Dalton shows up at the stroke of eight. He takes a bound journal from his coat pocket.
"My notes," he says. "On residents."
When I look up, he shoves it back into his pocket. I struggle to keep my expression neutral. I rise and walk to the water dispenser to fill the kettle.
"I don't allow a brothel in my town," he says. "That should have been clear when you heard me arguing with Isabel. If I had a choice in the matter, I'd shut her down."
"Okay." I put the kettle on the stove.
"You think I'm full of shit," he says.
"I think if you wanted it shut down, it'd be shut down."
"Then you overestimate my influence here, detective."
I return to my seat. He's standing there, looming over me, waiting for some accusation he can deny. I resume my note taking.
"The council argues that the brothel reduces the problems we have," he says. "Before it opened, women were already selling sex. It's a market economy. The problem was that if they sold it once, men kept expecting it, and when they said no, things got ugly. Isabel's argument is that by having the brothel, she can keep the women safe and be sure it's what they really want to do."
"Okay."
Silence. He shifts his weight, making a noise not unlike a growl. He wants to debate this, to defend it or deny his culpability in it, and I'm not letting him do that.
Finally, I lift my gaze to his. "The problem is the environment it creates for other women. I spent a year in vice, working with prostitutes, and I'd be the first person to argue for legalizing the sex trade. It isn't going away. It's better to regulate it and keep the workers safe. But that's in a large city, where the overall effect is minimal. Having a brothel in a town with such a small female population creates the kind of environment where women are going to have to deal with an expectation they should never have to deal with. Do you even understand that?"
He says nothing for about five seconds. Then he shifts his weight, backing out of looming mode. "No, I did not understand that, detective. I do now. No one's ever complained about being propositioned before."
"Well, you can sure as hell bet I'm not the first. They're being asked, and they're dealing with it on their own. It's embarrassing and humiliating to have a guy presume he can buy sex from you."
The kettle sings. He goes to make the coffee, and I think the conversation's at an end, so I pull out another file. A few minutes later, he's looming again.
"I want to know who offered you money," he says. "If you don't have a name, a description will do. I'll make an example of him and--"
"And he'll tell everyone I overreacted. That the new girl is a stuck-up prude who can't take a joke. Or that he was drunk and made a silly mistake. No matter how it's handled, I'll be a bitch and he'll be the misunderstood guy who was just trying to tell me he thinks I'm cute."
"I would like the chance to handle this, detective."
"If it happens again--or if I hear about other women being hassled--I'll take my lumps and be the bitch. But having you fix it for me only says I can't."
He stands there. Then he sets his journal on the desk. I look up to see he's left a mug of coffee there, fixed with creamer, exactly as I take it.
I watch him head out onto the back deck.
I don't understand you, sheriff. Not one bit.
Anders checks in at eleven. The last few days have been "all hands on deck" because of Hastings's disappearance, but we're back to regular shifts, which still aren't all that regular--we come in when Dalton tells us to and work ten hours, give or take.
When Anders arrives, he makes a beeline for my desk. Well, the desk. Dalton is out back. He's come and gone a few times in the last few hours, but he always ends up out on the deck, not a word to me on the way.
"Hey," Anders says. "About last night--"
"Good, you're here." Dalton appears from nowhere to intercept Anders. "I need you out at the airstrip. Got a delivery coming in."
"Sure, but there's no sign of the plane yet, and I wanted to talk to--"
Dalton backs him up clear out the door and closes it behind them. I can't hear their conversation, but I can pick up enough to know it's about the Roc. Anders wants to talk to me about it, and Dalton is telling him to drop it.
Anders leaves. Dalton comes in. When I look up, he's standing there. He gestures at the journal.
"Better now?" he says. "Or worse?"
"I understand your point," I say carefully.
"So I wasn't just being an asshole?" He snorts and shakes his head. Then he heads for the back door. I'm figuring that's the end of the conversation, but he gestures, as if to say, Well, come on. I scrape back my chair and follow him out.
