In the Dark

by White, Loreth Anne

  She gritted her teeth against the bone-chattering cold and damp, the pounding pain in her head, and she realized there was an even deeper need fueling her—a need to simply live. Primal. Base. Programmed into the very cells and fiber of her being. Stella realized suddenly that she was not actually cut out to end her own life.

  Someone would have to do it for her.

  Just not Deborah. Never Deborah. She refused to give Deborah that power.

  She hiked and pushed through alder stalks and berry scrub, and she moved through dense stands of conifers, memories of what happened in the grove stalking her like rabid creatures. Steven’s voice.

  “I killed your son . . . I . . . deserve to . . . die. Please . . . please forgive . . . me.”

  Deborah pulling the trigger. The crack of the rifle. The look in Steven’s eyes. Nathan’s feverish croak.

  “I hate him . . . I hate him and I want him dead.”

  “Hate you, too, Nathan. No . . . balls. No . . . fucking balls.”

  “And look who’s dying now—you’re dying, Steven.”

  She pushed harder, trying to outrun their voices. Her muscles burned. She went even faster. Cold air turned ragged and sharp in her throat. It rasped inside her chest. She began to cry. She broke into a run, branches slapping back into her face.

  The river was suddenly there.

  Stella stopped. Breathing hard, she stared at the water.

  It flowed fast and silent at her feet, as clear as glass over smooth, round rocks. But from her left came a thundering of white water. Hidden somewhere behind the dense fog was falling water.

  Stella hesitated. She looked back. She could go another way.

  But suddenly a noise of breaking branches sounded behind her. She spun around. Out of the mist, like an apparition with a rifle, came Deborah. Running straight for her.

  Stella’s heart leaped into her throat.

  She whirled around and went into the water. The icy coldness stole her breath. She waded in deeper. Water filled her shoes. The current tugged at her legs. The deeper she went, the more forcibly the water pulled. She neared the center of the river. Water came to her thighs. She leaned against the force of the current.

  Hurry. Hurry.

  Behind her she heard a splash. A gurgle of water.

  Stella shot a glance over her shoulder.

  Deborah was coming, wading faster. Holding the gun up high out of the water. Silent.

  And her silence was terrifying. She was an obstinate, mute, incessant Monster.

  Stella pushed herself to wade faster, but the overextension of her leg against the swift current made her stumble. She fell in. The shock of the cold stalled her heart. She flailed and splashed at the water as she was swept down. She hit a rock, grabbed it with numbing hands, held. She caught her breath and managed to stand again.

  She looked up.

  Deborah stood in the middle of the river. She raised the rifle, snugged the stock into her shoulder, put her eye to the sight, curled her finger into the trigger guard. She squeezed.

  Stella felt the hit almost simultaneously with the sound of the rifle crack—as if she’d been slammed in the shoulder by a mallet.

  Shock froze her dead.

  Slowly, time stretching, she turned her head. She looked down at her shoulder. Ripped fabric. Ragged flesh. She put her hand over the wound. Blood welled warm through her icy, pink fingers. She stared at Deborah.

  Deborah stared back, gun in her hand at her side.

  She’s out of bullets. She has no more bullets . . .

  But Stella couldn’t move against the force of the water. She had no strength left. Blood flowed fresh again from her head. She saw Deborah take the camera out of her pocket and bash it repeatedly against a rock. Smash, smash, smash. But she couldn’t hear the sound it made as it hit rock. It was drowned by the roaring of the rapids hidden by the clouds behind her.

  Deborah raised the battered camera up high, waved it at Stella, then threw it into the river.

  Stella tried to push off from the rock she was pinned against. She took a step, tried to wade away. Almost instantly the currents snatched her feet out from under her, and she went down. The water swept and swirled her toward the rumbling rapids. Her head hit a rock, hard. Pain speared through her. She felt consciousness slipping again. And her vision went black as she was carried, facedown, toward the watery thunder.

  NOW

  MASON

  Friday, November 13.

