THE DARK
V. M. Giambanco was born in Italy. She started in films as an editor’s apprentice in a 35mm cutting room and since then has worked on many award-winning UK and US pictures, from small independent projects to large studio productions. Valentina lives in London.
New York • London
Copyright © 2014 Valentina Giambanco
First published in the United States by Quercus in 2015
Cover photography © Alamy
Cover design © www.blacksheep-uk.com
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e-ISBN: 978-1-62365-678-2
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, institutions, places, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons—living or dead—events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
www.quercus.com
For Valeria Cardi Navach and Francesca Bellina Giambanco
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Last Night
Three Weeks and Five Days Earlier
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Acknowledgments
Ancient trees rise a hundred feet, red and yellow cedars next to black cottonwood and vine maples, their roots twisting out of deep green slippery moss and rotting wood.
Four men walk in single file. Young enough that the difficult terrain doesn’t slow their progress too much, old enough to know that this is the day their lives have irrevocably twisted and turned; they don’t speak to one another, because there is nothing to say.
Their leader wipes the perspiration off the back of his neck with a ragged square of gray cloth; he points at a dead branch that curves out of the dirt, ready to catch their feet; the others step carefully around it. He’s not a considerate man; he’s a nasty piece of work in a hurry to get his business done and get out of the forest.
The others follow him, wary of his moods and of the uneven ground; they look ahead and never turn around. If they did, they would see the boy held in the arms of the last man in the file, the boy who hasn’t drawn breath for what seems like hours. Eleven, maybe twelve years old, fair wavy hair, and pale lips. They grip their shovels and walk on.
The man carries the boy and keeps his eyes on the back of the guy in front. The child’s thin arms dangle low, and his hands brush the tall ferns. Then, as loud as a gunshot, a sharp intake of breath, and the boy’s eyes open wide. The man recoils, and the child slips from his arms onto the soft moss.
The boy doesn’t see the others turn as he lies on the cool ground; he’s breathing deeply, and above him, beyond the highest branches, the sky is so blue, it hurts to look at it.
Last night
Homicide detective Alice Madison tried to find in herself the last shreds of stillness. The woods creaked around her, and a puff of breeze soothed the cut on her cheek.
All the time she would ever have was right now. She was frayed with exhaustion and dread, and sanity seemed a lifetime away. It always came down to the same question, over and over again: How far are you prepared to go?
She pointed her Glock at the man in front of her and wondered if the soft evening wind would affect the bullet’s trajectory, whether the small chunk of metal would do what she was asking it to do or whether the twilight would affect her aim. Precision, carved out of intent and determination, was all she could hope for.
Alice Madison had never aimed at and shot a human being before walking into these woods, and this was not what the Police Academy had taught her. Her target was not a threat to her, himself, or others. Her target could barely stand on his feet.
Madison squeezed the trigger, and in her heart she knew she had a hit, the way a pitcher knows how the ball is going to curve as soon as it leaves his hand.
Three weeks and five days earlier
Chapter 1
Alice Madison shifted in the comfortable upholstered armchair and adjusted the holster that dug a little into her right side. She stole a glance out the wide window. Puget Sound shone in the pallid January light, its silver creased white in spots, and Mount Rainier rose from blue shadows in the distance.
She turned when she realized the silence had stretched longer than was polite. Dr. Robinson was watching her.
“Don’t worry. I know people come here for my sharp psychological insights but it’s the view they stay for,” he said.
He had made that joke the first time they’d met, a few weeks earlier. She smiled a little today as she had then, not entirely sure he was unaware he was repeating himself.
The sign in the lobby said STANLEY F. ROBINSON, PHD. The office on the fifteenth floor was smart, the colors muted.
The man was in his early fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair in a short cut and big brown eyes. A useful look for a psychologist who worked with cops: fairly unthreatening with bouts of inquisitiveness, she mused.
“How was your week?” he asked. Dr. Robinson’s desk was mercifully free of pads and pens. If he took notes, he did
so after their sessions.
“Good,” Madison replied. “Paperwork from a few old cases to tidy up. A domestic incident that turned out to be nothing. Pretty standard stuff.”
“Did you think about the forest incident? I mean, longer than for a few seconds during your day.”
“No.”