We settle in on the deck. The temperature is dropping, and I zip my hoodie. There's no official uniform, because it's not as if anyone here doesn't know we're the local PD. Dalton wears a T-shirt and doesn't seem to notice the chill. I've noticed that's common here, as people adapt to the climate.
I take my place on the railing, and he says, "So do you think I'm a paranoid son of a bitch?"
"I think you have a reason to be. It's like..." I rub the back of my neck. "As a city cop, you don't kid yourself about people. You walk into the suburbs, look at those nice houses, and wonder who really lives there. Addicts, abusers, pedophiles, rapists, even murderers. So when you told me criminals get smuggled in, as disconcerting as that was, I told myself it was the same thing."
"And it's not?"
I shake my head. "In my old job, it was a hypothetical. You see fifty houses and know a killer could lurk within one. But you realize part of that is a cop's misanthropy, and there's a good chance there isn't an actual killer. But here? It's a guarantee. And not just one, either."
I take the journal from my pocket and finger it. Powys is in there. So is Hastings, though only as speculation--Dalton thinks Hastings may be a man accused of murdering his mother for his inheritance. He has positively identified ten people who are here under false pretences. There are twenty more he is actively researching. That's 15 percent of the population. I'm struggling with that. I really am.
"Thank you for letting me read it," I say finally. "I'm not sorry I did. I just..."
I trail off, and he says, "Yep," and we fade to silence.
We don't stay quiet for long. Dalton asks if I have any questions. It's an honest offer, and we discuss his methods of research. He keeps a list of things he wants to look up when he flies out, but it's not exactly a weekly trip. Dawson City does have places where he can access the Internet--the tourism office and two cafes. The problem is that he sure as hell doesn't dare snoop using the laptop the council has given him.
"You could buy a tablet," I say.
"Tablet?"
"You know, like an iPad, except I'd suggest generic to save money, since all you want is the browser, not Angry Birds and Netflix."
His look isn't confusion. It's caution, that tightening of his face that says he realizes he should know what I'm talking about. Like being asked to run when you're trying to hide a limp.
I try to think of a way to phrase an explanation that won't sound condescending. There isn't one, so I just say, "A tablet is like an oversized cellphone that doesn't make phone calls. The bigger screen means it's a lot easier to browse the Internet. And not being a phone, it's usually cheaper than one."
"I've seen people on the plane with them. Wondered what the hell they were. I don't..." He shrugs. "Don't take commercial flights that often."
"Makes sense." I manage a smile. "Believe me, you're not missing anything--"
"Stop." His voice is low, the word barely more than a grunt.
"I'm just--"
"Will told you about me. I get it. Now drop it. I don't appreciate being made to feel like a freak, detective."
"I would never--"
"But you're curious. Everyone's curious. What's it like to grow up someplace like this? To never leave? Don't you want to leave? Do you know how to drive a car? Have you ever been to
a movie theatre? No, really, tell me, what's it like?" He meets my gaze. "I'm not an anthropological study, detective, and I can't tell you what it's like because I have nothing to compare it to."
"I get that, and I won't pretend I don't think it's interesting, but I wouldn't pry. The only thing your background means to me is that you're the best source of information on this town. Right?"
A pause, like he's itching to argue. Then, "Yeah."
"About the tablet, then. I think that would help. I brought cash--yes, I know, that's not allowed, but I still did. Either I can tell you what to get or you can take me on the next trip. Which is me offering to help, not angling for a day pass. Either way, a tablet would be easy to smuggle and would let you do research whenever you have access to an open wireless router."
He agrees that makes sense, and we move back to the subject of the murders.
I say, "The near amputation of hands with Irene and amputation of legs with Powys suggests the same killer. The question is whether their romantic connection is significant."
"Powys dated about a dozen women here."
"So, not overly significant. What about drugs? Powys had a medical background and Hastings was a chemist. Did you suspect both of being involved with rydex?"
"I considered it, but they didn't move in the same circles. Also, one of the reasons I knew Powys's backstory was a lie was that Beth says he knew shit about pharmaceuticals."
