A Darkness Absolute

by Kelley Armstrong

  "You have a goddaughter? How old?"

  She waves a finger. "Uh-uh. I know the suicide prevention tricks. Get me to talk, remind me of my life."

  "Actually, I was just making conversation."

  "Do you know what I used to dream of in that hole, Casey? Even more than killing myself?" She waves around us.

  "The icehouse?"

  A burst of a laugh. "No. Good one, though. Lighten the mood. That's another trick. I dreamed of Rockton. Do you know why I'm here?"

  "Eric filled me in. He maintains the privacy of residents unless I need to know more. I needed to know more."

  Nicole was the daughter of a cartel accountant. When she was ten, the Feds got hold of her father. The cartel murdered his wife, the message being he still had two children, so he might want to keep his mouth shut. Instead, he took his family into witness protection, which would have worked out better if the cartel hadn't had a few DEA officers on its payroll.

  After a couple of close calls, her father withdrew his family from the program, figuring he could hide them better himself. Then, when Nicole was twenty-four, living under an assumed name, the cartel sent photos of her to her father, who did the one thing he thought would finally solve the problem--took his own life. The cartel still pursued, believing her father had had money and information, which he'd bequeathed to his children. When Nicole was twenty-nine, they caught up with her older brother and killed him. A year later, she arrived in Rockton.

  "I spent my life not knowing the meaning of safe," she says. "For me, safe was that honeymoon period after we moved--yet again. When I felt secure enough to sleep in a bed, not huddled in the closet, clutching a knife, being very quiet so my father wouldn't find me. Do you know what he'd do if he found me there? Cry. I don't think there's anything worse than seeing your father cry."

  She shifts on the bale. "When I was little, my father was safety for me. Nothing bad could happen if he was there. And then that changed. He'd catch me in the closet, clutching my knife, and tears would roll down his cheeks, and he'd hug me, shaking, and all I could think was He can't protect me. He didn't protect my mother. He couldn't protect us. And if your dad can't? Well, then, no one can."

  A pause before she continues. "For most of my life, safe was the six months after we ran. That's how long it'd take the cartel to find us. I'd spend one month waiting to see if they followed. Three months being able to sleep. Then I had to start worrying again, knowing they were coming. They were always coming."

  She sets the pick on her lap. I don't let my gaze follow it, or she'll know I'm not letting it out of my sight. I just have to grab it--she lacks the strength to fight me. But I won't. She needs to talk. I need to hear what she has to say.

  She continues, "When I came to Rockton, I spent the first week sleeping with my back to the wall, holding a stolen knife. I'd listen to people in the street, out having a drink, laughing, flirting, goofing around. Then, one night, there was a knock at the door. It was Petra and Will and a few others wanting to know if I'd like to come out for a drink. And I'm standing at the door, with a knife behind my back, saying no, I'm fine, thanks. Then, after they leave, Will comes back, and I'm clutching that knife, certain this is it--the others are gone, and I'm alone with this guy, and he's going to do something. He tells me I should keep my windows shut at night. The weather's been good, so people are leaving them open, and there's been a rash of break-ins. By ravens."

  She chokes on a laugh. "Ravens. After he left, I cried. I was ashamed of myself, jumping to conclusions about him, but even more? I was ashamed of myself for being afraid. No one was going to find me here. I was safe. Safe." She looks me in the eye. "Do you know what that feels like? When you haven't felt it in so long?"

  I think of all the years I spent waiting for Leo Saratori to find me. Not frightened. Just resigned. He would come, and I would die, and there was no point building a life for myself when it could end at any moment.

  "Yes," I say. "I do."

  She peers at me, and then nods. "So you understand." She stretches her legs, winces with the movement. "I know this town has problems. But that's what I dreamed of, in that hole. Coming back to Rockton."

  Given what happened out here, I would expect Nicole be holed up threatening to take her life if we didn't get her back to civilization. And yet I do understand. What happened took place out there. She'd broken Rockton's rules and left the safety of the town. Her sanctuary had not betrayed her. All the months she'd been in that hole, she'd held Rockton as a talisman.

