He’ll know better, of course. Especially when Dalton finishes securing his partner and comes jogging after him. But it still takes him a few minutes to cautiously approach the corner and peer around it.
I sit on the dirt bike beside his pickup tailgate.
“Feel free to run into the forest,” I shout. “I’d appreciate the challenge.”
The guy looks over his shoulder. By now, Dalton will be on his way. The guy glances from me to him and back. Then he bolts for the woods.
I hit the throttle, and the bike jumps to life. It’s a small one. A 125 cc. More for a kid than an adult, but yes, I am kinda kid-size, so it’s perfect for me. It’s also perfect for this sparse forest. I catch up with the guy easily. Then I play with him for a while. I can’t help it. There’s no way he can escape, but it’s fun to see him try.
I ride up on his heels. Then I whip around and cut him off. Finally, I spot Dalton in the forest, his arms crossed, shaking his head. So I hit the guy. Not too hard, naturally. I wouldn’t want to hurt myself.
I bump him and then shove him as I pass. I stop the bike, hop off, and give chase on foot. When I catch up, he tries
to hit me. I grab his wrist, throw him down, and pin his arm behind his back.
Then I lean over him. “Not a surgeon. Not a musician. Not a fashion model.”
He writhes under my grip, halfhearted at first, as if figuring he can get free easily. When that fails, he puts some actual effort into it, until I twist his arm up far enough to make him hiss in pain.
“Last guy who did that got his wrist broken,” I say. “You could ask him about it. But he’s dead.”
He stops struggling and looks back to see if I’m joking.
Dalton catches up. “Let me do that. You have questions for him.”
Dalton isn’t nearly as good at literal arm-twisting, but people presume he’s the type who will break their arm, so they don’t test him. I motion to the blood on his arm, where the knife cut him, but he twists it to show it’s nothing more than a scratch. I nod and hunker down in front of our captive.
“Let’s back up and smooth out your story,” I say. “On Wednesday, my partner piloted his plane into Dawson. The next day, you flew your client out, following my partner, yes?”
“I—”
“Just nod.”
The guy grumbles but nods.
“Someone notified you that he’d flown in, yes?”
He hesitates. Then nods, abruptly, angrily.
I don’t ask for the client’s name. I will, but when you’re interviewing a suspect who is hostile yet cooperating, the “hostile” part will outlast the cooperation. At some point, he’s going to get pissy and shut up. So I prioritize my questions.
“Someone told you that the plane had flown in. And then you contacted this client?”
He nods, shoulders relaxing, as if relieved I haven’t asked him for a name.
“This client wanted to know when that plane arrived, and then he wanted to be flown out after it. Yes?”
He nods.
“Pick up the story from there. Client arrives. Client says, ‘Follow that plane.’…”
“I didn’t set it up. That was Lyd—my partner. I’m just the pilot. She’s the one who got the call and notified the client. He busted ass up here. Then after you guys left, we followed. Only I’d warned Lyd—my partner…”
“Let’s just call her Lynn,” I say. I’m sure it’s Lydia, but I’ll let the guy retain the illusion he’s protected her.
“Right. Lynn. I warned her that I can’t exactly tail you. That’d be as obvious as following a car down an empty highway. I had to stay well back, so I only got a rough idea of where you landed. I thought I’d be able to get closer, picking up satellite signals, but my receiver went all wonky. The guy said that was close enough. I set her down a few miles out, and he took off. I was supposed to come get him when he called, by Saturday at the latest. He never did.”
“And what exactly does that have to do with us?” I say. “This guy was covertly following a private bush taxi, so you go after the pilot of the taxi?”