"No," she says. "I just figured it out, and when you didn't come to me, I came to you."
"Okay...."
"Shawn Sutherland."
"What about him?"
She stares at me and then shakes her head. "You really are thick. He's your killer. Shawn Sutherland."
"You're serious?"
Her jaw sets, telling me she is.
"You've been here almost three years," I say. "That means you got here before Victoria disappeared. But Shawn arrived after. Long after."
"Well, duh, he didn't take them, obviously. That's a whole separate case. He just took Nicki. This is why you are a lousy detective, Butler. You get hung up on a presumption--in this case, the presumption that one guy is responsible for all three women."
"We have proof."
"Then your proof is wrong."
"It isn't. So that's your big revelation? That you think Shawn--the guy who was taken captive--is secretly the killer?"
"He told me he taught school down south. I asked what grade, since that's what I used to do, too, and he blew me off, changed the subject."
"You were a schoolteacher?"
"Are you listening to me, Butler? He wouldn't even tell me what grade he taught, like it was some kind of state secret."
"Because he probably didn't teach. People lie here, Jen. When you said you were a teacher, he realized he wasn't going to get away with his story, so he changed the subject. How exactly that makes him a killer--"
"He attacked that Roger guy to shut him up. Why is that not obvious to anyone but me?"
"Because you weren't there. You don't know what happened, and even without that, the timing doesn't fit."
"No, Detective, you're just too stupid--"
"Ah, Jennifer," a voice says as the door opens and Isabel walks in. "Never graduated from elementary school, did you? Still stuck with those playground insults. I'm sure Casey is terribly hurt when you accuse her of stupidity. What did Beth say your IQ was again, Casey? I can't quite recall, but whatever it was, I think you can spare a few points for poor Jennifer and make all our lives easier."
"Bitch," Jen says and walks out.
Isabel sighs. "Someone really needs to teach her a wider vocabulary of insults."
"Did you know she was a schoolteacher?"
"I try to forget it. I might not have much use for children, but I still shudder to think of their ordeal, learning under that one."
"The first time I met her, that's actually what I thought she looked like."
"Then she started punching you, and you decided you must be wrong? Sadly, no. Now let's forget Jen as quickly as possible and move on to less dismal subjects, like murder. Eric says you wanted to speak to me. I was popping in to tell you to come by the Roc when you have a minute. I'll be working in the back."
*
Have I considered Sutherland as a suspect? Yes. The thought had flitted through my mind, back when I theorized we might be looking at multiple perpetrators. But I'd had far more likely suspects, and then the evidence proved the same man who took Nicole also murdered Robyn and Victoria, which meant it could not have been Sutherland.
Yet I can't seem to dismiss the idea. Maybe it's the lack of other suspects. Maybe it's the fact that my self-confidence isn't quite where I'd like it to be, and someone like Jen can poke holes in it.
I hate admitting that. It's like being hurt by the comments of an online troll. That's what she is--a real-life troll, someone whose only pleasure in life comes from dragging others down. I know that, and therefore, it does not reflect well on me to say that her words have any impact.
I know I'm not stupid. I know I'm not incompetent. I know that Shawn Sutherland cannot have killed two women years before he even arrived in Rockton. It does not make any logical sense.
Yet it bothers me enough that I put aside logic and assess the case otherwise, working through each aspect as if he could be the perpetrator.
I don't finish the exercise. Anders comes in, and I check my watch, see that it's been nearly forty-five minutes since Isabel left. I hurry off to meet her. The wild theories can wait.
FIFTY-NINE
The Roc is locked. I expected that and brought the master key. It's one of the few places in town that's kept well secured. The sheer quantity of booze on hand could make even the most upright citizen consider taking a free tipple if the door was left open.
The Roc used to be open afternoons, but since Isabel's lover--Mick--died opening time was postponed to 5:00 P.M. during the week. She says she needs to train someone to take his place, but she's ignored everyone who asks about the job. She's still grieving, in her way, and that way means she's in no rush to find a new bartender.
