The Dark (A Detective Alice Madison Novel)(42)

On the table, next to copies of Cameron’s defense case, lay a pile of letters and personal notes that Carl had delivered that morning, among them a letter from the US Attorney for the Western District of Washington State—an old friend from the days of the King County prosecutor’s office—who wrote to wish him well and to convey her yearly invitation to leave his practice and join her in her fight against the tide of brutes that threatened the land. It was their private little joke: she always asked; Quinn always declined. There was also a kind, sweet card from Rabbi Stien, who remembered his parents and wished him well in his recovery; when the time came, he would support anything Nathan decided to do about David’s remains.

Quinn had not formulated the thought in so many words; nevertheless, the notion was there and probably had been there since that first visit by the Jefferson County police: David would not be laid to rest next to their parents until his killers had names. He wondered if Rabbi Stien would understand: in his note he had spoken about Quinn’s courage, resilience, and inner strength. Quinn knew he had resilience, knew that now for sure if he hadn’t known it before. The other two he wasn’t sure about; he could still taste the fear as he tried to free Madison’s godson from his cage and the relief as Jack held his hand, tethering him to this world, when all about him was darkness.

Maybe resilience was enough to get him through this, he thought—resilience and rage. Rabbi Stien might favor one over the other, but Quinn recognized that he needed both, and for most tasks, you use what you have at hand.





Chapter 19





July 4, 1985. John Cameron, twelve, lies down on the backseat of his father’s car. His legs are stretched out, and his feet, in his cherished red Converse sneakers, rest against the rolled-up windowpane. From that position he can see the sky and the wisps of clouds that foretell another hot July day—as if they haven’t had enough of those this year. It makes the journey more interesting than sitting up, even though his mother will tell him off and get him to “sit properly” as soon as she notices.

They are driving to the Locke estate, outside Seattle and somewhere east, where they will spend the Fourth of July with friends—running around in the wooded grounds, cooling off in the pool, and stuffing themselves with barbecue. Heaven. Though all that would be only the prelude to the highlight of the day: the fireworks over the lake. Jimmy and David would be there too, of course, which was good, as well as Bobby Locke, which was less good—he was in their year in junior high, and no one could stand him. Hopefully there would be enough people around that they could lose him and do their thing. The fact that it was Bobby’s house they were going to and his pool they would dive into took the edge off Jack’s delight a little but not too much. There was a gloss to the day that made you feel as if every atom in Creation had been polished to a shine, like his father used to say—and he felt generous, even toward a ratty little sneak like Bobby Locke.

“Jack, sit up straight, honey.”

“Yes, Mom.”

His father is a fast driver, and they’re making good time. Jack sits up and leans his cheek against the glass pane, keeps an eye on his Casio wristwatch, and practices holding his breath like a swimmer underwater.


Nathan Quinn, twenty, wakes up in his bedroom, and it takes him a second to realize where he is. All summer he’s been slaving away as an intern at a law firm in Boston, and he arrived back home in Seattle only yesterday.

His old bedroom seems hopelessly childish to him this morning, and—still not entirely awake—he resolves to take down his Springsteen poster and replace it with a CND one. When he graduates, he will apply to Harvard Law, and this internship—making coffee and carrying files for divorce lawyers in suede slip-ons—will seem like a distant nightmare.

“Don’t they pay you enough for a haircut?” his father had asked him last night, his tone gentler than the words.

“I like the curls,” his mother had said simply.

The internship paid hardly anything, but it looked good on the résumé, and, anyway, it had paid enough for David’s present. The silly kid had practically squealed with joy when Nathan had given him a 35mm Nikon camera. It still made Nathan smile: he had felt grown-up then and his brother, seven years younger, impossibly young. He had spent hours showing him how to use the aperture and the zoom. It had been a long time since they had spent any time together; David was growing up, and Nathan was missing it, coming home from college or his summer jobs and driving off to see his friends, just about saying hello and good-bye to the little kid who had trailed behind him as soon as he had started to walk.