“What kind of interest?”
“Law enforcement mainly. What kind you have there, how good it is.”
“This guy got a name?” Dalton asks.
“Everyone does. He goes by Roger.”
I look at Dalton as his gaze slides my way, both of us recognizing the name Jacob gave me for the contact he thought we should speak to.
“Can you describe him?” I ask.
Cypher does. It matches what I saw of the man in the forest—the one who’d been chasing Sutherland.
“When did this conversation take place?” I ask.
“Few days ago, after that cougar-bitch got Silas. I was out hunting her.”
I nod, assimilating that, and then say. “On another note, talk to me about hostiles.”
“Rather not. Rather just pretend they don’t exist. Better yet, rather make them not exist.” He looks at Dalton. “Don’t give me that look, boy. You know as well as I do that if animals acted that way, we’d put them down. Just like this cougar. At least she mostly keeps to herself, doesn’t try to cause trouble.”
“Do the hostiles bother you?” I ask.
“Their existence bothers me. Just like the cougar’s does. Because it’s the same thing. Guys like me will give you a chance to leave if you get on their territory. Hostiles just attack. They’re not even killing us for food. I think I’d respect them more if they did.”
“So you have experience with them.”
“As little as possible. But yeah, I do. Fucking savages.”
“Too savage to do something like this? Take a woman hostage and keep her captive?”
“Hell, no. It’s exactly the sort of thing they’d do.” He looks at Dalton. “Remember those four who went missing? You saw the woman later? What was her name?”
“Maryanne. I told Casey about her. But that seems a case of conversion rather than hostage taking.”
“Unless she was captured and escaped. Driven crazy by being held in a cave or whatever.”
Dalton nods. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Because you don’t think like a fucking lunatic. I do. It’s why I made a good sheriff.” Cypher turns to me. “Hostiles could do this. The problem is that it’s a lot easier if it’s someone like this Roger guy.”
“Because I can interview him. And talk to others about him. Not so with the hostile.”
His eyes glitter. “Oh, but you can talk to them. They have networks, too. If I capture one—”
“No,” Dalton says.
Cypher says nothing but gives me a look to say the offer stands, give it some thought.
THIRTY-NINE
Before we leave, Dalton gives Cypher a knitted toque, gloves, waterproof matches, and a few other supplies he brought in case Cox proved helpful. When he pulls out the last item, Cypher’s eyes light up.
“Fuck. Is that…?”
“Still like your coffee, huh?”
I swear, drool forms at the corners of Cypher’s mouth.
“If I’d known we’d bump into you, I’d have brought that powdered creamer shit you like.” Dalton eases back. “Course, if—”
“Say no more. If we’re talking coffee and creamer, screw pride. You want me to poke around, see if I can get a bead on Roger, and if I do, I get my reward. It’s a deal.” Cypher hefts the coffee. “How much we talking?”
“If the weather’s good, I fly into Dawson City every few weeks.”
“You learned to fly? Fuck. I always said that’s the one thing I wished I’d done, so I could get out of that town, buy what I wanted, and not rely on some damned delivery service.”
“I remember.”
“You were paying attention.”
“I’m guessing you’re asking how much coffee I can get because you’re going to offer to bring Roger in for me. The answer is yes—we’ll pay for that, too. But I want him in good health and communicating. He’s no use to us otherwise.”
“I’ll make sure he’s communicating. Good health, though?” He shrugs. Then he looks at me. “While we’re talking trades, you gotta teach me that kung fu shit. Could come in handy.”
“I couldn’t get you up to speed fast enough to use it on Roger.”
“Hell, no. I want it for the cougar. That bitch is going down.”
* * *
We stop at Brent’s on our way back. Brent is a troglodyte, one of those terms you can rarely apply to anyone in the contemporary world. He’s both a cave dweller and a hermit, which means he fits the word in every sense except the more modern definition, as someone brutish or deliberately ignorant. He has problems—mildly bipolar was Beth’s diagnosis—but he lives here of his own free will. He was a former bounty hunter who followed a target to these woods, got burned—literally, with acid—and decided to retire.
Most people who live in caves use them the way bears will, selecting one with a wide entrance. Humans will then fortify that entrance, erecting a front wall against the elements and wildlife. Brent actually uses an interior cavern, one that takes some climbing and crawling to reach. It’s more sheltered and comes with a vent to the outside, allowing him a carefully controlled fire pit.
Inside, it looks like those bomb shelters from the fifties. There’s a bed, table, and single chair. Goods are mostly relegated to a separate “pantry” cavern. Dried meat and herbs hang from the ceiling.