While the Roc has a bar, I've never come here to drink. That would be unwise. Guys have no problem coming by for a beer even if they don't wish to partake of the other offerings, but any woman who does the same sets up a dangerous expectation.
Isabel and I argue about this. I call it discrimination, if in a town with only two bars, women can't comfortably frequent one of them. Isabel says I could fix that by frequenting it myself. It's not like anyone's going to think my time is for sale. She might have a point. I'm just not willing to grant it yet.
Inside, the Roc looks like an old-west saloon, and I would like to have a drink here now and then, the atmosphere being more my style than the fussier Red Lion.
I walk behind the bar toward the storage room, presuming that's where I'll find Isabel. The door is locked. My key won't open it, making it perhaps the one place off-limits even to us. The door is thick, as close to a vault as you get in Rockton. When I rap, the wood swallows the sound. I bang my fist against it.
"Hold on!" Isabel's muffled voice calls.
A moment later, the door opens. And "vault" really is the word to describe what I walk into. It's the size of a walk-in closet, thickly lined, each wall covered in shelves. And on those shelves? The true gold of the north. Booze. The curse of the north, too--of living in a place where entertainment options are limited, and this one easier to come by than most. Which is why it's so tightly regulated, and why the council allowed Isabel to build this vault and not supply us with the key. Here is the real source of her wealth and power in Rockton. She controls the booze.
Dalton might gripe about that, but he never offers to take on the task himself. He'll grudgingly admit Isabel does a good job and earns her profit. Alcohol is still a concern in Rockton, but it causes far fewer problems than in many isolated towns.
"Your growing collection of bottles is up there." She points at the small collection of tequila. "Seems every time our sheriff does a supply run, I get another one. That boy is worse than a teenager with his first girlfriend. Except instead of flowers and candies and sappy Hallmarks, he brings you tequila and puppies and chocolate chip cookies."
"I'm not arguing."
She glances over her shoulder. "You would have four months ago. You're making progress."
"Thank you, Dr. Radcliffe, for the free psych eval."
"Oh, it's not free. You can pay your tab at the bar."
She's at another door, one that must lock on exit, because she's using a key. She holds it open to usher me through. I step inside ... and get my first look at the heart of the Roc. Isabel's brewery.
Bottled alcohol is flown in, as evidenced by that stockroom. But booze takes up valuable cargo space on supply runs, space better used for staples. Our beer is locally brewed. By Isabel.
This room is more than twice the size of the one we just left. Vats line the walls, batches in progress. At the end, there's an old hand-operated bottling press. Crates of recycled bottles wait beside it. Like the hard alcohol, beer is only available from the Roc and the Red Lion, sold in single servings. The exception would be the tequila bottle in Dalton's house and the half dozen beers in his icebox. But he is the exception in almost everything here--the guy who is allowed to skirt the rules, partly because he can be trusted to and partly because no one dares refuse him. It's goo
d to be king. Or at least virtual dictator.
"Today, I'm bottling one keg of lager, one of pale ale, and my first-ever batch of stout. You get to sample the stout."
"I'm not really a fan of--"
"Too bad," Isabel says. "Your task then is to tell me whether it tastes even worse than stout you've had before."
"And if it does, you'll dump it?"
"I don't dump anything, sugar. I just sell it at a discount. You're going to test the lager, too. I've made an adjustment to the recipe."
I hop up on a stool at a high table. "Eric won't love that."
"Oh, I made the usual, too, just for him. I know better than to annoy him over the trivial. Save it for the things that count. Like convincing him to bring in a case of champagne for New Year's Eve."
"You're going to treat the town to champagne? That's so sweet."
She doesn't even dignify that with a response.
"If you're asking for my help persuading him--" I begin.
"I know better. I'll handle this."
"If your plan involves telling him I'd love champagne for my first New Year's in Rockton, I don't actually care for it."
She hesitates, a glass in hand.
"And yes," I said, "he knows that. He saw it on the menu last time we were in Dawson City. He offered. I said I'd rather stick to wine. You'll need a plan B. Preferably one that doesn't involve playing on his new-relationship insecurities."
