“Yeah,” Dalton says. “It’s fully stocked, and it’s secure. It’s not exactly warm when the fire goes out, but it isn’t freezing either. The temperature in a cave—”
“—is consistent year-round,” she says, her voice scratchy, unaccustomed to more than a word or two at a time. “It’s approximately the same as the average temperature in the region.”
Dalton allows himself a smile. “You remember. Good girl.”
He gets a look for that, definitely the Maryanne she used to be.
“I would like that, Eric.” She speaks in that same rusty voice, faltering and hesitant.
“All right then. Let me give you directions—”
I lay my hand on his arm. “I’d like to take her to Rockton to see whether she can identify…”
“Shit. Yeah. Okay.” We exchange a look that says, Yes, I really do want to see if she can ID our victim, but I also want April to take a look at her, and this is a good way to go about it. A solid reason for Maryanne to come to Rockton.
I turn to Maryanne. “We found a dead woman with a baby.”
She inhales sharply. “A dead baby.”
“No, the baby’s fine. But the woman shows signs of having once been … what you were.”
“A hostile. You can say the word, Casey. I knew it, and it is not wrong. That’s what we—I…” She swallows. “It’s accurate, and yes, I will look at this woman, though I’m not sure I’d be able to identify her.”
“Whatever you can give will help. Will you come? Please?”
Maryanne nods.
Dalton reaches to take the dog from me. “You two go back to town. Storm and I can talk to Ty.”
When I hesitate, he says, “I have Storm and two guns. I’ll be fine.”
“Maybe we can walk partway with—”
“We’d be heading off the path soon. I’d rather you went back while we’re still on it.”
He’s right—that’s safer, with a straightaway to Rockton. He gives me a one-armed hug and leans over as close as our snowshoes will allow. His lips press against my forehead, and he murmurs, “I’ll be fine.”
He will be. Before I came, he spent most of his alone time in the forest. I nod, and he gives me another quick hug and then heads off.
“You’re lucky,” Maryanne murmurs as he leaves.
“Yep, I am,” Dalton calls back, not turning.
I smile. Then I dig in my backpack for the extra mittens and an extra scarf, and hand them to her, and we head out.
FIFTEEN
I’m not much for initiating conversation. I’m fine with joining it or even sustaining it, but put me in a group and I keep quiet until I have something to say. One on one, I’ll talk, but even then, I prefer an easy rhythm, with room for comfortable pauses, like I get with Dalton or Petra. I’m also fine with someone who picks up the slack and keeps me entertained, like Anders or Diana.
People have called me reserved, even standoffish. They chalk it up to my Asian ancestry—clearly, I’m playing to type. That’s bullshit. My mother had no problem talking. It was my Scottish dad who’d been content to listen and let her fill the silence. I don’t tell people that. If they want to cast me into an “inscrutable Asian” stereotype, then it keeps me from having to speak to them.
It isn’t long into the walk with Maryanne before I’m really wishing I’d let Dalton walk back with her. He knows Maryanne. All I can think of are the questions I want to ask, and as a scientist, she’ll be the first to realize I’m treating her as a subject rather than a person.
So I offer her things, like an overexuberant puppy dropping gifts at a stranger’s feet. Would you like to wear the snowshoes? No? Are you warm enough? I’ve got a hood, so I don’t really need my hat. I’m wearing an extra sweater—would that help? Oh, I should have offered food and water. I have both. Okay, well, just let me know if you get hungry or thirsty or you need to stop for a rest …
It’s a wonder I don’t drive her off, screaming into the forest.
I do mention that I’d like our doctor to take a look at Maryanne. She tenses, and I can tell she’d like to flee, but she’s a smart woman and she knows a checkup is in her best interests. When she agrees, I seize on a topic of conversation and tell her all about my sister—her name, her specialty—and that gets her interest, as a fellow scientist, but it’s still awkward, as if we’re both fumbling for common ground.
“Had you ever been up here before Rockton?” she asks finally. “To the Yukon, I mean?”
I shake my head, and I’m about to expand on that, but she takes over, this clearly being more than an idle question.