  Mason recoiled at the crack of the rifle as Deborah fired at Steven in the camcorder footage. They saw Steven Bodine fall. Mason’s mouth went dry. He shot a glance at the others.

  Fielding, Jayne, and Hubb sat in tight silence, riveted by the raw, shocking footage, their faces tight, their complexions pale. Save for Hubb, who had two red hot spots riding high on her cheeks.

  Hubb met his gaze. “We got her,” she said, her voice rough, quiet, strange. “We’ve got Deborah. On film. Killing Steven. We’ve got Stella’s confession.”

  He swallowed, gave a small nod, and returned his attention to the screen.

  “Put that camera off,” Deborah yelled. “Now!”

  Stella moved toward the camera. The screen went black.

  Fielding wound the footage back. Suddenly they were seeing inside a room in the lodge. The camera was on a bed—a sheet obscuring most of the view. But they could hear the horror unfolding.

  Transfixed, they listened to Deborah’s voice as she threatened Katie Colbourne with a knife, promising to kill Katie’s daughter if she didn’t cooperate. She made Katie put her neck into a noose, and then they heard the chair being kicked out from under her.

  Mason felt ill as they heard Katie’s gasps and gurgles and kicks as she struggled to live.

  They wound the footage back even farther, and saw the group arriving at the lodge in the pouring rain, Deborah being pulled out of the water and reeds after she’d fallen into the lake. Then, before that, everyone gathering and smiling in front of the yellow floatplane on a bluebird day in the mountains at the Thunderbird resort.

  Fielding leaned forward and stopped the show. He rubbed his face hard.

  “Shit,” whispered Hubb, sitting back. “Stella didn’t kill them. She never even really planned to. Not directly. I wonder if she felt in the end that she got some justice.”

  “What is justice?” said Jayne. “What is retribution? You could argue she got those in the end. She made everyone suffer. And they knew why they were suffering.”

  “Feel like I need a shower,” said Hubb, getting up and stretching.

  Mason came to his feet. “Hubb’s right. We’ve got what we need to put Deborah away for a long, long time. It’s all yours, guys,” he said to Fielding and Jayne. And if he was honest with himself, he was glad it was over. He wasn’t sure who exactly got justice, either.

  “Want to join us for lunch before we fly out?” Jayne asked as she began to gather up her papers and Fielding collected the rest of their equipment.

  Mason checked his watch, shook his head. “I’m good. I have a date. With Hubb and some eight-year-olds.”

  “Crap,” said Hubb. “I almost forgot. Look at the time. Podgorsky should be back with the haul by now.” She hurriedly shook Fielding’s and Jayne’s hands. “A privilege to work with you both, Detectives,” she said.

  “Hope we meet again, Hubble,” said Fielding. “We’ve got some officers transferring next year. We’re going to be looking to boost our investigative team down the line.”

  She flushed and grinned broadly. “Thank you, sir. Yes, sir.” She hurried out the door.

  Jayne held Mason’s gaze for a moment as he shook her hand.

  “You doing okay out here?” she asked. “Settling in all right?”

  He thought of Callie. And of Benny, and the other kids awaiting him. He smiled. And he felt it in his heart. “Better than anywhere else in the world right now.”

  NOW

  CALLIE

  Callie grinned as Benny and his classm
ates raced, laughing, toward the table for their lunch, supplied courtesy of the Kluhane Bay RCMP and being served in one of the station garages. Hubb helped herd the students into a neat line.

  Mason had done good. He’d invited Ben’s class, Grade 2–3—a combined group of only nine students because it was a small school—for a visit to the police station.

  “They look pleased,” Mason said as he helped Callie hand out paper plates to the kids, who in turn piled the plates high with fried chicken, fries, and minimal helpings of coleslaw.

  Callie winced as she watched them dig in. “What is it about vegetables and kids that don’t mix?”

  “Hey, I never liked the green stuff.” Mason paused, which made her glance at him. “Neither did Luke.” He held a plate out to her. “What about you? Fried chicken?”

