The Weight of Night

by Christine Carbo

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  PRAISE FOR CHRISTINE CARBO

  Mortal Fall

  “Compulsively readable . . . Carbo paints a moving picture of complex, flawed ­people fighting to make their way in a wilderness where little is black or white, except the smoky chiaroscuro of the sweeping Montana sky.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Carbo doesn’t do superficial. She gives her characters weight. And like her debut, Mortal Fall provides a story with dual tracks—the investigation into murder and the rugged journey of the soul.”

  —New York Journal of Books

  “[Carbo] writes with a sense of simple realism that comes from being a local. The grandeur and beauty of Glacier isn’t over-written, nor ignored . . . the perfect mystery to read beside the lake. . . .”

  —The Missoulian

  “If Mortal Fall were just a beautifully written, sharp-eyed procedural, that would be reason enough to read it. But Christine Carbo offers so much more in this fine second novel. It’s a study of flawed, compelling characters and the ghosts that haunt them. It’s also a fascinating look at the relationship of humans with the too-rapidly changing landscape of Glacier Park. And finally, it’s the tragic story of the forces that can shatter a family. This novel works on so many levels, all of them masterfully crafted.”

  —William Kent Krueger, New York Times bestselling author of Manitou Canyon

  “Mortal Fall is a terrific read. With a masterful hand, Christine Carbo guides her readers through an intriguing mystery full of complex relationships and smartly developed characters. Her rich descriptions immerse you in the grandeur of Glacier National Park as this riveting story unfolds. Christine Carbo should be a part of every mystery lover’s personal library.”

  —Allen Eskens, author of The Life We Bury

  “Carbo brings subtlety and sensitivity to the smallest of moments . . . those willing to soak up the character-driven context will find much to enjoy here.”

  —Booklist

  The Wild Inside

  “[S]tays in your mind long after you’ve put the book down. I’m still thinking about it. Prepare to run the gamut of emotions with this fine treat of a story. Then, in the years ahead, be on the lookout for more from this fresh new voice in the thriller genre.”

  —Steve Berry, New York Times bestselling author of the Cotton Malone series

  “Fans of Nevada Barr will love this tense, atmospheric thriller with its majestic ­Glacier National Park setting. The Wild Inside is a stunning debut!”

  —Deborah Crombie, New York Times bestselling author of To Dwell in Darkness

  “An intense and thoroughly enjoyable thrill ride. Christine Carbo’s literary voice echoes with her love of nature, her knowledge of its brutality, and the wild and beautiful locale of Montana. The Wild Inside is a tour de force of suspense that will leave you breathlessly turning the pages late into the night.”

  —Linda Castillo, New York Times bestselling author of The Dead Will Tell

  “The brutality and fragility of Glacier National Park’s wilderness provides the ­perfect backdrop for this well-crafted, absorbing novel about the barbarities and kindnesses of the humans living on its edge. Christine Carbo is a writer to watch.”

  —Tawni O’Dell, New York Times bestselling author of One of Us

  “Grizzly bears, murder, mauling, and mayhem mix in Carbo’s debut novel. Ted ­Systead’s past and present intersect in an unexpected—and chilling—manner against the incongruously gorgeous backdrop of Glacier National Park.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Sharp, introspective Systead is a strong series lead, and Carbo rolls out solid procedural details, pitting him against Department of the Interior bureaucrats. The grittiness of the poverty-wracked area surrounding Glacier plays against the park’s dangerous beauty in this dark foray into the wilderness subgenre. Put this one in the hands of those who enjoy Paul Doiron’s Mike Bowditch novels and Julia Keller’s Bell Elkins series.”

  —Booklist

  For Mathew,

  Congratulations to my 2017 graduate!

  “Where guilt is, rage and courage doth abound.”

