A Darkness Absolute

by Kelley Armstrong

  "Do you realize how crazy--?" Sutherland begins.

  "You just had to keep to yourself and hope no one asked too many questions. But even something as innocent as Jen wondering what grade you taught was problematic. A dead-easy question to answer ... for anyone who grew up down south and knows the education system."

  "You really think I did it, don't you?" he says.

  "I know you did. Your mother described you. She even said you've got bad scar tissue on your left foot, from where she held your foot to the fire, literally. If you want to prove you aren't Benjamin Sanders, just let me see that foot out the door."

  He laughs. "Right. I don't trust anyone in this goddamned town of whores and liars. If you've decided I did it, then I'm dead already. The only revenge I'll have is that when I'm dead, you'll see your mistake. You'll realize you had the wrong man."

  As he's ranting, we're getting into position, Anders and Kenny at the door with a log battering ram. Dalton beside it, ready to swing in. I'm poised with my gun, in case Benjamin attacks.

  "There!" he yells. "It's done, damn you. It's done. I've just ingested enough dope to put me to sleep, and I'll never wake up."

  Anders and Kenny ram the door. It holds fast. Inside, Sutherland is laughing hysterically. "And what good do you think that will do? I'm dead. Don't you get it? Dead man walking. Dead man talking. You've killed me. Murdered an innocent man."

  The ram hits again, and this time the wood cracks. They rip away at it until it's clear. Sutherland is across the room, sitting on the floor, grinning as wide as he can.

  "Too late," he says. "Too little, too late."

  Beside him is a syringe. He waggles an empty bottle at us. "Gone. All gone. And in a minute, so am I."

  Anders, Kenny, and Dalton run over and grab Sutherland as he collapses.

  SIXTY-FOUR

  We're in the clinic. Dalton and Kenny have gotten Sutherland's limp form onto the examining table. Anders is taking out the stomach pump. I'm undoing Sutherland's left boot.

  "You don't need to check," Dalton grunts as he heaves Sutherland into place. "He had the benzo."

  Which is true. He didn't just randomly grab an overdose of sleeping pills or painkillers. He's got the very drug someone dosed Diana and Nicole with. That should prove it. The rest should prove it--the story fits, the description fits. Jacob's description too, of the guy who'd once "offered" him a hostile woman, the guy who'd followed his father down south a couple of years ago. A guy he'd known as Benjy.

  Benjamin Sanders.

  It still isn't enough. I keep thinking of his last words, declaring his innocence, and it's easy to check, so I must.

  So I pull off that boot. I pull off that sock. And there it is. The burn tissue, just as Mary described.

  "Satisfied?" Dalton says. "Now, get up here and help us keep this bastard alive."

  I get into position to assist Anders, and Dalton moves across the room, staying out of the way.

  I'm struggling to focus. Part of my brain stays stuck on the pointlessness of his final proclamation of innocence. All I had to do was check his foot.

  Focus, damn it. If we lose him, we lose Nicole.

  I have the tube, and I'm getting into position while Anders presses his fingers to Sutherland--

  No, not Sutherland--Benjamin.

  I have to remember that. This is not the guy we knew. Not the victim I hauled in from the forest. This is a killer who doesn't deserve another name to hide behind.

  Anders presses his fingers to Benjamin's neck, a quick vitals check. I'm reaching to open Benjamin's mouth when Anders frowns. He's got his fingers still pressed there, and he's frowning, and I'm saying "What is it?" and he's reaching to open Benjamin's eye. His fingers touch the eyelid as Benjamin springs up. His arms sweep wide, knocking everything from the tray, and there's a moment when I think Anders's fingers on his eyelid jolted him back to consciousness.

  That's what we all must think, because there's frozen shock as Benjamin springs up and those instruments clatter, and then Dalton's leaping in, shouting, "Restrain--"

  Benjamin has my upper arm in an iron grip as he's rolling off the table. I lash out. I feel pain. A sharp jab. It's not enough to stop me. It is enough to startle me. That's all he needs. I'm distracted for a split second, and then there's a gun at my head--my own damned gun--and Benjamin's backing up, shouting, "I'll kill her. You know I'll kill her."

