Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Finn
By the time the sirens found us, the worst of the storm had blown east, leaving the woods dripping and mean.
The knife guy lay on his stomach in the mud where we’d left him, hands zip-tied behind him with department-issue flex cuffs.
He’d regained consciousness and tried to roll onto his side twice—once to puke, and once to see if we were still around, I think.
Both times, I’d put a boot between his shoulder blades and reminded him that stabbing cops in the woods was a bad life choice.
My arm burned like someone had poured gasoline along the cut and lit a match.
The rain had slowed to a steady drizzle, which did a real shit job of washing the blood away.
River’s tee was tied around my forearm in a makeshift tourniquet-bandage hybrid that likely would’ve given Myra hives, but it had slowed the leak. I’d take it.
River stood two feet to my left, flashlight in one hand, bear spray in the other. Her hair was plastered to her cheeks, and her eyes were fierce and too bright. She kept checking the tree line, her shoulders tense, like she was daring anyone else to come out of those shadows and try something.
I should’ve sent her home.
I hadn’t.
Yet another choice I’d have to live with.
Linton’s voice crackled over the walkie sitting on the pack at my feet. “Sheriff, lights and sirens incoming on County 12. We’re coming in from the opposite side. What’s your twenty?”
My voice came out rough as I said, “We’re at the trail access by marker eighteen. One in custody. Two fled on foot, headed downslope in opposite directions. Call it north-northeast.”
“On our way.”
I exhaled slowly, trying not to notice how lightheaded I was getting. Bad sign. I shifted my weight, but kept my boots planted.
“You’re bleeding through,” River said quietly, nodding at what used to be white cotton.
“Yeah, I noticed.”
She shot me a look that would’ve singed anyone else. “Smartass.”
It was ridiculous, the way my chest eased at the sound of it. Like as long as she still had enough fight in her to snark at me, things couldn’t be that bad.
Headlights swung around the curve, bouncing between the trees.
The patrol SUV slid to a stop at the trailhead, tires throwing up mud.
Linton spilled out first, all long limbs and rookie nerves, followed by, surprisingly, Atlas Dunn, moving at a slower, steadier pace that said his knees felt the weather coming before his brain did.
Atlas clocked the scene in one sweep. Me bleeding, River shaking. His gaze lingered half a beat on the way River stood—feet braced, chin lifted—then he nodded once, like something in him approved.
“Hey,” he drawled. “Heard there was a party and you forgot to send invites.”
“Knife party,” I said. “Not as fun as advertised. And not as good as the dub-step.”
“Jesus, Finn.” River glared at me. “Stop talking.”
“Can’t,” I said. “If I stop, I might fall over.”
Linton walked up. “You said one in custody?”
“In the mud over there, behind the fallen tree,” I confirmed. “Flex cuffs. Weapon’s there.” I nodded toward the knife, lying a couple of feet away where it had landed. “Don’t touch the handle. Print it and bag it.”
Linton unsnapped his holster just in case and reached for gloves. “Yes, sir.”
He moved in, cautious and efficient, reciting the Miranda rights as he knelt to check the suspect’s bonds. The guy groaned and spewed some vitriol I didn’t catch, likely more offended than hurt, which told me he was definitely going to be a pain in my ass.
Atlas stepped closer, his hand hovering near my good shoulder without quite touching. “You look like hammered shit.”
“Love you, too.” My lip quirked on one side.
He grunted. “Ambulance is on the way. You stay upright until then, or I’ll tell your sister I found you crying in the mud.”
“I don’t have a sister.”
“Exactly. I’ll tell her anyway. She’ll show up just to be disappointed in you.”
River actually huffed a laugh. It sounded half-hysterical and half-relieved. I shot Atlas a look that said thanks without having to spell it out.
Sirens wailed, the sound getting closer, then cut as the medic unit pulled up behind the cruiser in the distance. The paramedic I knew—Ainjil—jumped out, dragging a trauma kit and a blanket. She gave me one look and shook her head.
“Couldn’t stay out of trouble for one damn week, could you?” she muttered, snapping on gloves.
“You’d be disappointed if I got boring,” I said.
She peeled River’s tee back from the wound. Cold air hit hot flesh, and I sucked in a breath. “That’s deep,” she said, more to herself than to me. “Not arterial, though. You’d be dead already if he’d hit anything that mattered.”
“Comforting.”
“Hold still.” She flushed it with some saline. It felt like she’d poured liquid fire straight into my bones. My vision went white at the edges.
