It might also help that this is the smallest commercial airport I've ever seen. The terminal is one room with a ticket counter and a few chairs. There's a hatch in the wall labelled Baggage. Apparently, that's the luggage carousel.
I presumed the car was a rental, but the terminal doesn't have a rental agency. When I ask, Dalton says that someone will pick it up. There are no rentals in Dawson City. At all.
Inside, he takes a bottle of water from his bag along with a tiny pill envelope. "From the doc. She's on the selection committee, so she sees the files, real names redacted. Given your background, she thought you might need those."
I look at him, uncomprehending.
"They're for flight anxiety or whatever."
I keep staring, and he says, "Your parents?"
My cheeks flame as I realize he means because I'm about to get into a small plane, not unlike the one my parents died in. I didn't even think of that. I suppose that's because it happened so quickly. Another couple--fellow doctors--owned the plane, and the four of them had been heading to Arizona for a golf weekend. I hadn't even known they were going.
I don't need the pills. Even as I think now of how my parents died, I don't fear the same will happen to me. Should I? Is that proper empathy? Proper grief?
I pocket the pills with thanks, say I should be fine, and follow him out.
We spend the next ninety minutes in a bush plane so noisy both of us wear earplugs and neither says a word. Below, trees stretch as far as I can see. It's as beautiful and majestic as it is haunting and terrifying.
I've often heard people talk of feeling small and lost in a city. I've never experienced that, having always lived in one. Out here, looking at those endless trees, I feel it, but it's not a bad "small" or even a bad "lost."
During the first pass over Rockton, I notice a clearing that looks like a lumber camp. The buildings ... it's hard to explain, but I don't see most of the buildings, just a big clearing with a few wooden structures. Structural camouflage, like Dalton said. He'd also mentioned yesterday that there's a blocking system that keeps passing planes from picking up the town's footprint.
When we make a lower pass, I see Rockton, and it really is what Dawson City tries to be--a Wild West town. Dirt roads. Simple wooden buildings. A clearly defined town core. Houses a fraction the size of those found in a modern city. Chicken coops and a small goat pasture. I even spot a stable with horses out for their morning feed.
When Dalton brings the plane in, there's no one around. No ground crew. No welcoming committee. Am I disappointed by that? Yes. I expect to see Diana here, eagerly awaiting my arrival. But if she's not, that must mean she's settling in, not anxiously waiting for me. Which is good.
Dalton leaves me to unload our luggage while he drives an ATV out of the hangar. A cloud of dust brings another ATV zooming our way. I start to smile, certain it's Diana. It isn't. Not unless she's turned into a black guy with bulging biceps and a US Army tattoo. The deputy, I'm guessing from the tat.
I peg him at early thirties. Seriously good-looking. When he grins, I update that to "jaw-dropping." Yet as much as I'm appreciating the view, it's a neutral appraisal, like admiring a sunset. I won't mind gazing at this guy across my desk every day. That's all.
He's off the ATV and walking over, hand extended. "Welcome to Rockton, detective."
"It's Casey," I say, and before I can add a please, Dalton says, "Butler." That's my new surname.
"Casey, then. I'm Will Anders."
I detect a slight accent that reminds me of a guy from Philly I dated.
"You'll call me Will," he continues. "Just like you'll call him Eric, no matter what he says."
A snort from Dalton, who takes my bag and heaves it onto the ATV.
"And as much as I'd like to pretend I came roaring out to greet the new hire, it's business." He turns to Dalton. "We found Powys by the streams. Looks like..." Anders glances my way. "Natural causes."
Well, I guess that's my welcome, then--a dead body the moment I arrive.
"Heart failure?" I guess.
"Environmental. When I say natural..."
"You mean nature. Okay. Let's go take a look."
Dalton slaps a hand on the ATV's back seat, blocking me. "Will? Get on. Butler? Take that one."
I glance at the other vehicle. "I can't drive--"
"Station's two minutes that way." Dalton points.
"That's not where the body is."
"But that's where you're going, detective. This isn't a homicide."
