"He didn't--" Jacob begins, but Dalton silences him with a look. He's not going to explain more than he has to. Like in Rockton, secrets are valuable out here. They're weapons that can be used against you.
The old man's gaze flicks to me and then back to Dalton. "You think you need to hide your girl from me?"
"Well, considering I seem to remember--" Dalton cuts himself short, presumably before bringing up his mother's treatment.
I unwrap my scarf and lower my hood. Edwin eyes me, not like an old man looking at a young woman, but the hard, assessing study of a stranger.
"What's your name?" he says.
"Casey."
That snort. "I meant your family name."
"Butler."
A harder snort. "Your other family."
I give him what he wants. "My maternal grandfather's family name is Zhao." He nods, apparently satisfied that he's guessed my heritage correctly. I add, "And my maternal grandmother's family name is Navarro."
"Spanish?" There's a thread of hope in his eyes that disappears when I say, "Filipino," and the sneer that follows isn't disgust for the law that forced Filipinos to adopt Hispanic surnames. It's racism, pure and simple.
He says something in Mandarin Chinese. I just look at him, long enough that he shifts in vague discomfort, and then I say, "I was born in Canada. I didn't take Mandarin lessons growing up because my mother believed in full assimilation. I did study it in university because in spite or--or maybe because of--my mother's attitude, I am interested in my cultural heritage. But I'm Canadian. I know French better than Mandarin. I know English better still, so we'll stick to that. I came here to inform you of the death of one of your people. A man named Roger."
I don't know how much of my speech he paid attention to, but that last part gets his attention.
"I don't know his surname," I say. "He was a second-generation settler--"
"I know who you mean. He'd left the settlement, but he was still one of us."
"Then I offer my condolences. He was badly injured in the forest. We took him to Rockton and did our best to save him, but he succumbed to his injuries."
"Injured how?"
"He received multiple deep lacerations to the torso."
Edwin grunts. "One of those damned dogs, I bet." He glowers. "That town of yours should have put them down. What was it thinking, turning them loose? That it was doing them a kindness? A kindness would have been a merciful death."
I open my mouth, but he waves me to silence. "Yes, yes, I know it was before your time. Yours, too," he says to Dalton, and then adds, "So that's where you ended up? Rockton?"
"Yes."
"You like living as a slave to the man? Good thing your momma and daddy didn't live to see that. Or did they know where you went? Decide if you were that stupid, they didn't want you back?"
Dalton tenses so hard a vein pulses in his neck.
"My brother didn't choose--" Jacob begins.
"But I choose now," Dalton says, opening his jaw just enough to get the words out as he steadies his tone. "It's my choice. Living here, apparently, wasn't Roger's. He moved out, as you said. I hear he kept in touch, though, so we wanted to see if he had family or anyone who should be informed."
"His daddy passed a few years back. Sister took off down south. But everyone here knows him. I'll inform them of his passing. I appreciate you telling us yourself, Eric. Now if you want something to eat before you go, you're welcome to it. Just mind that you're civil while you're here."
"I'm not the one--" Dalton begins and then bites it off. "Actually, there's one other thing." He looks at me.
"Roger mentioned another settler before he passed," I say. "A man he grew up with. Someone named Benjamin. If he's here, I have a message to convey from Roger."
"I know who you mean. He's not here. Took off like Roger did, and in his case, we haven't seen him in about two years."
"Does he have family here? Roger mentioned something about a mother, but he was in rough shape, so I don't know if she's still alive...."
"She is. She hasn't seen Benjamin either, but if it'll make you feel better, passing on Roger's message to someone, I'll take you to her."
*
We're in another cabin, and it's only once we're inside that I realize how nice Edwin's had been. His hadn't been much different from what I'd find in Rockton. Small, tidy, and decently furnished. This one is the kind of place that--before I arrived in the Yukon--my prejudices might have led me to expect from someone who chose to live out here. It smells of body odor and human waste, and I spot a bucket in the corner that obviously isn't emptied as often as it should be. The wood walls are thick with soot. The wooden floor is filthy enough that for a moment, I think it's dirt.
