City of the Lost

by Kelley Armstrong

  "No."

  "Then yeah, I'll take coffee. And don't ever ask to be polite, because then I'll say yes and you'll be stuck with me, and it'll just be..."

  "Awkward?"

  "For you. Nothing's awkward for me."

  I smile. "Well, then, speaking of awkward, I'd be able to see those lights a lot better from my balcony, but that would mean inviting you up to my room."

  "Through your room. It's not the same thing."

  "True. Is that a yes?"

  "It is."

  We sit on my deck. Literally on my deck, because while I offer to bring up a chair, he refuses and grabs extra blankets from under my bed, which I didn't know were there. We sit on blankets with more wrapped around us. Or wrapped around me. He seems fine with just the coffee to keep him warm. We sit and we talk, and I watch the northern lights dance, and it doesn't matter how horrible my day became, this is as damned near perfect an ending as I can imagine. The wolves even start up, as if to prove to me that as good as things get, they can always be better.

  Eventually the talking stops, and we just sit and watch and listen, and the next thing I know, I'm waking at dawn with the blankets pulled up to my neck and an extra one draped over me. The deck is empty except for my gun, now lying just out of reach. I smile, take it, and head inside to get ready for work.

  There's an angry mob outside the station. Well, actually, three somewhat annoyed citizens, but Dalton still intercepts me and takes me in through the back.

  "They want a statement," he says. "Whatever that is."

  "It's where the police explain the situation, usually to the press."

  "We don't have press."

  "True, but you really should explain--"

  "To three people?" He snorts. "I'll be doing it all day. Like one of those damned cuckoo clocks."

  "We've had two murders in a week. The more you ignore that, the more rumours are going to fly, and soon we really will have an angry--"

  "I'm not ignoring them. I'm waiting until there are more so I don't have to keep explaining. The more times I say it, the more it'll sound like there's a serious problem."

  "Um..."

  His look darkens. "Fine, there is a serious problem. But they don't need to know that."

  I open the door and call out, "We'll be giving a statement at nine. Please make sure everyone knows, because we're obviously very busy investigating this tragedy, and we can't keep explaining."

  Dalton appears behind me. "She means that. You don't want to spread the word? Fine. But I'll tell everyone in town that you three know, and I might offer the opinion that it was awfully suspicious, you coming by, looking for information and not wanting to share it with others."

  They're gone before he can close the door.

  I sigh. "That's not how it's usually done."

  "Welcome to Rockton, detective."

  Back inside the station, I ask Dalton whether Val should join us, and add, "But I understand if you'd rather she didn't interfere."

  He makes a noise at that. It's like a snort, but it's also akin to a laugh. Then he shakes his head and walks to the fireplace.

  "Is that a no?" I ask.

  Another shake of his head, and I think that's my answer until he says, "I'm not the least bit worried that Val will interfere, because that would require her to actually show up. You want to walk over and invite her? Go ahead ... if you need the exercise." He lights the fire and puts the kettle over it. "Exercise in futility, too. But go on. Coffee will be ready when you get back." He checks his watch. "Five minutes there, five minutes back. Ten seconds for her to tell you no."

  Val lives on the edge of town opposite mine. As Dalton said, it's a five-minute fast walk from the station, and given how freaking cold it is these past few mornings, fast is the only way I move.

  Her house is identical to mine. I climb the porch and knock, and here's where Dalton's schedule goes off track, because it takes me two full minutes of knocking--and then calling "Val?"--before she opens the door. I think I must have gotten her out of bed, but she's fully dressed, her hair brushed, a writing pad in hand.

  "I know Eric updated you on the situation yesterday," I say. "We're making a public statement this morning."

  There's a long moment of silence, and I begin to wonder if she even heard me. Then she says, "Is that necessary?"

  "I believe it is, to keep people calm and informed."

  "All right. If you think that's best, I trust your judgment."

  "I'd like you to be there."

  Her brows knit. "What for?"

  "You're the spokesperson for the council. Your presence will reassure people."

  "I don't think that's necessary, Detective Butler."

  "I do."

