TWENTY
A flip through the books proves they are just stories. But there’s another reason I’ve taken them, and once they’re in hand, I head to the station to examine them further. When Dalton shows up, I hold out the books and say, “What are these?”
“Dunno. Haven’t read them.”
“I mean the books. The actual physical objects.” I put one down and turn the other over in my hands. “I know we sell blank journals at the general store, but these aren’t them.”
Blank books are among the most popular items in Rockton. When electronic forms of entertainment aren’t available, people rediscover childhood hobbies—writing poetry, painting landscapes, playing an instrument. Writing requires only paper and pen, and on almost every supply run, we stop at the dollar store and buy blank journals.
“This is old,” I say. “I smell mildew, and that cave system is dry. But it’s not just thrift-shop old. It’s properly bound, and the pages are yellowing. I wouldn’t be surprised if this”—I tap the cover—“is real leather. And…” I open the book to the first page and run my finger down a jagged edge on the inner spine. “It’s had pages torn out. The first twenty or so. Both of them are like that.”
“Conclusion?”
“That they really were journals. Very old ones. A miner or trapper started writing in them and then stopped. Got bored or just didn’t have that much to say. When Nicole asked for paper, this is what her captor brought her. Is there anything like this in Rockton?”
He shakes his head. “I only buy the kind you’ve seen.”
“And you’ve been doing the supply runs for how long?”
“Six, seven years.”
“Longer than any current residents have been here. Presumably these didn’t come from your place, so the only way a resident would have gotten hold of one would be to find it hidden in his house. Under a floorboard or whatever. Which is not impossible, but you guys do a thorough inspection between occupants.”
“Have to. Floorboards and all. That’s the first excuse people give when they’re found with contraband—must have been the guy who lived here before me.”
He reached for the book I’m holding. I hand it to him. He flips through it, frowning.
“I’ve seen…” He doesn’t finish, just keeps turning pages, his fingers running over them. “I had books to draw in, when I was a kid.”
“You drew?”
He shrugs. “Sketches. Wildlife and whatever.” His fingers move across the writing, as if picking up touch memory from the old, ink-dented paper. “My mother used to hang them in the cabin, and this one time, when we had a fire, she tried going back in, and it turned out all she wanted was my stupid—”
He inhales sharply and slaps the book shut. “My father used to get me books. Old ones. I don’t know where they came from, but they smelled like that. Looked like that. Ledgers or journals, from miners and trappers, like you said.”
I want to backtrack. Hear the rest of his story. Gain insight into a part of his life he slaps as firmly shut as that book.
Tell me about your sketches.
Tell me about your mother.
Tell me anything.
I get as far as “Do you ever—” and he cuts me off with “I don’t know where my parents got the books, but it wasn’t from Rockton.” He checks his watch. “We’re losing daylight fast. I’ve got a few things to do. I’ll meet you in a half hour, and we’ll get Storm for a walk.”
* * *
Dalton and I are walking the puppy. It’s twilight, and we’re in the forest, taking her farther than she’s gone before. I have something on my mind. He knows, and that’s why we’re here.
He doesn’t ask me what’s wrong. The guy who usually demands hard answers to uncomfortable questions now walks quietly at my side, murmuring to Storm when she wanders, voice low so he doesn’t interrupt my thoughts. The guy who drags people through town by the scruff of their neck now has his glove off, my hand wrapped in his, thumb rubbing every so often, a small gesture of comfort. The guy who doesn’t have time for your shit—and no problem telling you so, loudly and profanely—now crouches patiently by the side of the path, holding back undergrowth so Storm can sniff a fox hole. I watch him hunkered there, pointing at spots for the puppy to sample, and I suspect I’ll never figure him out entirely, and I don’t care. Dalton is like Rockton itself, so many aspects, not all of them easy or comfortable, but the sum total adding up to something unique and remarkable and unforgettable.
When he rises, I tell him Nicole’s story. All of it.
“It bothers me,” I say when I’m done. “I don’t know why. It’s not like I have any sense that she’s lying…”
“That’s not it.”
Dalton stops, his hand tightening on mine. He scans the twilit forest before glancing at Storm. She’s picked up his unease, and she’s sampling the wind but seems to smell nothing out of the ordinary.
When we resume walking, he says, “It’s her situation. She murdered a guy who did something to her, something that deserved punishment, but not that severe a punishment. And she got away with it.”
We walk a few more steps, before I say, “She didn’t actually kill—”
“Splitting hairs. Yours was bad judgment. Taking a gun to a confrontation? Never a good idea. Nicole made her choice deliberately.”