“So do I.” I squeeze his hand. “Go on.”
* * *
Dalton quickly checks Colin’s pack before he goes, but it’s a cursory look. I want more. I motion to Petra to distract Colin. She does an excellent job of it, simultaneously engaging his attention and making enough noise that I’m able to slip the pack aside, go through it properly, and then return it before he even realized I’d stepped away.
I found exactly what I’d expect. Well, no, he’s missing one important item—one that makes me wonder whether he’s almost as inexperienced as his clients. He doesn’t have a gun. No handgun. No rifle.
While I’d never set foot out here without one or the other, though, that only shows my law enforcement bias. Colin has a big hunting knife, and he likely considers that sufficient protection. It would be, too, if he’d been carrying it when he was attacked.
He also has bear spray, which I will argue is equally pointless when you leave it in a zipped knapsack. Still, wilderness experience can be measured on a continuum, and with a large knife, bear spray, food, water, and a sat phone, he does have the essentials. He’s even carrying a first aid kit.
I also find ID showing him to be Colin Berger, a small-plane pilot out of Whitehorse. Before I return to Petra, I hunker down and consider what I’ve found. Consider the implications of it. I haven’t had time to do that, and I wish now that I had before Dalton left.
The fact that Colin is blind is, in the most callous terms, a godsend. We could conceivably bring him into Rockton for treatment and then back out again without him getting a good look at the town. Just as long as he doesn’t regain his sight.
That’s a horrible thing to wish for, isn’t it?
Oh, I certainly do hope you get your sight back, Colin. But could you hold off until we get you back to civilization? Thanks!
Even if he regains it in Rockton, we can deal with that. Once he’s ready to get out of bed, we can slip him a sedative and let him wake up in a hastily erected encampment outside town, where he can recover—briefly—and then we’ll escort him to his plane. And, maybe, if we can finagle it right, we’ll tell him we’ve stumbled over the remains of the tourists in the interim, so he can take those home with him.
Off you go, Colin. So sorry about your clients. Good thing you managed to kill that crazy mountain man who murdered them!
Yep, that makes me feel like a callous bitch. Doesn’t stop me from liking the plan, though. We’ll take good care of Colin, and we will find who killed his clients. That’s far from callous.
I slip back into the clearing as Petra says to Colin, “Hey, we haven’t asked if you’re hungry. I have a protein bar in my pack.”
As I return his pack to its spot, my gaze catches the dead hostile. I hadn’t forgotten him. It’s just … well, he wasn’t going anywhere.
I head over to him, saying, “I’m going to check out the guy who attacked you. Can you tell me anything more about him?”
“I was kind of hoping you guys could,” Colin says. “Like what the hell he is.” He shifts. “Sorry. I mean, obviously he’s a man, but the way he attacked, it was…” He shivers. “Like he was a wild animal.”
“Tell me more about that,” I say as I bend beside the hostile.
Colin explains as I examine the dead man. I don’t see any evidence that he isn’t a hostile. Maybe that should be obvious—looks like one, acts like one, smells like one—but after what happened with that settler family, I’m extra careful.
Striking the back of Colin’s head with a rock is classic hostile modus operandi. He’d hit hard enough that he expected Colin would at least be incapacitated. When he wasn’t, that caught the man off guard, and he blindly slashed with his knife.
I find the knife still clenched in the man’s hand. It’s a homemade weapon, as I’d expect.
There is nothing in the attack to suggest anything except a hostile. The man didn’t cry out in perfect English when he realized he was in mortal danger. He isn’t carrying a hidden gun in his waistband. His matted hair is real. The tattoos and ritual scarring are real. It’s all real. A real hostile, and a real hostile attack.
I rise and—
And there is someone in the forest. A figure, watching me. I can make out what looks like a young man. I see a face, that’s all. A smooth-cheeked male face, light brown skin, dark hair, and wide eyes, staring at me like he’s just spotted a hostile. I open my mouth and take a step forward—
“Casey!” Petra shouts.
Even as she calls out, I catch a blur of motion as another figure charges from the opposite direction.
TWENTY-NINE
I wheel, my gun rising as I bark “Stop!” at the same moment Petra fires. It’s a warning shot, and it does what it’s supposed to—halts my would-be attacker in her tracks.
It’s a woman. A hostile. She looks to be in her sixties, with graying hair, but she might be as much as a decade younger. She stares at me, lip curled as her face darkens with blazing hate.
“You,” she snarls.