A Darkness Absolute (Casey Duncan #2)(39)

There’s blood on the walls. Long-dried blood, and I picture Nicole clawing the rock, trying to get a grip, her fingers raw and bloodied. Dalton’s crouched on the floor, rubbing a large dark spot and then lifting his finger. It’s red. I bend beside him, and he’s looking at that spot, and I can see him mentally measuring the stain, and wondering what could leave that much blood and not kill her.

“She was pregnant,” I say. “He ended it.”

Dalton jerks back so suddenly he has to brace against the wall for support. He gives me a sidelong look, as if he isn’t quite sure how to take this, how to comprehend it.

“It might not have been that,” I say, but I look at that patch of blood, and I know I’m not wrong.

I stand. “I’m not getting clues here. Let’s head back to Will.”





TWENTY-FOUR

With Anders, we’re crawling through the cave system. I don’t know what I’m hoping to find, but I failed to secure and assess the scene the first time. I must be absolutely sure I’ve missed nothing now, or I’ll wake in the middle of the night certain I overlooked some vital clue.

We’re heading down a tunnel, checking every side crevice, none big enough to crawl through. Then, as my head-beam lamp passes through one, it reflects off something white. I pull back and try to get a better look, but the crevice opens into a drop, and what I see down it is a patch of white.

I check the crevice. It’s narrow, but I could squeeze through.

Anders is in front of me. He’s stopped, watching and waiting. Same as Dalton behind. When I say, “I see something in there,” Dalton creeps forward, looks and says, “Got anything to fish it out with?”

“I can go in.”

“Nope.”

“I can. I’ll fit—”

“Can and not. Buddy system. Will and I won’t fit. So you aren’t going in.”

“It’s right there. I just need to crawl four feet and then down two or three more. Hell, I can stretch out in there and reach.”

“Nope.”

“Boss?” Anders says, and when I glance over, he’s giving Dalton a look, communicating a message that Dalton very clearly does not want as he pulls back and says, “Nope.”

I glare at him. Then I tug off my backpack, making myself smaller, and start into the crevice. His hand lands on my ankle, gripping tight.

“Did I say no? Or are you forgetting who’s in charge here.”

“Oh, I didn’t forget. But I don’t think I’m talking to my boss right now.”

He returns my glare, his jaw setting.

“Am I?” I say. “If Will could fit in there, would you tell him no?”

“This guy we’re hunting? He’s not going for Will.”

“Tell that to Shawn Sutherland. And that”—I point at the patch of white—“is not our guy lying in wait.”

“You sure?”

I look to Anders, who says, “Eric…,” in that voice that tells Dalton he’s being unreasonable. Most times, Anders follows Dalton’s lead, the amiable older brother, willing to recognize that the younger guy is in charge. Which means that when he uses the voice, it counts, and hearing it, Dalton rolls his shoulders, glowers at both of us, and says, “Go in and reach down, but stay where I can pull you back.”

That’s not as easy as it sounds. This isn’t a tunnel—it’s a crevice, which means I squeeze through. When I try pulling my legs in after me, Dalton gives a warning growl that means I’m teetering on the edge of crossing him. But he is being unreasonable. I don’t know if it’s vestigial panic from me getting lost in the storm, but it’s making me testy. I have a job to do, and here he is my boss, not my lover.

So I squeeze through, one leg out where he can reach it. His fingers rest lightly on my ankle, confident that I’m obeying his commands. Once I’m in, I pull my legs in after me, too fast for him to grab, and he lets out a “Butler!”

“I need both my feet. You can still see me.”

He starts to say something, but at the rumble of Anders’s voice, any demands drop into unintelligible grumbles.

Now comes the tricky part—reaching down into the drop from a crouched position. I do some crazy rearranging, bracing myself between the rock walls until I’m in a weird semisuspended, half-upside-down position. Then I shine my headlamp down on that white patch.

“It looks like fabric. A shirt, maybe.”

“Yeah,” Dalton says. “From a special tailor who does only custom work and has this guy’s address on file.”

“You read too many mysteries,” I say. “That never actually happens.”

“Which is my point, Butler.”

“I know. I’m just poking you, seeing as how you can’t reach in here to poke me back.”

He grumbles, but it’s lighter as he relaxes.

“Whether this fabric can lead to a killer or not, I need to get it. Just give me…” I wriggle and stretch. Still about six inches short.

“It’s not going anywhere,” Dalton says. “We’ll bring something back to fish it out.”

“If I can just crawl down—”

“No.”

“It’s a crevice, not a hole. I can’t fall through. I’ll just shimmy—”