Watcher in the Woods (Rockton #4)(91)

“Would you talk to Lynn for us, please?” I say. “Tell her we’re sorry you two got messed up in this, but please impress on her the importance of silence, for reasons of national security.”

“If it was a matter of national security,” Dalton says. “Hypothetically speaking.”

Once the guy and his partner are gone, Dalton exhales, “Well, that was interesting.”

“That’s one way of putting it. Crisis averted, though. We lucked out. He might not keep his mouth shut after a few beers, but it’s not the worst thing if people think there’s a government facility out there.”

“It’s a good cover story.”

“It is. And we now know how they found us, and it’s not our security lapse. It’s a flaw in the system. If someone knows about Rockton and knows we fly in and out of Dawson, they can easily find a pilot to trail us.”

“Yeah, which means we shouldn’t be using Dawson. I’ve argued that before. There are a few places I could put the plane down, stash a 4x4 nearby and avoid this bullshit runaround.”

“Flying into a municipal airport has never seemed wise.”

“No kidding. But this is how the council has always done it, so this is how I had to do it. At least now I have a valid reason to say ‘fuck tradition.’ Any chance you can extend my winning streak and tell me your research revealed that Mark Garcia isn’t actually a U.S. Marshal?”

“No, he is. I confirmed that.”

“Fuck.”

“But I don’t think he was here on marshal business.”

“What?”

I lift the dirt bike onto the tailgate. I’m kind of hoping Dalton will appreciate the impressive show of physical strength, but he just prods me with, “Go on . . .”

“So you promised to tell me the story of this thing.” I nod at the bike.

“Sure, after you tell me what the hell you meant. Now talk or I take away your toy.”

“It’s mine?”

“Do I look like I’ll fit on that thing?”

I start to grin. Then I sober, look at the bike and say, “You don’t need to bribe me, Eric.”

He opens his mouth to protest.

“I said I’d love a dog, and then I get one. I love chocolate chips, and I get them. I say a dirt bike would be good for town, and now I get that. While the twelve-year-old in me is giddy, the adult worries.” I turn to face him. “It’s like a guy I dated in high school—the one who got me started on dirt bikes, actually. When I drifted, realizing the relationship wasn’t working, I suddenly got a necklace. And then a bracelet. And then a ring.”

“Moron. Anyone who knows you wouldn’t buy jewelry. Dogs and bikes work much better.” He catches my expression and leans in, arms around my shoulders.

“Are you drifting from this relationship?” he says.

“What? No. Absolutely not.”

“Then this isn’t the same thing.”

“But—”

“But yeah, I worry you’ll leave. Rockton can be shit, and these days it’s shittier than ever, and you have no reason to stay. You aren’t actually hiding from anything. But me worrying is just me worrying. Gotta give my brain something to do, ‘cause god knows, I don’t have enough to think about. I buy you stuff because it makes you happy. I bought you Storm because a dog is a good idea, for tracking and protection. I bought you this because a dirt bike is a good idea, too. We discussed that. I was getting supplies and chasing leads when I saw this at the end of a driveway with a For Sale sign on it. I had cash in my pocket, and the price was right, so you’ve got a dirt bike.”

“Thank you.”

“You are very welcome. Now, tell me about your marshal theory, or I’m taking the bike back.”





THIRTY-SEVEN

We’re in the truck, heading for the airport. With everything that’s happened, Dalton wants to get the hell out of Dodge. Or Dawson. Don’t tempt fate. Don’t give our patriotic captive time to reconsider and intercept us at the airport.

On the way, I explain about Garcia.

“He’s clearly a marshal. Spokane office, Washington. I found photos that are undeniably him. I located a reference as recent as last year in a newspaper.”

“Okay . . .”

“So this marshal is in the Yukon, alone, pursuing a fugitive, with no apparent assistance from Canadian law enforcement. That’s weird.”

“We knew that.”

“Right. But from the moment I learned he was really a marshal, I’ve trying to reconcile his behavior with his position, and the only answer I could come up with was that the council lied, and he’s not a marshal. I failed to see the obvious other explanation.”

“Which is?”

“I’m a homicide cop.”

“Just figured that out, did you? Good timing, considering I’m relying on you to investigate a homicide.”

“Ha-ha. I wasn’t done. I’m a homicide cop. I have the credentials. Look me up online, and you can verify that. But I’m not here as a member of Canadian law enforcement. Just because he’s a marshal doesn’t mean he was here on official marshal business.”

“I thought you said it was different for federal cops. They’re kept on a tighter leash.”