Last year Nicole Chavez snuck out of Rockton on a warm fall evening, just before dusk. There was a nearby berry patch not quite tapped out, and she wanted berries. That's it. The patch wasn't more than a hundred paces from the town limit, and it was still light, and she was close enough to shout if she happened upon a bear or a hostile. As rebellions go, it was no worse than me as a child, petting the neighbor's dog through the fence.
Nicole snuck from town to gather berries. She found the bush, crouched to pick, and ...
And that's all she remembers. She woke in that cave, the back of her head throbbing, her brain groggy from the drugs that kept her sedated when the blow wore off.
She woke in that hole. And that's where she stayed.
For over a year.
Fifteen months.
Sixty-three weeks.
Four hundred and forty days.
I knew she must have been taken straight to that cave, yet I kept telling myself that isn't necessarily true. She could have been held captive elsewhere and moved to the cave. Maybe she tried to escape and was relocated. Maybe she was only in the hole for a month, two tops.
It's not as if I imagine her happily shacked up in a cabin with a settler. Her body tells another story. So why does this hit so hard, the confirmation that she's been in that hole the entire time? Because I cannot wrap my head around it. Some primal part of my brain runs gibbering from the thought. If it happened to me, I would go mad. I would literally go mad. I'd claw the flesh from my body, like a wild beast in a trap. Rend my flesh. Rip out my hair. Batter myself bloody on those rocks. My brain could not handle it. This is a test I would fail, and that terrifies me.
But this isn't about me. It is about the woman who did survive.
Nicole and I sit in the living room. The blinds are drawn. They're blackout blinds to help in summer when the sun shines past midnight. She's curled up in a chair. A pair of sunglasses rests by her side--the darkest anyone could find--and as we talk, she periodically puts them on, against the light seeping around the blinds. But then she'll take them off again as she tries to adjust.
There's food everywhere--baked goods and dried fruit and whatever else people have. When tragedy strikes, this town shines brightest. Sometimes a little too bright, people tripping over themselves with "what can I do?" to the point of interference.
As we talk, I catch the occasional murmur outside the front door, and I realize Dalton is really standing guard against those coming by with whatever they think Nicole might need. Food, drink, a wool blanket, a novel, a sweater. Of course, they're hoping to ca
tch a glimpse of her, too, or overhear a tidbit of fresh gossip. That's human nature. The moment they see Dalton, they'll lay their offering on the pile before scurrying off.
Back to Nicole. As she said before, she can't tell me what her captor looked like. He wore a balaclava. When he arrived, her candle went out. That was the rule. He communicated little more than those rules, which meant she often wouldn't hear his voice, and even when he gave her an order, he kept his voice pitched low, gruff, as if he'd rather say nothing.
He would leave a candle burning up top. But all she can tell me is that he's light-skinned, not thin, not short.
He is the man in the snowsuit. The general size fits. The balaclava fits. The blow to the back of the head fits. The region where we found him also fits.
What does that mean for Sutherland? I haven't forgotten the bloodied toque in the snow. For now, the snow keeps falling, and there's no way to search for him without endangering our militia.
When I ask Nicole if she can give anything more, she says, "He watched me. I'd hear him come into the cavern. I'd see the light. I don't know how long he'd sit up there. My watch only worked for a week or so. It's charged by light, which always seemed terribly convenient ... until you're in a cave."
She smiles, and she wants me to smile back. See? It's not so bad--I can joke about it. Joking to make me feel better, as I sit here struggling to stay composed, and when she smiles, all I can do is nod.
If I tried to smile, I'm not sure what would come out: a twist of pain or rage. Both impulses war. I want to curl up in a ball of sympathetic agony, and I want to march into the forest, find whoever did this, and--
I look across the room, at that lopsided dream catcher.
Is that what you felt, Beth?
There's no question about me. I have that darkness inside. Absolute darkness. Yet it's not a caged lion, waiting for the gate to be left unlatched. It's just there, in case I need it.
Nicole continues, "When the watch worked, though, I timed him once. He stayed up there an hour, watching, and then he came down, and..." She looks at me. "Do you need to know about ... that?"
"No."
She nods. "Thank you. I know I might have to discuss it if there's a trial. But what can you say besides 'it happened'? I was in no position to refuse. I learned--fast--not to refuse. Just get it over with."
She goes quiet and then says, "I got pregnant. He knew my schedule--he had to bring stuff obviously, this bag of rags I'd keep until my period was done. When I didn't need them, he realized I was pregnant. He hit me until I wasn't. I remember lying there, bleeding, hoping he'd ruptured something critical, that this was the end. But it wasn't. Just the end of that. Afterward, he started pulling out." She shakes her head. "Sorry. I said I wouldn't give details."
"You can give me any details you want. You just don't need to."