A Darkness Absolute

by Kelley Armstrong

  When I was young, my parents once had to attend a conference just after they'd fired our latest nanny for letting me go inside the corner store alone. My sister went with them to the conference--she was ten and knew how to comport herself in public, a skill I would never master. I stayed with my aunt, whom I barely knew.

  My father had been estranged from his family ever since he decided to marry "that Vietnamese girl"--my mother was half Chinese, half Filipino. There'd apparently been some reconciliation after my sister was born. Then I came along and, well, the difference between me and April is that she can pass for white and I cannot, and I guess something was said, and the upshot is that I don't remember ever meeting my paternal grandparents.

  But my father's younger sister wanted a place in our lives. So, with a laundry list of rules, my parents let me stay with her while they attended the conference. My aunt promptly threw out their list--at the top of which was "no dogs"--and introduced me to her boyfriend ... and his Newfoundland.

  My six-year-old self fell in love with that dog the way it had never fallen in love with a person. And she loved me back with the kind of unconditional love only an animal can truly give. When my parents came to get me, I was reading in the backyard, using the dog as a pillow. They saw me lying on a dog bigger than me, and ...

  I never saw my aunt again. Instead, I got a solid week of dog-attack photos. I didn't care. In years to come, I might forget weekends with men who passed through my life, but I never forgot the one I spent with that dog. I told Dalton about it when the subject of pets arose in conversation, and now I see this puppy's black tongue, and ...

  "You bought me a Newfoundland puppy."

  Petra murmurs something about needing to run an errand. Then she's gone, and Dalton's just standing there, this look on his face that I can't quite read. I adjust to sit, with the puppy on my lap, and I say, "I know it's a working dog. I just ... It's a surprise."

  "A good surprise?"

  He asks that in all honesty, and I have to laugh, shaking my head. I grin at him, and he stops moving, and there's that look again, the one I can't decipher.

  "Eric?" I say.

  He snaps out of it. "No. Right. Yeah. Good surprise. Okay." He hunkers beside me, and the puppy launches itself at him, going crazy now. It jumps on him and licks and whines like it'd been abandoned for weeks and the only familiar face it's ever known has finally returned. Then it piddles. Right on his boots. And he sighs. Just gives a deep sigh.

  I smile up at him. "Not the first time it's done that, I'm guessing."

  "Nope." He rises, and the puppy goes even crazier, as if about to be abandoned again. Another sigh, and he scoops it up under one arm and takes it to the kitchen, returning with a rag.

  "It's a she," he says. "I did some research. With this breed, females are a better choice. They're mastiffs, which means they're stubborn, and a male would get bigger than you someday. I figured that a war of wills wouldn't go well--for you or the dog."

  He cleans the mess as the puppy returns to me, satisfied Dalton isn't leaving.

  He continues, "The ideal breed would have been a hound for tracking. But hounds aren't northern dogs. She is. They're supposed to have a good nose, and they are used for search and rescue. She'll be big, too, which is good for protection. So a Newfoundland isn't a perfect fit, but hell, no dog's going to be perfect for what we want, and you like them.... You do like them, right?"

  I grin my answer. Then I tug him down to the floor, and we play with the puppy until it's time to return to real life.

  THIRTEEN

  When Dalton got me a puppy, he obviously didn't expect us to be launching a major case. There's no way I can have a puppy at my heels as I investigate Nicole's kidnapping. Petra promptly volunteers for dog-sitting duty, day or night. She only works part-time at the general store. Otherwise, she's parlayed her skills as a comic book artist into one of those local "cottage industries." I don't know how much time she'll get for drawing with a puppy around, but she insists.

  By the time we leave the dog with Petra, I need to interview Nicole. We walk over, and Dalton stands guard out front. Nicole is upstairs, so I wait in the living room and try not to see Beth in her former home. She's still here. She's in the faint smell of the hospital-strength antiseptic. In a lopsided dream catcher on the front window. In the laugh I hear as she tells me about making the dream catcher, her one and only attempt to be artsy.

  She's there too in a still-open novel on the coffee table, where she must have been reading on the futon that used to be Abbygail's bed. Reading and maybe thinking of Abbygail.

