A Darkness Absolute (Casey Duncan #2)(26)

“A favor implies a future price. I like mine determined up front.”

“Good. Open-ended favors are trouble. People will take advantage of you.” He resumes sharpening. “You know I like that you speak French to me. And you are interesting. Here? Interesting is the best thing a person can be. You are also very easy to look at. That never hurts. But do you know what’s more dangerous than a pretty girl?”

“A pretty girl with a gun?”

He laughs. “No, a pretty girl who is also clever. She knows exactly what to say to make you pay attention, and you are already paying attention because she is pretty. Very dangerous.”

“You’re prevaricating. Which means I do have your attention.”

“Always.” He sets the knife down. “I will not see this Nicole. But I do want something. My five years will be complete this spring. I wish to stay. I believe I have proven my worth. Isabel stays.”

“Isabel pays to stay.”

“Mmm, I believe Isabel does not need to pay much. Do you know what is even more dangerous than a pretty and clever girl? A pretty and clever woman. Isabel knows the most valuable currency in Rockton is secrets, and she holds more of those than anyone. I have money, yes. Secrets? No. But I want to stay.”

“Right, well, considering you just told me you won’t talk to Nicole, there’s no deal to be made.”

The shop door opens. Mathias barks, “Fermé!” and even if the unseen customer doesn’t know what the word means, he decides a hasty departure seems wise.

Once the door has shut, Mathias turns to me. “When I was a psychiatrist, I had a specialty: studying psychopaths, sociopaths, and others with antisocial personality disorder. Do you know the difference?”

“Roughly, but you’re telling me this because Nicole is none of the above.”

“Unless she allowed herself to be kept in a hole for a year. Now, that would be a truly fascinating psychology. I saw something similar once, yet it was not nearly so extreme as this. We will presume, for the sake of argument, that this girl did not give permission. But what you missed in my job description was the keyword, which was overshadowed by the more powerful ones.”

I think for a moment. “Study. You said you studied them. Which means you aren’t a therapist. But we have Isabel for that. I want an assessment. That’s what you did.”

“True.” He picks up another knife and begins sharpening it. “People take offense when I do this. You do not. Eric does not. Isabel just tells me to put the damned knife away. Do you know why it does not bother you three?”

“Because we don’t think you’re going to carve us up for tomorrow’s tourtière?”

He chuckles. “Probably not. As I said, I like you. Also? You do not have enough fat. I am certain some do worry when I sharpen my knife, but for most, they simply do not like me seeming distracted. It is a case of—” He waves his hands. “Look at me! I am important! You do not need that. Eric does not need that. Isabel does not need that.”

“Okay.…”

“I sharpen my blades while I chat, because it is an efficient use of time. Yet I realize how it can be misconstrued. It is the equivalent of checking one’s cell phone. It can be read as This conversation bores me. When I studied patients, I had to be very careful not to multitask in their presence. Well, not unless it was useful—take out my phone to check messages while a narcissist is speaking, and he will need to regain my attention, which may mean telling me things he had meant to keep secret.”

“Uh-huh. This is leading somewhere, right?”

Another waggle of the knife. “Patience. I enjoy our conversations. Do not rush them. So now, imagine I am speaking to this poor captive girl, and I do this.”

“Sharpen knives? Yeah, no. But I think you can give her thirty minutes without getting distracted.”

“It is not ‘getting distracted.’ It is…” He puts the knife down and leans on the counter. “How long was she in that hole?”

“Fifteen months.”

“How big was it?”

“About five feet across.”

“She was down there fifteen months. In the dark. In the cold. Alone except for when a man came and made her wish she was alone. Or perhaps she was grateful to have contact with another person. How would that make her feel, if she found herself looking forward to those footsteps? You have thought of what that would be like, yes?”

I don’t answer.

“You have. I see it in your face. You think of it, and you feel for her. You empathize. You cannot imagine what it would be like, but you still try.”

“It isn’t empathy if it’s about me.”

“That is the definition of empathy, Casey. You feel what she must have. And do you know what I would think, sitting there and hearing her story? How fascinating it is. What an incredible case study in human resilience and the psychology of captivity. That is all I would think, and she would see it, and she does not deserve that. Which is as close to empathy as I come—that I recognize my reaction would harm her and I do not wish to do that.”

“But—”

“My offer then is to briefly examine her medically and then consult psychologically. For the latter, you will speak to her—you and Isabel. I will give you questions. You will ask them, and you will respond to her answers with all due empathy.”