Maybe it's just a question of balance and juxtaposition. Compared with that merry-go-round hell, being curled up on the sofa in my own house, in front of a roaring fire, with a hot coffee in hand and a warm blanket pulled over me, I almost want to cry from relief. The world has stopped spinning, if only for a few moments.
Dalton is still here. I can't see him--I'm staring at the fire and he's in the chair to my left, out of sight. But I can hear his measured breathing, and it only adds to the calm, like a steady heartbeat. Maybe that helps, too, that I'm not alone. That someone is here who expects, at least for the moment, nothing from me. Not even conversation.
After a while, Dalton shifts, his jeans scratching against the fabric of the chair. We've hit the limit of silence, and something must be said before it turns awkward.
I look over at him first, and he's gazing into the fire, not noticing that I've turned, so I watch him, the light flickering over his face. So deep in thought that I resist speaking until he stretches his legs, shifting again, the silence chafing.
"Can I ask you something about the case?" I say. "Or are you off duty?"
"I'm never off duty. Not a whole lot else to talk about. Weather maybe? It's getting cold. It'll keep getting colder. Then it'll snow."
"Good to know," I say with a smile.
"I could ask what you think of the Jays' chances at the Super Bowl."
I laugh softly. "The Jays play baseball. The Super Bowl is football--and it's American."
"Huh. There goes that idea. Better stick to work. Go ahead."
"If I asked you for your background notes on Irene Prosser--why she was here--can I get them?"
"No notes." He taps his head. "It's all up here. The council tells me people's stories as part of the vetting process. That's a bylaw. Doesn't mean I'm allowed to write them down. That would be a breach of confidentiality. Also, they presume I'm not bright enough to actually remember. Irene was here for the same reason Diana and almost half the women are."
"Fleeing an abusive situation."
"The women are mostly running from bad choices in men. The men are mostly running from bad choices in life."
He tells me Irene's story. Like Diana, she was escaping an abusive ex whose stalking turned to violence and death threats. From I love you and can't live without you to If I can't have you, no one will. Chilling in its predictability.
"Do you have any idea the sort of injuries she suffered?" I ask.
"She had what your friend didn't--a long medical record of obvious abuse, complete with X-rays of broken bones."
"Not every kind of abuse results in broken bones, sheriff, and I don't appreciate the insinuation."
"I'm not saying your friend wasn't abused by her ex. Nor am I saying you padded her application. I'm just..." He trails off and then straightens. "Back to Irene."
"Thank you."
"There were broken bones. Maybe a half-dozen hospital reports. I can't recall details, but it was a clearly documented case of physical abuse."
There are a few moments of silence after that, and it is awkward now. Finally, he rises and takes his empty mug into the kitchen. I follow a moment later to see him, not preparing to leave, but pouring another half cup. He takes it to the window and looks out.
I've had enough coffee, but I join him in gazing into the night, and the silence softens until he says, "You've got a fox."
I look toward the carving Brent gave me, where it sits on my table.
"No," he says. "A real one."
He motions me to the window and reaches back to extinguish the lantern. Moonlight streams in. He points, and it takes me a minute, but slowly I make out the shape of a canine the size of a spaniel, half emerged from a fallen log. Then it steps out.
"That'd be the den," he says. "It's a red fox."
I squint against the glass. "Doesn't look very red to me."
"It's a cross fox. Which is a variant of a red. The colouring is dark red and you'll still see the white-tipped tail, but it has a black line down its back and one over its shoulders."
"Hence the name."
He nods. "They're rarer than the traditional colouring, but not as rare as the silver variant. We've got one of those in the area."
"If you spot it on a ride, can you point it out?"
"Course."
"Thanks. I'd like to see that. Or any wildlife, really. Are there books? When I popped in the library, it seemed mostly fiction."
"I have books."
"Any chance of borrowing one?"
He nods. It's a laconic nod, but the glitter in his eyes says he's pleased.
"Do I need to worry about the fox being there?" I ask, mostly to keep the conversation going.
