"Oh, I can get him to ask nicely."
Mathias laughs. "I am sure you can. People keep waiting for Eric to be more pleasant, now that he has a girl. The only difference? He scowls a little less when he throws people in his cell."
I shake my head and push the empty plate aside. "While I appreciate the gesture, I can't take all the bacon. That's not fair."
"Fair is for fools. It is your first pig. It is yours. No argument." He takes the plate. "And it is a bribe, as well. Take the sausage and the bacon, and do not ask me what you came here to ask me."
"Then you need to keep the meat, Mathias. I have to ask."
"No, you do not. I know the question, and I will answer it with a resounding no. Good enough?"
I sigh and lean on the counter. I say nothing. I just wait.
"You are going to tell me that you need me," he says. "You are going to tell me the sad story of this girl I cannot remember."
"Is there any point?"
"No. You are right--her story will not move me, so you will not relate it. Instead, you will remind me of my responsibilities as a member of this community. You will do it subtly. Not like Eric." He switches to English and a dead-on impersonation of Dalton. "You were a fucking shrink, Mathias. That means you have a fucking medical degree and a fucking psychiatry degree, and we need both, so stop whining about how you're out of practice, and get your fucking ass over to that house."
Mathias reaches under the counter and takes out a knife and a sharpening stone. He works on the blade while we talk. He does that a lot. Not surprisingly, it freaks people out. Honestly, though, it's just busywork. Mathias isn't good at doing nothing except talking. And, yes, I suspect his choice of task isn't accidental. It amuses him. With me, though, there's no message, other than the one that says this conversation isn't engaging enough to occupy his entire attention.
"Eric is a good man," he says. "I like him. You may even tell him that. He would not use it against me. He doesn't know how. It is not in his nature. You, though?" He waggles the knife at me. "You are different. You are devious. Cunning."
"Coming from you, I take that as a compliment. I'm asking you for a favor, Mathias. I know you never practiced medicine. I know you haven't practiced psychiatry since you got here. I don't care. I just want you to talk to Nicole. Name your price."
"It's not a favor if there's a price."
"A favor implies a future price. I like mine determined up front."
"Good. Open-ended favors are trouble. People will take advantage of you." He resumes sharpening. "You know I like that you speak French to me. And you are interesting. Here? Interesting is the best thing a person can be. You are also very easy to look at. That never hurts. But do you know what's more dangerous than a pretty girl?"
"A pretty girl with a gun?"
He laughs. "No, a pretty girl who is also clever. She knows exactly what to say to make you pay attention, and you are already paying attention because she is pretty. Very dangerous."
"You're prevaricating. Which means I do have your attention."
"Always." He sets the knife down. "I will not see this Nicole. But I do want something. My five years will be complete this spring. I wish to stay. I believe I have proven my worth. Isabel stays."
"Isabel pays to stay."
"Mmm, I believe Isabel does not need to pay much. Do you know what is even more dangerous than a pretty and clever girl? A pretty and clever woman. Isabel knows the most valuable currency in Rockton is secrets, and she holds more of those than anyone. I have money, yes. Secrets? No. But I want to stay."
"Right, well, considering you just told me you won't talk to Nicole, there's no deal to be made."
The shop door opens. Mathias barks, "Ferme!" and even if the unseen customer doesn't know what the word means, he decides a hasty departure seems wise.
Once the door has shut, Mathias turns to me. "When I was a psychiatrist, I had a specialty: studying psychopaths, sociopaths, and others with antisocial personality disorder. Do you know the difference?"
"Roughly, but you're telling me this because Nicole is none of the above."
"Unless she allowed herself to be kept in a hole for a year. Now, that would be a truly fascinating psychology. I saw something similar once, yet it was not nearly so extreme as this. We will presume, for the sake of argument, that this girl did not give permission. But what you missed in my job description was the keyword, which was overshadowed by the more powerful ones."
I think for a moment. "Study. You said you studied them. Which means you aren't a therapist. But we have Isabel for that. I want an assessment. That's what you did."