  She regarded him for a moment, thinking about his loss, and how seeing Ben and the other kids must drive it home. Then she made a face. “You serious? Do you know how many years you can shorten your life expectancy with just one helping of that stuff?”

  “Colonel Sanders lived to ninety.” He smiled. It made a light dance in his eyes.

  Callie stilled, struck by how his smile changed his face, altered his whole persona. She hadn’t actually seen him smile until now. At least not like this. He held her gaze, and a tension crackled softly between them. She took the plate from his hand, looked away, hesitated, then helped herself to a hot piece of fried chicken, just to break the strange feeling that had passed between them.

  She found a seat at one of the picnic tables the cops had brought inside for the occasion. Hubb was sitting with a group of kids where Benny was holding court, and Hubb was laughing at him. It made Callie’s heart sing to see her son like this. Being himself. Being happy. Confident. With his friends.

  Mason seated himself opposite her. He bit into a french fry, and his gaze followed Callie’s to the table of children.

  “How’d you guess the chicken would be such a hit?” Callie asked as she bit into hers.

  “Ben told me.”

  Her gaze snapped back to his. “When did you ask him?” she asked around her mouthful.

  “When I went to the school to invite the kids. He came over to say hi, and we chatted. He told me his favorite food was the fried chicken from the place next door to the hospital.”

  “You went all the way to Silvercreek to get fried chicken?”

  “Nope.” He bit into a piece and chewed. “I sent Podgorsky. Told him to buy something insulated to keep the food warm on the return trip.”

  Silvercreek. Hospital. Peter. Callie’s mind shifted back to the day they’d searched for the floatplane, and how badly Ben had wanted that chicken when they’d gone to visit Peter once they’d located the Beaver and the dead pilot. Her mood changed. She lost her appetite. Missing Peter was rough. And being with Mason wasn’t making things easier, because she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t attracted to him.

  “You okay, Callie?”

  She inhaled deeply. “Yeah, I’m always okay.” She managed a smile. “You know. Life.” She gave a shrug.

  “Peter?”

  She nodded.

  “If you want to talk, I—”

  “I don’t.”

  His hands, holding the chicken, stilled. “Okay,” he said quietly.

  “Mason . . . I love him. I love my husband.” Heat burned into her cheeks as she said it.

  “I know.”

  She cursed softly and set her chicken back onto her plate. “I’m sorry. I . . . I have no idea where that came from. God, I feel like a fool.” She started to get up.

  But he placed his hand over hers. “Callie, stop. I understand.”

  She swallowed, emotion suddenly thick in her throat.

  “I get it, Callie. Just . . . know that I’m here if you ever need someone to talk to. You helped me. Just by listening. You saved my ass in the Taheese Narrows after I fell. You helped me cross that logjam over the gorge.” He wavered. Lowered his voice. “You’ve helped more than you can know. It’s a small town, and it would be good to have some friends here. I’d like to be that—just be your friend. And Ben’s.” He smiled. It was a soft smile. A beautiful smile. It tugged at her insides in ways it really shouldn’t. She fingered her wedding ring as she held his gaze.

  “Besides, we make a good team.”

  “I guess we do.”

  Ben came over, his cheeks pink. “We saw the police guns, Mom!” He glanced at Mason. “No touch, look only.” He grinned. “And the snowmobiles, and the offices, and the jail and shower and survey cameras.”

  “Surveillance cameras,” she corrected.

  Ben nodded. “And a police K9, even. Officer Gregson said he was visiting from headquarters with his dog, Trudy.”

  A friend of Ben’s called for him, and he ran back to the table.

  “Gregson’s still in town?” Callie asked.

  “He had a few days off, decided to hang around.”

  “In Kluhane Bay? At this time of year?”

  Mason’s gaze flickered toward Hubb, who was joking with the kids at the other table. “Guess a local attraction held his interest.”

  “Hubb? You’re kidding.”

  “Appears so.”

  Callie watched Birken Hubble for a moment. It gladdened her heart to think of Hubb dating. Her last boyfriend had dumped her out of the blue, and Hubb had been broken up about it. She’d been leery of guys for a while since. Callie would miss Hubb when she eventually had to transfer, as was routine for RCMP officers.

