A Darkness Absolute

by Kelley Armstrong

  THIRTY-NINE

  Before we leave, Dalton gives Cypher a knitted toque, gloves, waterproof matches, and a few other supplies he brought in case Cox proved helpful. When he pulls out the last item, Cypher's eyes light up.

  "Fuck. Is that...?"

  "Still like your coffee, huh?"

  I swear, drool forms at the corners of Cypher's mouth.

  "If I'd known we'd bump into you, I'd have brought that powdered creamer shit you like." Dalton eases back. "Course, if--"

  "Say no more. If we're talking coffee and creamer, screw pride. You want me to poke around, see if I can get a bead on Roger, and if I do, I get my reward. It's a deal." Cypher hefts the coffee. "How much we talking?"

  "If the weather's good, I fly into Dawson City every few weeks."

  "You learned to fly? Fuck. I always said that's the one thing I wished I'd done, so I could get out of that town, buy what I wanted, and not rely on some damned delivery service."

  "I remember."

  "You were paying attention."

  "I'm guessing you're asking how much coffee I can get because you're going to offer to bring Roger in for me. The answer is yes--we'll pay for that, too. But I want him in good health and communicating. He's no use to us otherwise."

  "I'll make sure he's communicating. Good health, though?" He shrugs. Then he looks at me. "While we're talking trades, you gotta teach me that kung fu shit. Could come in handy."

  "I couldn't get you up to speed fast enough to use it on Roger."

  "Hell, no. I want it for the cougar. That bitch is going down."

  *

  We stop at Brent's on our way back. Brent is a troglodyte, one of those terms you can rarely apply to anyone in the contemporary world. He's both a cave dweller and a hermit, which means he fits the word in every sense except the more modern definition, as someone brutish or deliberately ignorant. He has problems--mildly bipolar was Beth's diagnosis--but he lives here of his own free will. He was a former bounty hunter who followed a target to these woods, got burned--literally, with acid--and decided to retire.

  Most people who live in caves use them the way bears will, selecting one with a wide entrance. Humans will then fortify that entrance, erecting a front wall against the elements and wildlife. Brent actually uses an interior cavern, one that takes some climbing and crawling to reach. It's more sheltered and comes with a vent to the outside, allowing him a carefully controlled fire pit.

  Inside, it looks like those bomb shelters from the fifties. There's a bed, table, and single chair. Goods are mostly relegated to a separate "pantry" cavern. Dried meat and herbs hang from the ceiling.

  If the place resembles a bomb shelter, Brent looks like the guy who crawls out of one after twenty years of thinking the world has ended. He's maybe seventy, fit and wiry, with wild gray hair and a thick beard. Today he wears the Canadiens hockey jersey Dalton got for him. He played on the team for a season. Dalton says he mostly warmed the bench, but it's one of Brent's favorite stretches in a life full of twists and turns, and so when I see the jersey, I ask about his time on the team and we chat for a while. Dalton's fine with that. Brent is more friend than contact, and you don't treat a friend by showing up and interrogating him.

  Brent perches on his bed as we talk. I get the chair--he insists on it, and I've learned not to argue. Dalton settles on a hide by the fire.

  After we've chatted awhile, I tell Brent why we're there.

  "He kept her in a cave?" he says when I finish. He shakes his head. "And people wonder why I stayed up north. The world is full of crazy mother--" He clears his throat, and I try not to smile. Brent likes to watch his language around me, as if I don't hear profanity every waking hour from Dalton.

  "Well, this particular psycho is in the part of that world you chose to stay in," Dalton drawls.

  "Which is why you won't see me out there socializing. Or visiting that town of yours. I stay in here, safe from all the crazy, near and far. Who you looking at for this? Someone out here obviously."

  "We're considering our options."

  "Which is why you're here. Because I'm an option."

  "Yep."

  I'd have softened that, but Brent only nods and says, "Well, I didn't do it, but you're free to ask your questions."

  "We'd like your opinion on a couple of neighbors," I say. "Tell me about Tyrone Cypher."

