Watcher in the Woods (Rockton #4)(89)

“You can still ride, right?”

I don’t answer. I race over and open the tailgate.





THIRTY-SIX

It’s been years since I rode a dirt bike, but it’s the same type as I remember, and motor memory guides me. Make sure the bike is in neutral. Hold the front brake and clutch. Kickstart the bike. Stay upright. That last part is really important, especially at the speeds I travel.

The guy hasn’t reached the corner yet. He hears the whine of the dirt bike, and when he glances over his shoulder, the look he gives is one I will treasure for days to come. It’s is unadulterated “What the hell?” followed by a wide-eyed “Oh, shit!”

He runs faster, as if that will help. I zoom up behind him, and he glances back, and that earlier look is magnified ten-fold. He dives to the side. I veer past him.

I resist the urge to look back at his expression as I continue around the corner. I’m sure he hesitates, wondering if he’s made a mistake, and the woman on the bike was just some other random chick zipping past on a jaunt.

He’ll know better, of course. Especially when Dalton finishes securing his partner and comes jogging after him. But it still takes him a few minutes to cautiously approach the corner and peer around it.

I sit on the dirt bike beside his pickup tailgate.

“Feel free to run into the forest,” I shout. “I’d appreciate the challenge.”

The guy looks over his shoulder. By now, Dalton will be on his way. The guy glances from me to him and back. Then he bolts for the woods.

I hit the throttle, and the bike jumps to life. It’s a small one. A 125CC. More for a kid than an adult, but yes, I am kinda kid-sized, so it’s perfect for me. It’s also perfect for this sparse forest. I catch up with the guy easily. Then I play with him for a while. I can’t help it. There’s no way he can escape, but it’s fun to see him try.

I ride up on his heels. Then I whip around and cut him off. Finally, I spot Dalton in the forest, his arms crossed, shaking his head. So I hit the guy. Not too hard, naturally. I wouldn’t want to hurt myself.

I bump him and then shove him into a tree as I pass. I stop the bike, hop off and give chase on foot. When I catch up, he tries to hit me. I grab his wrist, throw him down and pin his arm behind his back.

Then I lean over him. “Not a surgeon. Not a musician. Not a fashion model.”

He writhes under my grip, half-hearted at first, as if figuring he can get free easily. When that fails, he puts some actual effort into it, until I twist his arm up far enough to make him hiss in pain.

“Last guy who did that got his wrist broken,” I say. “You could ask him about it. But he’s dead.”

He stops struggling and looks back to see if I’m joking.

Dalton catches up. “Let me do that. You have questions for him.”

Dalton isn’t nearly good at literal arm twisting, but people presume he’s the type who will break their arm, so they don’t test him.

I hunker down in front of our captive. “Let’s back up and smooth out your story. On Wednesday, my partner piloted his plane into Dawson. The next day, you flew your client out, following my partner, yes?”

“I—”

“Just nod.”

The guy grumbles but nods.

“Someone notified you that he’d flown in, yes?”

He hesitates. Then nods, abruptly, angrily.

I don’t ask for the client’s name. I will, but when interviewing a suspect who is hostile yet cooperating, the “hostile” part will outlast the cooperation. At some point, he’s going to get pissy and shut up. So I prioritize my questions.

“Someone told you that the plane had flown in. And then you contacted this client?”

He nods, shoulders relaxing, as if relieved I haven’t asked him for a name.

“This client wanted to know when that plane arrived, and then he wanted to be flown out after it. Yes?”

He nods.

“Pick up the story from there. Client arrives. Client says ‘follow that plane’ . . .”

“I didn’t set it up. That was Lyd—my partner. I’m just the pilot. She’s the one who got the call and notified the client. He busted ass up here. Then after you guys left, we followed. Only I’d warned Lyd—my partner . . .”

“Let’s just call her Lynn,” I say. I’m sure it’s Lydia, but I’ll let the guy retain the illusion.

“Right. Lynn. I warned her that I can’t exactly tail you. That’d be as obvious as following a car down an empty highway. I had to stay well back, so I only got a rough idea of where you landed. I thought I’d be able to get closer, picking up radio signals, but my receiver went all wonky. The guy said that was close enough. I set her down a few miles out, and he took off. I was supposed to come get him when he radioed, by Saturday at the latest. He never did.”

“And what exactly does that have to do with us?” I say. “This guy was covertly following a private bush taxi, so you go after the pilot of the taxi?”

“Our client owes us money.”

“I got that. But if he’s covertly following us, obviously we knew nothing about it.”

“It’s a lot of money.” He scowls. “Lyd—Lynn cut a shitty deal. Twenty-five percent up front. Seventy-five on pickup.”