Blank books are among the most popular items in Rockton. When electronic forms of entertainment aren't available, people rediscover childhood hobbies--writing poetry, painting landscapes, playing an instrument. Writing requires only paper and pen, and on almost every supply run, we stop at the dollar store and buy blank journals.
"This is old," I say. "I smell mildew, and that cave system is dry. But it's not just thrift-shop old. It's properly bound, and the pages are yellowing. I wouldn't be surprised if this"--I tap the cover--"is real leather. And..." I open the book to the first page and run my finger down a jagged edge on the inner spine. "It's had pages torn out. The first twenty or so. Both of them are like that."
"Conclusion?"
"That they really were journals. Very old ones. A miner or trapper started writing in them and then stopped. Got bored or just didn't have that much to say. When Nicole asked for paper, this is what her captor brought her. Is there anything like this in Rockton?"
He shakes his head. "I only buy the kind you've seen."
"And you've been doing the supply runs for how long?"
"Six, seven years."
"Longer than any current residents have been here. Presumably these didn't come from your place, so the only way a resident would have gotten hold of one would be to find it hidden in his house. Under a floorboard or whatever. Which is not impossible, but you guys do a thorough inspection between occupants."
"Have to. Floorboards and all. That's the first excuse people give when they're found with contraband--must have been the guy who lived here before me."
He reached for the book I'm holding. I hand it to him. He flips through it, frowning.
"I've seen..." He doesn't finish, just keeps turning pages, his fingers running over them. "I had books to draw in, when I was a kid."
"You drew?"
He shrugs. "Sketches. Wildlife and whatever." His fingers move across the writing, as if picking up touch memory from the old, ink-dented paper. "My mother used to hang them in the cabin, and this one time, when we had a fire, she tried going back in, and it turned out all she wanted was my stupid--"
He inhales sharply and slaps the book shut. "My father used to get me books. Old ones. I don't know where they came from, but they smelled like that. Looked like that. Ledgers or journals, from miners and trappers, like you said."
I want to backtrack. Hear the rest of his story. Gain insight into a part of his life he slaps as firmly shut as that book.
Tell me about your sketches.
Tell me about your mother.
Tell me anything.
I get as far as "Do you ever--" and he cuts me off with "I don't know where my parents got the books, but it wasn't from Rockton." He checks his watch. "We're losing daylight fast. I've got a few things to do. I'll meet you in a half hour, and we'll get Storm for a walk."
*
Dalton and I are walking the puppy. It's twilight, and we're in the forest, taking her farther than she's gone before. I have something on my mind. He knows, and that's why we're here.
He doesn't ask me what's wrong. The guy who usually demands hard answers to uncomfortable questions now walks quietly at my side, murmuring to Storm when she wanders, voice low so he doesn't interrupt my thoughts. The guy who drags people through town by the scruff of their neck now has his glove off, my hand wrapped in his, thumb rubbing every so often, a small gesture of comfort. The guy who doesn't have time for your shit--and no problem telling you so, loudly and profanely--now crouches patiently by the side of the path, holding back undergrowth so Storm can sniff a fox hole. I watch him hunkered there, pointing at spots for the puppy to sample, and I suspect I'll never figure him out entirely, and I don't care. Dalton is like Rockton itself, so many aspects, not all of them easy or comfortable, but the sum total adding up to something unique and remarkable and unforgettable.
When he rises, I tell him Nicole's story. All of it.
"It bothers me," I say when I'm done. "I don't know why. It's not like I have any sense that she's lying..."
"That's not it."
Dalton stops, his hand tightening on mine. He scans the twilit forest before glancing at Storm. She's picked up his unease, and she's sampling the wind but seems to smell nothing out of the ordinary.
When we resume walking, he says, "It's her situation. She murdered a guy who did something to her, something that deserved punishment, but not that severe a punishment. And she got away with it."
We walk a few more steps, before I say, "She didn't actually kill--"
"Splitting hairs. Yours was bad judgment. Taking a gun to a confrontation? Never a good idea. Nicole made her choice deliberately."
