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 catch 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.”