"True." He picks up another knife and begins sharpening it. "People take offense when I do this. You do not. Eric does not. Isabel just tells me to put the damned knife away. Do you know why it does not bother you three?"
"Because we don't think you're going to carve us up for tomorrow's tourtiere?"
He chuckles. "Probably not. As I said, I like you. Also? You do not have enough fat. I am certain some do worry when I sharpen my knife, but for most, they simply do not like me seeming distracted. It is a case of--" He waves his hands. "Look at me! I am important! You do not need that. Eric does not need that. Isabel does not need that."
"Okay...."
"I sharpen my blades while I chat, because it is an efficient use of time. Yet I realize how it can be misconstrued. It is the equivalent of checking one's cell phone. It can be read as This conversation bores me. When I studied patients, I had to be very careful not to multitask in their presence. Well, not unless it was useful--take out my phone to check messages while a narcissist is speaking, and he will need to regain my attention, which may mean telling me things he had meant to keep secret."
"Uh-huh. This is leading somewhere, right?"
Another waggle of the knife. "Patience. I enjoy our conversations. Do not rush them. So now, imagine I am speaking to this poor captive girl, and I do this."
"Sharpen knives? Yeah, no. But I think you can give her thirty minutes without getting distracted."
"It is not 'getting distracted.' It is..." He puts the knife down and leans on the counter. "How long was she in that hole?"
"Fifteen months."
"How big was it?"
"About five feet across."
"She was down there fifteen months. In the dark. In the cold. Alone except for when a man came and made her wish she was alone. Or perhaps she was grateful to have contact with another person. How would that make her feel, if she found herself looking forward to those footsteps? You have thought of what that would be like, yes?"
I don't answer.
"You have. I see it in your face. You think of it, and you feel for her. You empathize. You cannot imagine what it would be like, but you still try."
"It isn't empathy if it's about me."
"That is the definition of empathy, Casey. You feel what she must have. And do you know what I would think, sitting there and hearing her story? How fascinating it is. What an incredible case study in human resilience and the psychology of captivity. That is all I would think, and she would see it, and she does not deserve that. Which is as close to empathy as I come--that I recognize my reaction would harm her and I do not wish to do that."
"But--"
"My offer then is to briefly examine her medically and then consult psychologically. For the latter, you will speak to her--you and Isabel. I will give you questions. You will ask them, and you will respond to her answers with all due empathy."
"I'm not sure I--"
"You will. Neither you nor Isabel is the warm, come-cry-on-my-shoulder type. Your empathy is that you are outraged by her situation, and you will do whatever you can to help her. She needs that more. A Valkyrie to avenge her pain, not tissues to soak up her tears. She also does not need a vulture of a scientist preying on her responses because he finds her an intellectual diversion. If you find the man who did this to her? I will speak to him."
SIXTEEN
It's night, well past quitting time. Dalton and I spend dinner and most of the evening hashing through suspects and coming up with a plan of action. Then he's called off to deal with yet another unrelated issue. That's law enforcement here.
I work alone at the station, while Anders is out with the militia. Later I fetch the puppy and stay for tea with Petra.
I don't know Petra's reason for being in Rockton. We are friends. Good ones. Yet I do not ask. I've had enough hints to know there's serious trauma in her past. When she's willing to share, she will. I don't ask Dalton for her story either. If I ever need it for work, I'll ask her first. All relationships are extra complicated in a town like this.
I leave Petra's with the puppy on a leash, which feels silly. She's eight weeks old, barely past infancy. I pick her up, but she whines and wriggles, and it's clear she's happy with tumbling and stumbling if it means new territory to explore.
I still feel bad having her on a lead rather than letting her toddle free. It's not as if I couldn't grab her if she bolted. But when Petra handed me the leash, she said, "Eric insists. I wasn't allowed to even open my door without having her locked in a room, or apparently she'd head for the hills and never be seen again."
Which I understand. If Dalton had his way, we'd all be on leashes. That impulse thwarted, he'll exercise it on the one creature he can reasonably expect to wear one.
