"Which hasn't happened," I say.
"Nope. I think Mathias is fine with the excuse, though. From what you said about extending his stay, he's in no rush to cut his Yukon early retirement short."
"You said the story is public record?"
"A long paper trail of proof. It hit the news--the guy's crimes, conviction, self-mutilation, escape, vows to kill the shrink he blamed for making him--"
"We get the picture," Anders says. "Well, Casey does. I'm trying very hard not to. What you're saying is that you've looked it up and confirmed Mathias has a valid and proven reason for being here, one that says he's on the run from a serial killer, not one that suggests he could be a psycho himself."
"Yep."
"Damn," Anders says. "Well, there goes my career as a detective."
Another hour passes in conversation. I'm lying on the rug, and Dalton has moved down to the floor, his back against the sofa, with my head on his lap. Storm's stretched out in the narrow space between my head and his stomach, squeezing in so she can be with both of us, and I'm thinking of that Newfoundland from so long ago. What was her name? Right. Nana, after the most famous instance of the breed, the beloved "nanny" in Peter Pan. I remember how Nana would shift against me as I read, as if making sure I was comfortable and ...
I wake to a cold nose finding the spot where my shirt rides up from my jeans. It's Storm nudging and whining. I'm on the floor, Dalton lying behind me, his arms around me, the rise and fall of his chest telling me he's sound asleep. Another nudge. Another whine. Then a smell. The distinct odor of puppy piddle.
I rise quickly, my gaze flying to the rug beneath us. Thankfully, that's not where she went. There's a small puddle on the hardwood. A remarkably small puddle, as if she'd peed just as much as necessary before trying again to wake me. We don't have papers set out for her. The breeder had begun housebreaking from near birth and advised us to continue that.
I grab a rag from Anders's kitchen to throw on the piddle. Then I pull on my boots and jacket, and Storm is at the front door, going nuts with the joy of her success. I look out the front window. It's dark, not surprisingly. Silent, too. Moonlight glistens off the snow.
I check my watch. It's barely midnight, but the street is empty, no sound of voices; people aren't in the mood to wander and socialize, which tells me just how anxious they're feeling since we brought Nicole back.
That worry pulls me into the house and over to the guys. Anders is still mostly upright, his head back on the chair, slouched as if he'd closed his eyes for a second and crashed. He's zonked, no hope of easily rousing him.
I walk to Dalton. Storm erupts in a frenzy of anxiety, thinking I haven't understood her current requirements. I bend and lay a hand on Dalton's shoulder, and Storm helps, her black tongue rasping over his bearded cheek. He doesn't stir.
"Come on then, girl," I say, more in hopes of waking him than communicating with her. Still no movement from either guy.
I take Storm to the back door instead, which makes her even happier. The forest is there. The glorious forest. I snap on her lead while she wriggles. The door opens, and she's out like a shot, leaving me stumbling after her.
"We're going exactly this far," I say as soon as I'm off the back deck, shuffling through the calf-deep snow.
Storm disagrees. Vehemently. Voices her disagreement in howls that, while adorable, will not be appreciated by Anders's neighbors.
When I sigh, she senses victory and begins yanking on the lead, straining toward the forest's edge.
"Ten steps." Then I count them, as if she's a child. When I reach ten, the long lead takes her just into the forest. She piddles. Then she does more than piddle, which makes me glad I brought her out.
Once she finishes that particular bit of business, she decides it's time for a walk and begins straining again. I'm reminded of what Dalton said, that Newfoundlands are members of the mastiff family, and I feel it in that pull, the warning that she's going to need to be very well trained, because when she's full grown, I'll lose the war if she decides she wants to go somewhere I don't.
For now, I yank back with a firm no.
We battle it out for a minute before she stops. Just stops, and I feel a momentary thrill of victory. Then I see her, body completely still, nose twitching, eyes wide.
She whimpers. It's tentative, uncertain, and I jog over, reeling in her lead. I enter the forest. I don't think about that. I hear her crying, and I run to her, and she plasters herself to my legs. She's shaking, and I know it's not the cold. I bend to pick her up. As I rise, movement flashes to my left. I spin and see nothing.
