V.M. Giambanco was born in Italy.

She started working in

films as an editors apprentice in a 35mm cutting room and
since then has worked on many award-winning UK and US
pictures, from small independent projects to large studio
productions. She lives in London.

Also by V.M. Giambanco

The Gift of Darkness

First published in Great Britain in 2014.

This paperback edition published in 2015 by
Quercus Publishing Ltd
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ
An Hachette UK company
Copyright 2014 V.M. Giambanco
The moral right of V.M. Giambanco to be
identified as the author of this work has been
asserted in accordance with the Copyright,
Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication
may be reproduced or transmitted in any form
or by any means, electronic or mechanical,
including photocopy, recording, or any
information storage and retrieval system,
without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available
from the British Library
PB ISBN 978 1 78087 899 7
EBOOK ISBN 978 1 78087 898 0
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
businesses, organizations, places and events are
either the product of the authors imagination
or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, events or
locales is entirely coincidental.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Typeset by Ellipsis Digital Limited, Glasgow
Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, St Ives plc

Ancient trees rise a hundred feet, red and yellow cedars next to black cottonwood and vine maples, their roots twisting out of deep green slippery
moss and rotting wood.
Four men walk in single file. Young enough that the difficult terrain
doesnt slow their progress too much, old enough to know this is the day their
lives have twisted and turned; they dont speak to each other because there
is nothing to say.
Their leader wipes the perspiration off the back of his neck with a ragged
square of gray cloth; he points at a dead branch that curves out of the dirt,
ready to catch their feet; the others step carefully around it. Hes not a
considerate man; hes a nasty piece of work in a hurry to get his business
done and get out of the forest.
The others follow him, wary of his moods and of the uneven ground; they
look ahead and never turn around. If they did, they would see the boy held
in the arms of the last man in the file, the boy who hasnt drawn breath for
what seems like hours. Eleven, maybe twelve years old, fair wavy hair and
pale lips. They grip their shovels and walk on.
The man carries the boy and keeps his eyes on the back of the guy in front.
The childs thin arms dangle low and his hands brush the tall ferns. Then,
as loud as a gunshot, a sharp intake of breath and the boys eyes open wide.
The man recoils and the child slips from his arms onto the soft moss.
The boy doesnt see the others turn as he lies on the cool ground; hes
breathing deeply and above him, beyond the highest branches, the sky is so
blue it hurts to look at it.

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Last night

Homicide Detective Alice Madison tried to find in herself the last

shreds of stillness. The woods creaked around her and a puff of
breeze soothed the cut on her cheek.
All the time she would ever have was right now. She was frayed
with exhaustion and dread, and sanity seemed a lifetime away. It
always came down to the same question, over and over: How far are
you prepared to go?
She pointed her Glock at the man in front of her and wondered if
the soft evening wind would affect the bullets trajectory, whether
the small chunk of metal would do what she was asking it to do or
the twilight would affect her aim. Precision was all she had, carved
out of intent and determination.
Alice Madison had never aimed and shot at a human being before
walking onto this field, and this was not what the Police Academy
had taught her. Her target was not a threat to her, himself or others.
Her target could barely stand on his feet.
Madison squeezed the trigger and in her heart she knew she had
a hit like the pitcher knows how the ball is going to curve as soon
as it leaves the hand.

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Three weeks and five days earlier

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Chapter 1

Alice Madison shifted in the comfortable upholstered armchair and

adjusted the holster that dug a little into her right side. She stole
a glance out of the wide window. Puget Sound shone in the pallid
January light, the silver creased white in spots, and Mount Rainier
rose from blue shadows in the far distance.
She turned when she realized the silence had stretched for longer
than was polite. Dr. Robinson was watching her.
Dont worry. I know people come here for the sharp psychological
insights but its the view they stay for, he said.
He had made that joke the first time they had met a few weeks
earlier. She smiled a little today as she had then, not entirely sure
he was unaware he was repeating himself.
The sign in the lobby said Stanley F. Robinson PhD. The office on
the fifteenth floor was smart, the colors muted.
He was early fifties, salt-and-pepper hair in a short cut and big
brown eyes. A useful look for a psychologist who worked with cops:
fairly unthreatening with bouts of inquisitiveness, she mused.
How was your week? he asked her. Dr. Robinsons desk was mercifully free of pads and pens. If he took notes he did so after their
sessions.
Good, Madison replied. Paperwork from a few old cases to tidy