"But his new-relationship insecurities are adorable. And terribly useful."
I give her a look.
"Don't worry. I consider you a friend. Which means I will refrain from exploiting your lover any more than absolutely necessary. Now, let's get to this sampling so I can bottle these kegs. Business has been very fine since the rydex supply dried up."
"You really think it has dried up?"
"No more than you do. Eric is hopeful, but the dear boy has far too little experience of the world. We know better. When our purveyors of fine opiates passed on to the great drug lab in the sky, the supply began to dwindle, until poor Will had to beg the council to double our buprenorphine shipment to deal with withdrawal symptoms. And yet..."
"It's too convenient," I say. "There had to be more people involved. And someone on the council itself had to have gotten the base supplies to Rockton. The rydex has just dried up while they retool the plan."
"And in the meantime?" She lifts a sample glass. "My business is booming." She sets the glass in front of me. "Drink up."
I do and then say, "Tastes like shit. Which means, yes, it tastes like stout."
"Excellent. Take the coffee on your left to clear your palate, and we'll move on."
"I must bear a striking resemblance to a guinea pig. Mathias did this to me just a few days ago, with sausage."
"You know, that's something that never fails to amaze me. The man makes people terribly nervous, and yet everyone eats the sausage without question. Then they wonder what happens to those bodies we supposedly dispose of deep in the forest."
I roll my eyes and sip the lukewarm coffee.
"Oh, come now," she says. "You can see it. Mathias running his own little enterprise on the side. Dear Sheriff Dalton, why don't you let me dispose of those bodies for you? I know just the place for them." She hands me a second glass. "The only reason we don't seriously consider it is that we know Eric wouldn't let anyone dispose of those bodies except him. Otherwise? We'll all admit, Dr. Atelier does have an air of the Demon Barber about him."
I take a swig of the lager.
"Which is what you're here to discuss?" she says.
I look up.
"Not whether Mathias is grinding dead people into sausage. He has become a suspect, and other than Eric, no one has known him as long as I have. Arguably, I know him even better."
"Not as well as he'd like, I suspect."
"Oh, I have not missed the doctor's interest, but I have never reciprocated. That seems unwise."
"Why?"
She smiles. "Ah, so here is how you'll do it. Rather than ask what I think of him in general, you'll ascertain why I've never succumbed to his interest in me. Which may answer your question better than the general response. How's the lager?"
"Well, it's a good thing you made Eric's usual, too."
"What's wrong with it?"
"Not a thing. It just doesn't taste like Eric's, which means he won't want it."
She fills my glass, pours one for herself and pulls up another stool.
"There was a time when Mathias would have fascinated me," she says. "He still does, in his way, but the woman who'd have let herself be seduced by Mathias Atelier was a much younger Isabel, one with a regrettable taste for..."
She considers. Sips her beer. Considers some more. "I could say bad boys, but that's not entirely accurate. These days, when one speaks of bad boys, one means a certain subtype. A young man who rides a motorcycle, knocks heads together on Saturday night, and is as faithful as a tomcat. My interests, as a younger woman, leaned toward men like Mathias, who is none of those things and yet more dangerous in his way than a dozen of those young men. I learned my lesson down south, one that taught me I'm much happier with men like Mick. Good men. Undemanding men. Men who are easy to understand and easy to love and easily return that love. But I suppose you were hoping for a more specific answer."
"Will I get one if I ask?"
She adjusts herself on the stool. "I find you interesting, Casey. That's a safe version of the fascinating men I once fell for. In you, I can have a friend whose company I enjoy, with whom I can engage in a lively debate without potentially sacrificing any of myself, as I do if I indulge in that with a lover."
"I'd argue that you can lose some of yourself in a friendship gone wrong, but I understand the gist of what you're saying."
"You're referring to Diana, of course. Yes, that's true, but in regards to us, if I'm going to share anything more personal with you, I need to know it's safe."
