A Darkness Absolute

by Kelley Armstrong

  Shawn Sutherland.

  This all began when Anders and I left Rockton to chase Sutherland. Then the storm hit. We saw a man in a snowsuit. He dropped Sutherland's bloodied toque and walked away. We took shelter and found Nicole.

  The puppy circles, spinning me on my ass, the nylon suit whispering over the snow. The sound reminds me of the man.

  Could Sutherland have been the man in the snowmobile suit?

  I know now that the man in the snowmobile suit was not the one I'd seen behind my house. The second man was Roger, and he was the only one I'd gotten a good look at. So I needed to separate that part of my killer's ID from my mental picture of Roger.

  Imagine the man in the snowmobile suit. Size, weight, build. It could be half of the guys in Rockton, but it does fit for Sutherland.

  Back to the beginning. Sutherland leads us into the forest. The storm hits, and he changes into the snowmobile suit and returns to drop off his bloodied toque. A few days later he "escapes" back to Rockton with the injuries to support his captivity story. But none of those injuries are impossible to self-inflict. Rub his wrists raw with rope. Add splinters. Knock his head against something hard. Let himself suffer a bit of exposure. Then come back to Rockton.

  Having Roger chase him only added an unexpected--and helpful--flourish to his story. Yet when he discovers we've found Roger, he must act. Sneak out and follow us. Vent his victimized rage on his supposed captor, silencing him before he can talk. When Roger survives, he sneaks in and finishes the job.

  As for his nighttime attack, it's easy enough to rig up a ligature. Easy even to use it in a way that'll leave marks.

  In this case, I would have been wrong about the reason for Sutherland's attack. He would have already gotten Nicole away and stashed her someplace. Then he came back and feigned his attack to give himself an alibi.

  But if Sutherland is the kidnapper and killer, why would he get cabin fever and run into the forest? He unnecessarily drew attention to himself. And what is the chance that we just happened to find Nicole while chasing her captor? It would only make sense if we'd caught him sneaking into the forest and pursued at enough distance to track him to his lair. But that's not how it happened--at all. He declared his intent to leave Rockton.

  Which brings up the timing issue, the biggest problem with this whole theory. I can't make the timing work. Sutherland arrived in Rockton barely a year ago. He's one of Rockton's white-collar criminals.

  Which explains his cover story. For most people, teaching is a career they know enough about to fake it. Unless they're talking to an actual teacher. Jen says she only asked which grade he taught, but I suspect there was more to it. Anyone could have fudged that answer. I'll have to speak to her.

  As I consider timing, something in Isabel's story pokes at the back of my brain. Damned if I can pinpoint it, though.

  Think outside the box.

  I'm trying to do just that when something moves in the forest. I hear it first, and when I look over, Storm's already on alert. Then she goes wild, yanking on the leash and whining and yelping. I think it's an animal, and I shine my flashlight and instead catch the flash of an arm as a figure moves past a tree.

  Someone in the woods.

  Yeah, Butler, there are lots of someones in the woods.

  Not near Rockton, though. Yet that's what I think of, the settlers in the forest, and my mind snags on that thought, and I'm not sure why--

  "Better drop that leash before she drags you."

  When I say, "Oh, it's you," Dalton steps into my flashlight beam, shielding his eyes and saying, "Yeah, I thought you saw me. Didn't mean to spook you. I saw someone I really didn't want to talk to--stupid fucking housing dispute--so I cut through the woods."

  He walks over as I drop the leash, and Storm goes running to Dalton. He grabs the lead as he pets her, then he draws closer and peers at me. "You okay?"

  "Sure. I just..."

  I was thinking something.

  Isabel's story.

  And settlers.

  Why was I...?

  Shit. Yes. Exactly.

  "We need to talk to the council about Sutherland," I say. "Now."

  *

  As we walk to Val's, Dalton fills me in on what he knows of Sutherland's life down south. He does have a connection to teachers--as a fund manager for their union. He'd been suspected of taking significant kickbacks for investing the teachers' money in questionable ventures. Given that he was able to buy his way into Rockton, it was obviously more than a suspicion.