“I did,” she says. “My parents were late-era hippies. I grew up on a tiny island in British Columbia where they taught at the one-room schoolhouse. We raised goats for milk, chickens for eggs. We grew all our own vegetables. Vacations for us meant camping someplace even more remote than our island.”
Her speech isn’t fluid. It stops and starts, and she struggles for words, and sometimes, her voice cracks from disuse.
“Like the Yukon,” I prompt.
She nods. “We came up here a few times. For people who worshiped Mother Nature, this was our mecca. There were jamborees in the seventies, and we piled into VW vans and drove. I remember this one event where they’d hired Native Canadian locals. They showed us how to track animals, how to start fires with flints, led us through rituals that I’m sure were completely fake.”
She pauses for breath, and I let the silence go on, not wanting to rush her.
After a moment, she continues, “One day, I overheard two of them. Some people at the jamboree had been talking about going into the bush permanently. Just drive north until their car ran out of gas, walk into the forest and live off the land. These locals laughed about that. Said they wouldn’t survive a week. I was about eight at the time, and I told my mother, and she said the idea of running off into the forest was romantic escapism. Those campers wouldn’t survive without access to modern amenities, not when the biggest complaint at the jamboree was how far people had to walk to the showers.”
The path branches, and I wave her down the left side. After a few more steps, she resumes her story. “People in Rockton are like some of the ones at those jamborees. They’re aghast at the portable toilets and lousy showers, but compared to backcountry camping, Rockton is a four-star wilderness resort. When I first heard rumors and whispers about Rockton, I thought it couldn’t possibly be real. The chance that I could escape my situation by going to a place where I’d gladly pay to vacation? I also needed that escape. My husband…” She shakes her head. “It’s an old story. I won’t bore you with it.”
“I wouldn’t be bored.”
A smile my way. “Another time. This is…” A deep breath. “I know you want to know what happened to me, and that’s where I’m heading.” Another smile. “Eventually. My point was that those Native guides said the jamboree people wouldn’t survive a week in the woods, and my mother thought they meant because of the lack of amenities. What they really meant was basic survival. The four of us who left Rockton didn’t wander into the forest with pie-eyed visions of Mother Nature providing what we needed. I was a biologist with backwoods experience. One of the men was an engineer turned eco-house builder, specializing in northern living. Another was a doctor who’d hiked the entire Appalachian Trail alone. The woman was a third-generation wilderness guide. We had the skills. We knew where to camp. How to camp. How to secure our food supply. But we had no idea…”
She takes a deep breath. “The hostiles came in the night. We didn’t stand a chance. We’d heard the rumors, of course, of wild people in the forest. The others scoffed. Personally, I was fascinated by the tales—modern folklore in action, the creation of a monster to shape behavior. Fairy tales to keep us out of the forest. In not believing, we weren’t prepared.
“It happened so fast. I know that’s what people always say, but you don’t really understand the phrase until something like that. One minute, you’re sleep
ing, and the next … chaos. Shouting. Screaming. Shadows against the night. That’s all they were. Shadows. They put out our fire before they attacked. I woke to Dan—the doctor—screaming like I’d never heard a person scream. They’d sliced open his stomach and…”
Her breathing picks up. She scoops snow with a shaking hand. Two mouthfuls. Then, in a calm monotone: “They killed the men. Then they trussed up the other woman—Lora—and me and dragged us off. After that? It’s a blur. Mostly.”
She starts to shiver, and I take off my jacket, though I know it isn’t cold making her shake. I still put my parka around her, and she takes it, gripping it close.
“That’s all I can manage for now,” she whispers.
“It’s enough,” I say. “Thank you.”
She nods.
“Would you like a story about Rockton?” I say. “I may have a few.”
She manages a smile. “I’ll take as many as you’ve got.”
SIXTEEN
We’re close to Rockton. I’m listening for signs of activity outside the town.
“We’ll loop around—” I begin, and the bushes explode, a gray canine leaping through.