"Maybe Irene and Hastings, then? Her tox screen showed she was high when she died."
"Yeah, but there were no signs of long-term use. My theory is that she was doped before she was killed. That's not in the file because I've put nothing in it that could get my ass kicked out of Rockton."
He rubs a hand over his beard shadow, the skritch of it filling the silence. "I've made it pretty damn clear I don't like to talk about my background, about me being from here, but I'm going to say this once, and only because you need to understand the stakes. The council knows I don't want to leave Rockton. Wouldn't know what to do with myself down south. I don't have a proper education. I don't have proper ID. I don't exist outside Rockton, and I don't know how to exist outside Rockton. If I wanted to, I could figure it out. But I don't want to."
"This is your home."
"It is, and I hate that they can hold it over my head, but I'm a fucking lousy actor. I've tried. A year before Will got here, I started saying maybe I wanted to try living down south. They got me solid ID and began interviewing local replacements."
"They called your bluff."
"Yeah, and I folded. So that's where we stand."
"How will that affect my investigation? Are they dead set on covering up the murders?"
"No, it's not..." He makes a face and leans back. "The council ruled Irene a suicide because she left a note. It's not so much covering it up as turning a blind eye. But they also let me bring you in. I've told them how Powys died and they aren't trying to rule it as death by misadventure. If you make the connection to Irene?" He shrugged. "Well, you're a detective. You figured it out. I'm just the hick sheriff who didn't."
TWENTY-SIX
I'm on the trail of Abbygail Kemp. That isn't easy. Dalton's not the only one who feels as if he failed her. Beth can barely talk about it. We're in the clinic, and she's trying to distract herself by cleaning up while I ask questions, but the memories rattle her so badly, she slices her finger on a scalpel.
She winces as she dabs it. "Sorry. It's just..." She tries hard for a smile. "Not a subject I ought to discuss while handling sharp objects."
"I understand. The sheriff says you still have her things. Do you mind if I take a look?"
She silently leads me next door to her home. It's nearly identical to mine except there's a futon in the living room.
"That's where she stayed," Beth says. "During the drug withdrawal, she couldn't live on her own. Later, we gave her an apartment, but..." She tugs her gaze away from the futon and says, a little gruffly, "She'd gotten used to it here. We'd gotten used to each other." A few moments' pause. "Now, I have an appointment at the clinic in a few minutes, so I need to run. Her things are under there." She points at the futon. "If it helps to take the bag, go ahead. I don't ... I don't know what to do with it. Standard procedure is to throw out belongings. I can't do that. So..."
"I'll take it back to the station," I say. "Her things are potential evidence. We can't dispose of them."
"You think she was..." She pushes her hands into her lab coat pockets, wincing as she brushes her cut finger. "Of course you do. I just can't quite wrap my head around the idea that anyone in town would hurt her. But she was young and she was pretty and I guess, maybe, sometimes that's enough, isn't it?"
"Sometimes."
"Eric blames himself. He thinks he didn't try hard enough to keep her out of the forest. He's wrong, though. The fact she disappeared into it is--for me--the best proof she was murdered. She wouldn't have worried him like that. Eric was ... Eric was special. To Abbygail. The handsome young sheriff who rescued her."
"She had a crush on him."
She smiles then, her eyes brightening. "A huge crush. Not a serious interest, though. Yes, she was twenty-one, but she knew he would never see her that way. So it was a schoolgirl crush. The kind she should have had in school, but for Abbygail, that wasn't an option. She got to have it here, instead, with her white knight. She would argue with him and pretend to rebel against his rules, but it was like a twelve-year-old girl teasing the boy she likes." She looks at me. "If he said stay out of the woods, she'd never have gone in without good reason. Never."
