Watcher in the Woods (Rockton #4)(5)

Anders falls back fast. “Shit. You’re not . . .”

“Not the sister who allows strange men to hug her?” she snaps.

I jog out from the hanger.

“So you let strange men hug you?” Anders calls to me. “Guess that explains how you ended up with the sheriff.”

I shake my head. “Will, this is my sister, April.”

“Yeah, I figured that.” He extends a hand. “Will Anders. Local deputy and the remaining third of the police force.”

She gives his hand a perfunctory shake. Then she sees Storm and startles.

“Not a bear,” Anders says. “Well, supposedly. Eric says she’s some fancy purebred, but I’m still convinced someone conned our sheriff and sold him a black bear cub.”

“She’s a Newfoundland,” I say, rubbing Storm’s neck. “She’s big, but she’s well trained. You just need to watch out for flying fur and slobber.”

“Isn’t that . . .” April peers at her. “Didn’t Aunt Becca’s boyfriend have a dog like that?”

I light up in a grin. I can’t help it. “He did. Nana—named after the Newfoundland in Peter Pan. I kinda fell in love with that dog, so Eric bought me this one.”

She mutters something under her breath. It sounds like “Of course, he did,” but when I look up, she’s only shaking her head.

“Her name’s Storm,” I say. “Because of . . .”

I rumple her white-streaked ear. April looks at me blankly.

“X-Men,” Anders says. “Your sister is not afraid to let her geek flag fly. She’s even got us playing D&D.”

“Which was your idea,” I say.

April stares at Anders. Admittedly, he is kind of stare-worthy. Her look, though, is pure confusion. If there’s a stereotype of a guy who knows every rule in the D&D handbook, it is not Will Anders. He’s six foot two, with a military buzz cut and a US Army tat on one bulging black bicep.

“Do you have an actual patient that I’m supposed to see?” April says finally.

“Casey and Will were waiting for me,” Dalton says as he walks out of the hangar. “We have to sneak you into town, and I needed to put the plane to bed first. Now, let’s talk about how we’re going to do this.”





THREE

Dalton and I have already discussed how we’ll manage this situation. As we walk to town, we let Anders in on the plan.

If we play this right, we’ll get April in and out of Rockton, and the only other person who’ll know she was here is Mathias, our psychiatrist-turned-butcher. There’s a reason Anders mistook April for me. Before we boarded the bush plane, I had her change into my spare clothing. She’s wearing my T-shirt and jeans, and after we left the plane, I gave her my jacket and ball-cap, too. I had her pull her hair into a ponytail and tug it through the back of the cap, the way I wear mine.

No one will walk up to April face-on and presume it’s me. The thing about Rockton, though, is that there are no strangers. As long as people only spot her in passing, they’ll see who they expect to be wearing that ball-cap and jacket.

We don’t take her through town, of course. As soon as we draw near, she’s in Anders’s custody. Then Dalton and I continue on with Storm. Dalton marches into Rockton and straight to the first gaggle of residents he sees.

“Where’s Phil?” he says.

They all turn with blank looks.

“The council guy,” I say. “Val’s replacement.”

“I think he’s holed up in her old place,” one says.

Dalton grunt a thanks and strides in that direction.

People tag along, hoping for scraps of information about Kenny. I promise an update soon. That would usually be enough to placate them, but Dalton uses the excuse to snarl and curse and make a whole lotta noise about how if the “fucking council found us a fucking new doctor, Kenny wouldn’t be in this fucking mess.” It’s pure theater—getting people’s attention while Anders spirits April around to the clinic. Fortunately, the town is accustomed to seeing their sheriff on a rant, and no one thinks twice about it. They just draw closer in hopes of some real entertainment once Dalton reaches Val’s house.

“Philip!” Dalton shouts when we’re within fifty feet. “Get your goddamn ass out here!”

It takes a few moments before the door creaks opens. When Phil sees Dalton, he seems to contemplate the possibility of retreat. Dalton’s striding toward the house, looking like he’s two seconds from putting his hand on his sidearm and challenging Phil to a duel at high noon.

When I first met Dalton, I’d thought he looked like a Wild West sheriff. The way he carries himself. The strong jaw. The sun-weathered skin. The crow’s-feet forming at the corners of gray eyes that have spent too long squinting into the sun. Put him into Rockton, with its dirt roads and simple wooden buildings, and he seems right at home. Today, he’s even wearing the hat, one that’s meant to keep the sun off and slow that early damage but yes, I may have picked out one that bears more than a passing resemblance to a ten-gallon hat.

Phil, on the other hand, looks like the kind of guy who, if asked to “draw,” whips out his cell phone at lightning speed. Mid-thirties. Impeccably dressed. Chiseled face. An Armani suit model come to life. After a few days in Rockton, he’s forgone the jacket and tie, but he still wears the white shirt, trousers and loafers. The shirt, admittedly, is beginning to look a bit rumpled. We don’t have ironing boards in Rockton.