Edwin won't even come inside. He just opens the door and says, "Mary? You've got guests. Be nice to them." Then he totters off and a woman's voice says, "Close the goddamned door!"
We step into the darkness. The windows are shuttered, and the only light comes from the fire. A woman sits on the floor in front of it. She's stitching something, but it's too dark to tell what.
When she looks up, she peers at us and says, "Do I know you?"
"Jacob, ma'am. I don't know if we've met. My parents were Steve and Amy. They--"
"I remember them. Your mother was a whore."
Both men stiffen. We all do, but she just keeps going, saying, "She'd come here and parade around with her blond hair and her big blue eyes and then get all offended when the men leered at her. A whore, just like--" She mutters something and stabs her needle through. "Is that your brother? The one who ran off?"
"He--"
"Boys," she sniffs. "They all run off. Find some whore and leave. Boys and men alike. All the same." She squints at me. "You're a girl, though, aren't you?"
I lower the hood I'd raised for the walk through the settlement. She eyes me and says. "You're pretty. Boys prefer blondes, but blondes are whores. Course, having dark hair doesn't mean you're not a whore. Are you one?"
Poor Jacob is bug-eyed by this point. He keeps sneaking me looks, wondering why I'm not appalled, perhaps thinking he's missed a few nuances of female greeting rituals. Dalton's watching, too, but mostly to see if this woman's particular brand of crazy is going to result in physical violence. Yes, we're not dealing with a model of mental health, which is what I expect, if my suspicions are true.
I walk over to crouch beside the fire. "That depends on the definition of the person asking, doesn't it? I don't think I am. But everyone has their own way of identifying a whore. For some, it's skin color. For others, hair. I've even met people who say they can tell a woman's a whore if she has tattoos or piercings."
"Nothing wrong with pierced ears," Mary says. "Piercing in other places might be a problem, but I'd say it all depends on where. Tattoos, though? That's a sign. You got any of those?"
"No, ma'am."
"How about husbands? Leave one behind down south?"
"No, ma'am. I've never been married."
"Ever steal one?"
"Steal another woman's husband, you mean? No. What would I want with a guy who'd do something like that? It just means he'll do the same to me someday."
She cackles. "Smart girl." Another sizing-up look, this one a little kinder. "You're probably not a whore. Hard to say, but you don't seem the type. Now, what'd you come here to talk about?"
"I need to ask you a few questions about your son, Benjamin."
SIXTY-THREE
On the way back, we run into our old nemesis--the shortening days of winter. We've barely reached the snowmobiles before the sun's falling. We're prepared with sleeping bags and emergency shelter materials in the saddlebags, but I'm really hoping we don't need to use them. I have my answer, and every minute we delay is another minute we've left a killer in Rockton. And another minute Nicole is out there, trapped by the ever-increasing danger that this will all go to hell and we'll never find her again.
The snowmobiles have lights, though, and that's o
ur saving grace. We take it slower on the way back, our headlights illuminating the trail we'd cut coming in. It's not exactly a four-lane highway from Rockton to the First Settlement. There's not even a direct path--we need to cross a kilometer-wide thickly wooded gap between trails, which was difficult in the daylight and is absolutely treacherous now. Dalton leads, with Jacob on the back, me following. My brightly colored scarf from Anders, flutters from around Jacob's neck as a target to aid my headlight.
We drop Jacob off near his camp. He's going to stay there, in case he has to positively ID a man he's met before--a man he'll never forget. But I don't think we'll need that. Jacob has provided a description that makes me sure we have that positive ID already.
It starts to snow again after that, but it's not a storm, and we're close enough that we don't need to follow our own tracks. We're just coming up to Rockton when Dalton hits the brakes, and I see Anders approaching along the dark path, two militia guys behind him.
"Nice scarf!" he shouts to Dalton as we kill the engines. "It matches your eyes."
Dalton flashes him a gloved middle finger. Anders motions for us to get off and walk, and the militia will take the sleds. Once they've roared off, Dalton says, "Problems?"
