Except they aren’t. There’s little doubt of that. They were aggressive in a way that goes well beyond a couple of rough miners who find a woman in the woods and act out their dark fantasies. These men had stylized scar patterns. Deliberately blackened teeth. Braided hair and beards. They’d been dressed in cured animal hides, roughly sewn and decorated with bones. They seem like guys who recalled seeing old National Geographic magazines and emulated a hodgepodge of tribal customs.
When they spoke, it was understandable enough, but with words that Val couldn’t understand, like you might expect from people who spoke only to one another, inventing their own dialect. The gist of their message had been clear, though. You are on our territory. We are going to show you why that is a very bad idea.
“And then they fell asleep?” I say.
She could come up with some explanation for this, however implausible. Instead she just looks me in the eye and says, “Yes.”
That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.
I don’t need details of what happened between the threats and the escape, just like I didn’t need details of what happened to Nicole in that cave. Details do not impact my case.
“You know what happened to Nicole,” I say. “You know that man didn’t just hold her captive for conversation.”
“I don’t need to hear—”
“And I’m not going to tell you, because that’s none of your business. I’m saying that you know what happened, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Given the short time you spent with these two men, would you believe them capable of doing that to Nicole?”
“Yes.”
“Mentally capable of holding her in a cave and remembering to provide rudimentary care?”
“Yes.”
“Earlier, your opinion of their intelligence—”
“I would not attempt to discuss the fundamental theorem of algebra with them, but I have no doubt they could have done this.”
We talk for a few more minutes. I thank her, and I’m leaving, and as I reach the door, she says, “Do you believe it could have been the same men?”
I open my mouth, and she says, “Yes, I know, Nicole was taken by one person, but there is no reason two couldn’t have been involved, one as an accomplice.”
“That’s a possibility. Either way, it wouldn’t rule out one of your attackers being her captor—and the man who killed Victoria and Robyn.”
“That’s what I avoided, then,” she says, her voice dropping. “If I hadn’t escaped…”
“You avoided something,” I say. “You got away. Which does not mean that Nicole failed to escape.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Well, with the way you talk sometimes, I thought I’d better make that clear.”
She flushes. “I don’t mean—”
“I’m not interested in hashing it out tonight, Val. Nicole never saw her attacker. He knocked her out from behind, and she woke in that hole. She didn’t have the chance to escape.”
“Possibly because I had. They learned.” She wraps her arms around herself. “I keep thinking of that. Dreaming of it. Waking up in a hole and—” Her breathing accelerated, and she steps back quickly. “I’m sorry, Detective. I’m overtired.”
“Would you like me to post a guard?”
“No, of course not. I’m fine.”
“I will ask the militia to do extra passes by your house. If there’s any chance this is the same guy, he targeted you once. If you want a night guard, just ask me. They don’t need to know anything other than that there’s a suggestion you could be a target. The only catch is that he’d have to stay in your living room—we can’t ask him to stand on your porch all night in this weather.”
She says, “Extra passes will be fine.” Then she looks at me. “Thank you.”
I nod and leave.
THIRTY-FIVE
Before we retire for the evening, Dalton takes Storm for a run through town. And I do mean a run, to the point where he’s carrying her back and she’s not the only one panting. I may have mentioned earlier that, as much as I love my puppy, I’m loving her a little less at bedtime. Hence the run, and then she’s sound asleep in her bed upstairs and Dalton finds his second wind very nicely. Soon we’re both panting, stretched out on the bearskin, legs still entwined.
“Thank you,” I say when we’re done.
“I was going to suggest we work from home for a while earlier today, but I know you’ve been busy.”
“I’m never that busy.”
“Good to know.” He kisses me, and then we snuggle down on the rug, and a few minutes later, as I’m staring into the fire, he says, “Working?”
“Yes, sorry.” I pull my gaze away from the flames.
“I’m asking, not complaining.”
His fingers tickle down my bare side. He just traces right over my scars. I’m sure other lovers thought they were being considerate by avoiding them, but to me it always felt like they were avoiding the ugliness, trying to see past it. Dalton doesn’t even seem to notice them, and I’m so busy enjoying his touch that it takes a moment to see that look in his eyes, the one that means he has something to say.
“Hmm?” I say.
“Anything you want to talk about? With the case? You’re working through something. I can see that, and I know you were busy tonight, talking to Mathias and Val, and…”
And you haven’t told me what it is. You always tell me what it is.
“If you want to talk, I’m here,” he says. “Well, obviously. I’m always here.” He exhales. “Fuck.”