Watcher in the Woods (Rockton #4)(87)

I don’t do more than idly consider the fact that I could steal it. I wouldn’t. Anything I do out here puts Rockton in danger. I have another idea. It’s not a good idea, but hey, it’d been a few days since I threw that bear cub. High time for another crazy plan.

I edge along the wooded property while the man does indeed walk straight for that pickup. As he climbs in, I duck behind a bush. The moment the door claps shut, I run, hunched over, toward the back end.

The tailgate is not open. That would make this far too easy. He puts the car into drive, the carburetor thunking. As soon as the vehicle lurches forward, I pitch a rock over the cab. Then I leap onto the rear bumper. My timing is perfect. The rock hits the hood just as the truck dips under my weight. He slams on the brakes, and I dive into the truck bed.

Okay, I don’t dive. That would make far too much noise. It’s more of a slide. Then I hold my breath.

My hope is that he’ll look out the front windshield, realize he hasn’t hit anything and drive off. Instead the door thumps open. His footsteps thankfully head around to the front. I wriggle forward and plaster myself against the front of the truck bed.

Please do not come around the back. Please do not look in the back.

There’s a pause as he tries to see what he might have hit. A grunt. Then the door clanks again as he opens it. He gets in and shuts it.

I exhale.

The truck makes a u-turn and heads back toward town. I stay where I am, up at the front of the bed, so he won’t spot me if he looks in the rear view mirror. We reach Front, which is also the Klondike highway, leading in and out of town. When we pause at a four-way stop, a tracker-trailer pulls up behind us. The driver can see me. I wave and grin and do an exaggerated “finger to the lips.” The guy only smiles and shakes his head.

I might complain about being underestimated, but let’s be honest—I get a ton of mileage out of it. This trucker sees me in the pickup bed, and he does not for one second think the driver is in danger of having his truck jacked on a lonely road.

We leave town. I peek up periodically to get my bearings. I’ve been to Dawson a half-dozen times since I arrived in Rockton, and I know the surrounding land well enough. We’re heading south. We pass the road leading to the Midnight Dome—one of our favorite spots—and take the next left.

We’re rolling over rough road for a couple of minutes. When it smooths out, a sudden “Bingo!” startles me. Then I realize it’s the guy talking on the phone with his window down.

“I see him right up ahead. His tire just blew. Very conveniently.” The guy’s braying laugh drifts back to me. “Okay, I’ll take this. I’ll pull up—”

A pause.

“Hell, no, I’m right here. I don’t even see you. I’m—”

Pause.

“Fine. Fuck you, but fine.” The pickup swings to the right. “There. I’ll park right here, and you’d damn well better come pick me up or . . .”

I don’t hear the rest. The moment the pickup stops, I’m vaulting over the tailgate. I’m sure he’ll see me but he’s too wrapped up in his phone call.

I run into the forest. Before we turned that last corner, the guy said he could see their target at the side of the road, fixing a flat tire. Their target is Dalton. I’m sure of that. The guy’s partner must have tampered with Dalton’s tires while he’d been out of the truck, in the expectation that one would blow on these empty roads, stranding Dalton.

I make it to that intersection. When I look out, I expect to see Dalton’s truck just ahead. I’ll zip to him, and we’ll work out a plan.

Instead the truck is a dot at least a kilometer away. I’m going to need to hoof it there before—

Tires rumble along the dirt road. I look right to see an SUV. It pulls up across from my fake-admirer’s pickup. A woman leans from the driver’s seat and calls something to the guy, who’s already getting out. He jogs to the passenger side.

I need to warn Dalton, but I can’t even cross the road right now, not with them spotting me. Before I can make a decision, the SUV is moving again. As soon as it’s through the intersection, I cross to Dalton’s side, but I’m still a kilometer away.

I run. I don’t care how much noise I make. The two in the SUV won’t hear me over the rumble of their tires. If Dalton does, all the better. But that’s overly optimistic, given the distance and the fact I’m not an Olympic sprinter. The SUV reaches Dalton before I’m even halfway.

I slow. Now is not the time to startle him. The SUV crosses the road and stops in front of Dalton’s truck. I jog, straining to hear the conversation.

“Lost a tire, huh?” the woman calls. Her door clicks as she gets out.

“Yeah,” Dalton says. “Must have run over something.”

“My husband’s a mechanic. Let me give him a shout.” A pause. “Damn. No phone signal. Typical. Been up here two years, and I’m still not used to that. Let me give you lift to town.”

“Thanks, but I have a spare.”

“I see that,” she says as she walks toward him. “The question is whether you know how to change it. And, if you don’t mind me saying so, it doesn’t seem as if you do.”

“I’ll figure it out.”

She snorts. “Men. It’s not a black mark on your masculinity if you can’t fix a flat tire.”