"But she warned her brother. She didn't plan for him to die."
"You confronted Blaine with a gun to spook him, prove you were serious. A threat that went as bad as it can go. In your case and Nicole's. That's what makes you uncomfortable. You hear her story, and you think it's forgivable. Yet if her situation parallels your own, what does that mean for you?"
"I need to separate the cases."
"Or you could--crazy idea--confront and reconcile the problem? Admit that on a culpability scale for murder, killing Blaine only rates about five."
"I need to separate the cases."
He sighs. "Fine, so moving on to the other part that's bothering you..."
He's gone still again. He doesn't stop moving, but he's scanning the darkening forest. When I squint into the trees, I sense nothing. Neither does Storm, who's trotting along ahead of us.
Dalton shakes it off and says, "The problem is the fact that accusing her of voluntarily living in that hole is preposterous. Especially without a motive. So you're wondering why the council gave it to you."
"You don't actually need a detective, do you?"
"Sure, I do, because my answer is 'because they're assholes.' I'm gonna guess you need more."
"I do. It's like they expect we'll be so freaked out by this that we'll jump on any other explanation, however flimsy."
"Or they're jumping on it."
"Why? Is it just because terrible crimes are terribly inconvenient? Like trying to cover up a murder in a fancy hotel?"
"Maybe."
"It bugs me."
"I know."
I'm about to say more when he tenses again, his eyes narrowing. This time, I ask, "What do you see?"
He takes another slow look around. Then he makes a face. "Nothing. Just jumpy."
"Are you sure?"
Another scan. "Mostly."
I take out my gun. "If you think there's someone out there, we should investigate."
He looks from me to Storm and then back at the forest.
"We're not going to tromp in there with a gun and a puppy when it's just me being rattled," he says. "We should head back. It's almost dark, and we didn't bring a flashlight."
He looks at my gun as I put it away. "Good to see you're okay with pulling that. Proves you're capable of progress. Just very slowly."
I flip him the finger. He tugs the glove from my pocket and holds it out. "Wouldn't want that to get frostbite."
I shake my head and put on one glove, my other hand going into his. As we leave, I cast one last glance around the forest as he's tugging Storm onto the path.
I don't see anyone. Don't hear anyone. Don't even sense anyone. But if Dalton did? Someone's there, watching us. I know it.
TWENTY-ONE
I want to talk to Val. I'm on my way there, alone, Dalton having taken Storm to the station. People are heading home after work, which makes it Rockton's rush hour. I avoid the main street. I'm halfway to my goal when I catch a glimpse of motion between two buildings, and I spin.
It's a woman. Middle-aged. Brown hair. Blue eyes. Unremarkable in every way. The sort of person who fades into a crowd. And, in this case, one person I wish would fade into it.
"Don't shoot!" Jen says, hands going up. "Little quick on the trigger, aren't you, Detective?"
My hand hasn't even dipped towa
rd my gun. "Do you want something, Jen?"
"Just to tell you you're a bitch."
I sigh and resume walking. "Second verse, same as the first. Any particular reason today? Or are you just reminding me that I haven't changed your opinion?"
"You don't give a shit about changing my opinion." She stops in front of me. "You pretend that you're on our side--the women of this town. But you're no different than all the big-shot bitches down south, ready to stomp us first chance you get. Do you actually honestly think Nicki put herself in that hole?"
I go still. "Who told you--"
"I was taking her a care package and spotted your rottweiler boyfriend on the front porch. So I went around back and stepped inside."
"How much did you overhear?"
"Enough."
"You're right--questioning her story is a shitty thing to do, which means I had cause. So, tell me, why did I do it?"
"How the hell should I know?"
"Then maybe you should ask, instead of leaping to the conclusion that I'm evil. You really are a broken record, Jen. You need to find new tracks to play."
"She doesn't know any," says a voice behind us.
I don't need to turn to say, "Hello, Mathias."
He joins us, meeting Jen's scowl with a mocking bow. "Jennifer, it is always a pleasure. May I say you look radiant this evening."
