Of course, this would all make far more sense if we weren’t a week’s hike from the nearest town. There’s no way an amateur can buy a few supplies, set off into our forest, and reach Rockton. Not unless he’s seriously lost, wandering for days, about ready to give up all hope when he finally sees signs of civilization and … Takes off at the first sign of a rescuer? Not a chance.
I wave to Dalton that the backpack is fine. Then, before he’s close enough to get hurt, I yank down the zipper and there’s a tremendous boom—
No. Tha
t isn’t what happens. Even my paranoia cannot imagine the point of putting a triggered explosive device here. It’s not exactly like dropping it off in the middle of Union Station.
I open the zipper all the way and start unpacking while Dalton moves closer to stand guard. As I go, I tell him what I find, so he can keep his attention on the forest, in case our mystery man returns.
“Water and energy bars, like what you’d take on a daylong hike. There’s a change of clothes. Sweatshirt. Tee. Track pants. All brand-new. And…” I pull out a smaller case. “A toiletry bag. With toothbrush, paste, comb, razor…”
“Did he think he was going to a hotel?”
“Actually, it looks like that. Half-emptied paste. Used razor. Old bag. It’s what I kept in my bathroom to grab for work trips. Judging by the new clothing, though, his ‘work trips’ aren’t usually into the backwoods.”
My hand touches something familiar. I pull it out.
“Ammo?” Dalton says. “Fuck.”
“Nine-mil. Odd choice for up here.”
His brows rise.
“Yes, that’s what I carry,” I say, “because that’s what I’m accustomed to. But it’s a city gun.”
“For shooting people, not wildlife. Yeah, I’d be a whole lot happier if you found shotgun pellets in there.”
“Let’s switch spots,” I say. “Now that we know he’s armed, the person on guard shouldn’t be the one who’ll have trouble firing straight.”
He doesn’t say he’ll be fine. Until his arm heals, he’s hampered. I’m not.
Dalton isn’t nearly as good at announcing what he finds in that backpack. For years, it’s been just him and Anders, and our deputy is an army boy. When he trusts his commanding officer, he doesn’t expect details until that officer is ready to give them.
“Anything?” I say finally.
“Stuff.”
“Helpful.”
A jangle. “Car keys. Got a parking-garage ticket, too. From the Calgary airport. Dated … Fuck. Dated this morning?”
“You can fly Calgary to Whitehorse, right?”
“In the summer, yeah.”
“So he flew in from Calgary, and somehow got out here. He sure as hell didn’t walk.” I squint up at the sky. “Where else could a plane touch down, if not our airstrip?”
“Plenty of clearings. With the right plane, if you know the area, you can do it.”
“Which means he hired someone to bring him in. Packed a quick bag, bought supplies for the woods, dropped off his car in Calgary, flew to Whitehorse, and got a charter from there. Seems very…” I follow a noise in the forest, but it’s only an owl swooping past. “Seems very last-minute.”
“It does.” Dalton rises. “You want this repacked the way it was?”
I consider. “No, let’s take it. I can go over it better in town. And, if we take his food and water … He’s seen Rockton. He knows where to get more.”
* * *
One of the endless dilemmas we face as law enforcement in Rockton is also one I faced as a homicide detective down south. Only here, it’s multiplied a thousand times. How much information on potential threats do we release to the public? From a layman’s point of view, the answer is a no-brainer: tell them everything. Yet as cops, we know how wrong this can go. Tell people there may be a thief targeting their neighborhood, and you damned well better hope no teen tries sneaking through a window after breaking curfew.