  I look at this room, and I think of our first lunch here, after Anders set us up on a "date," convincing the shy local doctor to ask the new girl to lunch. I think of the friendship that came of that lunch, quiet and warm and easy, so welcome after the roller coaster with Diana. I think of where it began ... and how it ended.

  When Dalton dropped me at the door, he asked if I was okay coming in here. I shrugged it off. And I was honest in that--standing outside, I felt nothing, my mind consumed with the task of interviewing Nicole.

  Then I came into this room, and the very smell of it brought those memories crashing back, the reminder that we haven't been able to clear her house, haven't quite dealt with what she did. Like I haven't dealt with what she did to me. Pick that up, put it in the closet, shut the door, and face the situation at hand.

  *

  Last year Nicole Chavez snuck out of Rockton on a warm fall evening, just before dusk. There was a nearby berry patch not quite tapped out, and she wanted berries. That's it. The patch wasn't more than a hundred paces from the town limit, and it was still light, and she was close enough to shout if she happened upon a bear or a hostile. As rebellions go, it was no worse than me as a child, petting the neighbor's dog through the fence.

  Nicole snuck from town to gather berries. She found the bush, crouched to pick, and ...

  And that's all she remembers. She woke in that cave, the back of her head throbbing, her brain groggy from the drugs that kept her sedated when the blow wore off.

  She woke in that hole. And that's where she stayed.

  For over a year.

  Fifteen months.

  Sixty-three weeks.

  Four hundred and forty days.

  I knew she must have been taken straight to that cave, yet I kept telling myself that isn't necessarily true. She could have been held captive elsewhere and moved to the cave. Maybe she tried to escape and was relocated. Maybe she was only in the hole for a month, two tops.

  It's not as if I imagine her happily shacked up in a cabin with a settler. Her body tells another story. So why does this hit so hard, the confirmation that she's been in that hole the entire time? Because I cannot wrap my head around it. Some primal part of my brain runs gibbering from the thought. If it happened to me, I would go mad. I would literally go mad. I'd claw the flesh from my body, like a wild beast in a trap. Rend my flesh. Rip out my hair. Batter myself bloody on those rocks. My brain could not handle it. This is a test I would fail, and that terrifies me.

  But this isn't about me. It is about the woman who did survive.

  Nicole and I sit in the living room. The blinds are drawn. They're blackout blinds to help in summer when the sun shines past midnight. She's curled up in a chair. A pair of sunglasses rests by her side--the darkest anyone could find--and as we talk, she periodically puts them on, against the light seeping around the blinds. But then she'll take them off again as she tries to adjust.

  There's food everywhere--baked goods and dried fruit and whatever else people have. When tragedy strikes, this town shines brightest. Sometimes a little too bright, people tripping over themselves with "what can I do?" to the point of interference.

  As we talk, I catch the occasional murmur outside the front door, and I realize Dalton is really standing guard against those coming by with whatever they think Nicole might need. Food, drink, a wool blanket, a novel, a sweater. Of course, they're hoping to ca
tch a glimpse of her, too, or overhear a tidbit of fresh gossip. That's human nature. The moment they see Dalton, they'll lay their offering on the pile before scurrying off.

  Back to Nicole. As she said before, she can't tell me what her captor looked like. He wore a balaclava. When he arrived, her candle went out. That was the rule. He communicated little more than those rules, which meant she often wouldn't hear his voice, and even when he gave her an order, he kept his voice pitched low, gruff, as if he'd rather say nothing.

  He would leave a candle burning up top. But all she can tell me is that he's light-skinned, not thin, not short.

  He is the man in the snowsuit. The general size fits. The balaclava fits. The blow to the back of the head fits. The region where we found him also fits.

  What does that mean for Sutherland? I haven't forgotten the bloodied toque in the snow. For now, the snow keeps falling, and there's no way to search for him without endangering our militia.

  When I ask Nicole if she can give anything more, she says, "He watched me. I'd hear him come into the cavern. I'd see the light. I don't know how long he'd sit up there. My watch only worked for a week or so. It's charged by light, which always seemed terribly convenient ... until you're in a cave."

