It's not exactly light and cheerful conversation, but it works for us, and by the time we finish, I'm stretched out on my back, staring up at the stars. Impossibly endless stars.
"I really wish I had my phone right now," I say.
"Huh?"
"I have an app that identifies the constellations. You just point it, and it knows what section of the sky you're looking at and tells you what you're seeing. It's very cool."
He shakes his head. "Which one are you looking for?"
I smile over at him. "All of them."
He squints up into the sky. "First you need to find the North Star. You see it up there?"
I point.
"That's a planet," he says.
I try again.
"That'd be the space station." He directs me until I have the North Star and then he says, "Polaris doesn't move--it's a fixed point, so you can use it to find your way. It's not the brightest star, despite what people think. The easiest way to find it is to locate the Big Dipper--Ursa Major, or the Great Bear--and then track it to the Little Dipper--Ursa Minor, or the Little Bear..."
FORTY-TWO
I may have fallen asleep on that overlook, buzzing from tequila and sugar and blissfully at peace, staring into the sky and listening as Dalton pointed out every constellation we could see. He may have carried me to the car. I may have not woken until morning. Of course, all I remember is his voice, that baritone rumble, talking about Orion, and then it was morning. The rest I'll have to infer. He doesn't mention it the next day.
We're back in Rockton before noon. The day passes smoothly as the clock mends itself. The service for Abbygail comes in the evening. That's difficult, and when I see Diana walking alone, I go and sit with her on my front porch, the only two who didn't know Abbygail leaving the others to their grief. While we don't say much, it's more comfortable than it's been since that night at the bar. When she leaves, I consider giving her the hair dye, but I'm afraid she'll take it as a peace offering and, for once, I admit to myself that I'm not the one who needs to make amends, and so I resist the urge to try.
Come morning, the Rockton clock is ticking again. I see the same neighbours on my way into work. I get my mid-morning coffee, with Dalton joining me, sitting quietly as Devon gives me all the local news and I munch a rare chocolate chip cookie. Apparently, someone brought chips from Dawson City, having recalled an offhand comment that they were my favourite. I'm not the only one who pays attention. Back at the station, Kenny drops by to check the wood and hangs out for a while, giving me tips that aren't exactly earth-shattering.
Yes, the town is back to itself, and we're back to work. I'm looking for a connection between the victims, while understanding that there may not be one. By day three, I'm entirely focused on Abbygail. She is where it started. The first one lured into the forest. The youngest and, as I see now from that memorial, the most popular. The girl everyone cared about. Or almost everyone. That's an easy place to start looking. Who had trouble with her? It's a short list. At the top of it is Pierre Lang, the pedophile who got into it with her shortly before she disappeared.
I question Lang more thoroughly now. I haven't spoken to him since Mick told me he suspected Lang of being Abbygail's secret admirer. I hadn't been ignoring the lead--I'd been gathering more information so I could hit Lang hard. So far, I've managed to find two people who confirmed Abbygail received the gift of raspberries from an admirer, but no one can tie that back to Lang. Beth vaguely remembers something about berries, but she says it's not unusual for locals to leave little gifts at her door, in thanks for treatment, so they could have been for her.
So I have nothing on Lang, but I need to take another run at him, because he's my best suspect, and I don't foresee getting more leverage soon. The problem is that Lang avoided serious charges for years. He knows I'm fishing, and I don't manage to do anything except scare and intimidate him. Which is a start, at least.
I leave Lang's and pick up an admirer of my own. It's Jen. She follows me for three houses before yelling a racial epithet, because that's just the kind of girl she is. Apparently, this particular insult is supposed to get my attention, and when it doesn't, she jogs up alongside me and says, "I was talking to you."
"Oh?" I look at everyone else on the street. "Right. You were. How can I help you today, Jen?"
"It's how I can help you, detective." Jen says it the way street thugs say cop.
"Okay," I say, as if I don't notice her tone. "Do you want to go back to the station and talk?"
"Considering what my tip is? Not a chance." She steps too close for comfort, but I stand my ground. "I heard you talking to Pierre."
She means she heard Lang yelling at me. My side of the conversation was a little more discreet.
"You want to find Abbygail's secret admirer?" she says. "He's sitting in your cop shop." When I hesitate, she says, "Um, your boss?" She backs up and eyes me. "Unless the rumours are true and Dalton's more than your boss, in which case this tip sure as hell won't go anywhere."