  —BEN JONSON

  1

  * * *

  Gretchen

  I’D LOVE TO tell you the person I am now has nothing to do with the girl I was when I lived in Sandefjord, a quaint port town on the southern tip of Norway. I was born there, a place where the sun glinting on the navy-colored, foamy bay made you feel alive, and the crisp air gusting in from the North Sea ensured you never forgot your strong-blooded, Nordic roots. I lived a typical, healthy life with my family—skiing, sledding, skating—until everyone: my mother, my father, my grandparents, my aunts and uncles, the neighbors, my classmates, my teachers . . . quit trusting me. I quit trusting me.

  It had been exactly five years and two months since the last time I had gone through a phase of my dreaded sleepwalking habit, when I was twenty-five. I have had what professionals call a REM behavior disorder—a condition that takes sleepwalking to absurd levels—since I was a child. Unlike most people who frame each day with an awakening from sleep and a submission back into it, I learned that the bracket on the slumbering end of my frame was seriously flawed. After a busy or stressful day when most people relish the thought of snuggling into their beds, wrapped in warm covers, their heads sinking into soft ­pillows and sliding blissfully into a world of dreams where time ceases to exist, I fear going to sleep—sometimes dread it.

  But I had begun to think I might be over my syndrome—that I’d succeeded in prying myself away from my younger self, that ­treacherous girl, like I was a toy comprised of two plastic parts held together only by stubborn glue. Unfortunately, I was wrong, and my dis­order began rearing its ugly head again one warm summer morning in August. Later, my doctor would say it was the heat and the particle­filled air that acted as a trigger, but I came to see its resurfacing as much more fated—a deeper prompt forcing me to dredge up raw, unwelcome memories.

  I woke up at my usual six a.m. alarm and noticed the light covers—a sheet and thin blanket—tangled and pushed to the bottom of the bed. I gave myself the benefit of the doubt. After all, it had been a hot night. All summer the temperature had hovered upward of ninety-five degrees and half the Northwest was on fire. Montana was no exception. Fires burned to the east, west, north, and south of the Flathead Valley, and the ones raging in and around Glacier National Park had started more than four weeks earlier. Now the thick smoke blanketed the mountains and choked the valley, making each day feel like an apocalyptic event lurked around the corner.

  I’d closed the windows the night before because it seemed better to suffer the heat than to inhale the dense, toxic air. A fly had furiously buzzed along the windowsill, captive in the stagnant room. For a good half hour, I listened to its maddening buzz and its random, annoying flights. After I tried to swat at it when it flew too close to my face a number of times, it settled somewhere on the ash-covered sill and left me alone. I finally drifted off listening to the whir of the ceiling fan. Of course, I thought, such circumstances would give anyone a restless night. I’d probably just kicked the covers down to get some air.
r />   I swung my feet to the wood-planked floor, pleased to feel the smooth slats under my soles, and sat for a second rubbing my arms. The morning light filtered through the smoky sky and stretched across the golden floor like gauze, turning it a sickly yellowish orange. I looked out the window, hopelessly wanting to see something wet—some freshly soaked pavement, leaves dripping with moisture, or soil darkened by rain. It was bone-dry, the grass in the small yard turned beige, the leaves on the tips of the bushes tinged yellow. The pine trees in the side woods appeared diseased with reddish-brown needles, many already fallen and desiccated on the forest floor as if it were fall. There was no relief in the forecast.

  I picked up my phone from the bedside table and checked for messages. There were none, so I headed to the bathroom to shower and get ready to go into the lab. Nothing too pressing was going on, but I needed to finish some paperwork on a deceased man—a young firefighter, in fact—from the day before. He’d been found separated from his crew, sitting still against a tree as if he were simply enjoying a peaceful moment in the forest, watching swallows diving in and out of branches or listening to the chickadees sing their songs, before continuing on his way. Only, in these fire-infested woods, there would be no birdsong. The ME determined that it was his heart—an ­arrhythmia—but we’d been called in before the ME made that determination just in case there was foul play.

