Peter was clearly the local idiot in this scenario.
Something caught his eye, a kind of golden glint in the sky. He looked out over the undulating land. A half-dozen turkey vultures rode the thermals with their broad square wings, using their superb sense of smell to search for carrion to eat. But they weren’t the source of the flash. It was something high above them. He shaded his eye but couldn’t make it out. Maybe a small plane?
“Am I boring you?”
He looked back to Riot Grrrl, still holding the bow. “Sorry, I was watching the birds. You have an excellent view.”
From far below, over the sound of the breeze through the branches, Peter heard a hard staccato sound. Takatak. Takatak.
He’d heard the sound before. Automatic rifles in disciplined bursts. Takatak. Takatak. Then sustained, magazine-emptying fire, multiple weapons. Takatakatakatakatakataka.
He didn’t hear the distant roar of Mr. Griz. If Mr. Griz hadn’t woken up and wandered off, Peter figured the last California grizzly was dead or dying by now. He hadn’t thought it would make him so sad.
He looked at Riot Grrrl. “You hear that?”
From the way her eyes had gone wide, she’d heard it. Scared but trying to play it cool.
She sighed. “They’re not fucking aliens, all right?”
Peter figured she should be gearing up to get herself out of there. But she wasn’t moving. The bow hung from her hand, her feet seemed glued to her branch. He knew the look. She was paralyzed.
Peter kept talking. “So who are they?”
She looked past him at the reaching limbs. She sounded tired. “I don’t know. I’ve seen them three times. My mom’s lab, on the street, and at my mom’s house two days ago.” She put her hand to her face. “I didn’t think they’d find me here. I’m running out of places to go.”
“How many?”
“Four so far. Men in dark suits. Two black Chevy SUVs.”
“Sounds like government.”
“Their IDs say they’re from the Department of Defense. But I don’t believe them.”
“Why not?”
“I’m pretty sure DoD employees don’t use stun guns to try to kidnap journalists in broad daylight.”
“That happened to you?”
Her eyes jumped back to him. “Yes.”
He saw the anger blazing there, and heard it in the hard edge of her voice. Anger was good. Anger was action. He could work with that.
“Why would they try to kidnap a journalist?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I haven’t had a chance to do much digging yet.” But there was something there, something she wasn’t telling him.
“What do you write about?”
“Technology. Big data. Information privacy in the modern age. Investigative stuff.” She shook her head. “But I don’t think that’s why it happened.”
“Okay,” said Peter. “We should go take a peek. See who’s down there.”
“We?” She stared at him, and he felt that focus again, like the heat of the sun.
He looked right back at her. “Hey, I’m your prisoner,” he said. “Under the Geneva Convention, that means my health and safety are your responsibility. First, I’d like a large cup of strong coffee and a breakfast burrito. Then you need to protect me from those mean men with guns.”
She didn’t look away. He saw something change inside her, some decision made. “You really want to go down there?”
“Not all the way,” he said. “Just far enough to get a look. I don’t suppose you have any binoculars in that bag, do you?”
4
JUNE
He sure looked different, June thought. Not some overfed goon in a suit, like those fake G-men. Definitely not the deliberately casual costume she saw so often in the tech industry, hoodies and expensive jeans on the technical types and golf shirts on the money men.
She fucking hated golf shirts.
This guy Peter looked kind of raggedy, although that wasn’t quite right. Definitely not the golf shirt type. Hair all shaggy, his rough beard not a hipster fashion statement. You’d never describe him as fashion-forward. Too lean and ropy, but with a kind of lightness to him, like one of those uncluttered man-shaped sculptures made of scrap steel.
His clothes were worn to threads, but good stuff, not cheap. So he wasn’t broke. And he was fairly clean, especially if you took into account that he’d been in the woods for a while. So he had decent hygiene, again in contrast to many in the tech industry.
No, she thought. Not raggedy.
Lived-in. The man looked lived-in.
Like that pair of old Levi’s she’d had since college. Frayed but comfortable, washed a thousand times, and fit her hips like they were custom-made.
She caught herself and sighed.
That’s fucking great, June.
You meet some guy in a tree and now you’re thinking about your hips.
I know you’re approaching your sexual peak, honey, but really? Don’t you have more important things to focus on right now?
Like those assholes still chasing you?