It looks like a wolf, and my hand drops to my gun. Then Raoul jumps on me with a gleeful yelp … and Maryanne attacks. It happens in a blink. I’m relaxing, recognizing our freckle-faced wolf-dog as he plants his forepaws on my stomach, but Maryanne sees only a wolf leaping onto me. In a blink, she has her knife out and she’s attacking with an inhuman howl.
I grab Raoul and roll, shielding him. The knife slashes through my doubled-up sweaters and slices my arm. I let out a hiss of pain as Raoul whimpers under me.
“He’s ours,” I say quickly. “He’s okay.”
Silence. Gripping Raoul by the collar, I turn over to see Maryanne staring at my arm. Blood drips into the snow. She looks down at the bloody knife in her hand. Then she wheels, and I know she’s going to bolt. I let go of Raoul and grab her by the pant leg. The seam rips as she lunges, but I hold tight.
“Please,” I say. “I’m all right. It was a mistake. I’m—”
Bushes crash. Raoul ducks and sidles up against me, still lying in the snow. He whines as Jen bursts through.
“You damned mutt,” she snarls. “What the hell—”
She sees Maryanne, who is poised there, mouth open.
Jen blinks. “Fuck.”
Maryanne’s eyes go wide, realizing what she must look like. She lunges away again, and I’m dragged a few feet before I manage to stop, still holding her tight.
“Jen, go,” I say. “Please. Maryanne, I’m sorry. It’s okay. Everything’s okay.”
She’s pulling, and I have her pant leg in both hands now, pain ripping down my injured arm. Jen’s saying something, but I can’t make it out. Raoul thinks it’s a game and growls, dancing around us. Maryanne gives one big heave, and I’m certain that’s it. She’s gone, and goddamn it, why the hell is Raoul—
Maryanne stops. “Eric?” she whispers.
I follow her gaze to see a figure loping toward us. It’s not Dalton, though. It’s Sebastian. He skids to a stop, seeing us.
“Shit, I’m sorry. I was walking him off leash and…” He sees Maryanne—gets a good look at her. There’s exactly two seconds of silence, and I swear I see his brain whir, lightning fast. Then he smiles and extends a hand. “Sebastian.”
She blinks, and when she speaks, it’s a near mumble as she tries to keep her teeth covered. “You looked a little like Eric, as a boy.”
Sebastian’s smile grows. “You knew Sheriff Dalton when he was younger? Cool.” His voice is calm, completely unperturbed by this wild-haired woman clad in makeshift clothing.
“I’m sorry,” Jen says. “Didn’t mean to startle you. This damned mutt and this damned kid…” She glowers at Sebastian.
“Thanks for helping me get him,” Sebastian says.
Jen rewards his politeness with a raised middle finger. He ignores it and takes Raoul by the collar, scolding him in French.
Sebastian looks at Maryanne. “He’s mostly wolf, but he’s tame. He’s pretty well trained until he wants to run, and then he somehow forgets his own name.”
She smiles at that, forgetting her teeth until her hand flies up to cover them, but Sebastian pretends not to notice. He has a way with people. Of course, that has something to do with being a sociopath. He’s not the stereotypically suave charmer that Hollywood loves, but there’s a disarming charisma to him that’s hard to ignore when he switches it on.
“Sebastian?” I say. “On your way through town, could you please find my sister and ask her to meet me at my old house? Tell her to bring a first-aid kit.”
“What do you need me to do?” Jen asks.
I hesitate. I want to tell her to just back off and stay out of our way after nearly sending Maryanne fleeing into the forest. But she’s been quiet since then and looks almost abashed.
“Bring food and drink and clothing,” I say. “Whatever you spend, we’ll reimburse. Just do it as discreetly as possible.” I pause, realizing who I’m speaking to. Shit. “This is very important. Don’t tell anyone—”
I stop suddenly. “Wait. If you’re here, where’s the baby?”
“In a snowbank over there. Don’t worry, she’s got plenty to eat. I tied some bacon around her neck. That’s okay, right?”
“Jen? Where’s—”
“With Will at the station. We were out for a stroll when this kid lost his wolf puppy. I gave the baby to Will and came to help round up the damned mutt.”