Walking the puppy means it takes a good hour to cross the few hundred feet to Dalton's place. That's not just because she wanders. Most people here haven't seen a pet in years, and this isn't just a dog, but a squirming, shaggy black puppy who instantly adores every last person she meets.
By the time we make it to Dalton's place, I can't feel my face anymore, but she's in no rush to go inside, so I wander to the edge of town. I'm standing near the path, rolling snowballs for the puppy to chase, when I hear, "Casey!" and turn to see Dalton running, hatless, toward me, his jacket undone.
"What's wrong?" I scoop up the puppy. "Is it Nicole?"
"No, I..." Deep breath. "I saw you from the station, heading toward the forest with the puppy, and I thought you were taking her in there for a walk."
"After dark? And after what's happened?"
He shoves his hands in his pockets. "Yeah. Sorry. I just..."
"Worried?"
"Yeah."
"Here, have a puppy. It helps."
He takes her, and she snuggles in, going from boundless energy to total exhaustion in two seconds flat.
"I was trying to figure out where to take her," I say. "Are we sleeping at your place or mine?"
"I wanted to talk about that. The dog-rearing books say she'll be more comfortable with a permanent home. Like a den, right?"
"Ah, I hadn't thought of that. So bopping between our houses isn't puppy-friendly. We need to pick a place and stick with it."
"Yeah. Is that a problem?"
"Not at all. Petra said you collected the puppy's things earlier. Are they at my place?"
"Uh, no." He shifts the puppy. "I was walking past mine, so I put them in there. Just for now. Unless you're okay with staying there until she's bigger or ... whatever."
"Sure. Your place is closer to the station, and you're more settled in than I am."
"So that's all right? Moving into my place?"
He's studying my expression carefully, and I'm not sure why, but I smile and say, "Completely all right. Let's go make this puppy a den."
*
An hour later, we're in bed, snuggled up and talking, too tired for anything else and too aware there's a puppy whining on the floor.
"Should I move her bed downstairs?" Dalton asks.
I shake my head. "She misses her mother. She's only been away from her, what, a night or two? You picked her up in Dawson?"
He hesitates. "Yeah, but ... she came from down south."
In other words, he hadn't just happened to learn that someone in Dawson City was breeding Newfoundlands. I ease back onto the pillow and say, "Did you give her a name?"
"Figured that was your job. She came with one, but it doesn't seem like a real dog name. They said it was for registering her."
So she didn't even come from a hobbyist breeding Newfoundlands in her backyard. He bought me a pedigree dog.
"What's the name?" I ask.
"Uh..." He rolls over and reaches for his jeans. It's tucked in his pocket. We don't carry wallets in Rockton, needing neither cash nor ID. Another of those oddities that took a while to get used to.
He unfolds the paper. "Blackmoor Down's Bohemian Rhapsody."
"That's a mouthful," I say.
"Yeah. I tried Rhapsody. She didn't respond to it. So you can call her whatever you want."
I flip to hang over the foot of the bed and ask, "What's your name?"
She bounces up, pawing at the bed. I pet her. "How about Storm?"
"Because she came to you in one?"
"I'll tell everyone that, but actually I'm naming her after my favorite character in X-Men."
"Which is the movie with the wolverine guy."
"Comics first. I'll get you those, so you can catch up. Storm dresses in black and has white hair." I pat the puppy's white ear. "We'll have to teach her to control weather. Which would be even more useful than tracking."
I give Storm one last pat and lie back on the bed, and she erupts in a veritable storm of despondency, crying and yowling as if she's been abandoned in the forest while surrounded by wolves.
"Guess I shouldn't have paid attention to her," I say.
"She wasn't settling anyway."
I reach down again to pet her, and she mood swings into utter joy, complete with slobber.
"I remember this about Newfies," I say, lifting my dripping hand. "Drool and fur. Lots of both." I peer at Storm. "You'll be worth it, right?"
She rolls on the floor, sending both fur and drool flying. I lean farther to rub her belly. Then I back up, and the crisis-crying starts anew. I keep retreating. She begins leaping at the foot of the bed.