  I back up with him. I have to. There's a gun at my head--an unsteady one--and so I stay with him, doing nothing to make him pull the trigger.

  Across the room, Dalton has his gun out. Anders doesn't. He's off to the side, assessing. His gaze drops to the table, as if trying to see what he can use. The tray of instruments is on the floor, and there's nothing left on that table. Nothing useful.

  "You can't get out of here," Anders says. "People saw us rush you in, and it doesn't matter how cold it is, they're curious, so they're hanging around, hoping to hear what's going on. If you run, there'll be thirty people between you and the forest."

  "That's why I've got her," he says. "She'll come along peacefully. I know she will."

  "Detective Butler isn't some innocent bystander," Anders says. "Even without her gun, she'll take you down before you reach that forest."

  "No, she just thinks she will. That's why she'll come along peacefully. She's sure she'll get the jump on me, so she's not going to fight." The gun barrel presses cold against my scalp. "Am I right, Casey? That's what you're doing right now, isn't it? Playing good hostage. Waiting for me to make a mistake. Knowing I will, because no one's as clever as you. Except..." He lowers his lips to my ear and whispers, "There's a problem, isn't there?"

  There is a problem. I feel it coursing through my veins. Literally coursing. That jab when he grabbed me. He's injected me with something.

  I glance over at Anders. He's still assessing, working through scenarios. It's a good thing he's there, because Dalton is paralyzed with indecision. There's a gun to my head, and that's all he sees, a wobbling gun at his lover's head, and he's holding a gun himself and that seems to be the answer, but he knows it's not. Yet he can't bring himself to lower it, as if that would be surrender.

  "We're going to back down this hallway and out the rear door," Benjamin says. "The sheriff and the deputy will go on ahead to clear the way. They'll warn that any sudden moves will seal Casey's death warrant. I'll fire and run."

  "If you take her into that forest, she's dead," Anders says. "You'll kill her as soon as the way is clear."

  "No, I'll keep her, like I kept the others. That's why she'll come with me, and it's why your sheriff will let her leave. Because they're both arrogant enough to think they can get out of this. She thinks she can escape. He thinks he can find her."

  "Kind of tipping your hand, aren't you?"

  Benjamin chuckles. "I could show my whole hand, and they'll still think they can beat me. That's what happens when you're thirty years old and run your own town. Thirty years old and a big-city homicide detective. A guy like me doesn't stand a chance against them." He shifts the gun. "You're going to find out what a man like me can do, Casey. What an ordinary man can do. How he can outwit you. That's how this whole thing started, a test of wits you never even realized you were having."

  "How's that?" I ask, and like Anders, I'm not really hoping for useful answers--I'm just stalling as I struggle against the sedative.

  "The cave," he says. "You were going to explore my cave."

  I glance at Anders, my brow furrowing.

  "Bear Skull Mountain," Dalton says, his voice cracking as if it's been hours since he spoke. "I promised to take you spelunking on Bear Skull Mountain."

  It takes a moment. Then I remember--we'd been having drinks at the Lion after a caving expedition. I'd declared I wanted to explore new territory. Dalton suggested we head over to Bear Skull next time.

  "You were there," I say to Benjamin. "In the Lion. You overheard us. Bear Skull is where you were keeping Nicole and the bodies, and you w
ere worried we'd find them. So why not just move Nicole?"

  "Because I liked where I had her. And I wasn't going to let some stuck-up whore make me do anything. So I engaged you in a battle of wits. You were just too witless to realize it."

  "You were luring me," I say. "That day of the storm. You made a point of running when Eric was away. You knew I'd still go after you."

  "Arrogance, like I said."

  "I'd go after you, and you'd lure me in that direction. Then you'd take out Will or separate us. That's why you led us toward the cave. Get me close, make it easier to transport me. Only you didn't anticipate the storm."

  The gun barrel rubs against my scalp. "Of course I did. I knew it was coming. I used it."

  Which is bullshit. The storm disrupted his plans. He still managed to get into his snowmobile suit and balaclava, and bloody his toque, but I recall him standing there--just standing there, watching. We'd had our guns on him, and we were alert and unharmed enough that he'd seen no way of taking me.