  I’d almost forgotten about my bedcovers when I looked in the mirror one last time, checking that my shoulder-length blond hair was secured neatly away from my face and that the small amount of blush I’d applied wasn’t on too thick. Not out of vanity, I just hated too much makeup. My fair skin didn’t take it well, so I picked up a tissue and gently wiped my cheekbones to dab up any excess color and lighten the effect of the already faint pink powder.

  There were certain things you picked up from your mother whether you wanted to or not, and I could still hear her words: ­Amerikanske jenter bruker for mye sminke. American girls wear too much makeup. After moving to Seattle from Norway at age eighteen, I went for months painting on as much cover-up and thick mascara as possible just to separate myself from the au naturel Nordic girl that my family knew. Just to ensure that when I looked in the mirror, I could almost pretend I was Americansk and not notice the ghostly, nearly translucent skin and the treacherous blue eyes staring back, constantly questioning who I was and why the hell I was alive.

  Eventually, I couldn’t fight reality anymore and gave up one day after looking at myself and realizing I loathed the disguise just as much as I hated the girl underneath the raccoon liner, deep rosy blush, and mauve lipstick. That was the last time I wore heavy makeup.

  I threw the tissue in the trash and headed to the kitchen to make some coffee. When I stepped into the living room, I stopped immediately. The shelves on the other side of the room stood vacant except for two cast-iron book weights formed in the shape of easy chairs. My books weren’t there. All of them, probably fifty—paperbacks, hardbacks, and all my forensic texts—had been taken down. Instead, four rows of stacked books, each slightly crooked, rose in columns before the fireplace. I glanced at my small dining room off to my right. Two dining chairs stood peculiarly on top of the oak table.

  What else had I done? I, of course, considered whether I had left the house or not, perhaps walked down the street in my underwear in the middle of the night—maybe even peed on some of the neighbor’s bushes. But, even though I work in forensics, it doesn’t take a super sleuth to check out the scene. I had taken a look around, filled in a few blanks, and discerned I’d done nothing crazy.

  All my doors were locked, my key still hidden in its jar above the refrigerator, unmoved since I’d set it there before going to bed. My doors require keys for both entering and leaving. Since I’m not particularly tall, no more than five-four, I would have had to have grabbed either a chair or my footstool to reach above the refrigerator. All signs indicated that I’d only set the two chairs on the dining table and not messed with the other two. This I could also tell by a slight film of dust that had collected on the floor, since I hadn’t eaten at my dining room table in months. And my footstool with its worn red, blue, and gold embroidered flowers and wooden lion’s feet was exactly where I’d left it: near my closet in the bedroom with a pile of dirty clothes draped across it.

  When I purchased the house, the locksmith thought I was crazy for wanting key locks that worked both ways, but as I mentioned, I don’t trust myself. Not since I was exactly fifteen years and three months old. My parents used to try to convince me that there were plenty of people in the same boat—those who felt like they couldn’t maintain control at certain times: alcoholics, drug addicts, people with anger-­management issues. But my issue was different because I had always been fine during my waking moments. It was the nighttime that posed problems. Besides, I could see in their worried expressions, their furrowed brows and tear-filled eyes, that they didn’t entirely believe the logic themselves, especially my mom. She wanted to, but ultimately, she couldn’t. No one predicted that something as innocent as sleep could be lethal for me, for my family.

  I pushed down the sickening feeling that rose inside of me. I marched over, grabbed each chair, and scooted it back under the table where it belonged. “Shit,” I mumbled out loud to no one. Herbal tea, I thought, something without caffeine. I need herbal tea before I put away those damn books.

  2

  * * *

  Monty

  I’VE ALWAYS KNOWN that Glacier is a magical place: sculpted by glacial snowfields, shaped by bitter wind, wrought by hammering rain, carpeted by heavy snow, and scorched by fires. And even in the worst of circumstances, its beauty, cut over a billion years by remarkable forces, has a way of shining through.