Abbygail's belongings. Almost everything seems to have been acquired post-arrival. There are books--romance novels and nursing texts. Clothing and toiletries, all generic. An equally generic stuffed animal, the kind you get at the fair in those "everyone's a winner" games--a creature that could be a dog, a cat, or a bear. It's tattered enough to suggest it was one thing she did bring from home. There's a necklace around the animal's neck. A tin heart with a makeshift inscription. JP & AK 4ever. It looks like the sort of thing a preteen boy would give a girl, and I wonder if it's the same one who gave her the bear--a first love, long gone, relics of another life.
I think that's all there is. Then paper crinkles in the lining of her old suitcase. I tug it out, hoping to see some secret clue to start me on my path.
It's a photo. The old-style Polaroid kind. But it was taken here. There are decorations in the background, as if for a party. The girl in it must be Abbygail Kemp. Dark hair. Tan skin. Mixed-race background, and I won't speculate what it is--I hate it when anyone does that with me. Her thin face is lit up in a grin as she mugs for the camera. She looks happy. That's my first thought--she's so happy--and I think that's why she kept the photo and hid it, because she wanted to remember Rockton after she left.
Then I see the whole picture. There's someone beside her. It's Dalton. He's not posing for the photo. Doesn't even seem to know it's being snapped, because he's looking off to the side, in the middle of saying something to someone. Abbygail is making a face behind his back, fingers raised to give him bunny ears. This is why she kept it. He's why she kept it. Squirrelled away in the lining of her bag. I see that photo, and my heart breaks a little for a girl I never knew. A girl who was happy here in Rockton. A girl with a cheap stuffed toy and tin necklace and a picture of a man she'd never have, but that'd been okay, because she just liked the feeling of having a crush. Of being a normal girl.
Abbygail wouldn't want Dalton to see that photo. Wouldn't want him to know she'd held on to it. I tuck it back under the lining. I'll keep her secret for her.
I have interviews scheduled for that afternoon. Well, they're on my schedule. That's all that counts in Rockton, because I have complete freedom to interview anyone I want, whenever I want, wherever I want.
Dalton tags along for the first few, making sure everyone's playing nice with the new detective. They are. Then he's called off on a problem--something to do with resource management,
which doesn't exactly seem like law enforcement, but I get the feeling Dalton's job description extends well beyond throwing drunks in the cell.
I'm interviewing a guy named Pierre Lang. Two days before Abbygail disappeared, he'd hassled her at the clinic when she refused to refill a prescription without Beth's say-so. It turned out the refill was legit, but Abbygail had no way of knowing that--the script existed only in Beth's perfect file cabinet of a brain. So Abbygail had been right to refuse, and the delay was only an hour or two, but Pierre had gone off on her loudly enough for Kenny and a couple of the other militia boys to hear from the street and come running to her rescue.
Now Lang--a tall, fussily tidy man with a goatee--sits in the living room of his apartment, telling me how everyone overreacted.
"Including you?" I ask.
"No, Ms. Butler, I did not."
"It's Detective Butler."
He bristles. I get a vibe that says he doesn't like women very much. Or maybe it's not a vibe as much as an extrapolation, given what I read that morning.
Lang is in Dalton's journal. He's one of the confirmed cases. And having read what he did, I cannot forget it, as hard as I'm trying to remain neutral.
"I did not overreact, Detective Butler. I need that medication."
"Fluvoxamine," I say.
"How--?" He pulls himself taut with indignation. "My medical history is my private business."
"Yep," I say. "It was before you got here and, presumably, it will be when you leave. Did you read that waiver before you handed over your money, Mr. Lang? Or were you in too big a hurry to get up here?"
He glares at me. "Yes, I read it, but yes, I was in a hurry. If you've read my medical file, then I'm sure you've read the rest, too. If you want to mock me for it, go ahead and get it out of your system, detective."
"Because you came here fleeing an abusive relationship? Why would I mock that?"
His mouth tightens. He means that he expects mockery because he's a man fleeing abuse. Which makes no difference to me. Or it wouldn't, if that's what he was really here for.
"Do you really need the fluvoxamine up here?" I say. "I'd think Rockton would be the perfect solution to your problem. No little girls anywhere."
City of the Lost Page 14