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v. m. gi a mb a nc o 8
up. A domestic incident which turned out to be nothing. Pretty
standard stuff.
Did you think about the forest incident? I mean, longer than for
a few seconds during your day.
No.
Did you experience any unusual thoughts or have unusual
reactions as you went about your business? Ill let you tell me whats
unusual for you.
No, nothing unusual.
Any reaction to chloroform or other PTSD events?
No.
Anything at all about the last week or in general that youd like
to talk about?
Madison had the good grace to at least pretend she was pondering the question.
Not really, she said finally.
Dr. Robinson mulled over her reply for a few moments. He sat
back in his chair.
Detective, how many sessions have we had to date?
This is the third.
Thats right, and this is what Ive learnt: you are a Homicide
Detective; you joined your squad last November thats, what, about
two and a half months ago, give or take. You have a Degree in Psych
ology and Criminology from the University of Chicago good school,
great football team. Your record at the Seattle Police Department
is impeccable. You play well in the sandbox and there are no red
flags in your private life. Not so much as a traffic violation. With
me so far?
Yes.
Good. Last December all hell breaks loose and once the smoke
clears the Department sends you here to make sure youre fit for
work and ready to protect and to serve. You are very frank: you admit

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t he da r k 9
to a reaction to chloroform as a consequence of Harry Salingers
attack on you and your partner, but that stopped weeks ago. No panic
attacks, no incidents of post-traumatic stress disorder. Nothing,
after what happened in the forest. The boy, the rescue, the blood.
He paused there and Madison held his eyes.
Do you know how long it took me to gain all this perceptive
knowledge? He didnt wait for her to reply. Seven minutes. The
rest of the time what I got was good and pretty standard stuff
and nothing unusual.
What do you want from me, Dr. Robinson?
Me? Nothing. Im quite happy for you to come up and just look
at the view. You can do with the break and I get paid either way.
But heres the thing: even though I will certify that you are indeed
fit to work and ready to protect and to serve because you are it
is simply unthinkable that those thirteen days in December left no
trace on you somehow. So, these goodies Im giving you for free:
you have occasional nightmares, possibly an exact memory of the
event but more likely your own perception of the event and what
ever troubles you about the nature of your own actions in it. And,
most of all, Im willing to bet you are careful never to be alone with
your godson since you got him out of that forest. How am I doing?
Madison didnt reply.
Good meeting you, Detective. Have a nice life.
Dusk. Alice Madison parked her Honda Civic in her usual spot by
Alki Beach. Her running gear was stashed in a gym bag in the trunk
but she leant against the bonnet and let the clean salty air into her
lungs. The SeattleBremerton ferry was going past, seagulls trailing
in its wake. Bainbridge Island was a blue-green strip across the water
and downtown Seattle shimmered in the distance.
As far as she could remember, even as a newbie officer with her
crisply ironed uniform, Madison had come to Alki Beach and run

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v. m. gi a mb a nc o 10
after her shifts. The comfort of the sand under her feet and the
rhythm of the tide after a hard day; the sheer physical release after
a good day. It had been a constant in her life and Madison knew
very well that there were precious few of those, and she was grateful for it.
Then, the last day of the year just gone, after the end of those thirteen days, Madison had come back to the beach, changed into her
sweats, started running and promptly slipped into a recall so vivid,
so physical, that she had to stop: the sweet smell of pine resin still
in her nostrils. Hands on her knees and water up to her ankles, her
trainers soaked. Any dreams you want to tell me about?
Her arm had healed; the rest of her would take whatever time it
would take. Madison changed in the back of her car. Her first strides
were hesitant but she ignored the forest floor shifting under her feet,
and the sudden scent of blood. And she kept running.
The rush-hour traffic carried Madison into California Avenue SW
without any apparent effort on her part; she followed the flow south
with the windows rolled down and her faded maroon University of
Chicago hooded sweatshirt stuck to her back. She wiped the perspir
ation off her brow with a sleeve and drove, listening to the local
news on the radio and not thinking about Stanley F. Robinson PhD.
We find our blessings where we can and Madison pulled into a
parking space opposite Husky Deli and stretched her sore limbs as
she locked her car.
Her grandfather had brought her here for an ice-cream cone her
first weekend in Seattle. Her grandmother was busying herself in
the market nearby. They sat at the counter; he looked at the 12-yearold girl he barely knew and spoke to her like no one had spoken to
her before.
I hope you will like it here I really hope you will. All Im asking

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t he da r k 11
is that should there be anything troubling you, anything at all, you
talk to me, to us. I dont know what happened with your father and
Im not asking that you tell us. Im just asking that you dont run
away, that you dont just leave in the middle of the night. And well
do our best to help you in any way we can.
Then he put out his hand. Alice looked at it; no one had ever asked
her word about anything. She passed her Maple Walnut cone into
her left hand and shook with her right, sticky with sugar. They kept
their word, and so did she.
Madison rubbed the sole of her trainer against the edge of the
pavement to get rid of a significant amount of Alki Beach that had
insinuated itself into the grooves. She mingled with the shoppers
and filled a basket with food for home as well as a Chicken Cashew
sandwich no parsley and broccoli cheese soup that would probably not make it home.
Standing at the counter she was no different from anybody else.
Whole or half? the man asked.
Whole.
Cup or bowl?
Bowl.
Roll?
No, thank you.
The mans gaze lingered for a fraction of a second over the twoinch fine red line across her left brow; it would fade in time, the
doctor had said. Madison hadnt cared then and didnt care today.
All that mattered was that it made her a little bit more recognizable
after the flurry of articles and media reports in early January.
The man nodded; he must have been working there since bread
was invented.
Cone? Caramel Swirls freshly made.
Madison smiled. Not today.
She started on the soup in the car, engine already running, and