  If only I could be there. If only I could get back there.

  "I'll speak to Eric," I say.

  *

  "She needs medical care," Anders says after I explain the situation. "I am totally sympathetic to her situation, and I'll support her coming back after she's treated. But I am not a doctor."

  "What exactly is wrong with her?" I ask. "Besides malnutrition."

  He throws up his hands. "I have no idea. Because I'm not a doctor."

  Diana has been hovering on the edges of the discussion, everyone too preoccupied to tell her to leave. She pipes in with "So what you're saying, basically, is that you don't want to be responsible if she's hurt worse than she seems."

  He turns on her. "Yes, Diana. Exactly. You want to fault me for that? Go ahead. But I will not be responsible for missing something critical."

  "I'm no expert either," she says. "But it seems to me there isn't anything critical. Not physically. What she needs most is care for this." She taps her head. "Which means keeping her calm and seeing what happens. It's not like we can ship her off to Whitehorse today anyway. You guys didn't find her comatose, barely alive. She's not at risk of dying tomorrow or the next day or even a month from now."

  Isabel shoos Diana off, politely enough. Diana doesn't argue. She's past that, too, which is probably Isabel's influence, convincing her that being a pain in everyone's ass is only going to--again--hurt her.

  Once she's gone, Isabel lowers her voice and says, "Diana has a point. Nicole's physical health is stable; her mental health is not."

  Dalton rubs his chin. "Any other circumstance, I would send her south, but..."

  "We're a self-sustaining community," I say. "With no room for anyone suffering serious physical or mental issues, but making her leave after what happened feels inhumane."

  "Yeah," he says. "Thing is, though, I can bluster about the weather, tell the council it might be weeks before I can fly out again, but that's all. Nicole's going to want a guarantee, probably for the rest of her term. Which is not happening."

  Residents are promised a two-year stay, and they cannot leave sooner than that. They may, however, stay up to five years, if they pull their weight and don't cause trouble.

  "She'd settle for a year," I say.

  "Also not happening. The council won't let her stay when it'll be months before she's in any shape to earn her keep."

  "Leave this to me."

  TWELVE

  One person who hadn't been included in our "town meeting"? The actual town leader. I've never quite figured out what Val Zapata's official title is. I think no one uses it because that would legitimize her position, and really, she's nothing more than a mouthpiece for the council. We don't deliberately exclude Val. The first time I suggested she be consulted on a town matter, Dalton had snorted and told me to go ahead and invite her. I did. She refused. I've come to suspect she's hiding here, too, unable to leave, resenting Rockton and everyone in it for that.

  We're sitting in Val's living room now. Her home is structurally the same as mine and Dalton's, like everyone with jobs important enough to earn their own house. They're comfortable little chalets, one and a half stories, wood, less than a thousand square feet, identical in their construction. There's not much room for architectural flair in Rockton. Inside, though, is where people make the house a home. Unless they're Val. Her place looks exactly like mine did when I moved in, without so much as a decorative pillow on the sofa.

  We're on the r
adio with Phil, the faceless voice of the council. Others are there, tele-linked in, but we never hear them. I have this mental image of a half dozen middle-aged white dudes in suits, sitting in their offices, speakers on, cell phones in hand to text messages to Phil, their gazes fixed on stock exchange tickers. To them, Rockton is just another investment, not worthy of their undivided attention even as we discuss a tragedy I can barely comprehend.

  It's just Val, Dalton, and me in that living room. I shouldn't be here--my position doesn't warrant it unless I'm summoned. But I think everyone has decided it's really better for me to act as Dalton's spokesperson. Val certainly prefers it. To her, I am an intelligent, educated, well-spoken professional, and Eric Dalton is a knuckle-dragging redneck barely literate enough to write his own name. If she's ever been in his house and seen the walls lined with books, she must have told herself they're insulation.

  When I finish explaining the situation with Nicole, I'm not sure if the council is still awake. No one says a word.

  "Obviously, we don't have the medical expertise for a proper--" I begin.