I resist the urge to deny the rumours--she wouldn't listen. "If you have reason to believe Sheriff Dalton was interested in Abbygail--"
"I have more than 'reason to believe.' After Abbygail's birthday party, Petra and I saw them getting hot and heavy behind the community hall." My shock must show, because she sneers. "Sweet on the sheriff, are you, detective? How predictable. All you so-called educated women--you, the doctor--think you're so smart and yet you all fall for that hick. And who did he have his eye on? The teen hooker who thought he shit solid gold. That's what men want. Not a woman they can talk to. A dumb little girl who'll worship the ground they walk on."
"You say Petra--"
"Yes, your new pal Petra saw it. Go talk to her, since you obviously won't believe me."
"Can you tell me exactly what you saw?" I ask as calmly as I can.
"After the party broke up, Dalton and Abbygail were k-i-s-s-i-n-g behind the community hall. Which apparently was more his idea than hers, because after we walked away, I heard arguing. Abbygail was pissed off and the good sheriff was in full-on defence mode. If she'd been in trouble, I would have interfered, no matter what you might think of me. The situation was under control, though. She was giving him a dressing-down, and he'd backed off, so I left them to it."
Petra works part-time in the general store. It's exactly what it sounds like--the place to buy pretty much everything you need. "Need" being the operative word. This isn't the place for luxury items. At least half the store is second-hand goods. Everything in Rockton is valuable for as long as it can be recycled. I find Petra sorting a stack of clothing into what can go immediately on the shelves and what Diana needs to repair first. When she sees my expression, she sticks on the "Back in Five" sign and ushers me into the backroom.
"I need to ask you something," I say as she shuts the door.
"I can see that. What's up?"
"It's about Dalton and Abbygail."
She goes still, and I know it's true. I suspected it was--Jen wouldn't dare invoke Petra's name in a lie. But I did hope that maybe Jen presumed I'd never actually investigate, and she just wanted to stir up shit. Now I see the truth in Petra's face. And it hurts. On so many levels, it hurts.
"Jen told me," I say.
Petra lowers herself onto a crate.
"Abbygail's party," I say. "Behind the community hall. Jen says you two saw them kissing."
She squeezes her eyes shut for a moment. "I'm sorry. I'd decided it wasn't worth mentioning. But after her death ... I was trying to figure out how to tell you."
"Not worth mentioning? That the local sheriff was seen making out with a girl who went missing a few days later?"
"Making out? No, it was a kiss behind the community hall. Probably a drunken one. Between a young sheriff and a girl who was deeply infatuated with him. A momentary lapse in judgment for Eric."
"Did you hear the argument?"
"What argument?"
I tell her and she says, "I didn't hear anything. Yes, I
left the party with Jen that evening. We aren't good buddies, but I understand there's more to her than the stone-cold bitch you see. She has issues. Lots of them. That doesn't mean she isn't a bitch. Or an addict. Or a part-time prostitute. It also means she lies."
"You think she's lying about the fight?"
"Maybe not outright, but I'd strongly consider the possibility that her hatred of Eric colours her interpretation. Think about it. If Abbygail had a crush on Eric, is she really going to tell him off for kissing her? Isn't it more likely that Eric realized it was a mistake, backed off, and she got angry? Embarrassed?"
"Just because she had a crush doesn't necessarily mean she'd welcome an advance."
I want her to argue my point. She only goes quiet and then says, "I guess so," and I'm left with this stark truth: something happened between Abbygail and Dalton, and he hid it, and now she's dead.
After I talk to Petra, I run home, if not physically, then mentally. I pretend I don't hear the hellos or see the waves and the smiles, and I get my ass home as fast as I can without actually breaking into a run. I stumble inside, close the door, and collapse against it.
Dalton and Abbygail.
I want to say that Petra is right, that the fight was because they kissed, and he backed off. But even that doesn't fit my image of him. Kissing Abbygail--drunk or not--steps over a line. He was her mentor, her big brother, the guy determined to set her on the right track and keep her there. To kiss her was a violation of that trust.
I want better from him. There, it's out. The sad truth. That Abbygail isn't the only girl with a crush. Perhaps this is why I identify with Abbygail--because I'm not a grown woman seeing a man and saying, "I want that." It's my inner teen who looks at Dalton with just a touch of that starry-eyed gaze. Like Abbygail, I missed that stage in my teen years. If I liked a guy, I let him know. If he wasn't interested, I moved on without a backward glance. I was as efficient in my love life as I was in everything else.
