THIRTY-TWO
We're back in Rockton. I've discussed Jacob's list with Dalton, who has added his opinions. First thing tomorrow, we'll go looking for Silas Cox. That's the frustrating thing about the short days--it might only be late afternoon, but it's already dark, no chance of heading out now.
Dalton takes Storm to Petra's so we can get in a few hours of work. I swing by my place to grab a few things, and I'm upstairs, deciding what to take. Fact is, we don't have a lot of clothing in Rockton, and what is in my closet is what I might pack for an extended vacation. I'm tempted to just toss it all in a bag, but that really says I'm moving in, and I'm not sure that's what Dalton intends.
I'm putting a sweater into my bag when a floorboard creaks downstairs.
"Eric?" I call. I'd told him I was coming here, and I'd been relieved when he didn't insist on joining me. I'll accept his concern, but I can't abide hovering. At that creak, annoyance darts through me.
"Eric?" I call again.
Silence answers. With anyone else, that silence could mean he'd caught the snap in my voice and decided to slip off. Dalton would call back, Yeah, it's me, and take his lumps if I'm pissy.
I pull my gun and move toward the steps. "Who's down there?"
The squeak of a board, someone putting his weight on it as slowly as possible, trying to avoid making noise. I stand at the top of the stairs. A footstep sounds. I glance down the stairs to see a clump of snow at the base and a partial wet print.
I descend one step. Then two. The riser creaks under my weight, and there's a scuffle below as someone runs for the rear door. I race up the stairs instead. Through my bedroom to the balcony. I throw open the door to see a figure making for the trees.
I jump over the balcony. I've done it before, mostly just to get Dalton shaking his head and muttering about losing his detective to a broken neck. I vault over too fast this time and the deep snow is the only thing that keeps me from breaking an ankle. It twists and pain jolts through my bad leg, but I'm already on the move, gun still in hand.
My target hears me coming and looks back. I see his face as best I can in moonlight through heavy tree cover. Dark bushy beard. Dark wild hair. No one from Rockton. A man of the forest. He notices me looking, and his lips part in a curse, and he wheels and runs.
I have him in my sights. I could shoot. But the memory of Blaine will forever stay my hand if there is any reasonable doubt. I can't say this is the man in the snowsuit. I can't tell if what he's wearing is even a snowsuit. So I cannot shoot.
I bear down, gritting my teeth against the old injuries screaming that I'm not supposed to do this. I hear the doctor telling me I might never run, might never walk right again, me nodding while my inner voice said, Screw that. But sheer willpower gets you only so far. The man is pulling away and then disappears around a thick patch of trees. When I get there, he's gone, and I stand in the forest, listening to some small creature dash through the snow, and I realize where I am, what I've done.
I'm in the forest. Alone. Far enough from town that I can't hear the laugh of anyone heading home for the evening, can't see the swing of a lantern in hand.
He ran, and I didn't stop to wonder why he was running. I presumed he was fleeing. Never considered that he might be luring me into the forest.
I put my back to a conifer and scan the forest. When something moves to my left, I spin, gun raised. It's the cross fox from my yard, looking up at me, nose twitching as if to say, What are you doing out here? It has a mouse in its jaws, and as the fox watches me, the mouse revives, giving a mad struggle. The fox chomps down, gaze never wavering from mine. Then it takes off, sliding through the trees, heading for home.
I look around again. The forest remains still. Not silent, though. I catch all the usual noises. Does that mean the man has fled? Or that we've both just gone so silent ourselves that--like the fox--the forest has decided to ignore us?
I take a step away from the tree. Then another. With each movement, I pause and listen for an echoing sound, the suggestion he's masking his movements with mine. On the fifth step, I catch the barest swish of a boot in snow. I hold myself still as I register the direction. Then I take a step that way. Silence. Step. Silence.
A crack, barely audible. He's behind a tree, hidden from sight, watching me.
"I know you're there," I say, my voice echoing. "I have a gun. If you don't want me to use it, step out and identify yourself."
The slow crunch of snow under a boot. He's retreating, trying to do it silently. When I take another step, he breaks and runs, and I take three running steps before realizing I'm falling farther into his trap.
I have to pull myself up short and hold there, every muscle clenched to keep from going after him. To follow is madness. To not follow feels like cowardice.
I grip my gun and hold myself in place, waiting until the crash of undergrowth tells me I've lost my chance. And if that stings, well, then it stings.
I take my time going back, listening for any sign that my target has looped around to halt my retreat. When I catch a sound deep in the forest, I start walking backward, one foot deliberately down after another, eyes and ears straining for that distant spot--
A hand closes around my ankle. I spin as it yanks, and I go down on all fours. I kick and flip onto my back, gun flying up, aiming at--
It's Shawn Sutherland, lying prone in the snow.
"H-help..." He can barely get that out, lifting his blood-streaked face and blinking at me as if in confusion. His hand still holds my ankle in a viselike grip. When I reach down to peel off his fingers, he lurches forward on his belly, the movement yanking my foot back.
"Shawn," I say. "It's me. Casey. Detective Butler. From Rockton."
"H-help me. Please..."