A Darkness Absolute (Casey Duncan #2)(25)

I spent a few years working in Ottawa, which vastly improved both my French and my dialect, and I shamelessly “practice” it on Mathias, knowing that while his English is perfect, he enjoys the chance to communicate in his native language. We do have two other Francophones in Rockton, but Mathias doesn’t like them. And if Mathias doesn’t like you? Don’t talk to him. Just don’t.

He comes out of the back room, wiping his bloodied hands on his even bloodier apron. At fifty-three, he’s one of the oldest residents in Rockton. If there’s a stereotype of a butcher, he doesn’t fit it. He looks like a young Ian McKellen, a little less dapper and a little more … I won’t say dangerous, but there’s a glint in his eyes like he’s sizing up everyone around him and finding them terribly amusing.

He scrubs up at the sink and takes off his apron. I think the only people he bothers removing it for are me, Dalton, and Isabel, and it’s not so much respect as the realization his bloody-butcher routine isn’t nearly as much fun with people who aren’t fazed by it.

When his hands are dry, he disappears into the back and returns with a plate. On it are three slices of sausage. Without a word, he lays it in front of me. I try each slice, then point at the first piece and ask, in French, “What wood did you use to smoke that one?”

“Birch.”

“It’s better than the aspen.” I point to the second piece. “I like the heat in that one, though. Did I taste anise?”

“Correct. Eric brought me new spices.”

“Nice. My favorite, though, is…” I pick up the rest of the third and eat it. “You had me at cardamom.” I say the spice name in English, which makes him chuckle and say, “Cardamome.”

“Close enough.”

I get a waggled finger for that, and he disappears, and returns with a package of the cardamom sausage for me.

“You recognize the spice,” he says. “But the meat?”

I chew slower. “Is that … pork? Wait, is this…”

“Your wild boar.”

There aren’t actually wild boar in the Yukon. Many years ago, though, the town experimented with pigs, importing a Hungarian breed that crossed European boar with domestic pigs and created a winter-hardy pig with a wool-like coat. Great idea. Until they escaped. They’ve been living and breeding in this part of the woods for generations. A deep-woods hiker once got a picture of one. It was dismissed as a Photoshopped fake. Clearly there are no wooly-coated wild pigs in the Yukon. For imaginary beasts, though, they’re delicious.

“So Rockton gets bacon for breakfast this week?” I ask as I eat more sausage.

“You get bacon. And cardamom sausage. Eric, too, if he asks nicely. You must make him ask nicely. Which means you will probably get all the bacon.”

“Oh, I can get him to ask nicely.”

Mathias laughs. “I am sure you can. People keep waiting for Eric to be more pleasant, now that he has a girl. The only difference? He scowls a little less when he throws people in his cell.”

I shake my head and push the empty plate aside. “While I appreciate the gesture, I can’t take all the bacon. That’s not fair.”

“Fair is for fools. It is your first pig. It is yours. No argument.” He takes the plate. “And it is a bribe, as well. Take the sausage and the bacon, and do not ask me what you came here to ask me.”

“Then you need to keep the meat, Mathias. I have to ask.”

“No, you do not. I know the question, and I will answer it with a resounding no. Good enough?”

I sigh and lean on the counter. I say nothing. I just wait.

“You are going to tell me that you need me,” he says. “You are going to tell me the sad story of this girl I cannot remember.”

“Is there any point?”

“No. You are right—her story will not move me, so you will not relate it. Instead, you will remind me of my responsibilities as a member of this community. You will do it subtly. Not like Eric.” He switches to English and a dead-on impersonation of Dalton. “You were a fucking shrink, Mathias. That means you have a fucking medical degree and a fucking psychiatry degree, and we need both, so stop whining about how you’re out of practice, and get your fucking ass over to that house.”

Mathias reaches under the counter and takes out a knife and a sharpening stone. He works on the blade while we talk. He does that a lot. Not surprisingly, it freaks people out. Honestly, though, it’s just busywork. Mathias isn’t good at doing nothing except talking. And, yes, I suspect his choice of task isn’t accidental. It amuses him. With me, though, there’s no message, other than the one that says this conversation isn’t engaging enough to occupy his entire attention.

“Eric is a good man,” he says. “I like him. You may even tell him that. He would not use it against me. He doesn’t know how. It is not in his nature. You, though?” He waggles the knife at me. “You are different. You are devious. Cunning.”

“Coming from you, I take that as a compliment. I’m asking you for a favor, Mathias. I know you never practiced medicine. I know you haven’t practiced psychiatry since you got here. I don’t care. I just want you to talk to Nicole. Name your price.”

“It’s not a favor if there’s a price.”