A crack, barely audible. He’s behind a tree, hidden from sight, watching me.
“I know you’re there,” I say, my voice echoing. “I have a gun. If you don’t want me to use it, step out and identify yourself.”
The slow crunch of snow under a boot. He’s retreating, trying to do it silently. When I take another step, he breaks and runs, and I take three running steps before realizing I’m falling farther into his trap.
I have to pull myself up short and hold there, every muscle clenched to keep from going after him. To follow is madness. To not follow feels like cowardice.
I grip my gun and hold myself in place, waiting until the crash of undergrowth tells me I’ve lost my chance. And if that stings, well, then it stings.
I take my time going back, listening for any sign that my target has looped around to halt my retreat. When I catch a sound deep in the forest, I start walking backward, one foot deliberately down after another, eyes and ears straining for that distant spot—
A hand closes around my ankle. I spin as it yanks, and I go down on all fours. I kick and flip onto my back, gun flying up, aiming at—
It’s Shawn Sutherland, lying prone in the snow.
“H-help…” He can barely get that out, lifting his blood-streaked face and blinking at me as if in confusion. His hand still holds my ankle in a viselike grip. When I reach down to peel off his fingers, he lurches forward on his belly, the movement yanking my foot back.
“Shawn,” I say. “It’s me. Casey. Detective Butler. From Rockton.”
“H-help me. Please…”
“I will. You’re safe. I’ll get you to town. Just let go of—”
“No!” He convulses, both hands gripping my ankle now. “Don’t leave me.”
“I’m not going anywhere. Just—”
A branch cracks in the forest. My head jerks up. Through the trees, I see the outline of a man. He’s holding something in his hand, something long and thin, like a metal rod.
I scramble to get away from Sutherland, but his fingers dig in, eyes burning with fever as he says, “Don’t leave. Don’t leave.”
“I’m not—”
I yank hard, to no avail. The figure approaches. I lift my gun and focus on that. He glances over his shoulder, and I see the beard and know it’s the man I chased from my house. He continues toward me, his weapon raised.
“There is a gun in my hand,” I call. “I will not hesitate to use it.”
He stops. Tilts his head. Seems to consider, his gaze going from me to Sutherland.
“I will shoot you,” I say. “Put that down, or I will fire this gun.”
He shifts the weapon from one hand to the other. I take aim.
“Shoot him,” Sutherland croaks.
I look down to see he’s lifted his head, and his gaze is riveted on the man.
“Shoot him.”
The man dives into the undergrowth. I scramble after him, but Sutherland still has my foot. As I go down again, the figure rises and starts toward me, and as I’m tangled there, my leg twisted. I kick to get free. Sutherland lets out a howl as my foot makes contact. He finally lets go and I’m on my feet, but the figure is gone. I stand there, poised, my gaze traveling over the dark woods.
“Should have shot him,” Sutherland croaks. “Should have shot the bastard.”
He collapses.
THIRTY-THREE
I drag Sutherland back to town. When I yell for help, three residents come running. Soon he’s at the clinic, Anders attending, me helping, Mathias nowhere to be found, damn him.
Sutherland is badly dehydrated. We don’t find any injuries requiring an emergency airlift, but we are, once again, reminded exactly how vulnerable we are without a doctor.
Anders washes the crusted blood from the back of Sutherland’s head and examines the wound that left blood in his toque. It’s a serious bash. Other than that, we find rope burns on his wrist and lower legs, splinters in his hands, and mild frostbite. He’s feverish, regaining consciousness enough to mumble that he needs to get back to Rockton.
My best guess, judging by his injuries, is that he escaped his captor, who came after him. As for why that captor had been in my house, I have no idea.
* * *
While we were tending to Sutherland, Dalton examined the footprints behind my place. I take a second look. They’re scuffed and indistinct, running prints, impossible to tell if they match the man in the snowmobile suit. There’s no way of following them, either. Dalton tried but got about a half kilometer in and lost the trail as it merged with caribou tracks.
Dalton keeps fussing with the trail, and I head to Mathias’s place. He has his own house, despite being a nonessential resident. If asked, he’ll say, “But a butcher is very essential. Anyone can bake a loaf of bread. Carving meat is an art form.” Which is bullshit. Yes, I’m sure there’s skill involved in butchering, but that’s not why he has his own house.
“No one will share a building with him,” Dalton had said when I asked. “He scares them off.”
“What does he do?”
“He exists, apparently.”
After a few early complaints, the council awarded Mathias his own house, over Dalton’s complaints that it broke town law. The council just didn’t want to deal with the issue.
When I rap on Mathias’s door, he calls, in French, “I’m hiding. Go away.”
I lean against the door. “Hiding works a lot better when you don’t answer.”