  "And before you ask," Dalton says. "I didn't investigate his claim. Never got around to it."

  "Because you had no reason to. It's a common enough story for Rockton, and unless he crosses your radar, you aren't going to dig deeper."

  "Yeah. But if you're asking for his backstory, that means you're considering him as a suspect. I'm guessing you have new information that suggests we're looking at multiple perps again."

  "No," I say. "Just playing a long shot. A very long shot."

  *

  I explain my theory to Dalton before we arrive. Then I tell Val I need to speak to the council. She nods and leads us inside.

  "What do you need from them?" she asks me.

  "I have to ask questions about Shawn Sutherland's situation down south."

  She frowns. "You're considering him for these crimes? I don't mean to second-guess you, Casey, but he's only been here a year." She looks at Dalton. "Have you forgotten that?"

  "He hasn't," I say. "Which is why I didn't consider Shawn a suspect before now."

  "But he's a victim, isn't he? He came back badly injured. I'm sorry, Casey, but I really don't see how he could be responsible."

  "Nicole came back in worse condition," I say. "If we suspected her, we can't ignore Shawn. Otherwise, we're saying that all women who are victimized may have been complicit in--"

  "No," she says quickly. "That would be wrong. Of course we need to consider everyone. I don't keep admission files here, but Shawn's entry was recent enough that I might be able to help."

  SIXTY-ONE

  Val's version only confirms that Dalton isn't misremembering. What I want to know, though, is how thoroughly the council researched Sutherland.

  "He brought in a significant sum of money," she says. "And the teachers' union had only begun to raise suspicions. They hadn't actually accused him. It's an ideal situation, like in your own case, where no charges have been filed and no formal accusation made."

  "So what research does the council do in those cases?"

  "In yours, they would have confirmed that the young man's death occurred as you claimed and that the attack on your current boyfriend happened as you also claimed. But that's a case where there's the threat of violence and no financial gain."

  "Because I wasn't buying my way in."

  "Yes. You brought special skills, though, so they likely didn't do more than a basic check."

  "Would the council have confirmed that the teachers' union was investigating bad investments? Or would they just take Shawn's word for it?"

  "If no accusations were made, it would be difficult to follow up without further alerting the union."

  "What about Shawn himself?" I ask. "What background checks would have been done on him?"

  When she hesitates, I say, "In my case, for example, I had to submit my passport and supporting identification."

  "It's standard procedure to request at least two forms of government-issued ID."

  "What I think Casey's really asking," Dalton says, "is not whether it's the normal routine, but whether the normal routine applies to everyone."

  "It is supposed to but ... They do run a criminal background check. I know that much. Also, they will run an online search, to alert us to potential problems. That is a serious concern, naturally--that someone could claim to have committed white-collar crimes when it turns out he's the prime suspect in a serial-killing spree. The council takes steps to ensure there are no outstanding criminal issues."
/>   In other words, though, they run searches that may very well come up empty. That they hope will come up empty. That might prove someone hasn't been accused of any crimes, but what it doesn't prove? That Shawn is who he says he is.

  *

  Val contacts Phil. I put my questions to him as delicately as possible. He still tries to claim they ran basic background checks on everyone, but his blustering says that's bullshit. Sutherland's check cashed. That's the only 'check' that mattered. Which means we're going to need to be a lot more suspicious of every white-collar criminal in Rockton. It's a helluva loophole.

  What I'm postulating, then, is that Shawn Sutherland isn't a funds manager who cheated a teachers' union. He's just a guy with enough cash to buy his way in, one who wants to come to Rockton for another reason.

  So how does that blow apart my time-line issue? It doesn't. It's just step one in a theory that I have to wait until morning--and daylight--to pursue.

  *

  The next day, Dalton and I are out on the sleds just before daybreak. His brother has been camping where Dalton can find him. We pick him up and spend the next four hours driving farther from camp than I've ever been. Farther than Dalton has been in years.

  We have to hide and leave the snowmobiles for the last few kilometers, to avoid alerting everyone within earshot.