It's dark. Truly dark. We can't have outdoor lights. To use indoor ones after dusk, you must pull your blackout blinds to avoid the glow that signals a settlement.
When I'd been standing on the forest edge, the moon had lit the strip of yard to twilight. Now, inside the woods, trees block all but a glimmer of moonlight, and I am suddenly aware of how dark it is. How quiet. And that I left my gun inside.
I'm straining to listen, but Storm is whining and burrowing into my arms, an armful of anxiety and fur and claws as she scrabbles to get closer.
"Shh, shh, shh," I whisper.
What did you hear? What do you smell?
If it was a person, you'd be bounding over for hugs and pats because that is your life experience with humans--love and attention.
And yet ...
I stand there, in the dark and the silence, and I remember Nana, when my father came across that yard to get me. She'd growled, and that had startled me, and I'd looked up to see him, and there was no outward reason for her growl. He wasn't bearing down on me. Wasn't snarling my name. Wasn't even scowling. My parents weren't like that. Sometimes I wished they had been. Sometimes I even wished they'd just haul off and smack me, because it would have been emotion, and I'd been so starved for any sign that they cared. I'd tell myself they must or they wouldn't try to keep me safe, but their kind of care always felt like putting the car in the garage or jewels in a safe. Protecting an investment.
My father had walked calmly into the yard that day. When he'd asked me to come with him, his voice was equally calm. He didn't lay a hand on me, but Nana had leapt up snarling, which of course, seemed only to prove his point that dogs were dangerous. The truth was that Nana recognized some sign that my father posed a threat, the same way a guy can offer to buy me a drink, as nice and respectful as possible, yet some sixth sense in my gut says to refuse.
Now Storm is desperately trying to hide in my arms from some unseen danger, and I can tell myself it's not human, but I know it is.
I just know.
My back is to the house. I take a step in that direction. Then another. I'm ready to wheel and run, but that means putting my back to him. I imagine the man in the snowmobile suit and that bar raised to hit me, and I know it might not be the same person, but this isn't a criminal investigation, where I need to consider all possibilities. I must seize the worst-case scenario and act as if it's the only one.
I'll be safe in a moment. Only a few steps to get out of the forest and another couple of dozen to the deck, and even if I don't make it that far, I'll be close enough to shout, close enough for Dalton or Anders to hear me.
Another step.
The squeak of snow underfoot. Not a crunch. Just a squeak. It's enough. I'm about to wheel and run, and Dalton's name is on my lips, but the moment that squeak comes, Storm flies from my arms, her back legs pushing to launch herself. She leaps in front of me, growling. I grab for her, but a shape moves in the forest, and she lunges, and I'm not gripping the leash. I don't even realize that until she's running and the lead snaps against my hands as it reels out.
I dive on it. Again, I don't think. I see that leash against the snow, and I dive, and I catch it. Something flashes, winking in the moonlight, like a steel bar flying from the darkness. It's swinging down at my dog, and I yank that leash so hard Storm yelps and flies backward, and I fly too with the momentum. I hear a shout of "Casey
!" and footsteps running, and I yell, "Here!" but Dalton's already racing through the yard. No coat. No boots either.
He barrels over as I rise, leash in hand. He stops and exhales, as if realizing I just stepped out for the dog, but then I say, "Someone's out here."
I'm clutching the shaking puppy, and Dalton has his gun out, moving in front of me, squinting into the darkness. I start to step back, and he's so close we're touching, and when I move, he reaches as if to grab me.
"I'm retreating," I whisper. "I'm not armed, and--"
He nods before I can finish, and I turn, walking as he does the same in reverse, keeping our backs together, both of us scanning the darkness. When we reach the yard, he says, "Go!" and I race to the back door. I pull it open and glance over my shoulder, but he's right there. He covers me until we're inside and then I'm hugging Storm, consoling her as he shouts, "Will!" striding toward the living room.
I put Storm down and hurry to get my gun.
"Will!" Dalton says again, but Anders isn't even twitching, and Dalton walks over and says, "Calvin!"
Anders scrambles up, with "Wha--what?"