  "He's a bully and an asshole. Possibly the craziest mother effer up here. But could I see him doing this?" He settles in. "Nah, Ty has his own personal brand of crazy. He's like ... Put it this way. One time when I was out hunting, I spotted a wolverine at a kill. I was watching, considering taking him down for his pelt. Then along comes this grizzly, thinking she'd like some of that deer. Most animals, if they get a grizzly dinner guest, they clear out. Not this wolverine. He fights, despite the fact he's a quarter of the bear's size. He has no chance of winning, but the mother effer just won't stop. He's bleeding, with chunks torn out of him, and he's still going, like a whirling dervish, all fangs and claws. Grizzly finally says eff this. She's bleeding, and that deer just isn't worth the effort. I decide the wolverine has earned the right to keep his pelt, so I leave. A few days later, I wander by, and what do I find? The wolverine, dead of its injuries. But he drove off a grizzly, and he got to keep his dinner, and so I figure he died happy, thinking it was all worth it. That wolverine is Ty Cypher. You don't cross him unless you're ready to fight to the death. Otherwise, though? If you don't bug him, he won't bug you."

  I glance at Dalton, who nods.

  Brent says, "This abduction takes a whole different brand of crazy. The twisted kind--and the long-term kind, where someone committed himself to caring for these women. Well, 'caring' is probably the wrong word, but you know what I mean."

  "How about Roger?" Dalton asks.

  Brent goes quiet.

  "Brent...," Dalton prods.

  "I like Roger."

  "Yeah, I figured that. I know Jacob does, too. But Ty told me he was going around recently asking about Rockton. Did he come to you?"

  "Roger isn't your man, Eric."

  Dalton's jaw sets. He waits. Then he gets to his feet. "Fine. Casey, come on. Brent's right. This Roger is a nice guy. Nice guys don't do shit like this. And you know, if he sets me on this guy, I'll chase him down and string him up, and to hell with due process. Fuck, I'm not even sure I'd bother asking his story."

  "Yes," Brent says. "He came by two days ago asking about Rockton."

  "What exactly?"

  Brent's on his feet, shifting his weight. "Law enforcement. What kind you had in there. How many people, how well trained, and whether..." He inhales. "Whether I thought you guys were capable."

  "Capable of what?"

  "Catching someone you needed to catch."

  FORTY

  Brent hadn't even admitted to Roger that he knew Rockton existed. Like Jacob, "I don't know nothing about that," was all he ever gave. Brent had asked where the question was coming from. Roger just said he'd heard things, about the people who lived in there, who used to, and it got him worrying about what if one of them escaped. Should people out here need to worry?

  Typical paranoia from a population that leaned in that direction anyway. Or so Brent figured.

  The problem will be finding Roger. Brent offers his bounty-hunting skills. While he's still not convinced Roger is responsible, he doesn't particularly want Cypher to be the one bringing him in.

  *

  We're tromping back to town, the light already fading, when Dalton says, "What Ty said, how I was when I came to Rockton, it wasn't like that."

  "I know. I've met Jacob, remember? And even if it was like that, do you honestly think I'd care?"

  He doesn't answer, just walks, gaze fixed ahead.

  "Eric?"

  "It matters," he says. "I know it does. I didn't grow up like everyone else, and it's all about experiences, right? That's what we are. The sum of our experiences. And mine are so..." He trails off and rubs his mouth with his free
hand. "Fuck. I don't know what I'm saying."

  "Everyone's experiences are different. My upbringing was nothing like yours or Will's or Petra's. But yes, yours was more different. I'm not sure where you're going with that, though, so you need to give me a hint. Are you worried I see you differently, knowing your past? You do remember that you told me it before we got together, right?"

  "Yeah. I just..." He shakes his head. "I don't know where I'm going with it either. I'm just..." His fingers tighten around mine. "Stuff. You know?"

  "About the case?"

  He walks in silence for a few steps, and then says, "You're okay, right? With moving in?"

  That throws me. I haven't even thought about it--we've been too busy with the case, and it has felt no different from before, moving from house to house. Maybe it's different for him, not just having a guest but sharing his home.

  I say, carefully, "You weren't counting on cohabitation when you got Storm. If it's not what you want--"

  "No, I'm fine with it."

  "But if you aren't, you can say that. I'm not going to freak out and interpret imminent relationship doom."

  He glances over. "Are you fine with it?"

  "If I wasn't, I'd tell you. You will, too, right?"

