We continue on, step by careful step. Listen. Step. Look. Step. Feel. Yes, that last one seems strange, especially if I admit I’m trying to catch a sense of someone nearby. Out here, I’ve learned not to be too quick to dismiss the raised hairs on my neck, the sense that I am not alone.
Dalton is the most pragmatic person I know, but he’d also be the first to tell me to pay attention to my sixth sense. He puts it into a context his brain understands—humans are both predator and prey out here, and so logically we might have something that is not quite premonition, but rather an awareness of another presence. Maybe it’s vibrations underfoot or a scent in the air or a sound too soft to be identified.
I detect none of that.
We reach the tree and circle it, guarding each other while scanning the forest.
“Gone,” Anders whispers.
I process the scene, but there’s nothing to find. Not even a fiber trapped in the bark where he climbed. I shimmy onto that limb and find nothing. Then, as I’m climbing down, I catch the glint of metal in the undergrowth.
“Will . . .” I say carefully.
He’s been circling the tree, searching. Now he halts, one foot still raised.
“Stay right where you are,” I say.
“Can I put my foot down?”
“Very carefully.”
He does that as I say, “There’s something metallic on the ground to your left.”
“Bear trap?”
“Not unless they come in long, barrel-shaped form.”
“Shit. There’s a gun pointed right at me, isn’t there?”
“Yep.”
“Of course there is.” He curses some more. “Okay, if it’s a trap, you’re looking for a trigger. Presumably it would be tripped from the direction the gun is aimed. It could be a pressure plate under the soil.”
“I don’t see any soil disturbance around you.”
“Good start.”
I crawl out on the tree branch over him to conduct a full visual sweep. I don’t see a trip wire, and I tell him that, adding, “But don’t take my word for it.”
“Oh, I’m not. Sorry. Can you climb out over the gun?”
“Yes, but I can already tell that won’t help. It’s nestled in the vegetation. I’m going to check it out. Just hold on.”
I retreat down the tree. Then I circle wide. When I’m on the far side of the gun, I walk toward it, checking before putting each foot down. Finally, I reach the spot. I crouch. Then I swear.
“That doesn’t sound good,” Anders says.
“No, it’s—Just hold on.”
I swore because I know this gun. I’m temporarily putting that on the “not important” shelf, along with the ramifications of having a sniper in our forest.
I hunker down. Then I lie on my belly, getting a straight-on view of the gun.
“And . . .” Anders says.
“I don’t see any sign of a trigger device. It looks as if the shooter just left it behind.”
“That’s actually kinda disappointing.”
“At the count of three, I’ll knock the barrel aside, and you’ll dive for cover. We’ll tell everyone else it was rigged, and you narrowly escaped death. Plus, of course, I saved your life, and you owe me forever.”
“Yeah, no. But you can move the barrel aside. Carefully please.”
I lean over the gun and take another good look, running my fingers along the perimeter for a trip wire. The trigger is clear, and the gun seems fine. I ease the barrel away from Anders.
“Thank you.”
I start to rise, and he says, in a low voice, “Stop.”
A low growl sounds behind me. I look over my shoulder to see a muzzle and eyes peering from a clump of weeds.
11
“Is that a . . . ?” Anders begins.
He doesn’t finish, but I know what he was going to say. It looks like a wolf—the size, the build, the ears, the muzzle shape, and the white and gray fur. But there are brown spots in that gray, and its face is freckled.
“Wolf-dog,” I murmur.
“Shit,” Anders says.
It’s the dog part that worries me. I hear wolves almost every night, but I’ve only spotted them deep in the forest, as they catch wind of us and disappear like ghosts. Dogs are another matter. They’re feral, descended from those either released or escaped from Rockton, back in a time when pets were allowed. Those canines don’t always slip away like wolves. Even a few generations removed, they retain their fearlessness around humans.
I aim my gun. I don’t want to. But this is Dalton’s rule. If a feral dog makes an aggressive move, we must shoot to kill.
I can’t tell with this one. It’s watching me just as carefully as I’m watching it.
“Got your gun ready?” I ask Anders.
“I do.”
“Count of three. Three, two, one—”
I lunge at the wolf-dog and let out a snarl. I’m hoping it’ll run. It doesn’t. Nor does it attack. It just hunkers down and snarls back, fur bristling. Anders curses some more, and I agree. We like our decisions cut-and-dry, and the universe isn’t complying these days, not even with a damned dog.
“Protocol is to shoot,” Anders says. “If it doesn’t back down, we put it down.”
I notice he doesn’t actually shoot. He’s waiting for me to say yes, that’s what we have to do. When I say, “Wait,” he exhales in relief.
I hunker to crouch.
“Good idea,” Anders says. “Submissive pose. See if it attacks.”
Which isn’t what I’m doing at all. I’m taking a closer look at something I’ve spotted.
“She’s nursing,” I say. “Her cubs must be nearby.”
“Right. Okay. So we leave her.”
“As long as she doesn’t attack, yes. I’m going to pick up the rifle, and we’ll back off slowly.”
The wolf-dog stands her ground, allowing me to get the gun and start backing up. Then she follows, stiff-legged.
“Making sure we leave?” Anders says.
“I hope so.”
When we’ve made it about halfway to the others, I call, “Eric?”
“Here.”
“Our shooter is gone. He left his gun. But we’ve got a wolf-dog backing us off. It’s a nursing mother.”
“Fuck.”
I don’t ask if he wants us to shoot. If he does, he’ll say so. Instead, he calls, “Jacob?”
There’s a murmur of voices. Jacob appears. He ducks to peer under a branch and gets a look at the canine.
“That’s Freckles,” he says. “She’s not usually a problem. It’s the cubs making her defensive.”
I don’t comment on him “naming” the wolf-dog. That’s not what he’s done. It’s just a way to identify her, the same way people name ponds and hills and other landmarks.
Jacob tells us to keep backing away. When the canine continues to follow, he lunges and growls, and she freezes. There’s a five-second stare-down. Then the wolf-dog snorts and stays where she is, letting us retreat.
“You need to be more intimidating, Case,” Anders says.
“Nah,” Jacob says. “You just need to learn the stare . . . and know which animals you can use it on. Do that to a boar grizzly, and you’re dead where you stand. She was just making sure you got away from her litter.”
We return to the others. Anders and I go straight to Dalton. That’s when our sheriff sees the rifle.
“Fuck, no,” he say.
“Fuck, yes,” Anders says. “Now give me that arm.”
“We need to—”
“Arm. Now.”
Dalton lifts his arm for Anders to examine. Residents joke about Dalton being the alpha dog in Rockton. He is, and no one disputes that. But people aren’t animals, and the idea of one person being in charge, at all times, in all situations, is bullshit. This winter, when Dalton contracted the flu in Dawson City, Anders happily turned to me and said, “You’re up.” You play sheriff for a few days. He didn’t want the job. Yet all he has to do is adopt this tone, and Dalton shuts up and listens.
As Anders examines him, Dalton shoots glances my way. He’s trying not to look at the rifle. Trying not to tip off Brady, who’s watching us intently. He’s also trying to hide the worry in his eyes.
“Does it matter?” I say. “Threat-wise? Six of one, half dozen of the other.”
Brady’s brows furrow. Dalton nods. He understands my verbal shorthand. This gun is from Rockton. That suggests our shooter is also from Rockton. On the surface, that’s alarming, but what’s the alternative? An external sniper would mean someone sent to kill Brady. Someone who came from Brady’s world.