"Yeah," Anders says as we start walking. "We've got a situation." He looks at me. "Did you get what you were looking for?"
"Shawn Sutherland is really Benjamin Sanders, a second-generation settler. That's how Roger knew him. They hadn't hung around together since they were kids--some falling out--but Roger recognized Benjamin as the man who attacked him."
"He's our killer," Anders says.
"Seems that way."
"Actually, that was a statement, not a question. It's Shawn--Benjamin--whatever his name is. There's no doubt of it because that's our situation. Shawn figured out he'd been promoted from victim to prime suspect and that you two had gone digging into his past."
"Shit," I say and turn fast, looking out at the forest. "He bolted? Goddamn it. We need--"
"Really, Case? You think I'd be sauntering to town, filling you in, if Shawn was on the run?" He looks at Dalton. "At least my boss knows better."
"Figure you've got it under control," Dalton says. "He bolted. You caught him."
"Mmm, not exactly. I've had my eye on him all day, like we discussed. He did try to sneak off, but I was close enough to call an alarm. Not close enough to actually grab him. He's taken a page from his victim's playbook and locked himself in the icehouse."
"Fuck," Dalton says.
"My sentiments exactly. We're going to need to start padlocking that thing, because apparently people have figured out it's the one place they can run that we can't get to them without coming through the front door. Of course, that's also the only way they can exit unless they manage to burrow through permafrost."
"So he's safely contained," I say.
"Yep. He's taking a second page from Nicki's playbook. He's threatening to kill himself if we don't do what he wants, which in this case is to let him leave Rockton. He's just waiting for you two, making sure his goose is cooked."
"How'd he figure it out?" I ask.
"It wasn't me."
"I never said--"
"Hey, considering you thought I let him run while I sat on my thumbs..."
I bump his arm. "I apologize, okay? Momentary panic. I'll buy you roses next time I'm in Dawson City."
"Buy me a steak--a real steak--and we're even. As for how Shawn found out..."
He trails off. We've just reached the edge of town. There's a figure up ahead, seemingly just milling about.
"Hey, Jen!" Anders calls. "Casey's wondering who tipped off Sutherland. You got any insight into that?"
She turns, and in the moonlight, I see her scowl. "You couldn't even let them get into town before calling me out, could you?"
"Uh, no. We couldn't even get into town without finding you skulking around the path, waiting to confess. You gonna do it? Or am I?"
She doesn't respond.
"Guess I am," Anders says. "She's only waiting on her escort to the cell. Saves the bother of getting dragged out of bed for it. So, yesterday, Jen tells you that you've missed the obvious suspect. You told her the time line doesn't work--which it didn't. But if she believed that, she wouldn't get the chance to tell the town how incompetent you are."
"Fuck," Dalton says. "Seriously, Jen?"
I expect her to crow that she did find the killer. But she only stands there, jaw set, her gaze down as she says, "I didn't tell the town. I ... had a couple of drinks and told a few people."
"Who informed her that the fact Shawn wasn't even in the Yukon until last year provided him with an ironclad alibi," Anders says. "Unfortunately Shawn himself got wind of it, from someone who thought it was hilarious."
"I'm sorry," Jen says.
Dalton and I both stare at her.
She squares her shoulders. "I fucked up. I'll just go let myself into the cell. You guys need to handle this."
I think she's joking. Or being sarcastic. She just turns and starts toward the station. After a moment of silence, Dalton calls after her, "Get your ass back here and follow us. We need all hands on deck, in case he finds a way to bolt."
We continue on, and she falls in behind us. She straggles out of earshot, and Anders says, "It wasn't entirely her fault. Jen's wild accusations just got Shawn asking questions. He wondered where you two had gone, and someone said you were following up on something Roger said before he died. Someone else told Shawn you guys had been talking to Val last night. It was enough for him to decide to vamoose, leading to..."
He gestures at the icehouse, just ahead, where Kenny and two others are on guard. Dalton orders them back, and we move up to the door.
"Shawn?" I call. "It's Casey. Will says there's a problem."
