The Weight of Night

by Christine Carbo

  Wendy waved me in from her desk, and Kyle sat in one of the two office chairs. “Excuse me. Sorry to bother you. I wanted to catch you before you left.”

  “That’s okay. You remember Kyle?”

  “Of course. Hey, Kyle. Good to see you again.” It had been a while, and Kyle looked older and taller, more like a young man, but still a teen, brooding and lanky. He wore a black T-shirt and a thin yellow-checked flannel shirt over it, rolled up at the sleeves. He looked like he hadn’t had a good meal in a while or a decent night of sleep. He had dark circles under his eyes and tattoos of vines and bloodred flowers ran down both his pale arms and onto his hands. The tattoos probably disguised the needle tracks Wendy had told me about. I wondered where he’d been this time.

  Kyle glanced up at me and barely nodded, then shoved one hand in his back pocket and pulled out an electronic game, leaning over, his elbows propped on both knees, his thumbs beginning to work the controls.

  Wendy looked at me with a torn look that said, I’m relieved he’s back, but here we go again. “Kyle,” Wendy snapped at him, “Gretchen asked you how you’re doing. Can you please answer?”

  He stared blankly at me again, showing zero emotion, then looked back to his device and started mindlessly pressing away once more.

  “That’s okay,” I said. “I just need to know if you’ve got any hits before you leave.”

  Wendy walked over and stood next to him. “Give me that.” She held out her hand for the game.

  “It’s okay,” I said again. “I just—”

  “No, it’s not okay. Kyle”—Wendy held out her palm—“Gretchen is being polite to you and you’re being rude. Give me that or I will keep your car keys and your phone even longer than I already plan to.” It seemed like an inadequate and lame attempt to rein him in, in light of the fact that he’d just disappeared for several days of his own volition, a finger in the dyke.

  Kyle lifted the game and slowly placed it in his mother’s hand, his eyelids heavy with boredom and disdain. That look reminded me of Per. Kyle in no way resembled Per. Per had wavy, dirty blond hair and the clean-shaven looks of Adonis. Kyle had dark hair and translucent skin. But both of them shared otherworldly luminescent bluish-green eyes and a good dose of petulance. Perhaps all seventeen-year-old boys, no matter where they came from, had that petulant look.

  But Kyle really did it justice. His jeans were several sizes too large, and even seated I could see he wore them low enough to expose his boxers underneath. His hair looked like it hadn’t seen a bottle of shampoo or a comb in weeks. His whole appearance was designed to give the finger to society and all its rules.

  “Thank you,” Wendy said, but I could see a deep strain in her frown, her jaw flexed with anxiety. “Where did you get this anyway?” She placed it on her desk, her brow furrowed.

  Kyle shoved his hands back in his jean pockets and stared vacantly at the wall of her office without answering. Wendy gave a loud exhale and turned to me. “Sorry about that, G. What can I do for you?”

  “I just need the completed file on the truck. Any hits on the other print?”

  “No, other than the boy’s, Stewart’s, and Brady’s, nothing in the system matches the other set. I’ve been comparing all afternoon, but I can’t find anything conclusive.”

  Wendy went behind her desk, picked up a folder, and handed it to me. I walked back to my office, feeling sorry for Wendy again. Kyle was showing no signs of snapping out of this phase of teenage dysfunction and immaturity.

  But as I rounded the corner to my office, it hit me: the game. Monty had mentioned a game. A current raced through me, but only for a second. It struck me as odd that a seventeen-year-old would be playing with one of those Nintendo devices, but Wendy had said she’d taken away his phone, so perhaps a game was the next best thing. On instinct, I turned and went back to the office, gave a small rap on the door and went back in.

  Kyle had stood from his chair, and Wendy was grabbing her purse. “We’re going to head out now.” Wendy twitched her head in the direction of Kyle and gave me a sad, knowing, and apologetic look.

