“But I choose now,” Dalton says, opening his jaw just enough to get the words out as he steadies his tone. “It’s my choice. Living here, apparently, wasn’t Roger’s. He moved out, as you said. I hear he kept in touch, though, so we wanted to see if he had family or anyone who should be informed.”
“His daddy passed a few years back. Sister took off down south. But everyone here knows him. I’ll inform them of his passing. I appreciate you telling us yourself, Eric. Now if you want something to eat before you go, you’re welcome to it. Just mind that you’re civil while you’re here.”
“I’m not the one—” Dalton begins and then bites it off. “Actually, there’s one other thing.” He looks at me.
“Roger mentioned another settler before he passed,” I say. “A man he grew up with. Someone named Benjamin. If he’s here, I have a message to convey from Roger.”
“I know who you mean. He’s not here. Took off like Roger did, and in his case, we haven’t seen him in about two years.”
“Does he have family here? Roger mentioned something about a mother, but he was in rough shape, so I don’t know if she’s still alive.…”
“She is. She hasn’t seen Benjamin either, but if it’ll make you feel better, passing on Roger’s message to someone, I’ll take you to her.”
* * *
We’re in another cabin, and it’s only once we’re inside that I realize how nice Edwin’s had been. His hadn’t been much different from what I’d find in Rockton. Small, tidy, and decently furnished. This one is the kind of place that—before I arrived in the Yukon—my prejudices might have led me to expect from someone who chose to live out here. It smells of body odor and human waste, and I spot a bucket in the corner that obviously isn’t emptied as often as it should be. The wood walls are thick with soot. The wooden floor is filthy enough that for a moment, I think it’s dirt.
Edwin won’t even come inside. He just opens the door and says, “Mary? You’ve got guests. Be nice to them.” Then he totters off and a woman’s voice says, “Close the goddamned door!”
We step into the darkness. The windows are shuttered, and the only light comes from the fire. A woman sits on the floor in front of it. She’s stitching something, but it’s too dark to tell what.
When she looks up, she peers at us and says, “Do I know you?”
“Jacob, ma’am. I don’t know if we’ve met. My parents were Steve and Amy. They—”
“I remember them. Your mother was a whore.”
Both men stiffen. We all do, but she just keeps going, saying, “She’d come here and parade around with her blond hair and her big blue eyes and then get all offended when the men leered at her. A whore, just like—” She mutters something and stabs her needle through. “Is that your brother? The one who ran off?”
“He—”
“Boys,” she sniffs. “They all run off. Find some whore and leave. Boys and men alike. All the same.” She squints at me. “You’re a girl, though, aren’t you?”
I lower the hood I’d raised for the walk through the settlement. She eyes me and says. “You’re pretty. Boys prefer blondes, but blondes are whores. Course, having dark hair doesn’t mean you’re not a whore. Are you one?”
Poor Jacob is bug-eyed by this point. He keeps sneaking me looks, wondering why I’m not appalled, perhaps thinking he’s missed a few nuances of female greeting rituals. Dalton’s watching, too, but mostly to see if this woman’s particular brand of crazy is going to result in physical violence. Yes, we’re not dealing with a model of mental health, which is what I expect, if my suspicions are true.
I walk over to crouch beside the fire. “That depends on the definition of the person asking, doesn’t it? I don’t think I am. But everyone has their own way of identifying a whore. For some, it’s skin color. For others, hair. I’ve even met people who say they can tell a woman’s a whore if she has tattoos or piercings.”
“Nothing wrong with pierced ears,” Mary says. “Piercing in other places might be a problem, but I’d say it all depends on where. Tattoos, though? That’s a sign. You got any of those?”
“No, ma’am.”
“How about husbands? Leave one behind down south?”
“No, ma’am. I’ve never been married.”
“Ever steal one?”
“Steal another woman’s husband, you mean? No. What would I want with a guy who’d do something like that? It just means he’ll do the same to me someday.”
She cackles. “Smart girl.” Another sizing-up look, this one a little kinder. “You’re probably not a whore. Hard to say, but you don’t seem the type. Now, what’d you come here to talk about?”
“I need to ask you a few questions about your son, Benjamin.”
SIXTY-THREE
On the way back, we run into our old nemesis—the shortening days of winter. We’ve barely reached the snowmobiles before the sun’s falling. We’re prepared with sleeping bags and emergency shelter materials in the saddlebags, but I’m really hoping we don’t need to use them. I have my answer, and every minute we delay is another minute we’ve left a killer in Rockton. And another minute Nicole is out there, trapped by the ever-increasing danger that this will all go to hell and we’ll never find her again.