  "We are well aware of your current medical situation," Phil says, boredom edged by the faintest note of exasperation, as if we were complaining about the lack of Internet. "You will get a doctor when a qualified one applies for sanctuary."

  "I'm not complaining. I'm stating a fact related to this case. Will Anders has assessed Nicole and determined she's suffering from everything you'd expect from someone confined in a tiny cave. Malnutrition. Muscle deterioration. Visual impairment."

  "Yes, yes, we know."

  "No," Dalton cuts in, "you don't know. She was kept in a hole barely big enough to lie down in. Held captive by some psychopath. Raped--"

  "We don't need the details, Sheriff."

  "Yeah, you do, and I'm sorry if those fucking details mess up your fucking day, but--"

  I cut him off with a look. He might be telling them everything I'd love to say, but it's not productive. We both know it's not.

  "Nicole has been subjected to extreme trauma," I say. "The problem is that, as you might imagine, she's eager to leave Rockton and put this whole experience behind her. But we can't let that happen. She's in such a delicate mental state that no matter what precautions you take, Isabel strongly fears Nicole will find a way to tell her story to the world. That would endanger Rockton."

  There's a noise at the other end of the phone, as if I finally have his attention.

  "Nicole is a good person," I say. "She doesn't want to cause trouble. But she's in deep psychological pain, and she wants her captor caught. To her, that will mean bringing in the RCMP. What we need to do is prove that we can find him. We can punish him. That's all she wants. When she sees that we can do the job at least as well as the Mounties, she'll relax and heal and reach the point where she'll leave happy and stable."

  "Can you do that?"

  "Find her captor? I--"

  "At this point, that's the lesser of our concerns."

  Not the lesser of mine. Or anyone who actually has to live here. I bite my tongue, and Phil says, "I meant, can you convince her to stay?"

  I take a moment, as if this requires deep consideration. "Isabel believes we can. We'll start by using the storm as an excuse. Then we'll show her that we're on the case, putting all of our efforts into tracking down her captor. I might even be able to convince her that once we find him, she would still be safer here. I think it's best to be upfront about timing. I would say it could be as much as a year, to be completely sure she's fine before she leaves. Does that work?"

  "It does. Thank you, Detective. Your diligence and foresight in this matter is appreciated."

  *

  I'm back in the icehouse. When I tell Nicole that we've bought her a year, she breaks down in tears. When she recovers, I say that her stay is dependent on her health remaining stable, of course, and if she must leave, I'll do my best to let her return. She doesn't argue--it's obvious we're not going to risk her health. When I confess about the story I had to weave to buy her time, she finds a laugh for me.

  "Clever," she says. "You know how to handle them. I'll be sure not to tell anyone that I wanted to stay."

  "Thank you. Now, I'd like to keep you under guard for a while. We'll also assign a caretaker, until you're stronger."

  "Can it be Diana?"

  I hesitate. "We'll see if she can be spared. For now, let's get you home and resting. I'm going to have questions--a lot, I'm afraid. If you're up to it, I'd like to come by in a few hours. I know that doesn't give you much time to rest."

  "You're trying to find the bastard who did this. I'm here for whatever you need."

  *

  I'm walking with Dalton through the perimeter woods, heading to my place. We're narrowing down local suspects. Yes, we know Nicole's captor might be a hostile or a settler. But presuming it's an outsider is the worst kind of gut-level community policing. The sad truth is that a crime like this is more likely to be committed by a local ... and someone known to the victim.

  "Sex offenders normally shoot to the top of the list," I say. "Except the ones we have aren't the right type. Not for anyone over the age of sixteen."

  We have pedophiles rather than rapists, the council apparently declaring the former low-risk, given that we don't have kids here. I could see that as a sign that they care about the residents, but in reality, they're like actuaries, measuring risk and profit, and saddling us with habitual violent offenders of any type just isn't good business.

  We're discussing the possibility that one of our pedophiles rechanneled his frustrated drives. If I were having this conversation with some of my co-workers down south, I'd get the a-perv-is-a-perv argument. When it comes to criminology, Dalton is the best-read partner I've had, and it really is an academic discussion--given the nature of pedophilia, what is the chance they'll substitute adult rape?