“Which was very kind of her,” Sebastian says. “And has nothing to do with the fact that the reason Raoul took off is because she yelled at him for running to see the baby.”
“Fuck you, brat. Keep your damn wolf on a leash or the next time I see it…” She catches my eye and grumbles, “Keep him on a leash.”
Jen stalks off.
“She’s really very nice when you get to know her,” Sebastian says, and then shakes his head and mouths to Maryanne, No, she’s not.
“I heard that!” Jen calls back.
“I didn’t say a word.”
“Believe me, I still heard it.”
Sebastian gives Raoul a pat and says goodbye to Maryanne and they take off, zooming past Jen on their way.
“He seems like a sweet boy,” Maryanne says.
I make a noncommittal noise and lead her toward town.
* * *
As eager as I am to get Maryanne to the clinic to attempt identification of the dead woman, I know I need to take this slower. Let April examine her first at my house. I want her checked out and I want the rest of her story—whatever can help me understand hostiles, for this case and beyond. Once Maryanne sees the dead woman, though, her obligation is fulfilled and she can flee into the forest. So that will need to wait until post-examination. It’s not as if I can leave town chasing new clues anyway, not while Dalton is gone.
The back door to my old house is locked. Increased tensions with both the hostiles and settlers have made it seem unwise to leave buildings with open access to the woods. For my old place, though, there’s a key under the back deck, since it is technically still my lodgings, and sometimes, if work’s slow, Dalton and I have been known to go on patrol and sneak in the back for an “afternoon nap.”
Maryanne has said nothing since Jen and Sebastian left, and I’ve spent the walk stifling the urge to hold her arm to make sure she doesn’t bolt. My own arm is fine. The blade sliced the skin, nothing more. A bandage will fix it up.
I open my door and usher Maryanne through. She steps in and stops. I’m behind her, and she’s blocking the entrance, but I pause, waiting. When she doesn’t move, I slide past her, and I realize she’s crying. She’s standing just inside the door, silent tears rolling down her face.
I take off her parka. She doesn’t even seem to notice. I bend and unfasten her boots, which really are little more than hides roped around her ankles. I untie the bindings and then head into the living room,
saying, “I’ll start the fire.”
I keep an ear on the kitchen. If the door squeaks, I’ll be there in a flash. Instead, tentative footsteps slide across the kitchen. I hurry to get the fire going. It’s laid, needing only a match to light—at this time of year, an “afternoon nap” is a whole lot less enticing if it means setting a fire first.
I get it started in seconds; then I feed in more kindling and put the kettle on. When I turn, Maryanne stands in the middle of the room. She looks at the roaring fire, the kettle, the sofa piled with pillows, the bearskin rug, inviting in a way only a fireplace-rug-in-winter truly can be. She stares. Blinks. Then her knees give way. I lunge, but I’m too slow, and she falls onto the rug. Tears stream down her face, silent at first, and then ripping out in racking sobs as she crumples, arms wrapped around her chest.
I should go to her. Hug her. Comfort her. Instead, I manage a few back pats and “It’s okay” and “You’re safe now,” which are as awkward for her as they are for me. So I leave her to cry, and I dart around, getting things to make her comfortable. Put pillows on the floor. Grab more from behind the sofa and blankets from under it—in a place this small, you use every cranny for storage. I build a nest around her, as if she’s a toddler who might fall.
Then I go into the kitchen. There’s not much there. Instant coffee and tea in the cupboard. Powdered creamer and sugar. A bottle of tequila hidden under the cupboard. I bring it all. Then I check the kettle. It’s barely simmering.
I don’t ask Maryanne whether she wants tea, coffee, or tequila. She’s crying softer now, collapsed on the rug, hugging a pillow. I drape a blanket over her. Then I pour tequila into one mug, put a tea bag in another and coffee in the third. The kettle gives one chirp, and I have it off the hanger. I fill the two mugs. Then I set them on a tray in front of her.
“Food’s coming,” I say. “But I have tea, coffee, and tequila.”
“Tequila?”
She lifts her face from the rug. I hold the mug out.
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