"Fuck off, old man."
He turns to me. "You wonder why Jennifer cannot find new tracks to play? She knows none. Learned behavior. A lifetime of being bullied has turned her into one. It happens, sadly."
"What?" she squawks. "You crazy old man."
"You were significantly larger when you arrived, Jennifer, and you carry yourself in a way that suggested you have always been a big girl. Your hair looked like you cut it yourself. And your clothing? You did not shop in thrift stores because it was trendy, did you, Jennifer?"
"You--"
"Crazy old man? Casey is right. You really must find new tracks. I could teach you fresh insults. I know many. I might also suggest therapy, but the only person here who could help with that is Isabel, and you burned that bridge spectacularly. You could not even whore properly."
I bristle, but he cuts me off with, "Yes, yes, that was uncalled for. Run along, Jennifer. You have taken up enough of Casey's time. She is very important, you know. Even I like talking to her. She is a special young woman."
Jen scowls at me and stomps off.
"That was a little heavy-handed, don't you think?" I say, switching to French.
"Jennifer is always heavy-handed."
"I mean your parting shot."
He smiles. "Oh, I couldn't resist. Did you ever see The Brady Bunch?"
"Before my time."
"Naturally. Well, there were three girls, and the middle one thought her older sister got everything--all the attention, all the praise, all the advantages. Marcia, Marcia, Marcia. That's Jennifer. Casey, Casey, Casey. The cry of the chronically dissatisfied. Our Jen has always been an equal-opportunity misanthrope, but in you, she's found something special. You must remind her of someone she hated as a child."
"Great."
"Or it's a secret crush."
"Let's stick with memories of hatred past."
I glance toward the road, and he waves for me to continue and falls in at my side, saying, "So you suspect Our Lady of Captivity may have put herself in that hole? Colluded with someone, that is. To actually place herself in a hole without food and water for a year is impossible." He takes a few more steps. "Unless ... did you say there was a rope?"
"At the top, yes."
"Which she could have thrown up there when she heard you coming."
"Uh, no. Impossible and stupid."
"I accept impossible. There is no such thing as too stupid. Still, to go to such physical lengths to fake an abduction would require remarkable willpower and a truly perverse psychological profile. Dare I ask what her motivation might be?"
When I don't answer, he notices the direction I'm heading and says, "You're going to ask Isabel? No, my dear, that won't help. Isabel counseled those who had temporarily lost their way. I studied those who'd voluntarily left the path and saw no reason to return."
I don't correct his presumption on where I'm going and why. Instead, I say, "You know, I would totally ask for your help ... if you weren't so out of practice. And if you hadn't promised to assess her and then ducked out of actually doing so."
"I have ducked nothing. I am circling the situation. Assessing from afar and gaining all the facts before I proceed. It is how I have always worked."
"Maybe, but I also wanted your medical opinion, and I still haven't gotten it."
"I will see her tomorrow morning."
"Good. Get Isabel to take you. Eric and I need to check out the crime scene and look for Shawn Sutherland."
"That is a waste of time. On both counts. Her captor will have cleared the scene by now, and Mr. Sutherland is long gone, likely in the euphemistic sense, given the weather conditions."
"Even if we're only looking for a body, that will provide closure."
Mathias gives me a look. "The only 'closure' anyone ever truly wants is a miracle, the missing person found alive. Calling it 'closure' is a defense mechanism for grieving loved ones, who fear they will look foolish admitting they still hope for that miracle."
"Sure, that's what families hope for, but at least a body gives them a chance--"
"To grieve? They've been doing that since the victim disappeared."
"I was going to say a chance for justice. To see the killer caught and punished."
"Good. If you had told me that the point of catching the killer was rehabilitation, I'd have been terribly disappointed in you."
I shake my head. "As for Sutherland, waste of time or not, we're going out tomorrow."
"To find his body and punish his killer? I don't believe you can incarcerate Mother Nature. Or does this mean you have reason to believe you will find Mr. Sutherland dead, and not from exposure to the elements?"
