Watcher in the Woods (Rockton #4)(86)

That little voice in our heads does this weird thing, conflating self-preservation with self-importance. We express concern over walking around alone at night, and we imagine people scoffing, telling us we aren’t “all that.” As a cop, I know assault isn’t about physical attractiveness. Yet that voice still screams, admonishing you for your egotism.

I’d said I was going to a coffee shop down the road. I can’t pretend to do that, because there isn’t one. There is a Greek restaurant, and I pop into it and buy a can of pop, which I tuck into my bag. I’m about to ask if there’s a washroom—and hopefully a back exit near it—when the front door opens and my pursuer walks in. Seeing me, he pulls up short.

“Hey, small world. I was looking for that other coffee shop you mentioned. I was going to ask in here.”

“I think it’s closed down,” I say, “but I’m sure someone here can help you.”

I brush past and out the door. I’m about to walk around the side of the small building. Then I stop. I don’t want to ditch this guy just yet. There’s still that whispering voice of doubt claiming it’s a misunderstanding. More important, though, is the louder one that suggests it’s odd for a casual admirer to be so ardent in his pursuit, especially when he’s gotten no encouragement in return.

He did admire my laptop. Am I looking at a very different kind of predator here? One who sees a petite woman alone with an expensive piece of tech?

I have no idea, but the cop in me wants to solve this mystery. So I hit the sidewalk, heading the other way at a leisurely pace. The restaurant door creaks open and bangs shut behind me. Footsteps clomp on the wooden sidewalk. I make a left at the corner and then cross diagonally at the next intersection. On one corner is the inn where Dalton and I stay when we make a supply run.

I walk inside. As soon as I duck into the main room, one of the staff appears. His smile of recognition hitches, and he opens his mouth, probably to tell me that, with regret, that they’re full, but I reassure him that I’m not here for a room.

“I have a favor to ask,” I say. “And it’s a little strange.”

I tell him that a middle-aged guy has been following me, and I ask if I can slip out the rear. He’s fine with that and promises that if anyone comes in asking about me, he’ll say that he’s not at liberty to discuss his guests.

I head out the back and, sure enough, when I peek around the corner, I see my pursuer in the parking lot. I’m wondering what he’s doing when I notice the cell phone glued to his ear.

He turns, leaning casually against an SUV, his back to me. I zip to the other side of that vehicle. When I stop, he’s laughing.

“Oh, yeah, she was having nothing to do with me. As soon as she realized I was following her she retreated to her hotel. Typical stuck-up bitch. Figures I’m trying to get in her pants and marches off, nose in the air, like I’ve got some nerve, thinking I stand a chance with her.” He snorts. “Anyway, you got eyes on the pilot?”

Pilot?

He’s talking about Dalton.

“I’ll come help with that,” the guy says.

A moment of silence.

“No, I’m coming,” he says, firmer. “This bitch isn’t going anywhere. Probably figures I’m mooning around the front door, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. Tell me where you are—”

The person on the other end cuts him off.

“Hey,” the guy say, the word coming hard and fast. “Don’t pull this shit on me. We had a deal, and I’m sticking close until this is sorted. It’s my money on the line, too.”

A pause.

“No, actually, I don’t trust you. This whole thing is starting to sound fishy, and I want my damn money. Tell me where you are, or I march up to this bitch’s room and tell her what’s going on.”

I cross my fingers that the person on the other end calls his bluff. But the threat works, and the guy heads for the street, phone still to his ear.

I follow. That isn’t easy. Even on a “busy” day in Dawson, once you’re off the main street, the sidewalks empty. Ahead, a trio of ravens pick at roadkill, adding to the Wild West ambiance. The guy slows to watch them, and I hopscotch along from one point of cover to the next. When he picks up speed again, I let him get a good head start. It’s not as if I’m going to lose sight of him. He makes a left onto Hanson, heading for the back of town. Yes, only a few roads away the main drag, is the back of town with forest beyond. Go in the other direction, and once you pass Front Street, you’re in the Yukon River.

I keep my distance. The guy is passing Berton House, heading toward the Jack London Museum and Robert Service cabin. He doesn’t seem the literary tourist type, and he swings left on Eighth Ave, the last road in town. I kick it up a notch and see him veer toward a side street as he turns left again, onto Hanson. Ahead is a pickup.

He heads straight for it. He’ll climb into it and drive away, leaving me standing on the street, gaping after him. I look around. For what? An Uber? This guy is about to drive off to parts unknown, where he will meet up with his partner, who has “eyes” on Dalton.

Shit.





THIRTY-FIVE

I spot an older sedan to my left. Last night, I quizzed Sebastian on his car-jacking techniques. He’d failed the test. I could pass it. An informant once spent an hour teaching me—we were on a very dull stakeout together. Jacking an old car like this one is easy, especially when the windows have been left down. Hell, the keys are probably under the mat.