  It’s what I loved most about it, and so have millions of visitors each summer: how you could have had the worst day, week, or even year of your life; gotten your ass chewed out by a boss or a parent; or had an awful fight with your wife, friend, or kid, but the second you entered Glacier, you could begin to feel the angst, the worries, the fears fall away, dissolving against the serrated edges of the peaks.

  But not on this particular day. Because of the dense smoke swathing everything in a murky haze, not an ounce of Glacier’s exquisiteness had been able to shine through in the past few days.

  After a morning of meetings about the spread of the fires and the trail and campground closures, assigning area patrols to ensure that all hikers and visitors continued to be safely evacuated from certain backcountry sites, my boss, Joe Smith—chief of Park Police—sent me to the southern border of the park, to a small town called Essex. It was sandwiched between two fires blazing in or near Glacier National Park, one on the west side of the town named the Sheep Fire because of its proximity to Sheep Creek, and one on the park side called the Ole Fire because of its closeness to Ole Creek. Essex was now being evacuated.

  Essex had been on the Set mode of the Ready, Set, Go evacuation model for the past two days, and reached Go today as Sheep and Ole began to charge the ridges closer to the town. Joe Smith and Sheriff Walsh from Flathead County had ordered residents to vacate under ­authority of an Incident Commander who’d been called in once the fires were deemed a Type One Event. Eugene Ford, Glacier’s superintendent, had signed a delegation of authority to the IC to lead the Incident Command Unit, a system that works as an umbrella structure over all the various organizations to prevent it from becoming one huge train wreck. Glacier, its rangers and Park Police, the county sheriff’s office, the Forest Service, the Hot Shot crews, the equipment and hand crews, and so on would all temporarily answer to the IC. Currently, pilot cars were leading lines of vehicles out of the area and soon the road would be closed to all travelers.

  When I finally arrived in Essex at the Walton Ranger Station, not far from the Burlington Northern Santa Fe railroad, another Park Police officer working the area, Tara Reed, met me. Dressed in a Park Police uniform identical to
mine—navy trousers and a light blue shirt—Tara had long dark hair streaked with a rich silver that gave her an exotic look, and wore it pulled back in a braid. She was maybe in her early forties, with olive skin and warm eyes framed by soft laugh lines. I’d known her since I joined eight years before. She was one of the first to grab a cup of coffee with me, show me around, and fill me in on what was what, who was nice, who was cranky, and who was screwing whom, figuratively and literally.

  “Shit, it’s brutal out here,” I said as I put my hard hat on, just as she had. It was safer that way, with debris flying from the trees that the men were felling.

  “Definitely not the kind of summer we long for,” she said, her voice raspy, not from the smoke. Her voice always had a husky quality. “I’d take rain over this any day.”

  “Chief just wants us to check on the area where they’re breaking the line—make sure there are no tourists or hikers still around, ­making their way back from Scalplock Peak or Essex Creek to Izaak Walton Inn or something.”

  “I doubt anyone’s out here since those areas have been closed, but I guess you never know.”

  She and I walked over to where the crew was creating a fuel break from the Essex Creek trestle to Dickey Creek. We passed a backhoe closer to the railroad, its large forklike hand grabbing trees by their roots and yanking them up, wakes of soil falling in all directions. The steady, loud grate of its motor and the screech of its brakes every time it paused to back up or shift directions pierced the normally quiet woods.

  It looked like a war zone, and I knew it was grueling, dirty, and sweaty labor. At least fifty men with red hard hats, beige heavy-duty work suits, and supply packs on their backs were heading out, each with a Pulaski—a tool that is a combination of an axe and a shovel—over his shoulder. Another thirty or so scattered about trying to clear all potential sources of fuel—dry brush and deadfall—from the ridge below the flames. I knew from the earlier meeting that some of the men had been going at it since three a.m. and would continue to do so all day until it got too dark to work safely, or the fire activity became too dangerous to continue.