"Which is up to me to determine, sir. That's my job."
He doesn't remove his hand from the seat.
"All right, then," I say. "I guess I'm walking."
I don't get more than five steps before Dalton is off his ATV and in my path, so close I nearly ram into him. When I back up, he advances, uncomfortably close.
"Eric..." Anders says, his voice low.
"Did I give you an order, detective?"
"Yes, but--"
"No buts. Either I gave you an order or I didn't, and I don't know how it works down south, but out here, you disobey an order and you'll find yourself in the cell until morning."
Anders steps between us. He shoulders Dalton back, keeping an eye on him, much the way one might ease off a snarling dog.
"He's kidding," Anders says. "He'd only keep you in there until dinner hour." A wry smile, and I'd like to think he's kidding, but I get the feeling he's not.
"I know you'll want to come along," Anders continues, "but you just got here. What we have out there is death by misadventure. Not homicide. Normally, that'd still be your gig. But let's just hold off. We'll bring the body back, I'll explain the situation, and you can take it from there. Reasonable?"
I nod.
He looks at Dalton. "See how that's done?" Then a mock whisper for me. "'Reasonable' isn't really in Eric's vocabulary. You'll get used to it."
The grin he shoots Dalton holds a note of exasperated affection, as if for a sometimes-difficult younger brother. Dalton only snorts and points at the back of the ATV.
"I thought I'd drive today, boss," Anders says. "You hop on back."
Dalton gets on the ATV and revs the engine.
"That means get on or I'm walking," the deputy says to me. "Eric drives. Always."
I nod. It's not a tip about transportation. Employee relationships might be a little casual here, but Eric Dalton is in charge and I'd best not forget it. Which is fine. That's one reason I like being a cop. My brain understands paramilitary relationships, often better than normal ones.
Anders gives me directions to the station and then says, "Go directly there. Park out back and head in the rear door. Anyone flags you down? Pretend you didn't see him. Anyone comes into the office? Tell him to come back when we return. Wait for us to make the proper introductions." He glances at Dalton. "Well, wait for me to do it. Poke around the station, and we'll grab lunch when we get back."
"Is Diana--?"
"Later," Dalton says. "You're on the clock, detective."
"Diana is fine," Anders says. "A bunch of us went out for drinks last night. She's doing great. As much as I'm sure you want to see her, wandering around town isn't wise. Not until you've settled in."
He waves me to the ATV, gives me a ten-second lesson on how to drive it, and takes off with the sheriff.
FOURTEEN
As Anders suggested, getting to the station is easy. The fact that I made two wrong turns may have more to do with the ATV ride itself. Dare I say it was fun?
My first boyfriend had a dirt bike. He'd lend me his sister's so we could ride into a nearby gravel pit. I encouraged those gravel-pit trips, which gave his ego a much-needed boost. I just never admitted it was more for the ride than the make-out sessions that followed.
When my parents found out, they grounded me for three months. Not because I was sneaking off with a boy. I was fifteen, and they trusted I was smart enough not to jeopardize my future by getting pregnant. It was the dirt bike that
disappointed them, showing a distinct lack of judgment. My mother gave me medical files of horrific motorcycle accidents and then quizzed me afterward, to be sure I'd read them. The world is a dangerous place. You don't add to it by doing crazy things like riding dirt bikes. Or fighting back against gangbangers in an alley.
Sometimes, though, taking risks is the only way to feel alive, and that's what I feel as I whip along those wooded trails, purposely missing my turns. I want to keep going, to ride into the forest and see what's out there, lose myself in that emptiness. But that's where embracing risk becomes irresponsible, one lesson my parents did manage to drive into my brain like an iron spike. Never be irresponsible. People are counting on you.
The scenery--like that on the drive up--is breathtaking. As Dalton said, the town is in a valley between two mountains, but they're distant enough that they don't cast shade. One is partly bare on this side, and when I see it, I think, I wonder if I could climb that? And I laugh to myself, imagining what my parents would say.