  So he'd dropped the hat and withdrawn. I don't know if he lost us after that or if he'd been keeping an eye on us the whole time--and just never saw a window of opportunity he could use.

  We hadn't even known a game was in play, and we'd still won.

  "That was you in the forest," I say. "During the storm when I was alone. You attacked me. I--"

  "It wasn't the time. I realized that, which is why I let you go."

  Not quite how I remember it, but I let him have that and then say, "It was you in my house, too." My words are starting to slur, but I push on. Keep him talking. "You planned to fake your escape and show up in my house and take me captive from there. Yet it wasn't that easy, was it?"

  "Again, I made a slight misstep. Roger's fault. I decided it was too risky, grabbing you and getting past him. I also decided I was missing an opportunity. The chance to snatch Nicole back from under your nose. You've been beaten, Detective. Leave it at that. Now you'll come along quietly, confident in your ability to escape."

  "No."

  The gun going still. "What?"

  I struggle to speak clearly. "I saw that hole. There's no way I can go with you and expect to live. I'll die slowly and horribly in a cave somewhere, and Nicole will die, too. I'm her replacement. So, no, I'm not going with you. For her sake."

  This isn't what he expected, and he's thinking fast.

  "Will?" I say, fighting to keep my words clear as the drug threatens to silence me. "I'm going to ask you to take the shot. Benjamin will try to kill me. He might even succeed. But shoot to wound him and then keep him alive and in pain--horrible pain--until he tells you where to find Nicole. Can you do--"

  Benjamin shoves me. Hard. I'm stumbling, trying to right myself. A gun fires. Something hits me in the back. Hits me hard. Another shot. Shouts. Footfalls. I'm falling, and I hear shots and shouts and then ...

  Darkness.

  SIXTY-FIVE

  I wake in bed. My brain feels like a poorly tethered balloon, threatening to float off.

  There's a voice. It seems to be coming from miles away. I can't quite make it out, but it sounds urgent, anxious.

  Huh. Something must be wrong.

  A face appears in front of the ceiling. It's Dalton. He looks worried. Shit. What happened now?

  "Casey? Can you hear me?"

  I close my eyes.

  "No! Wait! Casey!"

  I drop back into dreamless sleep.

  *

  The next time I wake, I bolt up like an alarm is screeching in my ear. Which it is--the screech of my inner voice telling me to get up, Benjamin's on the run, and what the hell am I doing, lying here--

  Pain. Blinding, gasp-inducing pain blasts through my shoulder. Hands grab me. Hands lower me back to bed. Push me back to bed. Dalton's voice saying, "Relax. Just relax. You're okay. Everything's okay."

  I blink hard to clear my vision. I'm in his bed. He's there, over me, fussing with my pillow and saying, "You've been shot. You're okay, but you've been shot."

  He's measuring out painkillers. I say, "Not that."

  "Yes, this. You're in a lot of pain--"

  "I can't think on meds."

  "You can't think if you're in pain, either."

  "Eric, please. You know I hate taking--"

  He shakes the bottle and says, "Tylenol three. Yeah, Will gave you morphine at first, but now it's just these, which you are taking. You've been shot in the shoulder."

  "You got Benjamin?"

  He hands me the pills and busies himself pouring water.

  I lift my head. "Eric? If you're here, that means you got him, right?"

  "It was chaos. Fucking chaos. He shot you, and--"

  "And that's why he shot me. Because he knew you'd help me rather than run after him. Tell me Will ran after him."

  "You'd been shot, Casey. Then you fell and hit your head, and yeah, we did exactly what he wanted, but I'm not going to apologize for that. Will got the militia on him right away. I went to try to find his trail, but it was a mess. Tracks everywhere, from everyone running around, thinking they saw him here or there, but it was just another damned militia guy. Will's out there now with the whole team."

  I wait a moment. Then I say, "Eric?"

  He pretends not to hear. He knows what I'm going to say.

  "Eric?"

  "Yeah, I fucked up in the clinic," he says. "When he took you captive, I froze. If Will hadn't been there ... You were more useful than I was, and you'd been drugged and had a gun at your head. I just seized up. I couldn't figure out what to do, so I didn't do a goddamned thing, and you got shot, and he got away."