  “She’s been on cloud nine since she helped arrest Deborah Strong,” Mason said. “She’s a good cop. She’ll go places.”

  Callie hesitated. “Speaking of Deborah, what’ll happen to her now? Will she be charged with the murders?”

  “That’s Crown Counsel and Fielding’s baby now. They’re handling it from Prince George. But yeah, she’ll be charged in some capacity for most of the deaths. We saw her shoot Dr. Steven Bodine on video. We heard her hang Katie Colbourne. She was caught red-handed trying to murder Stella Daguerre in the hospital.”

  “Or finish the job.”

  He nodded. “Likely. And the DNA on the Schrade knife has come back a match to Deborah, a.k.a. Katarina Vasiliev. Plus, partial fingerprints from the meat cleaver are also a match. This links her to both Bart Kundera’s and Jackie Blunt’s deaths. And when they ran her prints after her arrest, it was revealed that Deborah-Katarina had a recently sealed criminal record. She was convicted thirteen years ago for assaulting another street worker in Victoria who tried to muscle in on her turf. She cut the woman with a knife. Pretty badly. Woman almost died. Deborah did nine months in prison for assault, and for drug possession. She’s no stranger to violence.”

  Callie raised her brows. “So she’s an ex-con?”

  He nodded and picked up another french fry. “She got clean in prison, was released, went through a training program, stayed clean, waited the requisite amount of time, then applied to the parole board for a pardon and was granted one. However, these things stay sealed only as long as you’re not charged with another crime.”

  “And she didn’t tell you about her prison sentence when you interviewed her?”

  “She’s a good liar.”

  “What about the other murders—Nathan and Monica McNeill?”

  “Unless Deborah confesses to shooting Nathan and Monica, those could be a challenge to prove in court. At least the way evidence stands right now. But the forensic team is still busy with trace evidence from the grove. And from the lodge. They’re also combing through the camcorder footage. The prosecutors are feeling pretty confident all round. There’s no doubt Deborah Strong is going back to prison. This time, for a very long time.”

  “Why do you think she strapped Jackie Blunt into the pilot’s seat before cutting free the plane?”

  He shook his head. “Perhaps she’ll tell us in the end. The theory is she believed the aircraft would blow down the lake and sink somewhere in that storm eve
ntually, and she wanted Blunt’s body to go with it, rather than have Blunt’s body float up somewhere.”

  “The proverbial cement shoes.”

  He gave a wry smile. “Perhaps she figured the aircraft might never be found. Or if it was discovered decades later, it would look like Blunt was a pilot who went down with her plane.”

  “She’ll have her baby in there—in prison,” Callie said.

  He inhaled, nodded.

  She looked away. “It breaks my heart, really. For the baby. Deborah tried to make good and almost did. She could have had a clean run.”

  “Until her past caught up with her, in the shape of Stella Daguerre.”

  “Sounds like she had a really rough start in life. Seems like once your path intersects with bad people, it’s almost impossible to escape the subsequent tangles. And now there’s a guy out there—an innocent father—whose baby will be born in prison. He’ll be forever tied via his child to Deborah Strong. A criminal. The kid will grow up knowing his, or her, mother is a killer.”

  “Bad stuff happens to good people all the time. Babies are seldom born bad. Kindergartners seldom write criminal or convict on their lists of what they want to be when they grow up.”

  Callie met his eyes. She heard Mason’s words on two levels. He, too, could have killed the young man whose stupidity had forced his wife and son into a cliff face and to their deaths. She had no idea what she herself might be capable of if someone threatened Benny. Or Peter.

  “Sometimes, Callie, the only thing that comes between a good choice and a bad one is a good friend.”

  Like the friends who’d stopped Mason when he went to that young driver’s house with rage boiling in his blood.

  “But then there are friends like Franz Gottman, who ended up pushing Stella Daguerre right over the edge,” Callie countered.

  He snorted softly. “Yeah. Gottman was . . . special.”