Watcher in the Woods (Rockton #4)(93)

I came from the city. I’m not wearing my pack.

No matter. There’s a lantern just inside the door, for this very situation. Eric Dalton is the quintessential Boy Scout, prepared for everything. I reach inside the door and . . . no lantern.

It’s awesome that our boss thinks of everything. It really is. The problem is that he’s surrounded by people who aren’t nearly as conscientious. Someone has needed the lantern to put away a vehicle and left it farther in the shed. I could gripe about that, but it very well might have been me.

I wheel the bike inside. Being a secure building, there are no windows, so once I pass that rectangle of dim light at the entrance, I’m running on memory. The snowmobiles are tucked at the very back until winter. Dalton has the side-by-side ATV. The two smaller ones should be on my left—Ow, make that my right. So the spot on my left should be clear and—Ow, it’s not.

Having now stubbed my left toe and banged my right shin, I’m considering dropping the bike here. But that’s like running into the house and dumping my shoes at the door, and while I was that kid, I try not to be these days.

Prop the bike up and then feel around for a place . . .

A figure passes the doorway.

“Will?” I call.

No answer.

“Is someone there?” I say.

I take a slow step, hand dropping to where my gun should be, except, of course, I don’t have it. I take a deep breath and consider pulling my knife, but I’m better without it. Another step. Then a figure fills the doorway, and I stop short.

“It’s me,” a male voice says.

I don’t recognize the voice, and the shape is just that: a human figure. It doesn’t actually “fill” the doorway. It’s average size. Slight build. The head is slick and round, as if bald, and it comes to an odd point at the back. Then a hand rises and pushes back what was a hood, and light hair flops forward.

“Bastion,” I say.





THIRTY-EIGHT

Sebastian goes still. Completely still, and I want to see his face—I desperately want to see his expression—but the light is at his back.

His head drops forward, and his hand rises to shove his hair back as his shoulders slump.

“Shit,” he says, as if I’ve just caught him trying to take an ATV for a joyride.

“Step back,” I say. “Hands up.”

“I—” He pauses. “Right. Okay.”

He lifts his hands lift over his head and backs out of the doorway. I follow. His gaze goes to my hands.

“Yes,” I say, “I do not have my gun. However, if you think that makes me defenseless—”

“I’m not going to—“

“Yep, you’re not. Whatever you had in mind by sneaking up, it’s not happening.”

“I—”

He looks at me, but it’s not quite at me. The hair’s fallen again, and he’s peering through it, as if hiding behind it.

He is in hiding, and he must figure the hair helps disguise him. But even if his picture was out there, he wouldn’t need to hide behind hair to go unrecognized. He is cursed—or, in this case, blessed—with a very average white-boy face. No scars. No marks or freckles. No striking features.

Sebastian puts his hands on his head and lowers himself to the ground, sitting crosslegged. I tense, and then I realize what he’s doing. Taking a non-aggressive position. Like Dalton making offenders assume a downward dog. From there, Sebastian can’t leap up and attack me without signaling his intentions.

“I came out here to talk to you,” he says. “I saw the plane land. I’ve been watching. I was going to ask if I could help carry stuff to town, but really, I just wanted to see how you reacted. Whether you looked me up while you were in Dawson City. Whether you found out who I am.”

“You have your answer.”

He nods. “I do.”

His voice is calm, resigned almost.

“What are you going to do about that?” I ask.

His gaze rises to mine. “I think the question is what you’re going to do.”

“I’m looking for someone who killed a man to solve a problem. I believe you know a little something about that.”

He flinches. It’s not a hard, dramatic flinch, just the barest tightening of his face. Then he nods. “I do, and I understand that you’re going to think I did this. I didn’t. But convincing you of that isn’t my biggest problem right now.”

He’s right. Whatever he’s done, he still hasn’t zoomed to the top of my suspect list. This particular crime doesn’t fit him. I’m still open to the possibility, though, so I say, “Convince me.”

He clears his throat, as if preparing for a rehearsed speech. “Okay, well, if he really is a marshal, that has nothing to do with me. You know my crime. I’ve served my full sentence. Whether justice has been done is another matter, but the court system says I’m free. Also my crimes were committed in Canada, however there’s the possibility he’s not a marshal. I’m sure you investigated that while in Dawson City. Even if he is, that doesn’t mean he was here as a marshal.”

He states this as if it should be obvious. I hope my surprise—and chagrin—doesn’t show.

He continues. “If he’s not here for a fugitive, he’d be here to collect someone for another reason. Are there people who think I shouldn’t be out walking around? Of course. That’s why I’m in Rockton. But if the justice system is done with me, then the only reason to come after me is to either expose me or execute a higher punishment. Plenty of people wanted to expose me. Again, that’s why I’m here. But they’re not going to pay a bounty hunter to drag me back. And the only people I hurt . . .” His gaze shunts to the side. “They’re dead. Nobody . . . No one else gave a damn, except about the money, and there was barely enough of that left to buy my way up here. Anyone who had any claim to it knows it’s gone, and no one else really had a claim.”