The police station is on the edge of town. Like all the other buildings I can see, it's a basic wooden box raised off the ground. There's a rear deck with a single chair and a tin can full of beer caps. The can is rusted, as are the caps below a layer or two. Someone bringing the occasional beer onto the deck, not someone regularly getting loaded on the job. Good to know.
Inside, it's dark and cool and smells of men: spicy deodorant laced with a thread of sweat. The main room is the size of my apartment bedroom. There's one desk, a couple of extra chairs, fireplace with a hanging kettle, and filing cabinets. That's it. Two doors lead to other rooms. I open one, expecting to see the sheriff's office. It's the bathroom. The other reveals a tiny holding cell.
I look around. One desk for three cops? This should be interesting.
The filing cabinets are all locked, and not flimsy jobs that can be pried open with a butter knife. So much for advance case study.
I look at the desk. The top is clear, without so much as a paper clip to play with. And the drawers? Yep, locked.
Anders told me to poke around. That's taken exactly five minutes. I scan the room again and see one thing I missed: a bookshelf. It's mostly empty, the space being used for office supplies instead. I count five books. The first one I pull out is a history of the Mongol tribes. I flip through expecting to find it contains hidden information. Nope, it's actually a history of the Mongol tribes. I walk to the desk, plunk myself in the chair, and start to read.
About twenty minutes pass before the front door opens. A thirty-something guy rolls in on a wave of sawdust. He's muscular in a top-heavy way. Longish hair that looks like it's been raked back with a hand covered in wheel-grease, leaving a streak of it on his cheek. Shirt sleeves pushed up to show off overdeveloped arms.
My first thought is uncomfortably like my thought on seeing someone in a prison--I wonder what he's in for. That's not fair, of course. Not here, where most are like Diana, running from a problem that isn't their fault. And Dalton has already warned that I'm not entitled to a resident's backstory unless he deems it pertinent to a case.
"Hey, there," the man says. "You must be the new girl."
"Detective Butler," I say. "Casey. If you're looking for the sheriff or Deputy Anders, they'll be back in an hour or so."
"Left you all alone on your first day? Typical Eric. Well, I'm Kenny and I'm with the local militia, so I'll take over as the welcoming committee. We can grab lunch, and I'll show you around a bit."
A hand reaches from nowhere and lands on his shoulder. "Down, boy."
A woman steps around him. She's probably in her early forties. Wearing a business-smart dress that shows off an admirable figure. Dark eyes. Dark hair laced with silver. A very attractive woman, even without makeup, which is one of those "non-essential" items we have to skip up here.
"I saw you boys hanging around out front," she says to Kenny. "Finally figured out she slipped in the back, did you? How much did you pay the others to let you come in first? Or was it a coin toss?"
Kenny grumbles. Her hand tightens on his shoulder and turns him toward the door.
"Head thataway, Kenny-boy. If Eric catches you horn-dogging on his new detective, he'll dunk you in the horse trough again. At least it's not winter this time."
She pushes him toward the door. After he trudges out, she looks at me for the first time. It's a thorough once-over, as if she's sizing me up for a bikini.
"Oh my," she says. "Good thing you didn't come in the front door, sugar. Kenny would have needed to put his buddies down before they'd let him get the first hello. Your friend is cute, but you ... Did Eric bring a bodyguard to keep you company? Because otherwise, that boy is in for some trouble."
"I'll be fine."
"He did mention the male-female ratio in this town, didn't he?" she says.
"I'm accustomed to working in a male-dominated environment."
She throws back her head and laughs. "Ah, sugar. You have no idea what you've walked into. But we'll discuss that another time. Right now, I need local law enforcement at my establishment and it seems you're it. Ever break up a bar fight?"
I check my watch. "Not before noon."
"Welcome to Rockton."
As we walk, the woman introduces herself. Isabel Radcliffe, owner of the Roc.
"Used to be called the Rockton Arms," she explains, "until we lost most of the sign in an ice storm. Did Will tell you about the Roc? I'm not going to ask if Eric did. Our local sheriff is a lot better at communicating with his fists. Luckily for us."