  "Unfortunately, that isn't your call to make."

  She starts to close the door. I shove my foot in to stop her.

  "If you don't want to say anything, that's fine," I say. "I'll do the talking. But the people of Rockton need all the reassurance they can get, and having you there will help."

  Her lips curve in what can't quite be called a smile. "The people of Rockton don't give a damn whether I'm there. They rely on Sheriff Dalton for all their reassurances."

  "Then just show up and stand beside him. Support him. He needs that right now."

  "Sheriff Dalton doesn't need anything from anyone, Casey. The sooner you realize that, the easier your six months here will be." I must react at that, because she says, "You don't think I know about his little deal with you? As I said, Eric Dalton doesn't need anything from anyone. Let him run his little Wild West town, keep your head down, and get out of this hellhole as fast as you can. There's your statement, detective. Take it and go."

  THIRTY-SIX

  We give our statement at nine. Or I give it, with Dalton standing cross-armed beside me, his look daring anyone to speak when I ask if there are any questions.

  I've always wondered why there isn't more dissent in police states. I'm accustomed to a world where people riot after a hockey game. Imagine what they'd do under a totalitarian authority. The answer, at least in Rockton, is "not a hell of a lot."

  I guess that isn't surprising. Rockton gives them sanctuary and Dalton keeps them safe, and so whatever they might think of him, they don't seem to doubt his ability to continue doing so.

  They've given him a pass on Powys, trusting that he's doing his best. With Hastings, that's shifting, and I hear grumblings, the occasional whisper that maybe Dalton and I are a little young to be handling this. It doesn't rise above whispering, though. Not yet.

  The next five days pass with frustratingly little progress on the case. I work my ass off, but I feel like I'm searching for the proverbial needle in the haystack ... and I'm not even sure there is a needle. I have so little to go on. The autopsy report on Hastings didn't tell me anything new. There's no forensic evidence--Irene's crime scene is a month old, and both Hastings and Powys were found in the forest, which is a hell of a place to get evidence.

  We scour the woods for footprints where we found Hastings, but it hasn't rained in over a week and the rocky ground is too hard to take an impression. We search for anything the killer might have dropped, spending two days combing an ever-increasing circle. We even hunt for the kind of trace evidence--a snagged thread or clump of hair--that you only really find in TV shows. Beth scrapes under the nails of the victims. Hell, we dig up Irene to get samples from hers. No defensive wounds or signs of a struggle on any of them.

  I interview everyone remotely connected to the four victims. That count includes Abbygail because, until proved otherwise, I include her as a victim. All that leads to exactly one clue.

  In Hastings's case, Kenny had seen him head toward the forest and told the sheriff, which led to the manhunt. Powys, though, had simply disappeared. With the interviews, I find out that someone had seen Powys walking into the forest. He hadn't come forward because, well, he'd spotted Powys while sneaking from the house of his long-time girlfriend to the house of someone who
was not his long-time girlfriend.

  At just past midnight--which the witness knew, because he'd been waiting for his girlfriend to fall asleep--he'd been cutting through the yards and seen Powys, who had paused at the edge of the forest and looked around, making sure he wasn't seen. Which meant either both Hastings and Powys were lured out or both had randomly decided to take a walk in prohibited territory ... and just happened to meet their killer there.

  That isn't exactly a case-breaking revelation, and I still feel like I'm getting nowhere, but the guy who hadn't wanted me in this job is actually the one who keeps me going. As Dalton points out--with an impatient snap--I'm narrowing down my suspect list. For example, the killer had to be strong enough to get Hastings into that tree, which is no mean feat. Dalton and Anders rig up a pulley system out behind the station. We run some experiments. Anders can raise Hastings's weight. Dalton can, too, with serious effort. I only get the rock-filled sack two feet off the ground by pulling with everything I have. Then I lose my footing and go flying. Great amusement for the guys. Anders insists I do it three more times--to be sure--and Dalton doesn't argue. We even add weights to my end, but I lack the upper-body strength to haul that bag into a tree.