  She smiles, and she wants me to smile back. See? It's not so bad--I can joke about it. Joking to make me feel better, as I sit here struggling to stay composed, and when she smiles, all I can do is nod.

  If I tried to smile, I'm not sure what would come out: a twist of pain or rage. Both impulses war. I want to curl up in a ball of sympathetic agony, and I want to march into the forest, find whoever did this, and--

  I look across the room, at that lopsided dream catcher.

  Is that what you felt, Beth?

  There's no question about me. I have that darkness inside. Absolute darkness. Yet it's not a caged lion, waiting for the gate to be left unlatched. It's just there, in case I need it.

  Nicole continues, "When the watch worked, though, I timed him once. He stayed up there an hour, watching, and then he came down, and..." She looks at me. "Do you need to know about ... that?"

  "No."

  She nods. "Thank you. I know I might have to discuss it if there's a trial. But what can you say besides 'it happened'? I was in no position to refuse. I learned--fast--not to refuse. Just get it over with."

  She goes quiet and then says, "I got pregnant. He knew my schedule--he had to bring stuff obviously, this bag of rags I'd keep until my period was done. When I didn't need them, he realized I was pregnant. He hit me until I wasn't. I remember lying there, bleeding, hoping he'd ruptured something critical, that this was the end. But it wasn't. Just the end of that. Afterward, he started pulling out." She shakes her head. "Sorry. I said I wouldn't give details."

  "You can give me any details you want. You just don't need to."

  She nods.

  We talk for a little more after that, until she's flagging, and I make some excuse to go. As I leave, she says, "I'll be okay."

  "I know."

  And I think she will be. I'm just not sure I could have said the same if I was the one in a hole for over a year.

  Fifteen months.

  Sixty-three weeks.

  Four hundred and forty days.

  FOURTEEN

  Dalton and I walk to the office. We don't sit inside. Dalton will, for my sake, but as long as the temperature isn't twenty below, he's happier out of doors. We stop at the bakery to grab coffee and then as we detour through the station, we find a bottle of Irish whiskey beside the machine--a gift from Isabel. Dalton splashes some into our coffees. I carry those. He grabs caribou skin blankets.

  We sit on the back deck, drinking our coffee, my hands wrapped around my mug for warmth. It's late afternoon, and the sun has fallen behind the trees, darkness stretching with each passing moment.

  "We still need to search for Sutherland," I say. "I know that's probably pointless. The storm will have erased his tracks, and I suspect we're looking for a body. But if it's the same perpetrator, which it certainly seems to be, there's a chance he's holding Sutherland captive."

  "You think so?" Dalton takes another swig of his coffee. "From what I've read, with this kind of thing, there's not much point in taking a man."

  "Playing devil's advocate, I'd point out that a man can, biologically, serve the same purpose, and also that this is more an issue of control. He watched her. For hours. But, yes, I think it's far more likely this guy killed Sutherland as a trespasser. We still need to look. I also have to go back to that cave, to see what clues I can find."

  "First light," he says. "We'll take the horses."

  I lean against the wall and sip my spiked coffee. "You haven't said if there's anyone in your book you really like for this."

  "Neither have you. Which means there's no one either of us really likes."

  "Hmm."

  "We've got people who've committed murder, but this guy kept Nicole alive. And the folks we've got mostly killed one person for a reason. Whoever did this enjoyed it. No other purpose. If we have anyone here fitting that description, I don't know it."

  "Except, one could argue, the pedophiles."

  "Of which we have three, and two don't fit the description. One's a woman. And Lang's too skinny."

  "Then that's the only way to narrow the field. Focus on those who could have done it. Right time period. Right gender. Right skin color. Right basic physical size."

  "Forty possibilities."

  "You're fast."

  He looks over. "You gonna pretend you didn't already work it out?"

  "No, I was just giving you props."

  His brows knit.

  "Props. Proper respect. Yes, I have been working it through. My calculations, though, give me forty-seven."

  Now his brows shoot up. "You fail math, Butler?"