"That I won't tell Eric? That depends. If you confess you've caught Mathias doing or saying something that would prove he's my perpetrator, then I have to tell my boss."
"I'd have told you that already. I may trade in secrets, but I know which ones I shouldn't keep. You ask me why I reject Mathias. What I see in him that makes me wary. I'll give you a story for an answer." She takes a deep gulp of her beer and then makes a face. "Poor excuse for an alcoholic beverage."
"Because it has less than five percent alcohol. Which means it isn't really beer at all."
"Agreed. But that's the responsible thing to do." She drains her glass. "I'll pretend that was enough to loosen my tongue. When I was completing my doctorate, I had an affair with one of my professors. Yes, terribly cliche of me. Worse, he fit the cliche to a tee. Middle-aged and married. Told me his wife didn't understand him. And I never felt a moment's guilt. If she couldn't keep him happy, I was welcome to him." She shakes her head. "Do you ever look back on your younger self and just want to slap her?"
I smile. "Sometimes."
"I cringe even remembering myself back then. I was so smug. It didn't help that he'd pursued me. Not unlike Mathias, he made me feel like I was the perfect woman: bright, confident, attractive, interesting. At that age, I bought it. I fell for him so hard that I even started slowing when I passed wedding shops, torn between What am I thinking? and Oooh, that cream-colored one would look amazing. I never told him any of that, but when he'd hint at divorce, I wouldn't argue. Then he got an opportunity to teach overseas. We talked about me going with him, but in the end, he set me free. That's what he called it. Setting me free. He may have even said something about me spreading my wings." She makes gagging noises, and I laugh.
"I ate it up," she says. "I fell even more in love with this man, who was willing to give me up for my own good, my own growth. He would come to visit, and I remained faithful to him. Three years passed. Then through complete happenstance, I came across his name ... attached to a university in Washington State. He'd been living there for over
a year while letting me continue believing he was thousands of miles away. He was still married and had a new girlfriend, too. I went from being the love of his life to his backup mistress. For years I let him lie and manipulate me into honestly believing that everything he did, he did for my sake, my freedom, my happiness."
"Bastard."
"Total bastard. And do you know what he said when I confronted him? Told me he'd only given me what I wanted, and it was my own fault for letting him. Not one moment's remorse. I'd been a trifling amusement. A conquest. Even after he found a new girlfriend, he kept me around because, as he put it, he felt sorry for me, not having anyone else in my life."
She takes a deep drink of the beer. "And that, Casey, sums up Mathias. To him, we are all trifling amusements. Bit players in his life drama."
She's right, of course. Mathias exists in an alternate reality of his own making, where the rest of us aren't quite human. Does that make him someone who'd kill without remorse? Possibly. Kill like this? That's harder to say.
SIXTY
I'm standing on the edge of the woods with Storm as she paces the confines of her leash. Something scampers through the newly fallen snow, and she bolts, yanking my arm hard enough to remind me it may be time to start training or I'll be taking up leash-sledding as my new sport.
"We have to wait for Eric," I say, which of course she doesn't understand, but I say it anyway, as if offering up my excuse to the universe.
Storm whines and tugs and gives me a reproachful look, and I feel the full weight of that reproach. We shouldn't need to wait for Dalton. It's barely four in the afternoon, and I'm armed.
I'm learning to hate the darkness. By midafternoon, it has stolen my day, forcing me to behave as if it's midnight instead. But with a killer loose, I wouldn't want Dalton wandering the woods alone after dark, so I'm not going to do it myself.
When Storm yanks again, I plunk my ass down in the snow. I'm wearing a snowmobile suit, in preparation for puppy gamboling and, yes, inadvertent leash-sledding. So I get comfortable there, earning me looks from Storm that pass reproachful and slide into full-out glower.
"Wait." That's a word she's going to need to add to her vocabulary so I might as well start now. "Wait."
She resumes wandering. I stare into the forest, letting my mind slide to my day. I'm working through Mathias as a suspect, tallying the plus and minus columns, yet another name, another face, keeps sneaking in.