I can grumble about the elbow grease and hurdle jumping and imperfect measures that go into lifting that tattoo. The truth is, though, that I love the creative workout that goes into figuring out a solution to problems so easily solved in a modern lab. Victims are usually better served by that tech—DNA analysis has put countless perpetrators behind bars and saved countless innocents from a life there. But there is something to be said for this level of involvement, digging in and doing the work and knowing that the case is mine to win or lose.
When I finish shading in the lines, the shape takes form. It’s a raven inside a sun, done in a style reminiscent of southwest Native American art. When Nicole said her captor had called it a “heathen” symbol, I expected something occult. But this fits, being what he might interpret as religious art from a non-Christian faith.
“We’ve got one perpetrator,” Anders says.
“We do.”
“Does that help?”
“I hope so.”
* * *
Dalton and I are having lunch at the station.
“So we have a time line now,” he says. “Whoever took Nicole has to have been around at least five years. Which means, since you’ve eliminated me and Isabel…”
The next “oldest” person in terms of residency would be Mathias, who arrived months after Robyn disappeared.
“Val was right,” I say. “We’re looking at someone from outside. A settler or a hostile.”
“Agreed.”
“I know more about the settlers. There are a few small communities, plus those who live on their own, like your brother. We’ll start by talking to Jacob, get his opinion on who fits the physical description or seems a good suspect. As for the hostiles, what can you tell me about them?”
“They’re hostile.”
“Uh, yeah … says so right there on the label.”
“Yep. And that label means I don’t know shit about them. I’ve had encounters only, which I’ve kept as brief as possible.”
“Have you spoken to them?”
“Fuck, no. Most times, I don’t even see them. They’re like any other predator—the moment I know one’s nearby, I put on my threat display while getting the hell off their territory.”
“How do you know they’re hostiles and not settlers?”
“Well, let’s see.” He points to a tiny scar along his hairline. “That’s the one who slingshot a rock and nearly put my eye out. He was howling and yipping like a feral dog. Then there was the one who charged me. He was naked except for the belt made of bones. He’d painted himself in mud. Or I hoped it was mud, but wasn’t getting downwind to be sure.”
“And that’s proof you’re dealing with hostiles?” I snort. “I ran into those guys every time I had to break up a frat party.”
“That’s the problem with kids down south. They don’t have enough to do. Enough responsibility.”
“You sound like such an old man. Kids these days. When I was their age, I had to haul water five miles, chop wood in snowstorms, hunt for our dinner, and do my homework by candlelight.” I pause. “Oh, wait. You really are that guy.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Okay, so we don’t have a lot on hostiles, then,” I say. “I may need more, town records or whatever, but for now, I’ll start by focusing on settlers. In the meantime, Nicole has a request, and you aren’t going to like it.”
THIRTY
I expect to fight Dalton on letting Nicole into the woods. I have my list of arguments prepared. The biggest one of all? I understand what she’s doing and why she has to do it.
After my attack, I spent months battling an even greater enemy: fear. Forcing myself to return to the scene. Walking down alleyways. Going to bars filled with the kind of young men who reminded me of my attackers. Resuming martial arts training and letting people hit me. If I flinched doing any of that, I couldn’t become a cop. I wasn’t letting my attackers take that dream from me, the same way Nicole won’t let her captor take her newfound love of the forest.
But I don’t have to say any of that. I ask Dalton, and I explain her motivation, and he says, “Yeah, guy’s not going to jump her midday. If she feels better facing it? Storm could use a good walk anyway. Go see if she’s ready. I’ll finish up here and get the dog.”
Nicole has her coat and boots on by the time Dalton arrives. As we walk through town, she asks if Dalton can hang behind when we get into the forest. She might pretend “setting a trap” is only an excuse, but she is hoping to do that. Hoping he’s out there and if he sees her, accompanied only by a small woman and a puppy, he will strike. We know that’s unlikely, but Dalton agrees.
As we reach the forest edge, Nicole slows, quick breaths controlling obvious anxiety, but when either of us looks her way, she squares her thin shoulders.
Before Dalton leaves, he says, “If this becomes too much, say so. There’s no one here you need to impress.”
She gives him a weak smile. “Sometimes, wanting to impress is what keeps us moving when all we really want to do is curl up in a fetal position and whimper.”
“Okay. Just be warned, if you feel the need to curl up on the path, Storm will think you’re playing dead and maul you.”
She chuckles. “I’d be okay with that.”
He hands me the leash, and as he does, he squeezes my hand and says, “You know.”