“Phil? The first time we spoke, you said you wanted to go on patrol.” She’d used almost the same phrasing too, about “more fully experiencing” her new life here in Rockton.
“I wanted to be part of the community. I wasn’t sure how to go about that, and Phil encouraged me to join a patrol, to gain a deeper understanding of the landscape and have an opportunity to get to know members of the militia. To show that I supported their work and didn’t consider myself above basic tasks. I agreed. It was exactly what I was looking for. Whatever you may think of me, Casey, I came here prepared to immerse myself in this job and this community. Despite Sheriff Dalton’s objections.”
“What did Eric object to?”
“Me joining the patrol. He said I wasn’t qualified.” She sniffs. “In short, I was female.”
“He said that?”
“He didn’t need to. Look at the militia. Do you see any women on it?”
That isn’t Dalton’s fault. There was a female member, a few years ago, and he wants more women to join, but they haven’t been interested. Honestly, I’m not surprised—it offers little more than bragging rights, and that’s just not important to women. They can make the same number of credits doing more interesting and less dangerous work.
“What exactly did Eric say?”
She flutters her hands. “You know how he gets. Blustering about the dangers of the forest, and how people don’t understand, and if I wanted to join a picnic party, there was one scheduled for the next week. A picnic party? I don’t know what you see in the man, Casey. I understand that you may feel you lack power here. Perhaps that seems the way to get it. You may also feel threatened—I’m sure you endured more than your share of unwanted attention when you arrived. Being with the sheriff might seem the best way to protect yourself and further your interests in this town, but there are other ways.”
“I am with Eric because I want to be with Eric. Suggesting anything else is insulting, Val. Very insulting.”
She stops, teacup clutched between her hands. “I don’t mean to be,” she says. “I worry. You seem so bright and accomplished, and yet you choose to be with that … that—”
“I am well aware of your opinion of Eric, Val. I would like to keep that out of the current discussion, unless it has some bearing on it.”
Her hands tighten on the mug, and she goes quiet. Very quiet.
“Val? Does it have some bearing?”
Her finger trembles as she puts the mug down. “Of course not.”
“If you have a specific complaint against Eric—”
“I don’t.”
I eye her. There’s more here. Not anything Eric’s done—I know him better than that. But there is something connected to her attack and to him.
“Sheriff Dalton did nothing,” she says firmly.
“Is that the problem? That he didn’t take your attack seriously? You never told him you’d been attacked.”
“It did not bear mentioning. He organized and participated in the search. His diligence was unquestionable, as always.”
Do I detect a twist of sarcasm?
She continues, “You wish to hear the whole story. It was a routine patrol. It lasted longer than I expected, and I … needed to slip away. I’d drunk more water than I intended.”
“So you told the guys that you had to go to the bathroom.”
“That wasn’t necessary. They’d stopped to examine a campsite, and I said I wanted to see animal tracks we’d passed on the trail. One of the men offered to walk with me. I demurred. I retreated on the path and then slipped off it. I went farther than I intended in my quest for privacy. After I finished, I started back, heard the men calling, and realized I’d gone in the wrong direction. That’s when I was grabbed.”
From there, her story progresses as I’d heard it before. She was taken captive by two men, who threatened her and then decided it was time for a nap—because threats are just so exhausting. She escaped while they were asleep.
I ask her to physically describe the men. One could be Nicole’s captor, but that would be more heartening if it was a more unusual description. I home in on their appearances otherwise, in hopes of expanding my understanding of hostiles. How did they look? What did they wear? How did they speak?
The first time she told this story, she sniffed about the men communicating in poor English, barely understandable. When I probe, though, it’s clear that Val’s idea of “poor English” isn’t exactly the same as mine. It turns out the hostiles weren’t the grunting Neanderthals she first described. They sounded like guys I’d expect to meet in these woods—men who might have been mining or hunting all season and not exactly bathing regularly.