  "The point isn't what you did then, Eric. It's what you're doing right now."

  "Someone has to stay with you."

  "And that someone shouldn't be the best tracker in this town. Anyone can play nursemaid."

  He shakes his head. "Will didn't know how the painkillers might react with whatever Sutherland--Benjamin--gave you. He said I should stay with you."

  I don't respond. His jaw works, and he says, "Yeah, he was telling me what I wanted to hear. Letting me do what I wanted to do."

  Which is true, and I could give Anders crap for that, but the truth is, if Dalton was freaked out over me, I'm not sure he'd have been much good out there anyway.

  "You need to go," I say.

  "I know." He exhales. "I'm fucking up in every direction tonight, aren't I?"

  "I wouldn't have done any different if the situation was reversed."

  "Yeah, you would have."

  He's wrong. If Benjamin had been holding the gun on Dalton, I would not have been able to see it as a regular hostage situation and react accordingly. That's a huge problem, professionally. I can't let my emotions get in the way of my job. But personally?

  Personally, I think maybe it's not such a bad thing if I've reached the place in my life where I have enough emotion to let it get in the way of my job. Where I care enough about someone that I could lose my cool at the thought of losing him. And to have someone feel that way about me? As much as I know Dalton made a mistake, it's not a mistake I ever expected anyone would make for me.

  I catch his hand. "No, I wouldn't have done any different." I bring him down into a kiss. "We'll need to work on it."

  "Randomly put ourselves in death-defying situations to inoculate the other to the danger of our imminent death?"

  "Others put us there often enough that we'll be immune any day now."

  He snorts a laugh. "No shit, huh?" He kisses my forehead. "I'll go. Get some sleep. I'll bring him back for you."

  *

  I drift in and out of fitful sleep. Petra's there at one point. When I wake again, it's Diana.

  "Where's Petra?" I ask, and as soon as I do, I regret it, seeing Diana's expression, my words a slap I didn't intend.

  "I thought she should get some rest," she says. "Others volunteered. I can go grab Brian."

  "No, no. I was just confused. It seemed like I closed my eyes for a second and she turned in
to you. Damned drugs."

  I'm not sure she buys the excuse, but she gives an awkward smile and says, "You're due for more Tylenols soon."

  "Has it been that long?"

  "It's technically morning." She waves at the darkened window. "As you can tell."

  I groan and slowly pull myself up to a sitting position. It hurts, but it's manageable. My actual gunshot wound isn't that bad.

  "Is anyone back?" I ask.

  "No."

  When I frown, she says, "What's up?"

  I shake my head.

  "I know you, Case. I see you thinking at breakneck speed."

  It snowed. That's what I'm thinking. That it snowed a day ago, and that should make tracking Benjamin easy.

  Still something about that niggles at my brain, the same way Jen's accusation had, the same way Isabel's story had, the same way Benjamin's "final" words had, when he'd declared his innocence.

  Something about this isn't right. The snow ... the trail ...

  "Tell me what you're thinking," Diana says. "Maybe I can help."

  "It's nothing."

  She pulls back, rejected again, and I fight the urge to give in and tell her. It's so hard breaking those habits. For years, she was the one I'd talk to. The only one I talked to. Even now it goes beyond mere habit. She's sitting here looking like a whipped puppy.

  I haven't overreacted to her betrayals. I can't trust her. I don't ever want to be best friends again, and that's self-protection, not bitterness and spite. But when she gives me that look, I feel like I'm the one who's done her wrong.

  I've never been able to understand why Diana stayed with Graham. As a female cop, I was often called on to speak to victims. So intellectually, I understand. Emotionally? No. Despite my confidence issues, I cannot imagine staying with a man who treated me like shit.

  How many times has Diana--like a fickle lover--wandered off to greener pastures only to come crying back to me? How many times has she used me? Abused our friendship? Yet I've taken her back, and now seeing her flinch when I refuse to share my thoughts, that wounds me. Makes me feel like I'm kicking that whipped puppy.

  And in that analogy, I find a distraction and pounce on it.