I glance over to see if she's being sarcastic. She catches my look. "Again, welcome to Rockton, sugar. Whatever you think you know about keeping the peace? It doesn't apply here. This place does something to folks. You just met Kenny. Any idea what he did down south? His occupation?"
"Construction worker? Carpenter?"
"Try high school math teacher. When he arrived eighteen months ago, he'd never have worked up the courage to talk to you. People come here and it's a clean slate. A chance to be whoever they want for a while. Fantasy land for grown-ups. Which leads to a whole lotta trouble for the local constabulary, because nothing folks do up here will follow them home."
As we walk down the main street, I can't shake the feeling I'm being tailed by acrobats and a marching band. People spill out of doors to get a look at the new girl. Every half-dozen steps, a guy saunters our way. Isabel raises a hand. She doesn't say a word. That hand goes up, and it's like casting an invisible force field. They turn back. When one whines, "I'm just being friendly, Iz," she says, "You want to set foot in the Roc this month? Turn your ass around." He does.
She waves me to a building that looks as nondescript as the police station. From the end of the second-storey balcony hangs a sign announcing it as The Roc. A wooden sign under that depicts what is probably supposed to be a roc, but the artist has confused the mythical bird with a rook.
I don't hear any trouble within. Is the fight over? Or is this some kind of local welcoming ritual? I decide to play dumb and follow Isabel inside.
The main floor is twice the size of the police station. There's a bar along one end. Tables fill the rest. It's not nearly as rundown as Kurt's place, but there's still that sense of basic utility, the one that says you're here to drink and nothing more.
The bartender is a few years younger than me. A burly, dark-haired guy, he looks quite capable of handling any fight, but he's currently reading a novel, as is a pencil-necked guy in the corner. Another man is drinking a beer and so engrossed in his thoughts that he doesn't even look over when we walk in. The last two patrons are a couple in their late thirties, sharing a half pint of wine. Both are nicely dressed. Average-looking. They could be any long-married couple out for a lunchtime tipple.
"I'm not seeing the fight," I say.
"Oh, it's coming. Wait right there, detective. You might want to pull out your firearm. Just don't shoot straight up. There's a customer sleeping it off right above your head." She nods toward t
he bartender. "That's Mick. Former city cop. Former local cop, too. He'll help out if you need it, but I'd just as soon keep him behind the bar."
Because he's extremely busy reading that novel. He gives me a nod, though, friendly enough.
Isabel walks to the couple. She stops beside the woman and stands there at least twenty seconds. The guy keeps glancing up, but the woman is making a concerted effort to pretend she doesn't see Isabel.
"You aren't welcome in here, Jen," Isabel says finally.
"It's a public place, bitch."
The insult--and the venom behind it--startle me. The woman looks like she should be teaching third-graders.
"No," Isabel says, more respectfully than I'd have managed. "My establishment is not communal property. I pay for that privilege. Now go home, get clean, and then we'll discuss you coming back."
Get clean? I could say Isabel meant "sober up," but I get the feeling this lady is careful with her word choices. I walk closer and size up Jen. I notice her pallor, despite the fact summer has just ended. Her pupils are slightly constricted. Her clothing hangs as if she was two sizes larger when she got it. It's not proof positive of drug addiction. This is a restricted community. They may choose not to prohibit alcohol, but they sure as hell should be able to control drugs.
"What are you looking at, asshole?" Jen says. I think she's talking to me. Then I see she's addressing the guy sitting with her, who's staring at me like I'm covered in chocolate and sprinkles. His eyes are glazed over and my gut tells me it's not from a half glass of Cabernet. Jen looks up at me and her eyes narrow. "Fuck, don't tell me you're the new cop."
"She is," Isabel says. "And she's here to escort you out."
Jen snorts. "That itty-bitty girl? Fuck, no. And you, asshole, stop gaping at her or-- Hey, I'm talking to you!"
City of the Lost Page 7
