A Darkness Absolute

by Kelley Armstrong

  I nod, but it must not be sincere enough, because he says, "It's not a hostile. Can't be. Just ... just leave them alone. If you see one, run. Or shoot. Just shoot."

  THIRTY-TWO

  We're back in Rockton. I've discussed Jacob's list with Dalton, who has added his opinions. First thing tomorrow, we'll go looking for Silas Cox. That's the frustrating thing about the short days--it might only be late afternoon, but it's already dark, no chance of heading out now.

  Dalton takes Storm to Petra's so we can get in a few hours of work. I swing by my place to grab a few things, and I'm upstairs, deciding what to take. Fact is, we don't have a lot of clothing in Rockton, and what is in my closet is what I might pack for an extended vacation. I'm tempted to just toss it all in a bag, but that really says I'm moving in, and I'm not sure that's what Dalton intends.

  I'm putting a sweater into my bag when a floorboard creaks downstairs.

  "Eric?" I call. I'd told him I was coming here, and I'd been relieved when he didn't insist on joining me. I'll accept his concern, but I can't abide hovering. At that creak, annoyance darts through me.

  "Eric?" I call again.

  Silence answers. With anyone else, that silence could mean he'd caught the snap in my voice and decided to slip off. Dalton would call back, Yeah, it's me, and take his lumps if I'm pissy.

  I pull my gun and move toward the steps. "Who's down there?"

  The squeak of a board, someone putting his weight on it as slowly as possible, trying to avoid making noise. I stand at the top of the stairs. A footstep sounds. I glance down the stairs to see a clump of snow at the base and a partial wet print.

  I descend one step. Then two. The riser creaks under my weight, and there's a scuffle below as someone runs for the rear door. I race up the stairs instead. Through my bedroom to the balcony. I throw open the door to see a figure making for the trees.

  I jump over the balcony. I've done it before, mostly just to get Dalton shaking his head and muttering about losing his detective to a broken neck. I vault over too fast this time and the deep snow is the only thing that keeps me from breaking an ankle. It twists and pain jolts through my bad leg, but I'm already on the move, gun still in hand.

  My target hears me coming and looks back. I see his face as best I can in moonlight through heavy tree cover. Dark bushy beard. Dark wild hair. No one from Rockton. A man of the forest. He notices me looking, and his lips part in a curse, and he wheels and runs.

  I have him in my sights. I could shoot. But the memory of Blaine will forever stay my hand if there is any reasonable doubt. I can't say this is the man in the snowsuit. I can't tell if what he's wearing is even a snowsuit. So I cannot shoot.

  I bear down, gritting my teeth against the old injuries screaming that I'm not supposed to do this. I hear the doctor telling me I might never run, might never walk right again, me nodding while my inner voice said, Screw that. But sheer willpower gets you only so far. The man is pulling away and then disappears around a thick patch of trees. When I get there, he's gone, and I stand in the forest, listening to some small creature dash through the snow, and I realize where I am, what I've done.

  I'm in the forest. Alone. Far enough from town that I can't hear the laugh of anyone heading home for the evening, can't see the swing of a lantern in hand.

  He ran, and I didn't stop to wonder why he was running. I presumed he was fleeing. Never considered that he might be luring me into the forest.

  I put my back to a conifer and scan the forest. When something moves to my left, I spin, gun raised. It's the cross fox from my yard, looking up at me, nose twitching as if to say, What are you doing out here? It has a mouse in its jaws, and as the fox watches me, the mouse revives, giving a mad struggle. The fox chomps down, gaze never wavering from mine. Then it takes off, sliding through the trees, heading for home.

  I look around again. The forest remains still. Not silent, though. I catch all the usual noises. Does that mean the man has fled? Or that we've both just gone so silent ourselves that--like the fox--the forest has decided to ignore us?

  I take a step away from the tree. Then another. With each movement, I pause and listen for an echoing sound, the suggestion he's masking his movements with mine. On the fifth step, I catch the barest swish of a boot in snow. I hold myself still as I register the direction. Then I take a step that way. Silence. Step. Silence.