  "Remember that for skin tone she was looking at him in dim light and in contrast to her. All she can say is that his skin is lighter. That doesn't make him Caucasian."

  "Fuck."

  "Yep."

  After a moment, he says, "What's your take on Nicole? She seems to be coping well."

  "Maybe too well. It might be shock. Which worries me."

  "Agreed. We've got Isabel keeping an eye on her, but Isabel did therapy for people having normal problems. Not that."

  "So you'd like a second opinion?" Isabel's voice precedes her as she walks around the building.

  "Yeah, under the circumstances, I'd like a second opinion."

  "Then get one. You've got a better source than me here. Someone who can assess both Nicole's physical and mental health. You just need to kick his ass hard enough."

  "I wish I could," Dalton grumbles. "If I threaten to put him on shoveling duty for a week, he'll just take off his damn butcher's apron, pull on his parka, and ask me to point him in the right direction. Only person who can get him to do it?" He looks at me.

  I sigh. "I'll go talk to Mathias."

  FIFTEEN

  I push open the door to the butcher's shop. From the back room comes the ominous sound of a saw skritch-scraping through bone. The smell of blood hangs so heavy I can taste it.

  Most residents will stop right here and call a tentative "hello?" If they don't get an answer, they'll leave.

  I walk around the counter and poke my head into the back room. "Mathias? Avez-vous une minute?"

  The saw stops, and his voice drifts out, "Pour vous, oui."

  Most Canadians my age have taken French. Years of it, the end result of which is that we can travel to Paris and ask for directions en francais and even understand the response if it isn't too long. Asking for those directions in Montreal is trickier, because what we've learned isn't Quebecois.

  I spent a few years working in Ottawa, which vastly improved both my French and my dialect, and I shamelessly "practice" it on Mathias, knowing that while his English is perfect, he enjoys the chance to communicate in his native language. We do have two other Francophones in Rockton, but Mathias d
oesn't like them. And if Mathias doesn't like you? Don't talk to him. Just don't.

  He comes out of the back room, wiping his bloodied hands on his even bloodier apron. At fifty-three, he's one of the oldest residents in Rockton. If there's a stereotype of a butcher, he doesn't fit it. He looks like a young Ian McKellen, a little less dapper and a little more ... I won't say dangerous, but there's a glint in his eyes like he's sizing up everyone around him and finding them terribly amusing.

  He scrubs up at the sink and takes off his apron. I think the only people he bothers removing it for are me, Dalton, and Isabel, and it's not so much respect as the realization his bloody-butcher routine isn't nearly as much fun with people who aren't fazed by it.

  When his hands are dry, he disappears into the back and returns with a plate. On it are three slices of sausage. Without a word, he lays it in front of me. I try each slice, then point at the first piece and ask, in French, "What wood did you use to smoke that one?"

  "Birch."

  "It's better than the aspen." I point to the second piece. "I like the heat in that one, though. Did I taste anise?"

  "Correct. Eric brought me new spices."

  "Nice. My favorite, though, is..." I pick up the rest of the third and eat it. "You had me at cardamom." I say the spice name in English, which makes him chuckle and say, "Cardamome."

  "Close enough."

  I get a waggled finger for that, and he disappears, and returns with a package of the cardamom sausage for me.

  "You recognize the spice," he says. "But the meat?"

  I chew slower. "Is that ... pork? Wait, is this..."

  "Your wild boar."

  There aren't actually wild boar in the Yukon. Many years ago, though, the town experimented with pigs, importing a Hungarian breed that crossed European boar with domestic pigs and created a winter-hardy pig with a wool-like coat. Great idea. Until they escaped. They've been living and breeding in this part of the woods for generations. A deep-woods hiker once got a picture of one. It was dismissed as a Photoshopped fake. Clearly there are no wooly-coated wild pigs in the Yukon. For imaginary beasts, though, they're delicious.

  "So Rockton gets bacon for breakfast this week?" I ask as I eat more sausage.

  "You get bacon. And cardamom sausage. Eric, too, if he asks nicely. You must make him ask nicely. Which means you will probably get all the bacon."