Calvin is Anders's real name. Calvin James. We don't ever use it, even in private, and it's not just for fear of slipping in public. Here, he wants to be Will Anders. Here, he is Will Anders.
He's up now, and Dalton is telling him to get his gun and his boots, someone's in the forest. Storm whimpers and presses against my legs.
"I'm sorry," I whisper. I lift her, run upstairs, and shut her in Anders's bedroom. She starts to yowl. I race back down. Anders is already out the door. Dalton pauses. He pauses and looks back at me, and I know what's going through his mind, the impulse to say, "Stay with the puppy." It's only a moment, though, and then he's nodding and holding the door open for me to go out.
TWENTY-THREE
We don't find anyone. There are boot prints, though, ones that match the prints from the storm, from the man in the snowmobile suit. You'd think, with snow on the ground, we'd be able to track him. We think we should be able to track him, and when we can't, the frustration keeps us out there long past the point where we've lost the trail--when he joined up with sled tracks from an afternoon patrol. We follow those tracks, flashlights shining on either side, looking for an exit point, until Anders finally says, "Guys...," and as frustrated as we are, we know he has a point. We've gone too far from town. We've lost our chance.
On the way back, Dalton says to Anders, "About earlier. What I called you. I shouldn't have done that."
"It's cool."
"No. It's not."
"Yeah, it is. If you need me to wake up, that'll do it. Apparently, my subconscious mind still hasn't made the transition." When Dalton doesn't answer, Anders moves into the lead, slapping his back on the way and saying, "It's cool."
Dalton glances at me, and I move up beside him and take his hand. It still bothers him. He's off-kilter with this case. We all are. And it's just beginning.
*
Whatever Anders may have said to make Dalton feel better, being called by his real name nudges something deeper. We're sleeping in his living room again, after bringing Storm down and reassuring her, and I wake to a kick in my thigh. Anders is back in the same position as earlier--apparently, sleeping semi-upright is way more comfortable than one would imagine. The kick is from him, twitching in his sleep, and when I wake, he's mumbling under his breath, trapped in a nightmare. I catch a few words, enough to know he's remembering the war. He's telling someone to stay put, don't go out, damn it, don't go out until it's clear.
I lay my hand on his ankle, and he's shaking as hard as Storm was earlier. Sweat gleams on his face, catching moonlight edging through the blinds. When I squeeze his ankle, his eyes pop open and he gasps, as if coming up for air. He sees me and nods, and then he sits there, eyes half shut.
Anders catches his breath. Then he catches my eye, too, not a word exchanged, just a look, a shared understanding that, sometimes, when night comes, we can't be Will Anders and Casey Butler, that those other selves surge and remind us of pasts that won't ever go away. That shouldn't ever go away. Mistakes made. Terrible, life-altering mistakes. And that's who we are, at least when the lights go out, and the world goes quiet, and we can't pretend we've left those old incarnations far behind.
*
We're on the trail by daybreak. I'm still unsettled from last night, so as we ride, I indulge in self-therapy, mentally counting off things I've already done today that have made me happy. Waking to puppy kisses. Watching Dalton play in the snow with Storm. The gorgeous scenery as we ride, snow lacing the evergreens, steamy heat rising from the horses. My mare, Cricket, interpreting my subtle moves and responding in a way that feels like telepathy. Dalton, ahead of me, scanning the forest, both watchful and at peace, completely in his element. Anders, behind me, telling a story about a caribou encounter. And the reminder that we're going--not to see that terrible hole again, but to solve a crime, find a monster, and stop him. All that makes me happy, even the last, which is to me as soul-satisfying as gamboling with a puppy.
We take the horses all the way to the foothills. There we wait for Kenny, who is following on the snowmobile with Paul, another of the militia guys. They'll stay with the horses while they fill Anders's empty sled and tow Dalton's stuck one.
We climb to the cave. I don't hesitate for a second, beating Dalton up the hill and inside. He isn't fooled--he knows I'm going overboard to say, See, I'm fine with this. He also knows better than to question. This is my job. Let me do it.
Anders stands watch at the mouth of the cave. I lead Dalton to the hole. And there's nothing to find. Mathias is right--Nicole's captor has cleared the scene.