"Nah. Only a rabid one is a threat. I'll tell you how to spot rabid animals, but they're extremely rare, and we have the antidote. As for the fox, just keep your garbage covered. That's a general rule, though. Raccoons and bears are the real troublemakers there. Occasionally, foxes will be bolder than other animals. It might let you get closer than you expect. Or it might sit and watch you, but that's only a problem if it approaches you or tries to attack."
"Because that suggests rabies."
"Yep. And don't feed it. It's a wild animal. Let it stay wild. You'll only do more harm than good otherwise, as much as you might think you're helping."
He's staring into the forest again, his expression tight. After a moment, he shakes it off and clears his throat. "Anyway, the fox shouldn't be a problem, so you can leave it be. The only thing I'll warn you about is that if it's a vixen--a female--and you're here in mating season, her call will probably scare the crap out of you. Every year I get some panicked new resident pounding on my door in the middle of the night, shouting about the woman being murdered in the forest."
"I'll consider myself warned."
He steps back from the window. Then he stops and peers up.
"Are those your blankets on the balcony?" he says. "Don't tell me you're still sleeping outside."
"Okay, I won't tell you."
He gives me a look.
I shrug. "It's a little weird, I know. Maybe it's the fresh air or the quiet, but I slept so well that first night that I kept doing it."
"Just don't ask me to drag your bed out there."
"It's too big. I tried taking out the mattress, but that won't fit through the door, either."
He looks to see if I'm kidding, realizes I'm not, and shakes his head.
"It's safe, though, right?" I say. "We ruled out flying monkeys?"
"Yes, but we have another primate who can climb out there."
"Oh." I step from the window. "Maybe it's not such a good idea, then."
"Nah, it's safe. The hostiles don't come this close, and even if they did, no one can see you up there. Just ... I know you don't like sleeping with your gun, but I'm going to ask you to have it there. Put it out of reach nearby."
"I will."
He sets his empty mug in the sink and heads for the door. I follow to lock it behind him. In the front hall, he stops and says, "What we talked about. With Irene and ... well, pretty much everything related to this case. That's between us."
"I know."
"I mean it. I'm not saying I trust you more than other people. I don't." He looks over at me. "I'm sure it's rude to say that outright, but you know it's the truth. Trust takes a helluva long time to build out here, and ours is situational."
"Because I'm the detective on the case and you're not going to solve it by withholding information I need. I understand that."
"Good. And of the people I do trust in this town, Beth's near the top of the list. But we share case details with her on a need-to-know basis. For her own good and her own safety. That goes for Will, too."
"Will?"
"Yeah. He's the best damn deputy this town has ever had, and on that short list of people I trust, he's at the top. But Will likes to talk, as you may have noticed. He goes out and has a few drinks and sometimes it's one too many, and then he does shit he reg
rets in the morning."
"I got that impression."
"With Diana? Yeah. Will likes to cut loose. Dealing with baggage and all that. He can be a little careless, and that's why I don't tell him anything that would get him in trouble. Or jeopardize an investigation."
"One of the things they warn you about at the academy is that you can't talk about cases to a friend, a lover, a spouse, anyone. For me, that comes naturally."
"Good. Keep it that way."
The evening ends so well. I'm relaxed and centred and settled. Then I remember what Diana did, and I'm in bed, half asleep, but all I can think about is her. In a surreal way, it's as if I'm back downstairs with Dalton, and I'm talking it through and I'm seeing his reaction and ...
And I realize I'm angry. I'm so damned angry. I don't want to cut Diana any slack. I don't want to say she was drunk and didn't mean what she said. Of course she meant it. Alcohol doesn't transform us into a different person--it just lowers inhibitions. In vino veritas. Pour enough alcohol down someone's throat and they'll start sharing opinions and beliefs they never would otherwise.
Diana's tirade was nasty and downright cruel. She may have aimed some of that invective at Anders and Dalton, but that was collateral damage. The venom was for me. Insulting them was just a fast route to humiliating me.