  A crack, barely audible. He's behind a tree, hidden from sight, watching me.

  "I know you're there," I say, my voice echoing. "I have a gun. If you don't want me to use it, step out and identify yourself."

  The slow crunch of snow under a boot. He's retreating, trying to do it silently. When I take another step, he breaks and runs, and I take three running steps before realizing I'm falling farther into his trap.

  I have to pull myself up short and hold there, every muscle clenched to keep from going after him. To follow is madness. To not follow feels like cowardice.

  I grip my gun and hold myself in place, waiting until the crash of undergrowth tells me I've lost my chance. And if that stings, well, then it stings.

  I take my time going back, listening for any sign that my target has looped around to halt my retreat. When I catch a sound deep in the forest, I start walking backward, one foot deliberately down after another, eyes and ears straining for that distant spot--

  A hand closes around my ankle. I spin as it yanks, and I go down on all fours. I kick and flip onto my back, gun flying up, aiming at--

  It's Shawn Sutherland, lying prone in the snow.

  "H-help..." He can barely get that out, lifting his blood-streaked face and blinking at me as if in confusion. His hand still holds my ankle in a viselike grip. When I reach down to peel off his fingers, he lurches forward on his belly, the movement yanking my foot back.

  "Shawn," I say. "It's me. Casey. Detective Butler. From Rockton."

  "H-help me. Please..."

  "I will. You're safe. I'll get you to town. Just let go of--"

  "No!" He convulses, both hands gripping my ankle now. "Don't leave me."

  "I'm not going anywhere. Just--"

  A branch cracks in the forest. My head jerks up. Through the trees, I see the outline of a man. He's holding something in his hand, something long and thin, like a metal rod.

  I scramble to get away from Sutherland, but his fingers dig in, eyes burning with fever as he says, "Don't leave. Don't leave."

  "I'm not--"

  I yank hard, to no avail. The figure approaches. I lift my gun and focus on that. He glances over his shoulder, and I see the beard and know it's the man I chased from my house. He continues toward me, his weapon raised.

  "There is a gun in my hand," I call. "I will not hesitate to use it."

  He stops. Tilts his head. Seems to consider, his gaze going from me to Sutherland.

  "I will shoot you," I say. "Put that down, or I will fire this gun."

  He shifts the weapon from one hand to the other. I take aim.

  "Shoot him," Sutherland croaks.

  I look down to see he's lifted his head, and his gaze is riveted on the man.

  "Shoot him."

  The man dives into the undergrowth. I scramble after him, but Sutherland still has my foot. As I go down again, the figure rises and starts toward me, and as I'm tangled there, my leg twisted. I kick to get free. Sutherland lets out a howl as my foot makes contact. He finally lets go and I'm on my feet, but the figure is gone. I stand there, poised, my gaze traveling over the dark woods.

  "Should have shot him," Sutherland croaks. "Should have shot the bastard."

  He collapses.

  THIRTY-THREE

  I drag Sutherland back to town. When I yell for help, three residents come running. Soon he's at the clinic, Anders attending, me helping, Mathias nowhere to be found, damn him.

  Sutherland is badly dehydrated. We don't find any injuries requiring an emergency airlift, but we are, once again, reminded exactly how vulnerable we are without a doctor.
/>   Anders washes the crusted blood from the back of Sutherland's head and examines the wound that left blood in his toque. It's a serious bash. Other than that, we find rope burns on his wrist and lower legs, splinters in his hands, and mild frostbite. He's feverish, regaining consciousness enough to mumble that he needs to get back to Rockton.

  My best guess, judging by his injuries, is that he escaped his captor, who came after him. As for why that captor had been in my house, I have no idea.

  *

  While we were tending to Sutherland, Dalton examined the footprints behind my place. I take a second look. They're scuffed and indistinct, running prints, impossible to tell if they match the man in the snowmobile suit. There's no way of following them, either. Dalton tried but got about a half kilometer in and lost the trail as it merged with caribou tracks.

  Dalton keeps fussing with the trail, and I head to Mathias's place. He has his own house, despite being a nonessential resident. If asked, he'll say, "But a butcher is very essential. Anyone can bake a loaf of bread. Carving meat is an art form." Which is bullshit. Yes, I'm sure there's skill involved in butchering, but that's not why he has his own house.