“Did you experience any unusual thoughts or have unusual reactions as you went about your business? I’ll let you tell me what’s unusual for you.”
“No, nothing unusual.”
“Any reaction to chloroform or other PTSD events?”
“No.”
“Anything at all about the last week or in general that you’d like to talk about?”
Madison had the good grace to at least pretend she was pondering the question.
“Not really,” she said finally.
Dr. Robinson mulled over her reply for a few moments. He sat back in his chair.
“Detective, how many sessions have we had to date?”
“This is the third.”
“That’s right, and this is what I’ve learned: you are a homicide detective; you joined your squad last November. That’s—what?—about two and a half months ago, give or take. You have degrees in psychology and criminology from the University of Chicago—good school, great football team. Your record at the Seattle Police Department is impeccable. You play well in the sandbox, and there are no red flags in your private life. Not so much as a traffic violation. With me so far?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Last December all hell breaks loose, and once the smoke clears, the PD sends you here to make sure you’re fit for work and ready to protect and to serve. You are very frank: you admit reacting badly to exposure to chloroform as a consequence of Harry Salinger’s attack on you and your partner, but that’s over. No panic attacks, no incidents of post-traumatic stress disorder. Nothing, after what happened in the forest. The boy, the rescue, the blood.”
He paused there, and Madison held his gaze.
“Do you know how long it took me to gain all this perceptive knowledge?” He didn’t wait for her to reply. “Seven minutes. The rest of the time what I got from you was ‘good’ and ‘pretty standard stuff’ and ‘nothing unusual.’”
“What do you want from me, Dr. Robinson?”
“Me? Nothing. I’m quite happy for you to come up here and just look at the view. You can do with the break, and I get paid either way. But here’s the thing: even though I will certify that you are, indeed, fit to work and ready to protect and to serve—because you are—it is simply unthinkable that those thirteen days in December left no trace on you. So, these observational goodies I’m giving you for free: you have occasional nightmares, possibly an exact memory of the event but more likely your own perception of the event and whatever troubles you about the nature of your own actions in it. And, most of all, I’m willing to bet you are careful never to be alone with your godson since you got him out of that forest. How am I doing?”
Madison didn’t reply.
“Good meeting you, Detective. Have a nice life.”
Dusk. Alice Madison parked her Honda Civic in her usual spot by Alki Beach. Her running gear was stashed in a gym bag in the trunk, but instead of retrieving it, she leaned against the hood and let the clean, salty air into her lungs. The Seattle–Bremerton ferry was going past, seagulls trailing in its wake. Bainbridge Island was a blue-green strip across the water, and downtown Seattle shimmered in the distance.
As far as she could remember, even as a newbie police officer with her crisply ironed uniform, Madison had come to Alki Beach to run after her shifts. The comfort of the sand under her feet and the rhythm of the tide after a hard day, the sheer physical release after a good day—this run had been a constant in her life, and Madison knew very well that there were precious few of those, and she was grateful for it.
Then, the last day of the year just gone, after the end of those thirteen days, Madison had come back to the beach, changed into her sweats, started running, and promptly slipped into a recollection so vivid, so physical, that she’d had to stop: the sweet smell of pine resin in her nostrils. Hands on her knees and water up to her ankles, her sneakers soaked. Any dreams you want to tell me about?
Her arm had healed; the rest of her would take whatever time it would take. Madison retrieved her gym bag and changed in the backseat of her car. Her first strides were hesitant, but she ignored the sense of a forest floor shifting under her feet and the sudden scent of blood. And she kept running.
The rush-hour traffic carried Madison onto California Avenue SW without any apparent effort on her part; she followed the flow south with the windows rolled down and her faded maroon University of Chicago hooded sweatshirt stuck to her back. She wiped the perspiration off her brow with a sleeve and drove, listening to the local news on the radio and not thinking about Stanley F. Robinson, PhD.
We find our blessings where we can, and Madison pulled into a parking space opposite Husky Deli and stretched her sore limbs as she locked her car.
Her grandfather had brought her here for an ice cream cone her first weekend in Seattle while her grandmother was busying herself in the market nearby. They’d sat at the counter; he’d looked at the twelve-year-old girl he barely knew and spoken to her in a way no one had spoken to her before.
