Watcher in the Woods (Rockton #4)(15)

“Some might be,” he says. “Maybe even most. I’d suggest, though, that you may have residents who’ve come under false pretenses.”

Buddy, you don’t know the half of it.

“That would make it your word against theirs,” I say. “Maybe you can start by telling me who you are.”

“I’m going to reach into my back pocket and take out my ID.”

I tense. I know what that means. Even the way he says it—warning me that he’s about to reach for something—tells me what he is.

“Left hand,” I say. “If it goes near your holster, I’ll draw,”

“Fair enough.”

He takes out a wallet and passes me a badge. U.S. Marshall’s Department. The branch of federal police who, among other things, chase down fugitives.

He meets my gaze. “I saw you in the forest. I see the way you’ve handled yourself. The way you handle your gun. The way you’re handling this situation. I believe we’re on the same side.”

“Whatever you’ve heard about our town—”

“I’ve been told my target is here. That’s what matters.” He locks gazes with me. “Nothing else.”

Just give me my fugitive, and let me leave. That’s what he’s saying. He’s also making it clear that he’s not walking away empty-handed, which is a helluva lot bigger problem when he’s holding a badge.

“And your target is?” I say.

“At this point, I’m not prepared to say. We will call my target Pat. I use the male pronoun for simplicity, but do not presume that to mean my target is male.”

I open my mouth to say I obviously need to know who he’s here for, but he continues.

“Pat told someone that he was going away. He apparently wasn’t supposed to say more, but this person is close to him, and he wanted her to know he’d be safe. He said he was going someplace where he was guaranteed safety. Hints from what he said reminded me of something I’d heard. Long story short, I found you. Your settlement.”

“How—”

“That’s all I’m saying. Don’t ask for more.”

I need more. I’m sure that over the years more than one of our residents has broken the rules and reassured a loved one that they were going someplace safe, someplace off the grid, some secret town. But getting from that to Rockton itself involves much more, and we have to know where our vulnerabilities lie. That conversation can come later. It will come, though. It must.

“So you found us and—” I begin.

Footsteps sound on the step. Heavy boot falls, accompanied by the scratch of dog nails.

The man’s head snaps up.

“Yeah,” Diana says. “That’d be her boyfriend. The local sheriff, with their very big dog.” She points toward the rear of the house. “The back exit is that way.”

Dalton tries the door.

“I need to let him in,” I say. “Otherwise—”

“Otherwise he’s ten seconds from knocking down that door,” Diana says.

I stand. Dalton’s twisting the knob a second time, certain that he’s mistaken about it being locked. Then—

His fist booms against the door. “Casey!”

The guy on the couch rises, and his mouth opens, like he’s ready to tell me not to answer, but he can already see that’s not an option, and as I reach for the lock, he hesitates only a second before grabbing Diana’s arm.

She lets out a yelp.

“Case—!” Dalton begins . . . and I pull the door open.

Storm lunges. I grab her before she makes this situation a whole lot worse. Then I stay in Dalton’s way, so he can’t see inside.

“We have a visitor,” I say.

“What the—?” He tries to shoulder past.

“Eric, hold on a sec. I’m going to let you in.”

“No,” the intruder says. “Please ask your sheriff to stay—”

“Not happening,” I cut in, Dalton echoing my reply in far less polite language.

“Eric?” I say again. “Hold on, please. He has Diana.”

“Really?” Diana says. “Could you tell him it’s Nicki? Petra? Isabel? Someone he wouldn’t actually like to see dead?”

Dalton aims a glower her way. I roll my eyes for him. He doesn’t want Diana dead. He just doesn’t like her very much . . . and the feeling is mutual.

“The situation is under control,” I say. “I’d like you to put Storm in the kitchen, and then come back, sit down and join the conversation. Okay?”

He nods. There isn’t a moment of hesitation. My speech is more for the guy on the couch. Diana has painted our sheriff as a hothead. A man our intruder might not want to mess with. True, but Dalton’s also never going to shove me aside and roar in, guns blazing. He isn’t an idiot. Diana just prefers to think he is. Again, the feeling is mutual. Which is going to make this fun. Really.

As Dalton passes the living room, he doesn’t fail to stop and give the guy a slow onceover. Taking his measure. Nodding, as if to say, Yeah, I can handle this. Then he continues on and locks Storm in the kitchen. She sighs, and the door thumps as she settles against it.

“Who the fuck are you?” Dalton says as he strides into the living room.