SEVENTEEN
Once I’m asleep, though, even a warm puppy and lover can’t keep the last two days at bay. I dream of the man in the snowmobile suit, of his pipe hitting my head, of waking in that cave and screaming until my throat is raw. I dream of a shadowy figure hunched at the top, watching me. But it’s not him. It’s Diana. She watches and then rises and walks away. Next it’s Beth, doing the same. Leaving me screaming for them to come back, please come back and help me.
Finally I’m alone and huddled on that cold rock floor, not even the comfort of the skins beneath me. I hear a noise at the top. It’s Dalton, and I’m sure he will leave too. Of course he will. Nobody stays. Not for me.
Dalton stays.
He crouches on the edge and says something, and I see his lips moving, but I can’t make out the words. He drops a rope, but it falls short. I jump, claw at the wall, try to climb, but whenever I get closer, it recedes until it’s so far above my head, I can barely see it.
Then Dalton shrugs. Just shrugs, as if to say, What can you do? He drops the rope. It comes curling down the hole, and I’m screaming, screaming, Please, please help, I’ll do better next time, just help me.
Then he’s gone. Given up on me. I scream and I scream and then I hear a voice at my ear, whispering, “What did you expect?” It’s Blaine, blood on his shirt from the bullet I put through his heart. Another noise sounds up top again, and I spin, and I’m hoping it’s Dalton. He’s just gone to find another way, and then he’ll come back.
Instead four figures ring the hole. Four faces peer down. The four I’ve seen in every nightmare for the last twelve years. The last faces I saw before I fell under the rain of blows that changed my life.
“Looks like you’ve got company, Casey,” Blaine whispers. “Maybe they’ll do it right this time.”
*
I wake in Dalton’s arms. He’s holding me, smoothing back my hair and whispering, “Shh, shh, shh.” I feel him there, hear him there, and I am both comforted and shamed, as I always am.
I am ashamed that it has been twelve years, and I still have nightmares. That in four months my new lover has already become so accustomed to them that he only has to feel me shaking against him, and he’ll wake and hold me and whisper.
I huddle against him and swallow, shivering, and he says, “Talk?” I shake my head and curl up against his chest, and he holds me until I fall back to sleep.
EIGHTEEN
We don’t get on the trail at first light. I take Storm out while Dalton makes breakfast, and when I open the door, I’m blown off my feet by a gust of wind. Dalton gets the door shut, and we peer out into the darkness as a storm whips up.
Anders was supposed to join us on our trek, and he valiantly makes it to Dalton’s place, but there’s no way we’re going out. We spend a few hours holed up, working in front of the fire. While the wind dies down by eleven, we’ve lost too much daylight to hunt for Sutherland.
By the time we head to the station, everyone’s walking to work, the shops opening. No one lingers at home with the excuse for a snow day. We can’t afford that. Eleven isn’t even all that late for opening Rockton in the winter season. The town’s schedule accommodates the seasons. Longer summer hours and shifts mean shorter ones in winter, when the town goes into a state of semi-hibernation.
Dalton drops off Storm with Petra and then meets me at the bakery, where I’m chatting with the couple who work there. We take our coffee and morning rolls and nearly collide with Val coming in.
“Fresh sweet rolls,” I say, lifting mine as I pass, but not slowing, not opening up a moment of conversation as I would with anyone else. A friendly comment and then move on.
Val says, “The council needs to speak to you.” Then she turns and leaves.
I hesitate. Devon holds out a cloth-wrapped sweet roll for Val and giving me a wry smile.
“Gotta try, right?” he says.
Both Brian and Dalton snort, almost in unison, as if to say they don’t see why we bother. Not with Val. I take the roll and thank Devon as we leave.
*
Val’s already inside when we arrive. I knock. She opens the door. I lift the sweet roll, and she stares at it as if suspecting a bomb in pastry shape.
“Late breakfast, early lunch—whatever you call it, it’s good. And I wouldn’t want to eat mine in front of you.”
She gingerly takes the roll. Then she sees Dalton behind me.
“The invitation was for Casey, Sheriff.”
“And that wasn’t clear, so I came.”
“Your presence is not required.”
I tense, but Dalton only shrugs and says, “Okay. I’ll wait,” and starts clearing snow from her front porch.