We aren't hunting a stupid man. He knew we'd taken Nicole. He's removed the boxes and candles and the skins. I curse myself for not taking a better look at the time, but the only thing on my mind had been the fact we'd just pulled a starving woman from a hole.
I still examine the scene. I check for anything left up top. Then I climb down into the hole. Dalton follows me.
There's blood on the walls. Long-dried blood, and I picture Nicole clawing the rock, trying to get a grip, her fingers raw and bloodied. Dalton's crouched on the floor, rubbing a large dark spot and then lifting his finger. It's red. I bend beside him, and he's looking at that spot, and I can see him mentally measuring the stain, and wondering what could leave that much blood and not kill her.
"She was pregnant," I say. "He ended it."
Dalton jerks back so suddenly he has to brace against the wall for support. He gives me a sidelong look, as if he isn't quite sure how to take this, how to comprehend it.
"It might not have been that," I say, but I look at that patch of blood, and I know I'm not wrong.
I stand. "I'm not getting clues here. Let's head back to Will."
TWENTY-FOUR
With Anders, we're crawling through the cave system. I don't know what I'm hoping to find, but I failed to secure and assess the scene the first time. I must be absolutely sure I've missed nothing now, or I'll wake in the middle of the night certain I overlooked some vital clue.
We're heading down a tunnel, checking every side crevice, none big enough to crawl through. Then, as my head-beam lamp passes through one, it reflects off something white. I pull back and try to get a better look, but the crevice opens into a drop, and what I see down it is a patch of white.
I check the crevice. It's narrow, but I could squeeze through.
Anders is in front of me. He's stopped, watching and waiting. Same as Dalton behind. When I say, "I see something in there," Dalton creeps forward, looks and says, "Got anything to fish it out with?"
"I can go in."
"Nope."
"I can. I'll fit--"
"Can and not. Buddy system. Will and I won't fit. So you aren't going in."
"It's right there. I just need to crawl four feet and then down two or three more. Hell, I can stretch out in there and reach."
"Nope."
/> "Boss?" Anders says, and when I glance over, he's giving Dalton a look, communicating a message that Dalton very clearly does not want as he pulls back and says, "Nope."
I glare at him. Then I tug off my backpack, making myself smaller, and start into the crevice. His hand lands on my ankle, gripping tight.
"Did I say no? Or are you forgetting who's in charge here."
"Oh, I didn't forget. But I don't think I'm talking to my boss right now."
He returns my glare, his jaw setting.
"Am I?" I say. "If Will could fit in there, would you tell him no?"
"This guy we're hunting? He's not going for Will."
"Tell that to Shawn Sutherland. And that"--I point at the patch of white--"is not our guy lying in wait."
"You sure?"
I look to Anders, who says, "Eric...," in that voice that tells Dalton he's being unreasonable. Most times, Anders follows Dalton's lead, the amiable older brother, willing to recognize that the younger guy is in charge. Which means that when he uses the voice, it counts, and hearing it, Dalton rolls his shoulders, glowers at both of us, and says, "Go in and reach down, but stay where I can pull you back."
That's not as easy as it sounds. This isn't a tunnel--it's a crevice, which means I squeeze through. When I try pulling my legs in after me, Dalton gives a warning growl that means I'm teetering on the edge of crossing him. But he is being unreasonable. I don't know if it's vestigial panic from me getting lost in the storm, but it's making me testy. I have a job to do, and here he is my boss, not my lover.
So I squeeze through, one leg out where he can reach it. His fingers rest lightly on my ankle, confident that I'm obeying his commands. Once I'm in, I pull my legs in after me, too fast for him to grab, and he lets out a "Butler!"
"I need both my feet. You can still see me."
He starts to say something, but at the rumble of Anders's voice, any demands drop into unintelligible grumbles.
Now comes the tricky part--reaching down into the drop from a crouched position. I do some crazy rearranging, bracing myself between the rock walls until I'm in a weird semisuspended, half-upside-down position. Then I shine my headlamp down on that white patch.
"It looks like fabric. A shirt, maybe."
A Darkness Absolute Page 11
