Watcher in the Woods (Rockton #4)(28)
Phil agrees that getting Garcia is our priority. He agrees that any fallout over bringing in April can wait until we have Garcia. Regarding Petra’s shooting of Brady, he’s utterly confused. Or so he pretends to be, as does the council. Both are convinced we’ve make a mistake. When I tell Phil that Dalton and I both saw Petra do it, he tries coming up with alternate explanations. I cut him off—we have a search to conduct. We can resume this conversation once we have Garcia. Until then, Petra remains in custody.
*
We haven’t dallied long with Phil. We’re the first search team on the ground, out as soon as the sun fully crests the horizon. Others are still mingling in the town center, where volunteers pass out coffee and egg sandwiches. Dalton and I drop off Storm and then grab food. I say a few words to the assembled searchers, like “Thank you for your time—we really appreciate you getting up at this hour,” and then I run to catch up with Dalton, who’s already in the forest.
“Water,” Dalton says as soon I fall in beside him.
I pass over ours.
He shakes his head. “I mean he’ll go to water. That’ll be step one once the sun’s up. Find water. Wash. Refill his bottle. My guess last night was that he’d head for the mountain. I can’t track him over rock, and he probably hoped for shelter there. With the late sunset, there’s a good chance he found it. If he’s smart, he’ll have picked a cave near water.”
“Perfect.”
“Nah. Perfect would be a mountain spring near a cave. In the direction he headed, the water sources are all at ground level, meaning I can’t just match up a cave and a stream. Fuck, he might not even have found a cave—or know enough to pick a spot near water. Face it, I’m flying blind and pretending I can see.”
“No, you’re flying in fog, knowing you can’t see very well. You have a search area in mind. I know you do, or you wouldn’t mention it. Unless you’ve come up with a better idea in the last thirty seconds . . .”
“No.”
“Then you’re explaining your reasoning while telling me not to get my hopes up. You can skip the last part, Eric. It’s just me here.”
“Yeah, I know. Thanks.”
What Dalton has is a theory that provides a better sense of purpose than wandering aimlessly in the woods, hoping to stumble over the marshal’s sleeping body. Yet for the rest of the searchers, stumbling over his body is really their only hope. Their orders are to stay close to town and sweep in groups, which is more about guard duty than searching. Their presence will convey a message to Garcia: that he has no hope of sneaking into town again. We can guard our border longer than he can survive in the wilderness. Best to just come out and negotiate. Hot meal and lukewarm shower included.
We check a few shallow caves close to ground level, within easy reach of streams. There’s no sign of Garcia. Then Dalton cuts through thicker trees, off the main path, following a wildlife trail—a thin line of trampled undergrowth and broken twigs. We’re quiet, me moving behind him, mimicking his rolling walk, putting each foot down with care.
When a brace of ptarmigan fly up, I fall back. Something whistles through the still air overhead. A ptarmigan thumps onto my head and then bounces to my feet with an arrow through its breast. I yank out my gun, my gaze sweeping the forest for the archer.
Dalton grabs the arrow and curses under his breath. Then he shouts, “Jacob!”
A figure appears through a stand of trees. He’s a little shorter than Dalton. A little thinner. His light brown hair is much longer and neatly tied back, and he has a short beard. Squint past the differences though, and Jacob is the spitting image of our sheriff. Not surprising, considering this is his little brother. Like Dalton, Jacob grew up out here, with their settler parents. Unlike Dalton, he has stayed in the forest.
“That is not funny,” Dalton grumbles.
“No, that is breakfast.” Jacob takes the ptarmigan. “Hey, Casey.”
“Don’t hey her. Ask if she’s okay, after having a dead bird fall on her head.”
Jacob’s eyes round. “Are you all right? I didn’t mean—”
“I’m fine. Your brother’s just being cranky.”
Jacob’s smile returns. “Nothing new, huh?” He turns to Dalton. “Got your message. Something’s up?”
The “message” would have been exactly that—Dalton setting out an indicator that he wants to talk to Jacob. Jacob is illiterate, with no interest in changing that, which drives his book-loving brother crazy.
Dalton starts to explain when I see another figure in the forest. A huge one, rearing up on two legs, its shaggy brown hair having me reaching for my gun before I see that the bear wears clothing.
“Could you cut your hair, Ty?” I call. “Or shave? Otherwise, one of these days, I’m going to see an actual grizzly and start chatting with him.”
“Probably a better plan than shooting him,” Cypher says as he lumbers over to us. “That little gun won’t do more than piss him off, kitten.”
“You got my message?” Dalton says.
“Yeah. Got it. Then found Jakey here, crashing through the forest.”
Jacob arches a brow. “I’m not the one who makes enough noise to scare game for miles.”
Tyrone Cypher. Six foot four. Well over two hundred pounds. With his grizzled brown hair, he does indeed resemble an aging bear. Cypher is a former sheriff of Rockton. Before that, he was a hit man, which in Rockton apparently qualifies as law-enforcement experience.