  "No one will share a building with him," Dalton had said when I asked. "He scares them off."

  "What does he do?"

  "He exists, apparently."

  After a few early complaints, the council awarded Mathias his own house, over Dalton's complaints that it broke town law. The council just didn't want to deal with the issue.

  When I rap on Mathias's door, he calls, in French, "I'm hiding. Go away."

  I lean against the door. "Hiding works a lot better when you don't answer."

  "I tried that when you sent Kenneth to fetch me. It did not work."

  "Sure it did. It let you duck out of examining Shawn Sutherland."

  "Because he does not require my examination. And he bores me. When he ran, I thought perhaps he was showing an unexpected spark of character. But now he has returned. Boring."

  "He escaped captivity, presumably from the same guy who took Nicole. Doesn't that make him more interesting?"

  "Is his captor still alive?"

  "Unfortunately."

  "Then no, it does not make him any more interesting."

  I sigh. "Well, I didn't come to talk to you about Shawn anyway. I want to discuss the psychology of hostiles."

  Silence.

  "Okay, so that bores you, too. Fine."

  I've stepped off the front porch when the door opens a crack. "Psychology of hostiles?"

  "Never mind, Mathias. I'm not in the mood to wheedle for a few minutes of your precious time. I'll talk to Isabel."

  "Isabel cannot help you with this. It is my area."

  "Which is why I came here. Otherwise I wouldn't bother you."

  He opens the door and leans against the frame. "You are angry with me."

  "No, Mathias," I say as I turn to face him. "I am tired of you. The dead bodies of two women interested you. The live victims? Boring. Just go back inside and wait for me to bring you more bodies. At this rate, I'm sure they'll show up eventually. I just hope they're interesting enough for you."

  "I cannot help you with Shawn Sutherland. He is evidently alive and in good health for his condition, or you would have hunted me down. Any psychological effects are better handled by Isabel. The only abnormal psychology at work is that of the killer. Can Shawn add anything to what Nicole has said?"

  "Not yet. He's still feverish. But you could have shown up for ten minutes, consulted with Will, and helped him feel more confident in his diagnosis."

  He considers and then nods. "You have a point. William is placed in a very uncomfortable position here, which he does not deserve. Note that I say that despite knowing he does not like me very much."

  "No one likes you very much. Which is exactly how you like it."

  "True."

  "And one of the people who does like you is quickly changing her opinion."

  "I know, which is why I opened the door."

  "No, you opened the door because what I said doesn't bore you."

  "I can have more than one motivation. All the best antagonists do." He threw open the door. "Come in, Casey. Let us talk about hostiles."

  *

  "How much do you know about them?" I say as we settle into Mathias's living room. "And don't tell me that you know they're hostile."

  "That is their defining characteristic, is it not? Like the savages of yore, defined wholly by the fact they were savage."

  "But they weren't. So-called savages were defined that way by people with a very narrow view of culture and civilization. That isn't what we're looking at here. These people aren't just different. They're--"

  "Actively hostile?"

  I glower at him.

  "All right," he says. "Tell me more. Have you encountered one? I have not. Very few of us here have. I presume Eric would be the exception."

  I tell him about Dalton's experiences.

  "Now, that is interesting. He is correct that it may not have been mud. Did you know psychiatric patients sometimes smear themselves with feces?"

  "I've heard of it."

  "It's common enough that there's a term for it. Scatolia. Do you know why they do it?"

  "Because it's disgusting."

  He shakes his head.

  "I'm serious," I say. "My presumption would be that they do it because it is repulsive. It's defiant, and it elicits a reaction."

  "Yes, in cases like the ones you may have heard of--likely connected to violent offenders--that is the primary purpose, along with acting as an expression of anger, frustration, and helplessness. It can also enforce social isolation."

  "Surprisingly."

  "In other instances, scatolia can simply be an act of self-control. However powerless one may feel one always has the power to do that ... while, yes, using it to elicit other responses."

  "Enacting control over others in the only way possible."