  What does this tell us? That our killer was male and at least as physically fit as Dalton. Which doesn't narrow it down as much as it would in an urban environment. Rockton is like prison in some ways, giving guys lots of free time and the chance to get those biceps and pecs they've always dreamed of. Plus there's the added motivation of getting in shape to impress the limited female population. That means a lot of guys like Kenny: former ninety-eight-pound weaklings who can now bench-press triple that much.

  The impromptu surgery on Hastings suggests someone with medical knowledge, but the work had been crudely done. According to Beth, anyone with a basic knowledge of anatomy and butchering could do it. She's right--even with just what I learned from my parents, I could. Out here, people hunt, which gives them those skills. We also may have butchers, veterinarians, and nurses who've been smuggled in as something else.

  As for the rest of my life in Rockton, while I haven't quite adopted the "work hard, play hard" local mentality, I'm closer to it than I've ever been. I put in long hours yet rarely spend an evening alone at home. My companions vary. I dine with Beth a few times--she even cooks for me. With Petra, I sit on my back deck, talking, as she sketches the fox, sketches the Northern lights, sketches me. I go to the Lion for drinks with Anders and Petra and sometimes a few others. I even manage to get Beth to come along with the others, which Anders says is a feat.

  Dalton joins us occasionally, but socializing isn't his thing. Still, I see as much of him outside work as I do anyone else, because I've taken an interest in the things that interest him. The night after we watched the northern lights, I came home to find a folding mattress and a stack of books in my front hall. When I thanked him for them the next day, he shrugged and said, "You wanted them. That's something."

  "What's something?"

  "You. Wanting anything."

  I didn't ask him to explain that. I was pretty sure I didn't want to. The point is that I'd developed an interest in my surroundings, which he shared, so he'd take me hiking, riding, ATV-ing. Sometimes Anders joined us, sometimes he didn't.

  As for Anders in general ... In another life, that might have been something. Hell, in this life it might still be something. Just not right now. Right now, I want friendship, and that is as huge a step for me as Diana taking lovers.

  As for Diana, that's been the most difficult part of my five days. How horrible is it to admit that I find it easy to avoid her? Yes, I'm busy with the case, but I'm busy socially, too. She wants desperately to make amends ... and I don't. We've been out together, as part of a group with Petra and Anders, and that's fine because I'm not ready to cut her loose. But there are no best-friend moments.

  On the fifth night, Anders and I stop by the Lion for a drink after work and Diana's gang is there, and she waves us over, but I pretend not to notice. Petra isn't with them and that's my criteria for joining.

  Anders and I take a table at the back, out of sight. We talk, drink, just relaxing after work. I use the toilet before we head out. Yes, I should be polite and call it a restroom, but that elevates it to a title it doesn't deserve. One more issue with living in the middle of nowhere? A lack of proper plumbing. It doesn't help that you hit permafrost a few feet down. Deep holes aren't possible. What we have instead are chemical toilets, like the kind you'd put in an RV. Which means they need to be emptied. As in most communities, the shit jobs--pun intended in this case--pay very well. From the smell of the one in the Lion, it was a day or two overdue.

  For that reason, I'm in and out as fast as I can be. As I leave, I nearly crash into Diana, right outside, trying to shake off a drunken guy.

  "Hey," I cut in. "She's saying no."

  He backs off fast, hands up, mumbling apologies. I nod to Diana and try to pass, but she grabs my arm and her hand is shaking.

  "Thank you," she says.

  "No problem. He just needed a firm no."

  "From you. That doesn't work for..." She inhales. "I'm having a problem, Casey, and I hate to bother you with it, but..."

  "Go on," I say.

  "You ... you know what Isabel does, right? I mean, the kind of place she runs."

  I nod.

  "She thinks..." Diana swallows. "God, this is so embarrassing. She thinks I'm freelancing."

  "What?"

