Watcher in the Woods (Rockton #4)(31)

“Hello?” the voice calls. “Is someone there?”

The sound seems to come from less than twenty feet in front of us. The only thing there, though, is a low boulder. Dalton’s eyes narrow as they fix on it.

“I thought I heard footsteps,” the voice continues. “If someone’s there, I need help. Please.”

It’s undeniably Mark Garcia. Calling to us from behind a boulder.

“I’ve fallen,” he says.

“And I can’t get up,” I mutter under my breath.

Dalton only glances my way. A lifetime of incomprehensible pop-culture jokes has taught him not to ask.

I motion a plan. It’s virtually the same one we had when we first encountered Garcia in the forest. Dalton will slip around the far side of that boulder, and I will be the bait.

While Dalton lopes off to get in place, I scuff my boot against the rock.

“Hello?” Garcia calls.

I scuff again, distracting him from Dalton’s muffled footfalls.

“Look,” Garcia says. “If you’re human, just say something.” A rasping cough. “I really don’t have the energy to be talking to wildlife.”

I take two thumping steps toward that boulder.

“Please be human,” Garcia says. “Please be friendly human. I have . . . Oh, hell. I don’t have shit. That’s the truth. But I can get it. The couple hundred bucks in my wallet is useless to you, but I’ll bring you supplies. Whatever you need. Just help me. Please.”

Another two steps. Then I lift my gun and check the ammo. It’s full, of course. I don’t leave without a full cartridge. But the sound will be unmistakable to a lawman.

“Sheriff?” he says. “Is that you? No, you had a revolver. The deputy had a big-ass forty-five. That’s a nine mil, which makes it the detective. Or so I hope. Is that you, Detective? I don’t know your name. Seems we never progressed that far. But I heard someone call you a detective.”

“It’s me,” I say.

A loud, ragged exhale. “Oh, thank God. Please tell me you have the sheriff or deputy with you. No offense, but you’re going to need help. I can’t make it back to town on my own.”

Why, no, I’m afraid it’s just little ol’ me, Marshal. All alone in the forest with my basket for Grandmama.

“They’re out searching,” I say. “I can go get—”

“No. Get me out of here first, please. Then you can bring help.”

Of course.

I continue forward, my gun out. I’m dividing my attention between the boulder and the forest behind it as I watch for Dalton. He appears and signals something, but the sun is blasting down, and I can only tell that he’s pointing to the boulder. Yes, Garcia’s there, Eric. There’s no place else he could be.

I continue forward. The boulder is five feet away. Any second now, Garcia will lunge—

“Casey!”

Dalton’s shout startles me, and I pitch forward. My foot keeps going, and I stumble. Thankfully, my instinct is to pull back and right myself. I look down . . . way down.

There’s a crevice right in front of me. Another step, and I’d have walked into it.

“So the sheriff is here.” Garcia gives a hoarse chuckle. “Okay. I should have seen that coming.”

I follow his voice. He’s to my left, wedged into the crevice. He’s fallen at least a dozen feet. Splotches of blood paint the rocks.

Dalton walks to the edge, looming over Garcia’s head. He looks down at the marshal and grunts.

“Yes, Sheriff,” Garcia says. “I got myself in some trouble, as you predicted. And, no, I can’t get out.”

“Figured that or you would have.”

Dalton hunkers down on his side of the divide. I do the same on mine.

“Are you going to help me? Or just stare at me?” Garcia says.

“We’re admiring your predicament,” Dalton says.

“Yeah, yeah. Fuck you.” There’s no venom in Garcia’s curse, only exhaustion laced with the recognition that he has indeed ended up in exactly the kind of straits we warned him about. “Can you get me out, please?”

“You want to tell us who you’re hunting?” I say.

He turns a glower on me, and his dark eyes snap. “Really, Detective? I’m not lying here enjoying your fine Yukon air. I’m hurt, okay? I’m trying to hide it. Bit of machismo in that. More than a bit, maybe.”

I take a closer look. There’s blood on his clothes, and they’re torn far worse than I’d expect from a ten-foot tumble down a crevasse.

“So,” Garcia says, trying for nonchalance. “Apparently, you have wolves up here.”

“We do,” Dalton says. “You met them?”

“You might say that. I went to a stream this morning, and I’m trying to wash dust out of my hair, when I look up to see a goddamned pack surrounding me. They attacked. I wasn’t expecting that. Sure, they’re wolves and all, but I’m the idiot city boy who’s thinking how cool this is. Real wolves, close enough to touch.” His voice is shaking now, bravado fading. “Close enough to rip my damned throat out.”

He twists, and I see the front of his shirt is torn. There’s blood, too.

“I’d set my knife down. That’s the only thing that saved me. I’d put the knife right beside me while I washed my hair. When the wolf lunged, I grabbed it and . . .” He holds up his hands, fingers and forearms stained red. “I fought like something out of a damned lost-in-the-wilderness movie.”