"I'm retreating," I whisper. "I'm not armed, and--"
He nods before I can finish, and I turn, walking as he does the same in reverse, keeping our backs together, both of us scanning the darkness. When we reach the yard, he says, "Go!" and I race to the back door. I pull it open and glance over my shoulder, but he's right there. He covers me until we're inside and then I'm hugging Storm, consoling her as he shouts, "Will!" striding toward the living room.
I put Storm down and hurry to get my gun.
"Will!" Dalton says again, but Anders isn't even twitching, and Dalton walks over and says, "Calvin!"
Anders scrambles up, with "Wha--what?"
Calvin is Anders's real name. Calvin James. We don't ever use it, even in private, and it's not just for fear of slipping in public. Here, he wants to be Will Anders. Here, he is Will Anders.
He's up now, and Dalton is telling him to get his gun and his boots, someone's in the forest. Storm whimpers and presses against my legs.
"I'm sorry," I whisper. I lift her, run upstairs, and shut her in Anders's bedroom. She starts to yowl. I race back down. Anders is already out the door. Dalton pauses. He pauses and looks back at me, and I know what's going through his mind, the impulse to say, "Stay with the puppy." It's only a moment, though, and then he's nodding and holding the door open for me to go out.
TWENTY-THREE
We don't find anyone. There are boot prints, though, ones that match the prints from the storm, from the man in the snowmobile suit. You'd think, with snow on the ground, we'd be able to track him. We think we should be able to track him, and when we can't, the frustration keeps us out there long past the point where we've lost the trail--when he joined up with sled tracks from an afternoon patrol. We follow those tracks, flashlights shining on either side, looking for an exit point, until Anders finally says, "Guys...," and as frustrated as we are, we know he has a point. We've gone too far from town. We've lost our chance.
On the way back, Dalton says to Anders, "About earlier. What I called you. I shouldn't have done that."
"It's cool."
"No. It's not."
"Yeah, it is. If you need me to wake up, that'll do it. Apparently, my subconscious mind still hasn't made the transition." When Dalton doesn't answer, Anders moves into the lead, slapping his back on the way and saying, "It's cool."
Dalton glances at me, and I move up beside him and take his hand. It still bothers him. He's off-kilter with this case. We all are. And it's just beginning.
*
Whatever Anders may have said to make Dalton feel better, being called by his real name nudges something deeper. We're sleeping in his living room again, after bringing Storm down and reassuring her, and I wake to a kick in my thigh. Anders is back in the same position as earlier--apparently, sleeping semi-upright is way more comfortable than one would imagine. The kick is from him, twitching in his sleep, and when I wake, he's mumbling under his breath, trapped in a nightmare. I catch a few words, enough to know he's remembering the war. He's telling someone to stay put, don't go out, damn it, don't go out until it's clear.
I lay my hand on his ankle, and he's shaking as hard as Storm was earlier. Sweat gleams on his face, catching moonlight edging through the blinds. When I squeeze his ankle, his eyes pop open and he gasps, as if coming up for air. He sees me and nods, and then he sits there, eyes half shut.
Anders catches his breath. Then he catches my eye, too, not a word exchanged, just a look, a shared understanding that, sometimes, when night comes, we can't be Will Anders and Casey Butler, that those other selves surge and remind us of pasts that won't ever go away. That shouldn't ever go away. Mistakes made. Terrible, life-altering mistakes. And that's who we are, at least when the lights go out, and the world goes quiet, and we can't pretend we've left those old incarnations far behind.
*
We're on the trail by daybreak. I'm still unsettled from last night, so as we ride, I indulge in self-therapy, mentally counting off things I've already done today that have made me happy. Waking to puppy kisses. Watching Dalton play in the snow with Storm. The gorgeous scenery as we ride, snow lacing the evergreens, steamy heat rising from the horses. My mare, Cricket, interpreting my subtle moves and responding in a way that feels like telepathy. Dalton, ahead of me, scanning the forest, both watchful and at peace, completely in his element. Anders, behind me, telling a story about a caribou encounter. And the reminder that we're going--not to see that terrible hole again, but to solve a crime, find a monster, and stop him. All that makes me happy, even the last, which is to me as soul-satisfying as gamboling with a puppy.
We take the horses all the way to the foothills. There we wait for Kenny, who is following on the snowmobile with Paul, another of the militia guys. They'll stay with the horses while they fill Anders's empty sled and tow Dalton's stuck one.
We climb to the cave. I don't hesitate for a second, beating Dalton up the hill and inside. He isn't fooled--he knows I'm going overboard to say, See, I'm fine with this. He also knows better than to question. This is my job. Let me do it.
Anders stands watch at the mouth of the cave. I lead Dalton to the hole. And there's nothing to find. Mathias is right--Nicole's captor has cleared the scene.
We aren't hunting a stupid man. He knew we'd taken Nicole. He's removed the boxes and candles and the skins. I curse myself for not taking a better look at the time, but the only thing on my mind had been the fact we'd just pulled a starving woman from a hole.
I still examine the scene. I check for anything left up top. Then I climb down into the hole. Dalton follows me.
There's blood on the walls. Long-dried blood, and I picture Nicole clawing the rock, trying to get a grip, her fingers raw and bloodied. Dalton's crouched on the floor, rubbing a large dark spot and then lifting his finger. It's red. I bend beside him, and he's looking at that spot, and I can see him mentally measuring the stain, and wondering what could leave that much blood and not kill her.
"She was pregnant," I say. "He ended it."
Dalton jerks back so suddenly he has to brace against the wall for support. He gives me a sidelong look, as if he isn't quite sure how to take this, how to comprehend it.
"It might not have been that," I say, but I look at that patch of blood, and I know I'm not wrong.