  "This guy gave me some credits." She lifts both hands. "Not like that. Not at all. It was the night before you got here. We went out on a date--dinner at the restaurant, drinks afterward at his place. He had wine, and I said I'd couldn't wait until my first pay so I could get myself a bottle. The next day, we went out for breakfast, and he gave me credits to buy the wine. He wasn't..." Her cheeks flared again. "It was like giving me a bottle of wine as a gift. I only took the credits because I planned to pay him back. A payroll advance. Only Isabel saw this guy giving me credits early in the morning, and she jumped to the wrong conclusion."

  "I'll talk to her."

  "She has Mick keeping an eye on me, and he makes me nervous. You know he used to be a cop here, right? And the sheriff fired him?"

  I didn't know the last part, but I nod anyway. "I'll handle--"

  "And I think they've told others. I've been offered ... credits."

  I look sharply toward the guy who'd been hassling her, now trying another woman at the bar.

  "No, not him. At least, he hadn't gotten to it yet. I know you're still mad at me, Casey..."

  "I'm not mad. Just very busy."

  "Will you help me with this? Please?"

  I tell her I will.

  "Spelunking," Dalton says, leaning over my desk.

  "It's an awesome word," I say.

  "It is. And we're doing it tomorrow."

  "We are?"

  He heads for the back door. I've learned this isn't his way of avoiding a conversation--it's him moving it to another location.

  He takes his seat. I take mine, perched on the railing as we watch a raven hop along the forest's edge.

  "You gotta stop feeding her," he says.

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  He snorts. After a minute, the raven hops up the steps and onto the railing beside me. She waits. I count off thirty seconds. Then I take a bread crust from my pocket. She waits until I hold it out, gingerly snags it from my hand, and flies off.

  Dalton sighs. Deeply.

  "It's your fault," I say. "You gave me the book that says ravens are smart. I'm testing that."

  Another sigh.

  "I am. She's learned to recognize me and know that she will get exactly one crust per day. It's a treat. Not a meal." I glance over at him, going serious. "If you really want me to stop, I will."

  "Nah. Have your fun. But if I catch you giving her a name..."

  "I won't. She's a wild animal. Not a pet."

  He nods, satisfie
d that his student has learned her lessons well.

  "What was this about us going caving?" I ask.

  "A few of us are heading out tomorrow. You've been working the case non-stop. A break will freshen your brain."

  I say yes quickly. Another lesson assimilated. If I want something, admit it. None of this pissing around pretending I don't really care one way or the other. He wants me to care--one way or the other.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  It's spelunking day. We're closing up the station at noon. Kenny and a couple of the militia guys will be in charge. I joke that we should make Val man the station, and we spend the morning trading quips about that. Or Anders and I do. Dalton just rolls his eyes and mutters.

  I've given up on Val. She reminds me of a principal I had in elementary school. We swore she was a vampire who could only arrive before dawn and leave after dark, which explained why no one caught more than fleeting glimpses of her. We're sure Val is reporting on us via her satellite phone, but she comes out so rarely that we never have to worry about watching over our shoulder.

  Val's only defender is Beth. "She's a deeply unhappy woman," she'll say.

  "Then she should get off her ass, do some work, and be less unhappy," Dalton replies.

  "That's not the solution for everyone, Eric. I think there's a story there."

  "And I think you just want there to be one, to give her an excuse."

  Anyway, that's Val. Dalton did tell her we were going caving. She didn't care.

  The idea of taking off for the afternoon seems very carefree and spontaneous. Like skipping school on the first gorgeous day of spring. Except I never actually did that, and I suspect if Dalton had lived down south, he wouldn't have, either. So while we have every intention of cutting out at noon, the reality is a little different.

  At ten, we get a call--which in Rockton means someone comes running through the station's front door. There was a break-in at the greenhouse last night. All three of us go to investigate. It seems like a simple case of someone deciding, presumably drunk or high, that he really needed a tomato. Or an entire vine of tomatoes. One is stripped clean, with a tomato crushed underfoot as the thief made his escape.

  Yes, it's almost laughable. The Case of the Trampled Tomatoes. In Rockton, though, resource theft is a serious offence. It has to be.

  We could abandon the investigation at noon. But it would send the wrong message to would-be thieves. Dalton sends Anders off to guide the others and says we'll catch up.