  “No problem. Ray and I have got it handled.” My gaze went to her desk to see if she or Kyle had grabbed the game. It was still there, but as soon as I noticed, Wendy grabbed it and threw it in her desk. “I’ll call you in a bit.” Wendy sighed again and looked at Kyle. “Let’s go.”

  Kyle followed her out, his shoulders slouching with the tedium of being with his mother and his gaze on his own boot-clad feet.

  I walked with them down the hall toward my office, said good-bye, then went back to my desk, telling myself I was being completely paranoid and silly.

  • • •

  I had just finished talking to Ray about how much longer he’d need with some trace that he’d found—particles or materials that could have been transferred into the truck from the abductor—when Monty called and insisted that he needed to see me. “I can’t,” I told him. “I’m busy.”

  “I’ve got a file you left last night. I guess it fell on the floor. Anyway, I’m going to stop by and drop it off before you leave for the day.”

  “No,” I said too quickly. I didn’t want him anywhere near my place of work, even if the workday was practically over and Wendy was headed home. Ray was still working and I didn’t need Monty asking me questions about the night before within earshot. “I’ll meet you somewhere.”

  “Good,” he said. “Where?”

  We agreed that he’d text me when he got into Kalispell and we’d meet in the park next to my building. When his message popped up on my screen, I sighed, grabbed my bag, and left.

  The storm had washed the air clean in the valley, and I hadn’t seen the sky so bright all summer—almost Smurf blue—but I’d heard on the radio that the lightning had struck up more fires, including one on Desert Mountain close to West Glacier and the canyon. Luckily, the wind stayed light, and for now the fires were being contained on the east side of the park and on the eastern edge of the canyon.

  I found Monty sitting on a bench staring straight at the grass ahead with his legs planted firmly apart and his arms crossed—as if even waiting in a city park on a glorious day under a sky that stretched into oblivion and birds chirping all around comprised some sort of a mission. He turned when he heard me approach and stood up.

  “No, sit.” I motioned with my hand, but he didn’t. He waited for me to take a seat as well, but I didn’t either. I avoided his eyes, still embarrassed and still anxious about the can of worms I’d opened up by falling asleep at his place.

  “Sit,” he said.

  “No, it’s okay. I’m in a hurry. Tons of work to do still. You’ve got a file of mine?”

  “Yeah.” He nodded, but I didn’t see a file in his hands or on the bench and he didn’t have his carrier bag with him.

  “So, where is it?” Impatience rose in me.

  “In the car. I can get it in a sec. Can’t you sit for one minute?”

  The six o’clock sunshine, still bright, felt like a hot iron on my upper back, and I could feel my skin prickle with a new, light layer of perspiration. I looked over my shoulder back to the county justice building where the cool air-conditioning and the solitude of my office beckoned my return.

  This time, he actually said, “I won’t bite,” and motioned to the bench again. It was in the shade of a huge pine tree that appeared to be home to about fifty different birds and squirrels.

  I glanced back again to my building, hesitating, still avoiding his gaze.

  “I just want to chat for a second,” he said.

  I resigned only because the shade was inviting, and slumped onto the bench. “Why didn’t you bring the file? I thought that was the point of this.”

  “It is, and I’ll grab it, but I just wanted to chat.”

  “What about?”

  “About you. About last night.” />
  I crossed my arms and shook my head, letting him know that this was off-limits.

  “What? I find you sleepwalking into a river, endangering yourself, and you don’t want to talk about it. Do you sleepwalk a lot?”

  “No, no, I don’t.” I lied. “It was just a freak thing. I don’t know what happened.” I fibbed again. I could feel his dark eyes on me, but I didn’t dare look at him for fear my expression would expose my fraudulence. “I guess I haven’t gotten much sleep either, and these cases have been disturbing. I suppose it’s affected me too.”

  Monty sat quietly, not saying anything. I glanced at him out of the corner of my eyes, and I could tell he was thinking by the way his eyes narrowed in concentration.

  “So, let me get this straight, you’ve never sleepwalked before last night?”

  “I didn’t say that. I said, not often. When I was little, I’d walk around the house a bit, but that was a long time ago.”