  We're passing the station when Anders catches up. Dalton tells him we're heading to my place for a rest, Anders says, "What about ... that thing?"

  "It can wait," Dalton says.

  I sigh. "Let me guess. Crisis number twenty-seven awaits? If someone took firewood and didn't pay again, it's Jen. And if it's not her, she's almost certainly done something to deserve a day on snow-shoveling duty, so I'm fine scapegoating her. There. Case solved."

  "It's not a case," Anders says. "Eric brought you ... a thing."

  That has me perking up. "A present?"

  "It can wait," Dalton says.

  "Hell, no," I say. "I could very much use the distraction. Give me the thing. Now."

  Anders snickers.

  "Get your mind out of the gutter," I say. "If I was being dirty, I wouldn't use a grade-school euphemism."

  "Hey, your mind went the same place."

  "Only when you snickered like a schoolboy." I look at Dalton. "I want the thing. Whatever it is."

  "You'll get it. Later. You need to rest and--"

  "I need the thing."

  "You heard her, boss. She needs the thing. Yeah, it's bad timing, but you have to give it to her sooner or later. You've offered it, and she's not going to rest until she gets it." He pauses. "This conversation isn't sounding any less dirty, is it?"

  "It's just you," I say. "Go work. I get the feeling Eric will be a lot more comfortable giving me the thing without you around."

  Anders laughs, shakes his head, and jogs off.

  I look at Dalton. "In all seriousness. I'm fine with waiting."

  "No, it's not something that should wait. It's just..." He rakes his hair back and sighs. "Fucking lousy timing. Shoulda waited until spring, but I got ahead of myself, and fuck, I probably shouldn't have gotten it at all without telling you."

  "Eric? Babble never helps. Even profanity-laden babble. What you're saying is that you've bought me a gift and you're not sure it's appropriate."

  "Yeah."

  "Then give it to me now, or just tell me I'll get it later."

  He resumes walking but changes direction, and soon we
're at Petra's place. He raps on the door, and when she answers, he says, "I'm here to pick up that ... thing."

  She grins. "Ah, right. The thing." She leans against the doorpost, blocking our view inside. "Sorry, Sheriff. I've misplaced the thing. You'll have to come by another time. Maybe next week? I'll have found it by then."

  He shakes his head.

  "Fine." She looks at me. "I'm keeping your thing, Casey. You wouldn't want it, so I'm doing you a favor."

  There's a noise from in her apartment. It sounds like ...

  "Is ... that a whine?" I say.

  "Wine? Not here. Try the Red Lion."

  She starts to close the door. Dalton catches it and ushers me through.

  "Private property, Sheriff," Petra says.

  "It's Rockton," I say. "There is no private property." I try to brush past her, following the faint sound of whining, but Dalton catches my arm and says, "Remember you said we should consider getting animals again? Working animals."

  My smile grows to a grin.

  "A working animal," he says. "Not a pet. We can't have pets here. But she needs a master, someone to train her and live with her so--"

  I'm already past him and down the hall. The whining comes from Petra's bedroom. When I throw open the door, a blur of black fur zooms over and stops short when it realizes I'm a stranger.

  I see it, and I let out the kind of noise I've never let out in my life, the kind girls in school would make over new shoes or a hot guy, and I'd roll my eyes and think, Seriously?

  I make that noise.

  Behind me, Petra's laughing, and I'm dimly aware that I'm totally ruining my rep, but I don't care. I'm on the floor with this giant mop of black fur in vaguely puppy shape. It's on my lap, wriggling and whining as if it doesn't care that it's never seen me before in its life--I am its new best friend.

  It's a black puppy with a streak of white on one ear, and as it licks my face, I spot a black tongue. I stop, my arms still around it, and I turn to Dalton, and I can barely get the words out. "It's a--You got me a--"

  That's all I can manage, and I swear I'm going to cry. I never cry. Certainly not happy tears. I've never even been sure those are a real thing, but that's what wells up now.