"Suspicious, you mean," I say. "Because you like him for the crime."
"I like him for every crime." When I give him a look, he says, "Okay, I'm kidding. Mostly. Now, if Nicki had been brainwashed into self-imposed captivity, I'd say he's our man. But keeping a woman in a cave hole lacks finesse."
"It's also inconvenient," I say. "That cave is terribly far away. But yes, I'm considering him a suspect, lik
e every guy who's been here since Nicole disappeared."
"Uh-uh. Not everyone." Anders taps his arm. "For once, racial profiling means I am not a suspect." He looks at Dalton. "Which is more than you can say."
Dalton shakes his head. "Nicole says her captor last visited the day before you found her. I was in Dawson City."
"Yeah, I'm not even sure this Dawson City place exists. I've heard your stories of it."
"So," I say, "back to the subject. Yes, Mathias is a suspect. No, I don't think his refusal to interview her is suspect. He's just being Mathias. He did agree to conduct a brief medical examination, which means he's not going to be hiding behind a curtain. But, yes, given his role in the case, I'd love to know more about him, to be completely sure Nicole is safe with him."
Both Anders and I look at Dalton.
"What?" Dalton says.
Anders sighs and heaves to his feet. "Come on, pup. Time to go piss in the forest with Uncle Will. The adults have something to discuss. Don't give me that look, Eric. Casey's asking about Mathias's entrance story, and I know you won't tell her in front of me. That info's on a need-to-know basis. I don't need to know."
"With Mathias, it's public record, so you might as well hear it," Dalton says. "He's here because one of his subjects didn't much like being under his magnifying glass. Guy was a serial killer in New York. That's where Mathias did most of his research--he lived in Quebec but commuted to the States for cases. This guy targeted teenage girls. Raped and tortured them. Claimed he was at the mercy of twisted urges. Mathias studied him. Two years into the sentence, the guy emasculated himself."
"What?" Anders says. "No. Did I say I don't want to hear this story?"
Dalton waits, giving Anders a chance to leave. The deputy squirms, but says, "Fine. Go on. Just no details, okay?"
"I don't know them. What I do know is that this piece of shit blamed Mathias. Said the doctor brainwashed him or hypnotized him and made him do that to himself."
"Seriously?" Anders says. "I was kidding about the brainwashing."
"Well, that's what this guy claimed. As soon as he recovered, he escaped, leaving a trail of bodies. He wrote threats on the wall in blood, swearing to do to Mathias what he claims the doc did to him. When the cops couldn't find the guy, Mathias decided he wasn't spending the rest of his life cupping his balls. He'd heard about Rockton through the grapevine, so he applied for entry while he waited for the guy to be caught."
"Which hasn't happened," I say.
"Nope. I think Mathias is fine with the excuse, though. From what you said about extending his stay, he's in no rush to cut his Yukon early retirement short."
"You said the story is public record?"
"A long paper trail of proof. It hit the news--the guy's crimes, conviction, self-mutilation, escape, vows to kill the shrink he blamed for making him--"
"We get the picture," Anders says. "Well, Casey does. I'm trying very hard not to. What you're saying is that you've looked it up and confirmed Mathias has a valid and proven reason for being here, one that says he's on the run from a serial killer, not one that suggests he could be a psycho himself."
"Yep."
"Damn," Anders says. "Well, there goes my career as a detective."
Another hour passes in conversation. I'm lying on the rug, and Dalton has moved down to the floor, his back against the sofa, with my head on his lap. Storm's stretched out in the narrow space between my head and his stomach, squeezing in so she can be with both of us, and I'm thinking of that Newfoundland from so long ago. What was her name? Right. Nana, after the most famous instance of the breed, the beloved "nanny" in Peter Pan. I remember how Nana would shift against me as I read, as if making sure I was comfortable and ...
I wake to a cold nose finding the spot where my shirt rides up from my jeans. It's Storm nudging and whining. I'm on the floor, Dalton lying behind me, his arms around me, the rise and fall of his chest telling me he's sound asleep. Another nudge. Another whine. Then a smell. The distinct odor of puppy piddle.
I rise quickly, my gaze flying to the rug beneath us. Thankfully, that's not where she went. There's a small puddle on the hardwood. A remarkably small puddle, as if she'd peed just as much as necessary before trying again to wake me. We don't have papers set out for her. The breeder had begun housebreaking from near birth and advised us to continue that.
I grab a rag from Anders's kitchen to throw on the piddle. Then I pull on my boots and jacket, and Storm is at the front door, going nuts with the joy of her success. I look out the front window. It's dark, not surprisingly. Silent, too. Moonlight glistens off the snow.
I check my watch. It's barely midnight, but the street is empty, no sound of voices; people aren't in the mood to wander and socialize, which tells me just how anxious they're feeling since we brought Nicole back.
That worry pulls me into the house and over to the guys. Anders is still mostly upright, his head back on the chair, slouched as if he'd closed his eyes for a second and crashed. He's zonked, no hope of easily rousing him.