She disappeared last year. It was late October, and the weather seemed fine, not unlike yesterday, but Dalton could read the signs that told him a storm was brewing. Come morning, Nicole's roommate reported she'd been out all night.
That wasn't uncommon in Rockton. We're the Vegas of the north, with population stats that are clearly in the ladies' favor. If Nicole wanted overnight company, she'd have no problem finding it. But that wasn't normal for her, so Dalton set the militia checking door-to-door while he and Anders headed into the forest. When the storm hit, they hauled ass home. The moment it cleared, they went back out again.
After three days of searching, they gave up. The roommate admitted Nicole sometimes snuck past the town boundary, taking time for herself. Dalton figured she went walking and got lost. He kept looking, but he knew as time passed, the likelihood of finding her alive plummeted.
Come spring, they found a woman's badly scavenged and decayed body at the foot of Three Peaks Mountain. Her skull and spine showed signs of trauma, and our town doctor Beth had ruled that she'd been climbing, maybe searching for shelter from the storm, when she'd slipped and fallen. The corpse had matched Nicole's hair color and size, but with the condition too bad for a proper ID, Dalton would still never have leapt to the conclusion it was Nicole ... if the body hadn't been wearing her clothing.
"Her captor set it up," I say. "He found a corpse--a settler or hostile. He might have even killed a woman who roughly matched Nicole. He staged it so you'd stop looking."
"And I fell for it."
"Yeah, you messed up. I mean, obviously, if a woman goes missing out here and you find a body matching hers and wearing her clothing, your first thought should be that she was kidnapped by a crazy person who staged her death."
When he hesitates, I roll my eyes. "That's sarcasm, Eric."
He says nothing.
"You're still going to blame yourself, aren't you?"
"So would you." He shifts, arm going under his head. "Tell me about finding her. I didn't get much from Will. He was filling me in as fast as he could while I got the sled going."
I tell him about the man in the snowsuit and about finding Sutherland's toque. I plan to hold off on my up-close-and-personal encounter with the guy today, but he says, "And you didn't see any sign of him after that?" and I won't lie. Not to him.
I admit that snowmobile-suit guy came after me, and with every word, Dalton tenses and by the time I finish, it's like I'm lying on a wooden plank. I decide it's time to crawl off and get my clothes.
"He's long gone," I say as I dress. "I was careful when I set off the flares. I knew I might draw him in. I was ready."
"I know that. I just..." He takes a deep breath. "Are you okay?"
"He didn't hurt me."
"I don't mean that, Casey. Are you...?" He trails off and rubs his mouth. "Stupid question, right? You're going to tell me you're fine, even if I'm sure you're not."
I want to brush it off. No, really, I am fine. But I'm trying not to do that with Dalton. "It did freak me out. I kept thinking of Nicole and that hole and..." I inhale. "Can we talk about something else? Please?"
He nods, pulls on his jeans, and takes bars from the bag, saying, "Ran into an interesting guy in Dawson City."
I smile. "Shocking."
"No shit, huh." He roots in the bag and hands me another bar. "This particular guy caught my attention because he was running down the street stark naked, which, in summer, wouldn't be all that strange, but at this time of year, even for Dawson City, it seemed a little odd. So I went out to see what was going on and..."
TEN
Dalton and I have fallen asleep. We're half dressed--better for sharing body heat--and I'm curled up against him in my bra and jeans, one emergency blanket under us, two more on top, snowsuits stretched over as makeshift comforters.
It's a sound sleep, both of us exhausted, and when I do wake, it's only because Dalton insisted I drink most of the water to rehydrate and my bladder is screaming for mercy. I pull on my jacket, not bothering with my shirt. Boots next, and then I crawl from the shelter to find actual sunlight seeping through the trees. I look up toward it, smiling ... and see a figure standing five feet away.
I'm still half asleep--and unarmed--and I scramble back into the shelter. Dalton's up, gun in hand as he dives past me through the exit and then ... "Fuck."
"Sorry, Eric. Didn't mean to spook her."
The snow shelter muffles the voice, but I recognize the accent. Dalton has traces of it. I used to think it was regional. It isn't. It's the vocal tics of someone raised apart from the world, out here with his family.
"Good morning, Jacob," I call.
Dalton's younger brother mumbles something that might be a greeting. He reminds me of kids when I did school visits, those who weren't quite sure how to talk to a police officer and hedged their bets by mumbling, gazes fixed on their sneakers.
I let Dalton go first and then slip out behind him and hightail it off to privacy as he calls, "Not too far!"