River stepped closer, her hand finding my uninjured biceps, fingers digging in. I focused on that—on the warmth of her skin through the wet material, the slight tremor in her grip, and the way her eyes locked on mine like she could anchor me by sheer stubbornness.
“In and out, Callahan,” she said. “You pass out on me, and I’m making you do a hundred hours of mindfulness therapy.”
“God, no,” I gritted. “I’ll stay awake.”
Ainjil wrapped a proper pressure bandage tight around my arm after cleaning it, then taped it down hard enough to make my fingers tingle. “You need stitches. And probably a tetanus shot.”
“Great. Love needles.”
She rolled her eyes. “You can either sit your ass in the rig, or I can sedate you and carry you to the hospital. Your call.”
I looked at River. Her jaw was set, chin up. The last thing I wanted was to leave her here with the memory of me bleeding on a mountainside and the guy who’d done it being loaded into the back of a cruiser.
But I also needed my arm working. And if this was the opening act, I couldn’t afford to be half-crippled when the curtain went up.
“Linton,” I called. “You ride in with our friend. Torres, you take point on the scene. Get CSU out here to photograph the drop box and bag everything inside, including the Polaroid. I want chain of custody by the book.”
“You got it,” Torres said.
River’s hand tightened on my arm. “I’m coming back to the station,” she said, before I could argue. “I’m not going home and pretending what just happened didn’t happen.”
I met her eyes. The stubborn set of her mouth told me I’d lose if I tried to stop her, and a selfish part of me didn’t want her out of my sight anyway.
“Fine. Stick with Atlas, though,” I said. “You get in his truck, and you stay with him. And if anything feels off, call me. Don’t wait. Don’t try to handle it yourself.”
She lifted her chin. “I can handle—”
“I know you can,” I cut in, gentler than I felt. “That’s the problem. But handle it by calling me this time, okay?”
Something in her expression softened. “Okay,” she said quietly. “But only because your arm looks like a horror-movie prop.”
“Flattering.”
Ainjil gestured toward the ambulance. “Move, Sheriff. I’ve got other idiots around town to patch up after you.”
I let them load me into the rig, the smell of antiseptic and wet pine following me inside.
As the doors closed, I caught one last glimpse of River, standing in the mud, shoulders squared, watching our zip-tied suspect being shoved into the back of the cruiser.
Her face was pale in the flash of the cruiser lights, eyes dark and steady.
I’d seen that look before. In my own mirror.
It wasn’t fear.
It was fury.
County General smelled like bleach and cheap coffee and every bad decision I’d ever watched someone make.
They numbed my arm, stitched me up, and hung a bag of fluids “just to be safe,” which I tolerated for exactly nine minutes before I started unplugging things.
Ainjil cursed at me, the ER doc threatened to write me up, and I informed them both that there was a man in my holding cell who knew where at least one body was buried, and I wasn’t letting him talk to anyone but me.
Eventually, they compromised by wrapping my arm in fresh gauze, jabbing me with a tetanus shot, and ordering me not to drive.
I walked out anyway.
Atlas’s truck idled at the curb, wipers smearing the mist off the windshield. River sat in the front seat, hair frizzed from the rain, clothes swapped for something dry and borrowed from who knew where. The second she saw me, her shoulders dropped half an inch.
“I’m sure they told you to rest. What part of that did you translate as ‘go directly back into chaos?’” she asked as I climbed in.
“The part that knows Linton is in over his head,” I said. “And that our guy’s lawyer will be here by sunrise if we don’t move now.”
Atlas snorted. “Relax, kid. Linton is babysitting him, not interrogating. I told him not to say a word beyond ‘Do you want water?’”
“Good.” I blew out a breath and flexed my fingers. My arm throbbed in time with my pulse. “What’s the count?”
“They’ve got the drop box,” Atlas said, pulling away from the curb.
“CSU bagged the phone, the drive, the Polaroid, and some kind of code sheet that was folded inside. Numbers and letters. Looks like shit a teenager would cook up for a scavenger hunt, but I’m not ruling it out as something nastier. ”
“Any sign of the other two?” I asked.
“Tracker lost them at the creek crossing. Rain wiped any decent prints.” Atlas’s mouth flattened. “Either they know these woods better than anyone, or this wasn’t their first run.”
My jaw clenched. “It definitely wasn’t. They’ve been using that drop for some time.”
River watched me, arms wrapped around herself like she was holding in heat. “You recognized something, didn’t you?” she said. “Out there. When they spoke.”
I thought of the way the knife guy’s voice had broken, a bit of panic under the bravado. Of the other voice, from the Lodge Hall—the one that had mentioned the wife and the accident she could so easily have.
I shoved it all down for now.