  “Is that what happened to your face?”

  I didn’t answer him for a long moment. Finally, I said, “Why do you care?”

  “Why do you keep asking me that? Isn’t it obvious? Friends care about friends.” He sat forward with his elbows on his knees like he’d done on his couch. He rested the side of his forehead in one hand and turned his face to look at me. I stayed put with my arms folded at my chest and my legs crossed. If my body language didn’t say “stay away,” I don’t know what else would.

  “Okay, fair enough, but we have work to do. A boy’s missing, and we just dug up bones of an adolescent. Have you forgotten?”

  He gave me a deep frown, and I could tell I’d insulted him. He stood up from the bench and turned to me. “I’m not even going to answer that. If you don’t want to talk, fine. It’s not my business.”

  I sat still, not moving a muscle, but finally raised my eyes to look at him. I felt like a stubborn child, and suddenly I was fifteen again, racked by guilt. As anxiety climbed higher in my chest, I stood up too, but looked back at the ground.

  “I’ll grab your file,” he said, striding toward his car. I followed him, hustling to catch him. I thought of rushing to catch Per.

  When he handed the file to me, I thanked him, then took a breath, held it, and considered whether to bring up the game. It seemed silly now that we had the print on the seat belt of the Tuckman farm truck, not to mention that I’d already dumped my other theories on him, which he thought were stretches. I knew there could not possibly be a connection between Wendy’s son and that Chevy truck . . . a connection between Kyle and some missing young teenage boy in Glacier Park. What are the chances? I asked myself. Monty tipped his head to me, pivoted, and bent to get into his car. I let out my breath after realizing I was holding it. “And, Monty . . .”

  He stopped, holding his door open, and stood back up. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t at least ask about it. “That game you mentioned. The one the boy had?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What color was it?”

  Monty stared at me. “Black. Why?”

  “I feel silly saying anything. I mean, how many 3DS’s are out there in the world?”

  “A lot.”

  “Well, that’s just it. I’m sure it’s absolutely nothing, but . . .” I paused, thinking that by bringing it up, I was betraying Wendy and her son this way. She had enough trouble with him on her hands, and I was somehow introducing more.

  “But what?” Monty prodded.

  But still—the game really struck me, coincidental or not. And I’d already started, so now I needed to finish. “You know Wendy, my print examiner?”

  Monty nodded, his brow creased.

  “She has a son. He’s, well, he’s pretty much in and out of trouble all the time. You know the type. . . .” I knew Monty’s brother, Adam, had spent his teenage years mixed up in drugs and alcohol and was sent to a therapeutic school for teens not too far from Glacier.

  “I do,” Monty said with a knowing chuckle, and I was relieved to hear it, relieved to think he wasn’t too frustrated with me.

  “Anyway, she said he’d been missing for the past few nights—­something of a frequent occurrence—and he just returned today. Anyway, he was in the office with her and was playing a game—one of those 3DSs.”

  Monty ran his hand behind his neck. “And what makes you think it’s the kid’s?”

  “Nothing really. I don’t know, it just seemed weird and out of place—a kid his age and a delinquent to boot. The game seemed like a younger kid’s thing. But you’re right, I don’t have any good reason to believe it’s related. I shouldn’t have even brought it up.”

  “Did you see initials?”

  “No. Like I said. Nothing.” My cheeks heated suddenly, and I felt foolish for broaching the subject. I detested the idea that I would waste anyone’s time with irrational ideas, but I also knew that I still felt uneasy. I knew from experience in this job that ignoring a gut feeling could bite you hard later if you didn’t at least bother to check up on it. And the last thing I needed was remorse for leaving a stone unturned. “There’s no reason to think its Jeremy’s,” I said. “It just surprised me since I knew he had one, and Wendy had never seen it either. She confiscated it from him.”

  “Gretchen, we can’t exactly get a search warrant on every teenager out there who’s got a 3DS.”

  “I know. I know. Like I said. It’s nothing. Sorry to waste your time.”