"Please assess Nicole tomorrow morning, Mathias. I'll get your report when I return."
*
I knock on Val's door. After a moment, the blackout blinds ripple. Then I hear footsteps, and the door opens.
"I just wanted to let you know I read the council's report," I say. "And I confronted Nicole. It's all true."
She nods, obviously relieved. "All right, then. So she orchestrated her own capture, and we don't have some madman--"
"No," I say. "I mean what they claimed she did down south is true. She fully admits it. But staging her own kidnapping a second time? To what purpose? And for a full year? How much sense does that make to you?"
In anything else, I would expect Val to leap to the council's defense. But I remember how she gave me those notes, her expression, her shaking hands. That's why I'm here. To get her reaction.
She says nothing. Not a single word.
Which tells me everything.
"It doesn't make sense, and we both know it," I say. "You asked whether I believe Nicole's story? I do. Completely."
I turn and walk away.
I've planted the seed. Time to see what sprouts from it.
TWENTY-TWO
Our evening is spent in a staff meeting. Which means the three of us--Anders, Dalton, and me--at Anders's place, talking. We've brought Storm, and Anders is getting her to chase a shoelace he's pulled from his boot. I'm telling them that Mathias will consult on Nicole tomorrow, and Anders says, "Does anyone think it's weird that the crazy Frenchman doesn't want to actually interview Nicki?"
"Suspicious, you mean," I say. "Because you like him for the crime."
"I like him for every crime." When I give him a look, he says, "Okay, I'm kidding. Mostly. Now, if Nicki had been brainwashed into self-imposed captivity, I'd say he's our man. But keeping a woman in a cave hole lacks finesse."
"It's also inconvenient," I say. "That cave is terribly far away. But yes, I'm considering him a suspect, lik
e every guy who's been here since Nicole disappeared."
"Uh-uh. Not everyone." Anders taps his arm. "For once, racial profiling means I am not a suspect." He looks at Dalton. "Which is more than you can say."
Dalton shakes his head. "Nicole says her captor last visited the day before you found her. I was in Dawson City."
"Yeah, I'm not even sure this Dawson City place exists. I've heard your stories of it."
"So," I say, "back to the subject. Yes, Mathias is a suspect. No, I don't think his refusal to interview her is suspect. He's just being Mathias. He did agree to conduct a brief medical examination, which means he's not going to be hiding behind a curtain. But, yes, given his role in the case, I'd love to know more about him, to be completely sure Nicole is safe with him."
Both Anders and I look at Dalton.
"What?" Dalton says.
Anders sighs and heaves to his feet. "Come on, pup. Time to go piss in the forest with Uncle Will. The adults have something to discuss. Don't give me that look, Eric. Casey's asking about Mathias's entrance story, and I know you won't tell her in front of me. That info's on a need-to-know basis. I don't need to know."
"With Mathias, it's public record, so you might as well hear it," Dalton says. "He's here because one of his subjects didn't much like being under his magnifying glass. Guy was a serial killer in New York. That's where Mathias did most of his research--he lived in Quebec but commuted to the States for cases. This guy targeted teenage girls. Raped and tortured them. Claimed he was at the mercy of twisted urges. Mathias studied him. Two years into the sentence, the guy emasculated himself."
"What?" Anders says. "No. Did I say I don't want to hear this story?"
Dalton waits, giving Anders a chance to leave. The deputy squirms, but says, "Fine. Go on. Just no details, okay?"
"I don't know them. What I do know is that this piece of shit blamed Mathias. Said the doctor brainwashed him or hypnotized him and made him do that to himself."
"Seriously?" Anders says. "I was kidding about the brainwashing."
"Well, that's what this guy claimed. As soon as he recovered, he escaped, leaving a trail of bodies. He wrote threats on the wall in blood, swearing to do to Mathias what he claims the doc did to him. When the cops couldn't find the guy, Mathias decided he wasn't spending the rest of his life cupping his balls. He'd heard about Rockton through the grapevine, so he applied for entry while he waited for the guy to be caught."