  Dalton walks in silence, looking calm and focused. But I can hear his breathing, a little ragged, as if his heart's beating faster than it should be on a casual hike.

  "Jacob and I could do this," I say. "Right, Jacob?"

  "Sure," Jacob says.

  Dalton shakes his head. "I've got it."

  "Or you could go with him and I'll stay behind," I say. "If that's better."

  "It's not."

  We continue in silence, but his gaze starts moving, as if seeing things that tweak half-forgotten memories. It's like walking through a house you lived in as a child and think you've forgotten, but then you catch a glimpse through a window and memories spark. His gaze will catch on something, and then he yanks it back to the path, breathing accelerating.

  I watch Dalton anxiously, worried this dredges up uncomfortable memories. His brother is watching him too, but for an entirely different reason. There's hope in Jacob's eyes, and they light up when Dalton notices something. It's going through that old family home with the brother he lost in a divorce, and hoping he remembers, because it's not just about a place, but a time, a shared time, a shared bond. And every time Dalton tenses, I do too, afraid Jacob will pick up on his brother's unease, will realize this walk through their past isn't what he wants it to be.

  I'm trying to think of a distraction--for both of them--when Dalton slows, his gaze fixed on the ruins of a very old shack.

  "You remember that?" Jacob says. "It was your hideout when we wintered around here."

  When Dalton doesn't respond, Jacob falters, and I cut in with, "Eric had a hideout?" and Jacob turns to me.

  "He did. See the right side there, where it's a little higher? There's enough of the roof left that Eric was able to hollow out a room for himself. He didn't think I knew about it. It was his secret spot for when I drove him crazy. Which I could."

  "That's what younger siblings do," I say. "Or so my sister always claimed."

  He nods. "When he'd had enough of me, he'd hang out here. And I'd sit over there." He points to a thicket. "I'd sit, and I'd wait. Then, when he came out, I'd go in myself. I'd try to figure out what he'd been doing, play with his stuff, pretend I was him. Then I'd put it all back so he wouldn't notice."

  Others would say this wryly, maybe roll their eyes, embarrassed to admit how much they'd idolized their older sibling. Jacob's smile is genuine. He has no sense that such a thing is worthy of embarrassment. That's what it means to live out here all his life. He never experienced those adolescent years when peers change how you see the world, leaving you rolling your eyes at anything that is simple and innocent and childlike.

  Jacob's watching Dalton and grinning, waiting for a reaction. Waiting for his brother to roll his eyes, make some comment about what a pain in the ass he'd been and how he was lucky he never caught him in his secret spot. That's the guy we know. But Dalton's eyes fill with panic, as if he knows Jacob is sharing something meaningful and he wants to reciprocate. But he can't. He's spent too long locking down those memories, and maybe he isn't even sure why they're locked down, why this makes him so uncomfortable, but he can't get past it.

  "And he never caught you?" I address Jacob, shielding Dalton from a reply. Jacob answers, and I engage him in that, asking what kind of things Dalton kept in there, how old he'd been when he found it. Innocuous questions. Just a girlfriend trying to get a better sense of her lover as a child, interested in his past but not digging too deeply into the personal.

  The diversion works, and Jacob doesn't seem to notice Dalton isn't participating in the conversation. He's happy to talk about his brother, maybe tease him a little, livelier than I've ever seen him. And I'm grateful for that. I just wish it was under other circumstances.

  "We wintered over there," Dalton blurts out, cutting Jacob off midsentence, as if he didn't realize his brother had been talking. We turn to him, and there's silence. Long silence, and I can see him ready to withdraw again.

  There. I commented. That's enough.

  He takes an audible breath and then points. "See that line of trees? That's where we wintered. It's a sheltered spot. We'd build a simple cabin. But our parents always dismantled it in the spring, before we left, so no one else would move in."

  "You spent summers someplace else?" I ask carefully, uncertainly, and I direct it to Jacob, but it's Dalton who answers, saying, "Spring, summer, and fall, yeah. Once the weather cleared, we were on the move. Winter's easier if you stay one place. Easier, too, if you're near others. But this was as 'near others' as they dared get."

  "As close to the settlement, you mean."