  “You haven’t. Thanks for telling me. Every detail is important.” He turned back to get in his car, then paused. “What color was it?”

  “Black.”

  Monty didn’t move for a moment and didn’t speak either, just looked at me. I saw exhaustion and sadness in his face. I could tell he just wanted to help me, and I felt like I’d disappointed him by not answering his questions.

  Guilt shot through me. An image of Monty’s concerned look under the dark sky by the river flashed into my mind. I also recalled how he had looked out at the yurt site, like something stirred below the surface. A part of me hated to be the witch further stirring the pot, adding to the concern. I hated to put him in a position where he thought he needed to figure me out or help me in some way, but there was no way to avoid it. I was certain that if I told him about my past, he’d feel like he’d need to help me, and no one could ever do that.

  I knew Monty was too perceptive, too driven, not to dig when he suspected a mystery, that my silence would forever insert something heavy and awkward between us. A truck honked as it rounded the road circling the courthouse, and I flinched nervously. A raven flew out of the nearby giant pine, its dark shadow passing over us both. Monty watched me. Get a grip, I ordered myself, and shook off the sirens of self-loathing whispering to me from my own depths. “Okay then,” I said. “I’ve got to get back to work.”

  “Gretchen, it probably wouldn’t be a bad idea to see if there were some initials on the game. If, that is, it’ll help you sleep better.” He winked and I suppressed a smile.

  I didn’t say anything.

  “But you’re right—probably a long shot,” he added. “Just in case they’re JRC.”

  • • •

  I went back into the county building, finally letting a faint smile sneak onto my lips when I thought of Monty’s knack for diffusing tension. It was impossible to stay angry with him, even under the burden of my fear of being discovered.

  I sat before my microscope, studying the two hairs—one dark-­colored, one light, almost silvery gray—through the ocular lens. Ray had lifted them from the backseat of the truck. They were definitely human hairs, and we were lucky to have found them, given the antiseptic spray that was used, but not lucky enough to have the roots still attached on both, only to one. Apparently, the person who sprayed had missed several spots on the backseat. The hairs could belong to anyone who’d ridden in the truck over the years, so it was a long s
hot, but we’d still submit the one with the root attached to the lab in Missoula for DNA analysis.

  Ray emerged from his office, came over, and settled the side of his bony hip on the edge of my workstation, a bag of bite-size Dove chocolate bars in one hand. He held it out to me. “No, thanks,” I said.

  “What? You? No chocolate?”

  “Trying to cut back on caffeine.”

  “I hardly think a bite-size Dove is going make much of a difference in your caffeine consumption.”

  “Okay.” I stuck my hand in the bag, grabbing three.

  “Three?” Ray mocked. “On second thought, three might.”

  “Shut up,” I said. “I shouldn’t have said anything to you. Aren’t you going home soon?” I looked at the clock on the wall to see it was nearing six thirty.

  “I’m turning into a workaholic like you,” Ray smiled, then nodded to my microscope. “You looking at those hairs now?”

  “Yeah. This truck situation is a mess.”

  “Tell me about it. Three drivers. Not much trace and only a few prints. Even if we match the print to one of the farmhands, it doesn’t tell us anything other than that they drove it for their job. And with the key just hanging in the barn like that, out of view of the main house, practically anyone could have borrowed it.”

  “Or,” I said, “it was one of the farmhands who took the boy.”

  “Do they both have alibis?” he asked.

  “I heard that one of them didn’t. Said he was fishing, but no one can verify it.”

  “Well now, that sounds mighty fishy to me. . . .” He gave me a closed-lip grin.

  “Plus, he’s not offering up his prints.”

  “No shit? Who wouldn’t want to help find a missing child?”

  “Someone hiding something, I suppose.”

  Ray nodded. “We should be able to get some DNA from the one strand, but I don’t love the fact that it came from the backseat. The driver likely wasn’t ever back there, and if it belongs to the boy, then we’re only verifying what we already know from the print—that he was definitely in or around that vehicle. Hopefully the other strand leads us somewhere.”