Ten seconds of silence. Then, Sutherland says, "I know you think I killed those women. And I know how that works up here. I remember Doctor Lowry. No judge. No jury. No trial. Sheriff Dalton put her on a plane, and we're all supposed to think he took her back to Dawson City. No one actually believes that. Just like no one believes she was guilty."
"If anyone honestly thinks Beth was innocent," Dalton says, "we need to have a town meeting. She confessed. In front of a half dozen people."
"Your people. You, your detective, your deputy, Val, Isabel--"
"Beth confessed. I took her to Dawson City. Put her on a plane. Your conspiracy theory is just a last-ditch, piss-poor effort to save your ass."
"Eric's right, Benjamin," I say.
Silence.
"Yes, I know that's your real name. Benjamin Sanders Junior. Son of Mary Parsons and Benjamin Sanders Senior. We spoke to your mother."
"I don't know what--"
"You were born in the First Settlement. Your mother didn't want to leave Rockton, but your father talked her into it. Then, twenty years ago, he met a hiker. He helped her out of a jam and fell in love. Went back down south with her, leaving you and your mother behind."
"You've got me confused--"
"I do feel bad for your mother, Benjamin. Betrayed and abandoned. But I feel worse for the kid who had to bear the brunt of that. Who grew up with a mother whose bitterness drove her mad, obsessed with the so-called 'whore' who seduced her husband. I got the full tirade. The list of things that make a whore, which apparently corresponds to the things she remembers about your father's mistress. I know you got that list. Over and over, you got it."
"I don't--"
"When you were a teenager, she caught you with an older woman who didn't meet her standards. Your mother locked you up in an old shack for two months. When you were twenty, you fell for a girl from another settlement, a girl your mother approved of. But the girl wasn't interested in you. She disappeared, never to be seen again. Any idea where I might find her, Benjamin?"
"I have no clue what--"
"Your mother suspected you took her. She told you if you did, that was fine--you had needs and eventually, the girl would come around
and be your wife. I'm guessing she didn't come around. So you killed her."
"I did not kill her. She--" He stops. "I didn't kill anyone. I don't know this Benjamin person. I think you've been out here too long. That's what happens--you go nuts. The only reason that sheriff doesn't fire you is because it'll cut off his supply. Gotta keep his woman happy. Keep her spreading her legs."
"Which is a skill you never actually mastered, did you?" I say.
"Because women are all whores," he spits. "Whores who think they're too good for men like me. Even you, Detective. That first day you were here, you got caught in that bar brawl, and I ran in to help out, and you never even noticed. But when Will and Mick came to your rescue you sure noticed them."
He's talking about the fight Jen started at the Roc. Anders and Mick hadn't rescued me. They'd just joined in for crowd control as the brawl got out of hand.
"Tell us where Nicole is," I say.
"How the hell should I know? I never touched her. Never touched any of them. How could I? I was down south when the first two disappeared. I came from down south."
"No, you didn't. You were here, in the First Settlement, until a couple of years ago."
"Then how did I take those two women?"
"After that first girl died, it wasn't safe to grab someone else from a settlement. But you knew about Rockton from your parents. So you staked it out. Waited for women to go into the forest. You took Robyn. Kept her; killed her. Then you came back and took Victoria. At some point you discovered the cave was a better place to hold them. Also, at some point, you started thinking Rockton looked a lot cozier than the First Settlement. So when Victoria died, you decided it was time to reunite with dear old dad. You knew from his stories that he came from a wealthy family. You found him down south and blackmailed him into giving you the entrance money and a decent story. Then you bought your way into Rockton, as an actual citizen. That's why the time line doesn't work. You were in the forest when you took Robyn and Victoria but living here when you went after Nicole."
This is the idea Isabel's story had ignited. The tale of her lover who'd left and then returned, moving a few hours away while Isabel presumed he was still across the ocean. What if our killer was a settler who'd seemed to leave and then come back as a Rockton resident? He would know both worlds--able to navigate the forest and the caves, while living in Rockton.
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