“I know.”
I’ve been advocating sat phones. I remember when I first moved here, I thought that’s what Val used. When it turned out to be some kind of high-tech dedicated radio receiver, I presumed that was because nothing else would work. But Dalton and I did some research when we were down south, and we discovered there was no reason sat phones shouldn’t work. We just don’t have them, because they’d allow us to call out, which is against Rockton rules. Also, even calls between phones in such an isolated region could trigger unwanted interest.
We have discussed getting them anyway, for emergencies, and now is the perfect example of when a satellite phone could be a lifesaver.
“We’d need to know whether they could be detected,” I say. “And figure out how to get an account without a credit card and ID. They aren’t like cell phones. You can’t grab a prepaid.”
“Yeah.”
“It might be possible to buy one on the black market. Yes, I’m talking about that as if I have a clue how to get anything on the black market. But I might be able to figure out . . .”
I trail off as Storm stops. She’s sniffing the air. Then the fur on her back rises, and she reverses toward me . . . which means toward Cricket, making my horse do a little two-step before snorting and nose-smacking the dog.
I pull Cricket to a halt and swing my leg over, but Dalton says, “Hold,” and I wait. Storm growls. I resist the urge to comfort her. If she senses trouble, I want her warning us.
Storm is sitting right against Cricket’s foreleg. The mare exhales, as if in exasperation, and nudges the dog, but there’s no nip behind it, and when Cricket lifts her head, she catches a scent, too.
“Step out.”
Dalton’s voice startles me. The animals, too, Storm glancing back sharply, Cricket two-stepping again. Only Blaze stays where he is, rock-steady as always.
“We’re armed,” Dalton says as he takes out his gun. “I know you’re there, just to the left of the path. Come out, or we’ll set the dog on you.”
36
Silence answers. I haven’t heard whatever Dalton and the animals must.
Then he says, “Storm? Get ready . . . ,” and there’s a rustle in the undergrowth ahead.
A boy steps onto the path. He can’t be more than twelve. I see him, and the first thing I think of is Dalton—that this boy is already older than he would have been when the former sheriff took him from the forest.
The boy looks so young. It’s easy to think of twelve as the cusp of adolescence, but it is still childhood, even out here, and that’s what I see: a boy with a knife clenched in one hand, struggling to look defiant as he breathes fast.
Dalton looks at the boy, and his jaw hardens. Then he aims his glower into the forest.
“That’s a fucking coward’s move, and you oughta be ashamed of yourselves, pushing a kid out here. Did I mention we have guns? And a dog?”
The boy’s gaze goes to Storm. He tilts his head, and I have to smile, remembering how Jacob mistook her for a bear cub.
“Storm?” I say. “Stand.”
She does, and her tail wags. The boy isn’t the threat she smelled, proving Dalton is right about there being others.
“If you’re planning an ambush,” he calls, “you do realize that the person I’m going to shoot at is the one I see, which happens to be a child.”
“I’m not a child,” the boy says, straightening. He pushes back his hood . . . and I realize he’s not a boy either. It’s a girl, maybe fourteen.
“And I’m alone,” she says. “I came hunting and—”
“Yeah, yeah. There are three other people over there, who obviously think my night vision sucks.”
“Sucks what?” the girl says.
I chuckle at that, and she looks over at me. “You’re a girl,” she says.
“Woman,” Dalton says. “And a police detective. Armed with a gun. Now sit your ass down.”
“You can’t tell me—”
“I just did.” He points the gun.
The girl sits so fast she almost falls.
I say, “Storm, guard.” Which is a meaningless command, but I pair it with a hand gesture that means she can approach the girl to say hello. The girl shrinks back as the big canine draws near. Storm sits in front of her and waits to be petted. Patiently waits, knowing this is clearly coming.
“Three people,” Dalton calls. “I want to see you all on this path by the count of ten. Your girl seems a little nervous, and if she runs, I can’t be held responsible for what our dog will do.”
Storm plunks down with a sigh, her muzzle resting beside the girl’s homemade boot, as if resigned to wait for her petting.
“Just don’t move,” I say to the girl. “You’ll be fine.”
Dalton begins his countdown. By the time he finishes, a man and a woman have emerged from the trees. Both are on the far side of fifty.
“It’s only us,” the woman says. “You have miscounted.”
“And you have mistaken me for an idiot incapable of counting.” He raises his voice. “I see you coming around beside me. Do you see the gun pointed at your fucking head?”
Silence. Then a dark figure appears from the shadows, heading for Blaze.
“Yeah, no,” Dalton says. “If you’re planning to spook my horse, thinking he’ll unseat me?” Dalton lowers the gun a foot over Blaze’s head and fires. Cricket does her two step and whinnies, but Blaze only twitches his ear, as if a fly buzzed past.
“Now get up there with the others,” Dalton says.
A young man steps out. He has a brace of rabbits over his shoulder.
“Good hunting?” I say.
He only stares. Keeps staring, his gaze traveling over me a little too slowly.
“Answer her, and keep your fucking eyes on her face,” Dalton says. “She asked you a polite question, as a reminder of how civilized people behave when they come across one another, each out minding their own business in the forest.”
“You his girl?” the young man asks.
“She’s . . .” Dalton hesitates, and I know he wants to say “my detective” because that is the respectful way to introduce me. But it might imply I’m single, and from the looks this kid is giving me, we’d best not go there.
“I’m his wife,” I say, and Dalton’s gaze cuts my way, but he only grunts and says, “Yeah. My wife and my detective.”
“What’s a detect—” the girl begins, but the older woman cuts her off with a look.
“I was a police officer down south,” I say. “Law enforcement.”
“Down there and up here,” Dalton says.
“Here being Rockton,” the older man says. “I know you. You’re Steve’s boy. Jacob’s brother.”
“And you’re from the First Settlement.”
The man nods.
“We’re looking for Jacob,” Dalton says. “You seen him?”
The older man and woman nod. The younger man’s gaze alternates between me and Blaze, the look in his eyes suggesting we are of equal value, both chattels he covets. When he glances at Dalton, I see the dissatisfaction of a child looking on an older one, wondering what he’s done to deserve all the good toys.
The girl is busy staring at Storm, and while Dalton talks to the woman and older man, I murmur, “Storm? Up.”
The dog rises, and the girl falls back. No one else notices, and I tell her not to worry, the dog is safe unless I give her a command.
I lean over Cricket’s neck and murmur, “Do you want to pet her?”
The girl frowns, as if “pet” is as foreign a word as “detective.”
I say, “Storm?,” and she bounds over to me. I bend as far as I can and scratch behind her ears.
“This is petting,” I say. “She likes this, as you can tell.”
The girl rises and approaches carefully.
“Put out your hand,” I say. “That gives her a chance to sniff you, and it warns that you’re going to touch her.”