The Dark (A Detective Alice Madison Novel)(11)

Madison shouldered her pack and pulled up her hood. Above her and out of sight, beyond the layers of green, she heard a rapid flutter of wings start off and fade into the distance.


The journey back was faster in spite of the coming dusk, and Ryan Curtis wasn’t interested in small talk. They reached his truck, and before Madison knew it, he was already pulling in next to her Civic in the Hoh River rangers station parking lot.

“Thank you.” Madison said. “I mean it. For getting the SWAT team to us, as well. I’m sorry I didn’t remember you.”

“No problem. I’m not surprised, really. I had never seen anything like it.”

“You and me both.”

She left the truck, got into her Honda, and drove off. The pickup’s lights followed her until the exit to Forks.

Madison felt winded and tired, as if she had sat for an exam and not even understood the questions. Later, sitting in a booth on the ferry, her hands around a cup of tea she was not drinking, she realized she had made a vow, whether the child proved to be David Quinn or not.

She was still making notes when the ferry docked.


Nathan Quinn checked the round clock on the wall. Three minutes to go to his call with Scott Newton, the prosecutor who represented the County in the case against John Cameron. As per Quinn’s standing instructions to Carl Doyle, a senior associate from Quinn, Locke had represented Jack while Quinn was incapacitated, but there was never any question that he would revert to his original role as Cameron’s attorney.

Quinn wanted Cameron out of jail as quickly as possible. Every day he spent inside KCJC was a day in which he was a target and a day in which he might be pushed to defend himself with maximum force to stay alive. It might be something the inmates would pay good money to see, but Quinn just wanted him out of there, fast. Even protective custody—who was being protected? he wondered—was barely more than wishful thinking.

Technically Quinn was only consulting on the case: he was still on pain medication, and officially the Quinn, Locke attorney had to sign off on any deals. However, everybody knew who made the decisions.

Quinn checked the clock. It was time.


“Let me understand,” Scott Newton said. “Your client attacked Harry Salinger and cut him up like a paper doll, and you think a charge of attempted murder is an overreach?”

“I think assault in the first is an overreach. Honestly? I think assault in the third would be an overreach. The only thing John Cameron was attempting was to restrain and detain Harry Salinger after the man had admitted to four counts of murder and one of kidnapping a minor,” Nathan Quinn replied.

“I can see how you’d like this to turn into a citizen’s arrest gone badly wrong.”

“No jury is ever going to give you attempted murder, Scott. Not when Salinger is about to be declared insane, not when they can look at the photographs of the cage he had built for the boy.”

Newton was quiet. Salinger had built two cages, and one had been for Quinn. “Salinger could have died. Everything Cameron did to him could have led to his death.”

“Do you know how we know that it wasn’t attempted murder?” Quinn asked. “Salinger is still alive. That is not accidental.”

Newton didn’t want to go to trial: there was too much risk involved in prosecuting the man who had physically apprehended Harry Salinger, the Blue Ridge Killer, and he had no idea where he would find an impartial jury. On Mars, maybe.

“What are you offering?” he asked Quinn.

“What’s on the table?” Quinn replied.

Newton snorted. “Assault in the first degree, and my boss will be justified to kick me down to prosecuting traffic violations.”

“Do you have proof of intent? And by that I mean actual proof of deliberation and intent to cause great bodily harm?”

“I have Salinger’s medical reports.”

“I’m sure they’re a fascinating read, but—I ask you again—do you have intent?”

Newton did not reply.

“Second, do you have a weapon?”

“They’re still looking.” He sounded weak even to himself.

“They found Salinger’s gun pretty quickly, as well as the tools he used to set up the cages.” The silence on the line stretched into a long pause. Quinn closed his eyes; his head rested against his pillow, and his energy ebbed and flowed unpredictably with his medication. “Reckless endangerment,” he said.

“I’m not even taking that into consideration.”

“Take your time, and consider what you can prove in front of a jury. They will have to ponder how hard it would be to restrain a man of Harry Salinger’s . . . temperament.”