I think of all the other times she's lashed out. When she ran off to join the cool girls in high school, I tried to warn her, and she accused me of being jealous, made it very clear she'd only befriended me because I was the one who stepped up. Afterward, she begged and cried and swore she hadn't meant any of it, and I'd let her back because I felt bad for her. Then, when I warned her about Graham, she said I was a jealous, selfish bitch who--post-attack--had lost most of my friends so I clung to her. When she ran back to me again, I let her, because I owed her for keeping the secret about Blaine. And from there? From there it became like a long-running marriage. We'd fight. She'd needle and insult me, but by that point I just didn't give a shit. Like my ex said, there was nothing anyone could say about me that was worse than what I said about myself.
And now this. I came here for her, and she was acting like I was a puppy who'd followed her home. No, worse--like I was her nemesis, spoiling her fun and stealing her lovers.
Well, fuck that. Really. Fuck that.
I wasn't ready to cut her loose. I didn't have the headspace for that--I had murders to solve. But those murders would keep me properly busy, and so I would step back. Skip the ugly confrontation and hope that this was what Diana needed--what we both needed. A truly fresh start for both of us.
THIRTY-ONE
I start my day with more interviews. Dalton joins me again. He's calm today, his edges muffled until an interviewee gives me grief, and then all he needs to do is rock forward, his jaw setting, and she falls in line so fast it's like having a Rottweiler at my side, dozing until he smells a threat and then rising with a growl and a lip curl that douses that threat in a heartbeat. Very handy.
My first interview is with the last person to see Powys alive. It's a woman, perhaps not surprisingly, given that he disappeared in the middle of the night. From her bed, apparently. She's convinced he was kidnapped on his way to the bathroom. According to Dalton, there was absolutely no evidence of a break-in, but she's not going to admit Powys screwed her and then snuck off in the night. Which means pretty much everything about her story is suspect. Including the part, I'm guessing, where they had sex four times that evening. Which was, as Dalton snorted, "irrelevant," though the fact she kept repeating it suggested this was highly relevant to her.
The second interview is Irene's co-worker, who'd been the last to see her alive. Irene had worked in the greenhouses, having a background in horticulture. Her co-worker is also a gardener, and I remember her from Dalton's little brown book. She is in Rockton hiding from charges of poisoning her abusive husband and burying him in the garden. In researching her online, Dalton had uncovered a story about a very wealthy woman whose abusive husband had been found fertilizing her prize roses. She'd disappeared while out on bail. The article included her photo, which apparently matched the sixty-year-old woman now telling me what a sweet girl Irene had been. As for why she'd needed to buy her way into Rockton, that had less to do with her killing an abusive husband and more to do with the body found beside his--that of their twenty-three-year-old maid, pregnant with his child.
All that means I have a second witness I can't trust. Which I'm beginning to suspect is par for the course in Rockton. Even many who haven't bought their way in have something to hide, like me. A town full of liars. Cases here will depend more on evidence than interviews.
Speaking of evidence, I want to talk to Beth, but she has clinic hours until noon. Dalton says we'll go by after lunch.
He walks me to my last interview of the morning and then leaves. He has rounds to make, which is mostly about just being seen, reminding people he's there, to make them feel safer or to warn them ... or a little of both.
This particular interview is all mine because he trusts the interviewee to co-operate, given that he's a former cop. I meet Mick in the Roc. It's closed for another hour, but he's there, cleaning up and waiting for me. There's no sign of Isabel, which is a relief.
When I walk in, Mick's polishing the bar, and that stops me in my tracks, my mind slipping back to another time, another bartender. I indulge the stab of grief and regret for two seconds before walking over and taking a seat at the bar.
Mick sets the rag aside and puts a steaming mug of coffee beside me, along with sugar and goat's milk from under the counter. He doesn't say a word, as if this is no grand gesture but just common hospitality.
I pour in the milk.
"So," he says. "Abbygail."
"I hear you two were involved."
He nods and begins folding the rag, meticulously.
"I'd ask if you want a lawyer present," I say. "I know cops realize that's wise for any interview. But I'm not sure where we'd find one."
