“So, not mutual. He talked about restraining women against their will.”
“Yes.”
“Holding them hostage?”
“We … didn’t get that far. He started talking about women, ones he’d worked with down south, who wouldn’t go out with him, and what he wanted to do to them, and I … I honestly thought I was misunderstanding, on account of the rye. I’m not used to drinking. But misunderstanding or not, I didn’t want to continue the conversation, so I got out of there fast and decided Silas wasn’t the kind of person I should associate with.”
“When’s the last time you saw him?”
“A couple of months ago. I was way over by the big lake, shooting duck. I’d been camping there a couple of days. He came by. Started asking questions about Rockton. I did my usual thing, played dumb, said I’d never seen a town, and he said Roger—” He pauses. “Wait, Roger. You should talk to Roger.”
I scan my list. “A trapper, right? Lives here year-round.”
“I told Eric he might make a good contact. He’d be someone to talk to about this. He knows both Cypher and Silas better than I do. Brent likes the caves, too. If anyone has seen someone in that system, it’d be him.”
“Excellent,” I say. “So I’ve got a list of ten settlers and hostiles—”
“Hostiles? No, that doesn’t include hostiles. I don’t have anything to do with them.”
“Because they’re hostile?”
I smile when I say it, but his gaze moves out into the forest.
“I just don’t,” he says. “No reason to.”
“Okay, that’s understandable. I’m trying to figure out more about them.”
“You want to know about the hostiles. When that woman drugged me—how I acted, what I did? That’s a hostile. Except they’re like that all the time. Their minds don’t work right. They’re rabid animals. Like me when I—when I attacked you.”
“Could they do something like this? Are they smart enough, sane enough to plan it? Take and hold someone captive?”
He rocks on his heels. I’m reminding him of what he did to me, and he’s agitated, so I say, “It’s okay. I can talk to Brent.”
“No,” he says. “They couldn’t do this. It’s not a hostile. Stay away from them.”
I nod, but it must not be sincere enough, because he says, “It’s not a hostile. Can’t be. Just … just leave them alone. If you see one, run. Or shoot. Just shoot.”
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.