  "It wasn't ours," Jacob says.

  Dalton's voice changes, the strain dissipating as another note takes its place. A note I know well. Switching to lecture mode, the easy comfort of a teacher who knows his subject well enough to recite lessons in his sleep. "What we're coming up to is the First Settlement, the one founded by the original group who left Rockton. There are others, each built by a distinct group that left at the same time. Our parents weren't with any of those groups."

  "It was just the two of them," Jacob says. "Our mother's time in Rockton was up, and our father hadn't put in his two years. She couldn't stay; he couldn't leave. So they took off together."

  "It was a lark, I think, in the beginning," Dalton says. "They were younger than most people we take these days."

  "So it was like running away together," I say. "Except into the Yukon wilderness rather than eloping in Vegas."

  "Yeah. I don't know if they just decided to stay after a while or if they weren't allowed back. Anyway, they weren't from a settlement, which doesn't mean you can't join one. They just never did."

  "It isn't easy to join," Jacob says. "You start at the bottom doing the crappy jobs, and if you've been living on your own, that's going backwards. Sometimes when we'd go in to trade, there'd be problems. There aren't a lot of women, and our mom was younger than most and..." He shrugs. "There were problems."

  "The kind that end in black eyes and bloody noses and the elders telling our parents they can't come back until they learn some manners. And by manners, they meant learn to put up with guys grabbing our mother and offering our father trade for a night with her--right in front of me and Jacob. Our parents stayed close to this settlement in the winter. But that was it." The path crests and rises, and Dalton peers down it and says, "And there it is."

  I look down the slope and see it. The First Settlement.

  SIXTY-TWO

  The settlement looks more like a temporary camp than a village. Ten cabins, loosely scattered, at least fifty meters from each neighbor. Poor for defense, but I suppose that's not really an issue up here, where the
only thing you need to defend against is the wildlife, and you're close enough to your neighbor to shout for help if a grizzly ambles into your living room.

  Not that a grizzly would fit in these living rooms. The cabins probably share the same size footprint as our chalets, but without a second story. Intentionally small, Dalton explains, for conservation of heat.

  Our boots crunch on the snow, and it's not loud, but in a place like this, it's enough. A door opens. Then another. Dalton moves closer to me, and I'm not even sure he's aware he's doing it, he just shifts over, shoulders squaring.

  No one looks my way, though. I'm between the two men, a head shorter than either, a slight figure in an oversized snowmobile suit, with the hood drawn up, scarf wrapped in a muffler, only my eyes visible over it. If they notice me, they mistake me for a boy, like Cypher did. It's Dalton they're looking at. Sizing up. They know Jacob--he trades here, as his parents did. Dalton, though, is a stranger, and he's young enough and big enough to earn wary looks.

  "Is Edwin in?" Jacob calls to the person nearest, asking after the town elder--as much to check whether he's present as to let people know he's following proper protocol, escorting strangers directly to the guy in charge.

  The man nods. He doesn't say anything. Doesn't bother to stop staring either. People watch us as we proceed to the center of the settlement. By the time we arrive, the door to that central cabin is open. A man stands in it. He's not much taller than me, stooped and wizened, at least eighty. His brown skin and eyes suggest he's Asian, but given his age, I honestly can't tell if he is or that's just the result of fifty years of living out of doors.

  "Edwin," Jacob says and bows his head. "May we come in and speak to you?"

  Edwin nods and backs up. We walk inside. The cabin is smoky, fire blazing too hot, as if his old bones can no longer take the cold. There are two chairs. Real wooden chairs, as good as anything Kenny would make at his carpentry bench. One is oversized, blanketed with thick furs. Edwin lowers himself into that. We stay standing.

  "Edwin, this is--"

  "I know who he is," Edwin says. "I'm old. I'm not senile. I recognize your brother's face."

  Disconcertion flickers through Dalton's eyes. He blinks it away, but not before Edwin catches it and snorts. "You think you've changed that much? You haven't, and you look too much like your brother for anyone to miss the connection. I remember you, Eric. Yes, even your name. I remember the hell you put your parents through, too, when you took off."