Page 16 of The Boy Who Cried Bear
“That depends,” Dalton calls back. “Who the hell are you?”
“Your friendly neighbors,” the voice says.
It’s not Lilith, unfortunately. It’s a man’s voice, strong and confident and vaguely familiar, that familiarity raising the hairs on my neck.
“The miners,” I mutter under my breath.
Dalton’s grunt says he’d also figured that out.
The man appears. The first time I saw him, he’d looked like what Louie claims to be—a wealthy trophy hunter. He’s a silver-haired, impeccably groomed man wearing a small fortune in outdoor gear. One would think that after three months in the bush he’d look a little less impeccable. He doesn’t. This isn’t a guy out there getting his hands dirty. He doesn’t even carry a gun. That job falls to the two men flanking him, both stone faced and wearing sunglasses despite the overcast day. Their boss also wears them. Not protection against the sun so much as partially obscuring their faces.
“You’re trespassing,” Dalton says.
The man’s silver brows shoot over his sunglasses frames. “Am I?”
“You know you are. You set the boundaries. We’ve honored them.”
“So have we … except today, when I crossed to come speak to you, having no other method of communication. Fortunately, you saved us most of the trip by being out here”—he glances between the rifle and shotgun on our backs—“hunting. I do hope you haven’t lost another person from your little hamlet in the woods.”
Neither of us answers. Nor do we ask what he wants or whether there’s a problem. He’ll get to it, and nothing about our encounters with this man have inclined us to be friendly or helpful. Oh, he’s friendly himself, but in a way that makes those hairs on my neck prickle.
“It seems we have ourselves a situation,” the man says.
Again, we know that anything we say can be used against us. Ask whether he means the grizzly, and if he knows nothing about it, he can use that as an excuse to come on our side of the invisible wall—to “help” us hunt it. Ask what he means, and if it is the grizzly, then we’ll seem inept—unaware of a threat on our land. And if it’s not the grizzly? Then chances are, he’s about to accuse us of something.
“A wild man of the woods,” the guy says.
“A what?” Dalton says.
“We have ourselves a situation, and that situation is an intruder, and that intruder appears to be a wild man of the woods. A hermit. A homesteader. Call it what you will. Someone who has abandoned society to live out in these woods for so long that he’s gone a little feral himself.”
Dalton’s shoulders tighten almost imperceptibly. I’m sure mine do, too. We’re thinking the same thing.
Hostiles.
But that was Rockton, and it’s a situation we resolved.
“Go on,” Dalton says.
“One of my men spotted a wild human,” he says. “He reported it to me. I am reporting it to you.”
Dalton and I exchange a look. When Dalton gives a slight nod, I say, “Are you certain it was a man and not a bear?”
“I believe my men know the difference.”
“Can you give us any details?”
The man unzips his jacket and removes a manila envelope. He holds it out to me. “Everything you need will be in here.”
I take the envelope and struggle not to look confused. “I appreciate you bringing this to our attention. We’ll read through this and be on the lookout. If we spot anything, do you want us to let you know?”
“I don’t think you understand. I’m not warning you. I’m telling you to deal with this.”
“Deal with it?” Dalton says. “You think this man has something to do with us?”
“No, but I believe in professionals.”
The man pauses. I’m beginning to understand this particular speech technique. He makes some vague comment, and we’re supposed to say “What?” and he can smugly explain, making us look and feel stupid.