  "Course."

  "Until Storm's old enough to switch between houses. Or until one of us decides we need our own place. It's not like down south, where I've given up my lease. It's easily undone if it doesn't work."

  "Yeah."

  He's looking straight ahead again, and I feel like I've made a mistake, but I have no idea what it is. I've bent over backward to make sure he doesn't feel trapped. Neither of us has lived with anyone before, so it seems that giving him space is critical. Keep it simple. Keep it flexible. Let him know there aren't any strings or expectations.

  "Anyway, back to what I was saying," he says. "I just wanted to set the record straight about what Ty said. It's disrespectful to my birth parents, suggesting they raised me poorly. They didn't. I had clothes. I could talk just fine. They kept to themselves, but they were settlers, not hostiles."

  "I know."

  We walk a little farther. Then he blurts, "I don't know why I didn't go back. I tried, at first, but I gave up, and I don't know why. I have excuses, in my head. I didn't quite understand what had happened. I was angry when they didn't come for me. Lots of excuses but none of them good enough to explain why I stayed." He rolls his shoulders. "Fuck, I'm in a mood. Ignore me."

  "I don't want to ignore you, Eric." Deep breath. Push forward. "I'd like to know more. It's a complicated situation, and I know it still affects you."

  "I don't want it to."

  "But it does. Maybe if you talked, it'd help."

  He says nothing more, and we walk the rest of the way in silence.

  *

  I don't see much of Dalton after we get back to Rockton. Part of that is workload. He has his own tasks to do. Requests for help with minor stuff have slowed--people recognize we're too busy for it. But there's still enough to keep Dalton gone into the evening. It's then, though, as night comes, that I begin to feel I'm being deliberately avoided.

  I'm in the station when Dalton brings Storm over. He says since it seems I'll be busy for a while, he picked her up from Petra's. Then he leaves again, and I'm left wondering if I've done something wrong there. Is he insinuating I'm ignoring our puppy? That doesn't seem like him--our job comes first.

  When it's almost ten and he's still gone, I begin to wonder if he's at home waiting. I take Storm back to an empty house, no sign he's been there since we left that morning. I putter around for a while. When Storm needs to go out, I take her as far as the back deck, staying on it while she does her business.

  Then I play with her. I'm on my hands and knees, rolling snowballs at her when a distant pack of wolves start their night song, and she zooms into my arms. She's shaking, but as I hold her, she finds the courage to listen, ears perked, nose working. I'm holding her, my face buried in her fur as I whisper to her and she alternates between licking me and listening to the wolves. They stop, and as I start to roll another snowball, I see a figure in the window, and I give a start.

  It's Dalton. Just standing there watching.

  Even when he sees I've noticed him, he doesn't come out right away, continues watching as I roll another snowball for Storm and laugh as she skids and tumbles to catch them, only to have them vanish with a chomp of her jaws.

  The door opens. Dalton comes out.

  "Um, boots?" I say, pointing at his stockinged feet as I sit up. He just keeps walking, his expression unreadable, and when he lowers himself to the deck, Storm launches at him, but he doesn't even seem to notice. His hands go to the back of my neck, and he pulls me toward him.

  I put my arms around his neck, rising to kiss him, expecting a light hello kiss, but when his mouth meets mine, it's a hard, deep one. I jump, startled, but he doesn't notice that either. He kisses me with a ferocity that reminds me of the snow shelter, when he found me in the storm. A wordless, desperate kiss.

  I return that kiss, feeding my own worries and uncertainty into it, looking for reassurance he's okay, we're okay, everything is fine. I find it there, in that hunger that promises he's not withdrawing, not angry with me, just unsettled and looking for a way to work out his frustration.

  I'm more than happy to give it to him, sliding my hands under his shirt, chuckling when he jumps at my cold fingers. When I try to pull away, though, he presses my hands to his skin. His eyes half close as I run my fingers over his chest. Then his own hands are undoing my belt and tugging down my jeans, the kiss never breaking. One leg free, and that's enough, and his fingers are inside me, making me hiss, his cool fingers against my heat.