“I hope you will like it here—I really hope you will. All I’m asking is that, should there be anything troubling you, anything at all, you talk to me, to your grandmother and me. I don’t know what, exactly, happened with your father, and I’m not asking that you tell us. I’m just asking that you don’t run away, that you don’t just leave in the middle of the night. And we’ll do our best to help you in any way we can.”
Then he’d put out his hand. Alice had looked at it; no one had ever asked for her word about anything. She passed her maple walnut cone into her left hand and shook with her right, sticky with sugar. Her grandparents kept their word, and so did she.
Madison rubbed the sole of her sneaker against the edge of the pavement where she’d parked the Civic to get rid of a significant amount of Alki Beach that had insinuated itself into the grooves. She mingled with the deli’s other shoppers and filled a basket with food for home, as well as a chicken cashew sandwich—no parsley—and broccoli cheese soup that would probably not make it home.
Standing at the counter, she appeared no different from anybody else.
“Whole or half?” the man asked.
“Whole.”
“Large or small soup?”
“Large.”
“Roll?”
“No, thank you.”
The man’s gaze lingered for a fraction of a second on the two-inch fine red line across her left brow; it would fade in time, the doctor had said. Madison hadn’t cared then and didn’t care today. All that mattered was that the scar made her a little bit more recognizable after the flurry of articles and media reports in early January.
The man nodded; from the look and sound of him, he must have been working in the place since bread was invented.
“Cone? Caramel swirl’s freshly made.”
Madison smiled. “Not today.”
She started sipping soup from the takeout container in the car, engine already running, and by the time she turned onto Maplewood and her driveway, the carton was empty.
Three Oaks is a green neighborhood on the southwestern edge of Seattle, on one side the still waters of Puget Sound and on the other patches of woodland and single family homes in well-tended yards.
Madison parked next to her late grandparents’ Mercedes and balanced her gym bag on one shoulder; her arm was wrapped around the grocery bag as she unlocked the door, toed the sandy sneakers off, and gently pushed the door shut with one foot.
She padded into the kitchen and unpacked the groceries. Without turning on the lights she crossed the living room and opened the French doors, letting in fresh air. The answering machine flashed red. She ignored it, settled herself into a wicker chair
on the deck, her feet on the wooden rail, and unwrapped the sandwich.
The backyard sloped down to a narrow beach that ran along the waterside properties; tall firs on either side worked better than a fence. In the half-light Madison looked at the plants, other trees, and shrubs: soon they would wake up for a new life cycle—the Japanese maples, the magnolias—each one planted and nurtured by her grandparents.
Madison knew next to nothing about gardening, yet she would weed, water, prune, and make sure that everything stayed alive, because her grandparents weren’t there to do it anymore. She worried that good intentions wouldn’t make up for ignorance. In her job they usually didn’t.
Once the stars were bright, Madison stepped inside. Her Glock went under the bed in its holster, and her backup piece—a snub-nosed revolver—was oiled and dry-fired. Madison peeled off her sweats and climbed into a long, hot shower.
The message had been from Rachel: “Tommy’s birthday party is next month. I hope you can make it.” Nothing but love and kindness in her voice.
You have occasional nightmares, possibly an exact memory of the event but more likely your own perception of the event and whatever troubles you about the nature of your own actions in it. And, most of all, I’m willing to bet you are careful never to be alone with your godson since you got him out of that forest.
The nature of your own actions. Madison wasn’t exactly sure she understood the nature of her own actions, and she was honest enough to admit to herself that there had been moments that night that she probably did not want to fully understand. The night had been a blur of fear and rage, and she didn’t know exactly how much of one or the other.
Tommy would be seven soon. On that awful night she had sung “Blackbird” to him, and he had come back to them, to life, to his red bicycle and his little boy’s games. Her godson would soon be seven, and Madison tried hard and failed to come up with an excuse not to go to his party.
As had been true every night since that day in December, her last thoughts went to two men: one in jail, locked behind bars and metal doors guarded by armed correction officers and yet more terrifyingly free than any human being she had ever met; and the other in the prison of his injuries, somewhere deep amid the echoing corridors and the silent rooms of a hospital a few miles away. His sacrifice had meant that Tommy would have a seventh birthday party. She could not think of one without the other.
The Dark Page 1