Watcher in the Woods (Rockton #4)(92)

“They are, which is why it took me longer to consider this. We know that as of a year ago, Garcia was a marshal. Is he still one? Could he be on sabbatical? Medical leave? With the story that guy just told, there’s no way this is official marshal business. Ten grand to fly him out and back? Arranging it through a shady local? Hell, no. It was personal. More than that, there’s money in it. Serious money.”

“Enough to drop ten grand on a round-trip ticket to Rockton.”

“Yep.”

“Bounty work, then. Not the kind Brent did either, bringing in people who’ve jumped bail.”

“It could be, but it’d need to be a helluva big bail. A bondsman gets ten to fifteen percent. On a million-dollar bail, that’s a hundred grand easy, enough to hire someone like Garcia if his client skipped out. More likely, though, it’s not legal bond work. I don’t think a marshal would be allowed to do that. It could cost him his job, and if you’re risking that, you might as well go all the way as a private bounty hunter or hitman.”

“So his target wasn’t necessarily someone who committed a federal crime.”

“Yep.”

“We don’t even know if we’re looking for someone who committed a crime. Just a resident that someone wanted brought back—or killed.”

“Yep.”

*

I tell Dalton about Sebastian as we’re walking to the plane. He says nothing. Not a word. He just grunts and then conducts his checks on the plane. Only when he finishing does he turn to me.

“His parents.”

“Yes,” I say.

“When he was eleven.”

“Yes.”

“Premeditated murder.”

I nod, and he runs a hand through his short hair.

“I don’t understand,” he says.

“I don’t think anyone can understand. Except maybe Sebastian.”

Dalton exhales and leans against the plane. “If this is what happens down south, that’s one more reason to stay up here.”

“Except that we send all those people up here to you.”

“Yeah, stop that. Just fucking stop.” He shakes his head. “And I can’t even say that. We grow our own here. That’s what Harper is, isn’t she? Like Sebastian.”

“In her way.”

“How many people are like that?”

“Very, very few. That’s the thing. I can joke that we send all our killers to Rockton, but you’re going to get more than your share, considering its purpose.”

“I know.”

“And while life in the forest isn’t going to turn a kid like Harper into a killer, there aren’t any safeguards in place out there. No one to recognize what she’s becoming.”

“So Sebastian solves his problems with murder. What’s the chance Garcia came for him?”

“About equal to the chance he came for anyone else. Also, we have no way of knowing that the killer was actually Garcia’s target. They just thought they were.”

“Fuck.” He sighs, deeply. “So did we accomplish anything here?”

“We found out how Garcia tracked us. We seem to have plugged the leak. I confirmed Paul’s story. Roy’s was bullshit—which I’ll explain later—but his crime wasn’t violent; just an asshole, as we already knew. I answered our questions about Sebastian. And I am certain that whatever Garcia was doing here, we won’t have a troop of marshals parachuting down on Rockton, looking for their lost man.”

“So that’s a win?”

“I got a dirt bike.”

He smiles. “Okay, it’s a win. We made progress, then, even if we aren’t much closer to finding a killer.”

“We’ll get there.”

*

No one comes out to meet us at the hangar. Anders knows that we can’t afford for him to leave Rockton right now, and Kenny obviously can’t come running to help. We could have gotten someone else to watch for the plane and help unload supplies, but we can handle it. We didn’t buy much anyway—this was an unscheduled run, so it was just taking advantage of the extra space. Treats and luxuries. Yes, bribes. It’s been a shitty two weeks. Here, have some M&Ms and new books and strawberry-scented shower gel. When the council promised us extra luxuries for the inconvenience of taking Oliver Brady, Dalton had muttered about bread and circuses. He understood, though, that up here, those little extras go a long way toward easing discontent.

We load everything into the ATV. Then Dalton takes that while I follow on the dirt bike. When we get near town, I hop off it. Yes, that twelve-year-old in me would love to rip through Rockton on my new toy, but the thirty-two-year old knows that would be as welcome as the cousin at Easter who rips around on his new BMX when you got a pair of fuzzy socks. So I will quietly walk the bike to the shed and tuck it away until a better time.

The shed is locked tight. The ATVs and snowmobiles—and now bike—represent the best chance of getting out of Rockton for anyone who’s changed their mind about putting in their full two years. I undo the double locks on the heavy metal door and it slides open with a whoosh.

Inside, it’s pitch black. It might be bright sunshine out here, but the angle of the doors is wrong for this time of day, and no light filters beyond the opening. I reach for my pack, to get my light . . .