  I raise my hips and rock against his hand, enjoying before realizing I'm leaving things rather one-sided. I undo his belt and reach inside his jeans, but then he's moving up over me and he pauses, and I know what that pause means. I arch my hips in answer. His hands move to my hips and then he's in me, and it's like the kiss--hard and deep and a little bit desperate--and I reciprocate, beat for beat until another wordless pause, one I know just as well, and I grab his hips in answer, giving him the go, and letting myself follow until we're lying in the snow, panting.

  His lips move to my ear, and I'm ready for some wry comment about the snow or the very confused puppy. Instead, his lips press against my ear, breath warm, as he says, "I love you."

  I tense in surprise. Then I wrap my hands around his face, pull it over mine and say, "I--" But he cuts me off with a kiss. Before I can get my breath back, he's picking me up, along with Storm, and carrying us into the house.

  He deposits the puppy in the living room and then carries me upstairs. Once we're in bed, I try again, lying on top of him, my face over his, and I get as far as "I--" before another kiss shuts me down.

  "You don't want me to say it," I say when we finish.

  He shakes his head, and I understand what he's really saying. He doesn't want me to echo him, to make the seemingly obligatory response.

  "Can I show you instead?" I ask, and that gets the first sign of a smile since he came out the back door. He nods, and I show him.

  FORTY-ONE

  Sutherland is fully awake the next morning, coherent and asking to speak to me. Dalton and I head there after dropping off Storm.

  Sutherland's in his living room, dozing under a blanket. When I walk in, he starts awake. "Sorry. I keep thinking I'm fine, and then proving myself wrong. Got halfway through making breakfast and almost passed out. Kenny had to finish cooking."

  I take a seat on the sofa. "Don't push. It'll only slow things down."

  He starts to answer. Then his gaze flicks to the doorway as Dalton joins us.

  Sutherland straightens fast. "Eric."

  Dalton takes the seat beside me. When Sutherland doesn't go on, Dalton says, "Is me being here a problem?"

  Sutherland smiles weakly. "Only if you're ready to put me on chopping duty. I'll take my lumps, but
I need a bit of time to recover." He turns to me. "I wanted to apologize for running. My timing put you and Will in an awkward position. Kenny explained all that. I appreciate you guys coming after me, though I know it caused trouble with..." His gaze slides to Dalton.

  "Not going after you wasn't an option," Dalton says. "It's their duty. Which means they had to break my rule. That's fine, though, because I pull rules out of my ass. That's how law works in Rockton."

  Sutherland flinches. I'm tempted to ease in and soften the blow. Then I remind myself how I felt when he took off, how pissed I'd been, how he could have gotten Anders killed in that accident, gotten us both killed in that storm. I keep my mouth shut and leave him pinned under Dalton's gaze.

  "I know you have reasons," Sutherland begins. "I'm sorry. I'm really--"

  "I don't want your apologies. I just want you to make damned sure it doesn't happen again. Have a little consideration for others. That never seemed to be a problem for you before."

  "It wasn't. I just ... I hit a wall, you know? I'd settled in, adjusted, and then it just ... struck. The isolation. The boredom. The loneliness. I've heard people talk about cabin fever, but I didn't really get it until the sun was gone before five. It felt like the walls closed in. I got so sick of the darkness and the cold, and I realized it was only going to get darker and colder. I snapped. It won't happen again. I'm responsible for keeping myself busy and entertained. I've been talking to Kenny about a poker game I can join, maybe signing up for chopping duty voluntarily, if only to get me off my ass and out of town for a few hours. I might learn to hunt come spring." A weak smile. "That'd shock the hell out of my dad. He never could get a rifle in my hands."

  "Trying fishing instead," I say. "Once you're well enough."

  He nods. "That's more my speed. Thanks."

  And that's all Sutherland wanted to tell me--to apologize. He tries adding tidbits to his description, but they won't get me any farther in my investigation. I'll ask Petra to stop by, see if she can coax a sketch from him, but I think I'll need a suspect for him to ID. He just didn't see enough for a sketch.

  *

  Dalton had told Jacob we'd meet him today at noon, which just means when the sun is straight overhead. Jacob is waiting when we arrive. They trade first. Dalton has brought salt, instant coffee, soap, and two sweatshirts. Jacob has a young buck and a brace of rabbits. In trade, he takes all but one sweatshirt.