  "Precisely. And yet smearing oneself in feces--or even mud--can serve another purpose. What was Eric's reaction?"

  "Get the hell away from the crazy guy."

  "Precisely. Which is why some prisoners will do it. Taking off one's clothing. Adorning oneself with random items. Smearing substances on one's skin. It is stereotypical 'crazy' behavior. I have assessed many prisoners who did it. Few were actually mentally ill."

  "They just wanted an NCR ruling?"

  "Not criminally responsible. Yes."

  "Everything these hostiles do could fall into the same category. Acting violent, acting crazy. But what's their motivation?"

  Mathias stares at me as if I'm asking why we live in houses instead of just laying out sleeping bags in the street.

  "The obvious answer is to scare us," I say. "A threat display."

  "Yes..."

  "But what's the point? How are they being threatened? Look at the settlers--Rockton doesn't bother them, and they don't bother each other. There's so much land out here that territorial disputes would be ridiculous."

  Mathias leans back, purses his lips. "You are correct. And this is why you make a good detective, Casey. You do not presume the obvious without thinking it through. I have been up here too long, with too few puzzles to solve."

  "Well, here's one for you, then. If the hostiles are sane, why act like madmen to scare off nonexistent threats? If they are not sane, how did they get that way? Again, there's a presumption--they leave civilized life and revert. But revert to what? This isn't some 'pre-civilized' form of human. That plays right into the old idea that we are all one step from savagery, base and violent creatures. The other explanation is that they left Rockton because of some dormant mental illness. But if so, why does it all seem to present in the same form--primarily, violence? Does it make sense that every hostile out there is suffering from the same mental illness?"

  He doesn't answer for a long time. Then it's only to say, "I need more data."

  "Such as..."

  "A l
ive specimen would be ideal." He catches my look and sighs. "All right. For now, I will settle for all reports on encounters. Bring me everything. Then we will speak of specimens."

  THIRTY-FOUR

  I rap on Val's door. When she opens it, I say, "I warned you I'd eventually need to talk with you about the men who attacked you."

  She nods and lets me in. As I head for the living room, she says, "Tea?" and I don't particularly want any, but her inflection tells me she does. Maybe even something stronger.

  When she brings it, she says, "I'm not sure how much I can help you, Detective. It really was a fleeting encounter."

  "That's more than anyone except Eric has had."

  She makes a noise under her breath. Just a small one, though.

  She sets the teacups down. I wait until she's settled and then say, "You were out on militia patrol."

  "Yes, Phil thought that would be a good experience for me. To more fully experience my new life."

  "Phil? The first time we spoke, you said you wanted to go on patrol." She'd used almost the same phrasing too, about "more fully experiencing" her new life here in Rockton.

  "I wanted to be part of the community. I wasn't sure how to go about that, and Phil encouraged me to join a patrol, to gain a deeper understanding of the landscape and have an opportunity to get to know members of the militia. To show that I supported their work and didn't consider myself above basic tasks. I agreed. It was exactly what I was looking for. Whatever you may think of me, Casey, I came here prepared to immerse myself in this job and this community. Despite Sheriff Dalton's objections."

  "What did Eric object to?"

  "Me joining the patrol. He said I wasn't qualified." She sniffs. "In short, I was female."

  "He said that?"

  "He didn't need to. Look at the militia. Do you see any women on it?"

  That isn't Dalton's fault. There was a female member, a few years ago, and he wants more women to join, but they haven't been interested. Honestly, I'm not surprised--it offers little more than bragging rights, and that's just not important to women. They can make the same number of credits doing more interesting and less dangerous work.

  "What exactly did Eric say?"

  She flutters her hands. "You know how he gets. Blustering about the dangers of the forest, and how people don't understand, and if I wanted to join a picnic party, there was one scheduled for the next week. A picnic party? I don't know what you see in the man, Casey. I understand that you may feel you lack power here. Perhaps that seems the way to get it. You may also feel threatened--I'm sure you endured more than your share of unwanted attention when you arrived. Being with the sheriff might seem the best way to protect yourself and further your interests in this town, but there are other ways."