Watcher in the Woods (Rockton #4)(16)

I pass him the man’s badge.

“Mark Garcia,” Dalton says.

“That’s not the important part,” the guy says.

Dalton tosses the badge back at him. “It’s the important part for me. You’re a U.S. Marshal. Your jurisdiction?” He jerks his thumb west, toward Alaska. “It’s a long walk. I’d start now.”

“I’d like to get through this without the posturing, Sheriff.”

“I’m not posturing. Get the fuck out of my town.”

Garcia opens his mouth.

“Yeah, you’re going to remind me that I won’t want you going to the authorities. And I’ll say ‘go ahead.’ The Mounties have a station in Dawson. It’s only a two week walk. Watch out for the grizzlies. And the moose.”

Garcia tries again and gets a single syllable out before Dalton says, “Next, you’re going to remind me that you come from this big American agency and can call down giant fucking helicopters on our heads. And I say, yeah, you’ve got a point. So hand over your satellite phone.”

The guy laughs. “You’ve got balls, man. I’ll give you that much.”

“I do. What I don’t have? A fucking gun to my head.”

Garcia starts to smile. Then he follows Dalton’s gaze to me, standing beside the sofa, pointing my weapon.

“Yeah,” Dalton says. “I’d suggest spending a little more time in our forest. Develop a proper sense of awareness for your surroundings.” He puts his hand out. “Phone.”

Garcia’s gaze slide my way. “If she shoots me, she’ll also shoot her friend.”

“Don’t think that’ll stop her,” Diana says. “I might have kinda earned it.”

“The trajectory is wrong,” I say, “as you can see. Just give the sheriff your phone and your gun.”

“Right,” Dalton says. “Forgot about his gun.”

“That’s why I’m here.”

“You two are cute,” Garcia says. “And I really do admire your balls—both of you—but there is no way I’m handing over—”

Diana attacks. I don’t see it coming. Even when it happens, I’m not quite sure what is happening at first. Garcia’s sitting there, holding her arm, his head turned to address us, and then she’s on him, scratching and kicking like an enraged kitten.

Dalton and I recover from our surprise at the same time. I go to grab Garcia, but Dalton beats me to it, catching the front of the marshal’s shirt and hauling him from the sofa while Garcia is still fending off Diana.

Garcia reaches for his gun—finally—but Dalton snatches it from the holster and tosses it aside. Then he has Garcia on the floor. The marshal tries to throw a punch . . . and I press my gun to his shoulder. That stops him faster than if I put it to his head.

“Good idea,” Dalton says. “I wouldn’t call her bluff on that shot.”

He pats the man down. He lets Garcia keep his wallet but takes a satellite phone from his jacket and a knife from his jeans.

When Dalton straightens, I say, “He’s here for someone. He wants us to turn them over.”

“Figured that. Wasn’t going to ask because I don’t actually give a fuck. Whatever he wants, he’s not getting it.” He pauses. “No, that isn’t right. He’s a fellow lawman. I gotta show some respect for the badge.”

He marches into the kitchens and comes out with the backpack. He opens it, takes out the ammo and a knife, then tosses the bag at Garcia.

“You want those directions again?” Dalton says. “Sun sets in the west.”

“You’re—”

“Making a mistake? Please don’t tell me those were the next words out of your mouth. I hear them all the time, and they don’t seem to mean what folks figure they do, because they’re never right. Same with ‘you’re going to regret this.’ A man reaches a point where he actually hopes he will regret it, just for a change of pace.”

Garcia looks up at Dalton and shakes his head, a smile playing on his lips. “I like you, Sheriff. I get the feeling you and I could sit down with a beer and have a really good talk.”

Dalton vanishes into the kitchen and comes back with a bottle. He sets it on the floor as Garcia sits up.

“There’s your beer. Now give me your next line, about how this guy you’re hunting is a dangerous bastard, and I need to let you take him for my own good.” He looks at me. “Is it a guy?”

“He won’t establish gender. Apparently, it’s Pat.”

Dalton’s lips tighten. It’s a split-second reaction, and anyone looking at him would see only calm resolution. But he’s furious. While he’s keeping the upper hand, to him it feels like treading water, one second away from going under.

This is deep water. Piranha infested. We both know it.

“Fine,” Dalton says. “So Pat is dangerous. That’s the next thing you’ll tell me, whether it’s true or not.”

“True or not?” Garcia uncaps his beer and rises to the chair I vacated earlier.

“Are you gonna tell me Pat ran a Ponzi scheme, cheated little old ladies out of their retirement savings? No. You could try that, hope I want to kick the fucker all the way over the border myself, but you don’t know me. I might hate little old ladies. If you say Pat’s a dangerous bastard, though, I’ll pay attention. So consider it said and skip that part.”