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v. m. gi a mb a n c o 12
by the time she turned into Maplewood and her driveway, the carton
was empty.
Three Oaks is a green neighborhood on the south-western edge
of Seattle, on one side the still waters of Puget Sound and on the
other patches of woodland and single family homes in well-tended
gardens.
Madison parked next to her grandparents Mercedes and balanced
her gym bag on one shoulder; her arm was wrapped around the grocery bag as she unlocked the door, toed the sandy trainers off and
gently pushed the door shut with one foot.
She padded into the kitchen and unpacked the shopping. Without
turning on the lights she crossed the living room and opened the
French doors, letting in the fresh air. The answering machine flashed
red. She ignored it, settled herself into a wicker chair on the deck,
her feet on the wooden rail, and unwrapped the sandwich.
The garden sloped down to a narrow beach that ran along the
waterside properties; tall firs on either side worked better than a
fence. In the half-light Madison looked at the plants and the shrubs:
soon they would wake up for a new life cycle the Japanese maples,
the magnolias each one seeded and nurtured by her grandparents.
Madison knew nothing about gardening yet she would weed,
water, prune and make sure that everything stayed alive because
they werent there to do it anymore. She worried good intentions
wouldnt make up for ignorance. In her job they usually didnt.
Once the stars were bright enough, Madison stepped inside. Her
Glock went under the bed in its holster and her back-up piece a
snub-nose revolver was oiled and dry-fired. Madison peeled off her
sweats and climbed into a long hot shower.
The message had been from Rachel: Tommys birthday party is
next month. I hope you can make it. Nothing but love and kindness
in her voice.
You have occasional nightmares, possibly an exact memory of the event

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t he d a r k 13
but more likely your own perception of the event and whatever troubles you
about the nature of your own actions in it. And, most of all, Im willing to
bet you are careful never to be alone with your godson since you got him
out of that forest.
The nature of your own actions. Madison wasnt exactly sure she
understood the nature of her own actions and she was honest
enough to admit to herself that there had been moments that night
that she probably did not want to fully understand. It had been a
blur of fear and rage and she didnt know exactly how much of one
or the other.
Tommy would be seven soon. On that awful night she had sung
Blackbird to him and he had come back to them, to life, to his
red bicycle and his little boys games. Her godson would be seven
and Madison tried hard to come up with an excuse not to go to the
party and failed.
As every night since that day in December her last thoughts went
to two men: one in jail, locked behind walls and metal doors guarded
by armed correction officers, and yet more terrifyingly free than any
human being she had ever met; and the other in the prison of his
injuries, somewhere deep past the corridors and the silent rooms of
a hospital a few miles away. His sacrifice had meant Tommy would
have a seventh birthday party. She could not think of one without
the other.
Madison closed her eyes and hoped sleep would come quickly.
Under the bed, inside the safe, a neatly folded page from The Seattle
Times has been tucked under the off-duty piece.
Blueridge Killer C aught
In the early hours of December 24 the nightmare that had
gripped Seattle for thirteen days finally came to an end. Harry
Salinger, the prime suspect in the murder of James and Annie

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v. m. gi a mb a n c o 14
Sinclair and their two young sons, was apprehended by Seattle
Police Department Homicide Detective Alice Madison in an
undisclosed location in the Hoh River Forest.
Mr. John Cameron, who had initially been under investigation for the crime, and his attorney Mr. Nathan Quinn, of Quinn
Locke & Associates, were also present. The former is being held
without bail on a charge of attempted murder. Mr. Salinger,
an Everett resident, sustained life-threatening injuries and is
now under guard in a secure medical facility.
Mr. Salinger has also been charged with the kidnap and reck
less endangerment of Thomas Abramowitz, 6, Det. Madisons
godson, and with the assault on Det. Sgt. Kevin Brown and Det.
Madison earlier in December.
SPD has not made public when Det. Sgt. Brown will come
back to active duty.
Mr. Cameron and Mr. Sinclair were first connected by tragic
circumstances as children twenty-five years ago when three
Seattle boys were abducted and abandoned in the Hoh River
Forest, Jefferson County.

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