s no way an amateur can buy a few supplies, set off into our forest and reach Rockton. Not unless he’s seriously lost, wandering for days, about ready to give up all home when he finally sees signs of civilization and . . . Takes off at the first sign of a rescuer? Not a chance.

I wave to Dalton that the backpack is fine. Then before he’s close enough to get hurt, I yank down the zipper and there’s a tremendous boom—

No. That isn’t what happens. Even my paranoia cannot imagine the point of putting a triggered explosive device here. It’s not exactly like dropping it off in the middle of Union Station.

I open the zipper all the way and start unpacking while Dalton moves closer to stand guard. As I go, I tell him what I find, so he can keep his attention on the forest, in case our mystery man returns.

“Water and energy bars, like what you’d take on a day-long hike. There’s a change of clothes. Sweatshirt. Tee. Track pants. All brand new. And . . .” I pull out a smaller case. “A toiletry bag. With toothbrush, paste, comb, razor . . .”

“Did he think he was going to a hotel?”

“Actually, it looks like that. Half-emptied paste. Used razor. Old bag. It’s what I kept in my bathroom to grab for work trips. Judging by the new clothing, though, his ‘work trips’ aren’t usually into the backwoods.”

My hand touches something familiar. I pull it out.

“Ammo?” Dalton says. “Fuck.”

“9 mil. Odd choice for up here.”

His brows rise.

“Yes, that’s what I carry,” I say, “because that’s what I’m accustomed to. But it’s a city gun.”

“For shooting people, not wildlife. Yeah, I’d be a whole lot happier if you found shotgun pellets in there.”

“Let’s switch spots,” I say. “Now that we know he’s armed, the person on guard shouldn’t be the one who’ll have trouble firing straight.”

He doesn’t say he’ll be fine. Until his arm heals, he’s hampered. I’m not.

Dalton isn’t nearly as good at announcing what he finds in that backpack. For years, it’s been just him and Anders, and our deputy is an army boy. When he trusts his commanding officer, he doesn’t expect details until that officer is ready to give them.

“Anything?” I say finally.

“Stuff.”

“Helpful.”

A jangle. “Car keys. Got a parking garage ticket, too. From the Calgary airport. Dated . . . Fuck. Dated this morning?”

“You can fly Calgary to Whitehorse, right?”

“In the summer, yeah.”

“So he flew in from Calgary, and somehow got out here. He sure as hell didn’t walk.” I squint up at the sky. “Where else could a plane touch down, if not our airstrip?”

“Plenty of clearings. With the right plane, if you know the area, you can do it.”

“Which means he hired someone to bring him in. Packed a quick bag, bought supplies for the woods, dropped off his car in Calgary, flew to Whitehorse and got a charter from there. Seems very . . .” I follow a noise in the forest, but it’s only an owl swooping past. “Seems very last minute.”

“It does.” Dalton rises. “You want this re-packed the way it was?”

I consider. “No, let’s take it. I can go over it better in town. And, if we take his food and water . . . He’s seen Rockton. He knows where to get more.”