"She can't come up," Dalton says.
"I know. Once she's in the habit, we're screwed."
"Especially when we're sharing our bed with a hundred-and-twenty-pound dog."
"Oh, I'd regret it even with a puppy." I reach to pat her again. "You're adorable, baby, but no one interferes with my sex life."
Dalton chuckles. Then he says, "Pick her up."
"We just agreed--"
"Pick her up."
I do, and he rolls out of bed and hoists us both into his arms.
"Impressive," I say. "Now let's see you do it when she's full grown."
He carries us downstairs and lays us on the rug in front of the fire. It's bearskin. No head, though. If Dalton has to shoot a nuisance bear, he'll take the pelt to find some good in a bad situation, but it's utility rather than a trophy.
As he starts the fire, Storm sniffs the rug, gets a noseful of grizzly and starts a little dance--jump off the rug growling, do a puppy spin and then pounce back on, sniff the carpet again, jump off growling ...
I'm laughing, which confuses the poor thing and only makes me laugh more, and Dalton stops what he's doing to watch. Watch me, not the puppy, until I glance over and he busies himself with the fire again.
Once he gets it going, he grabs caribou skin blankets, and by then, Storm has decided I can sufficiently protect her from the terrifying flat predator, and she's snuggled with me, half asleep already. Dalton slides in behind us, and I cuddle up, him on one side, a puppy on the other, and I fall asleep thinking--not of Nicole or the cave--but simply, This is perfect.
SEVENTEEN
Once I'm asleep, though, even a warm puppy and lover can't keep the last two days at bay. I dream of the man in the snowmobile suit, of his pipe hitting my head, of waking in that cave and screaming until my throat is raw. I dream of a shadowy figure hunched at the top, watching me. But it's not him. It's Diana. She watches and then rises and walks away. Next it's Beth, doing the same. Leaving me screaming for them to co
me back, please come back and help me.
Finally I'm alone and huddled on that cold rock floor, not even the comfort of the skins beneath me. I hear a noise at the top. It's Dalton, and I'm sure he will leave too. Of course he will. Nobody stays. Not for me.
Dalton stays.
He crouches on the edge and says something, and I see his lips moving, but I can't make out the words. He drops a rope, but it falls short. I jump, claw at the wall, try to climb, but whenever I get closer, it recedes until it's so far above my head, I can barely see it.
Then Dalton shrugs. Just shrugs, as if to say, What can you do? He drops the rope. It comes curling down the hole, and I'm screaming, screaming, Please, please help, I'll do better next time, just help me.
Then he's gone. Given up on me. I scream and I scream and then I hear a voice at my ear, whispering, "What did you expect?" It's Blaine, blood on his shirt from the bullet I put through his heart. Another noise sounds up top again, and I spin, and I'm hoping it's Dalton. He's just gone to find another way, and then he'll come back.
Instead four figures ring the hole. Four faces peer down. The four I've seen in every nightmare for the last twelve years. The last faces I saw before I fell under the rain of blows that changed my life.
"Looks like you've got company, Casey," Blaine whispers. "Maybe they'll do it right this time."
*
I wake in Dalton's arms. He's holding me, smoothing back my hair and whispering, "Shh, shh, shh." I feel him there, hear him there, and I am both comforted and shamed, as I always am.
I am ashamed that it has been twelve years, and I still have nightmares. That in four months my new lover has already become so accustomed to them that he only has to feel me shaking against him, and he'll wake and hold me and whisper.
I huddle against him and swallow, shivering, and he says, "Talk?" I shake my head and curl up against his chest, and he holds me until I fall back to sleep.
EIGHTEEN
We don't get on the trail at first light. I take Storm out while Dalton makes breakfast, and when I open the door, I'm blown off my feet by a gust of wind. Dalton gets the door shut, and we peer out into the darkness as a storm whips up.
Anders was supposed to join us on our trek, and he valiantly makes it to Dalton's place, but there's no way we're going out. We spend a few hours holed up, working in front of the fire. While the wind dies down by eleven, we've lost too much daylight to hunt for Sutherland.