He gives a short laugh at that. "Oh, there are plenty here. I think it's the most common former occupation." His lips quirk. "Surprisingly."
"Or not."
A shared smile, and he nods, his gaze slightly downcast. Not submissive, just quiet and contained, neither overly friendly nor unfriendly.
He sets the rag aside again. "I'm not blocking. Just working up to it. I'll tell you everything. It just ... isn't easy." He takes a moment, then a deep breath, and says, "So ... Abbygail. I would say what a good kid she was. Tough, strong, sweet, generous, all that. But everyone's going to tell you that. So I'll just say they're right."
"Good kid..." I say.
"Yeah." He rubs his mouth. "That's not a slip of the tongue. When she arrived, she was nineteen. We started seeing each other a year later. I was twenty-five, and the youngest guy here. Which is why people thought we should give it a shot. Beth and a few others."
"Eric?"
A sharp laugh. "Uh, no. Definitely not Eric. He knew Abby wasn't ready. He didn't try to stop us, though, because she wanted to, and I..." He rocks back on his heels. "This is going to sound shitty, but I gave it a try because she wanted to, so I thought I should. We were friends, and I wanted her to be happy."
Which doesn't sound shitty at all. It sounds sweet. But I understand what he means, that he feels bad about dating someone he wasn't romantically interested in.
He continues. "We went out for a couple of months. I can give you dates if that helps. It just ... it didn't go anywhere."
"So you were lovers for two months."
"Uh, no. When I say it didn't go anywhere, that includes sex. With her background, I just couldn't ... It felt wrong. Like I was taking advantage. It was dating. High school stuff, because that's what she was, detective. Inside. I don't mean she wasn't smart or mature, just that she never had the chance to grow up in a real way. It was like she skipped her teen years, and in Rockton she got them back. Which is one reason it didn't work. There might have only been a five-
year age difference, but I felt like a creepy old man."
"And the breakup?"
"Mutual."
"I hear you got together with Isabel about a month later."
"Yep."
"Was there any tension there? With Isabel and Abbygail?"
He gives me a real laugh for that. "Not at all. Abby knew I was checking out Isabel even before she and I got together. She'd tease me about it. When Abby and I broke up, she's the one who told me to go for it with Iz. She liked her. They liked each other. Iz..." He rubs his mouth again. "Isabel doesn't exactly wear her heart on her sleeve, but Abby's disappearance hurt her as much as anyone."
My nod must not look entirely convincing, because he says, "You're wondering how they could get along, right? The bordello madam and the former teen prostitute? I know what you think of Isabel, but she really believes she's doing the best thing for the women here. No, not believes. Hopes. She wants to do the right thing by the women here and..." He studies my look. "And you really don't want to hear that. Anyway, Iz used to talk to Abby about her experiences, advice on how Isabel could run a safe establishment. But those talks...? You know what Iz did before she came here, right?"
I shake my head.
"She was a psychologist. She counselled Abby. Not officially. It was just talking. But it wasn't just talking, if you know what I mean. Iz wanted to help, and Abby needed help, so they talked, a lot." He picks up the rag and begins folding it again. "Which is the long-winded way of saying there wasn't tension between them."
"Was there tension with anyone? For Abbygail?"
"A few of the guys. I can give you a list. But it's a short one."
"The sheriff says she didn't get bothered that way."
"Guys were mostly respectful. But a few came on to her. She'd never tell Eric, or he'd go after them and then she'd feel like she'd tattled and overreacted. You know."
I do know. It's exactly how I feel about telling Dalton who offered me credits for sex.
"She wanted Eric to think everything was fine," he says. "With Eric..." He clears his throat. "I don't like talking about her personal stuff..."
"She had a crush on him."
He exhales. "Yeah. I'd tease her about that; she'd tease me about Isabel. I think, when she encouraged me to give it a shot with Iz, she was hoping I'd say the same for her and Eric. I didn't. Wouldn't. She'd have gotten hurt, and I never wanted to see her hurt." He crumples the rag and puts it aside.
City of the Lost Page 17