I've polished over Dalton's rough edges, put him on a pedestal, and said, "This is a good man." A man with a strong and true inner compass. A man who would not kiss a damaged, infatuated, twenty-one-year-old girl. And if he got drunk and did, he'd admit it to his new detective because it played into her investigation, and if he'd done nothing wrong, then there was no reason not to admit it.
Once night comes, I cycle through nightmares of Dalton and Abbygail. He kisses her, and that kiss is more than she wants, so she pushes him away. He asks her to meet him in the forest--he has something to show her, an apology for his bad behaviour. She goes. He kisses her again. She fights him off. Things get out of control and Abbygail dies. Then the accidental killing of Abbygail unleashes something in him, a twisted perversion of his need to protect his town. He'll cover up Abbygail's death by killing those he suspects of being smuggled in.
The next nightmare scene is right out of a movie--the female detective who is so enamoured of her new boss that she never realizes he's the killer, even when the audience is shouting at her and groaning at her stupidity. Dalton lures me into the forest, and I run along after him like an eager puppy. Run to my doom. Deservedly so.
In a movie, he would be the killer. The last guy you'd suspect. The sheriff devoted to keeping his town's people safe is actually the guy murdering them? Ah, the irony. Afterward, viewers can look back and spot the clues that point to him.
Dalton didn't want Anders and me wandering off in that cave. He'd been the one who overreacted to Petra's scream. The brave and dedicated shepherd worried about his flock? Or the killer who knew what we must have found?
Dalton asked for a detective, but he also discouraged me from coming here. Maybe he only wanted to look as if he wanted a detective. Then, when he was forced to take me, he decided to build a relationship where I would trust him enough to share all aspects of my investigation.
And about Abbygail and Dalton ... Am I so sure there wasn't a secret relationship? It's not as if he's dating anyone else in town. Or even sleeping with anyone as far as I can tell. Something is off there.
There's a lot off when it comes to Eric Dalton. Maybe those eccentricities and complications are a sign of deeper damage. Of a deeper schism. Of a truly dark side to his nature.
Those are the thoughts that keep me tossing all night. Then I wake--on the folding mattress he gave me, beside a stack of his books--and I look up at the fading stars and hear him telling me the constellations, and I can't see absolute darkness. Not in Dalton.
Or maybe I just don't want to.
FORTY-THREE
I need to talk to someone who isn't a fan of Dalton. Perhaps "fan" is the wrong word. He definitely has them. But there are plenty of people in Rockton who support him, and even most who are divided on the issue will grudgingly admit he's a good sheriff. The only people I've heard openly say otherwise are Hastings, Diana, Jen, and Val.
I only have to say nine words when Val cracks open her door: I need to speak to you about Sheriff Dalton. She ushers me in with, "Five minutes, detective. I have things to do."
Her home ... No, again that's the wrong word. This is not a home. The living room looks exactly like mine did when I moved in. While decor isn't a priority in Rockton, people still need to feather their nests. Petra's secondary source of income is sketching and selling wall art. Others knit blankets, quilt pillows, and make crafts from whatever else they find on the forest's edge.
The only thing Val has added to her room is a shelf of writing journals. One book is open upside down on the end table, with a pen beside it.
She doesn't offer me a drink. Doesn't even offer me a seat. I still lower myself to the sofa. She seems inclined to stay standing but then, with obvious reluctance, perches on the armchair.
"You don't have a high opinion of Sheriff Dalton," I say.
"I have an adequate opinion of his ability to function in his position."
"Nothing more."
A twist of her lips, as if she's holding back a sneer. "No, nothing more."
"May I ask why that is?" I say, then quickly add, "I'm not here to challenge your opinion. But as I investigate, I need to consider all possibilities, and you seem to be one of the few people who might balance the prevailing view of Sheriff Dalton."
"One of the few willing to badmouth him, you mean. If you're considering him for these crimes, detective, I'm inclined to say don't bother. Not because he isn't capable of murder. He is. But he isn't capable of such careful crimes. Dalton is a blunt instrument. He's unsophisticated. He's uneducated. He's barely literate."
"Based on his written reports?" I hold back a note of incredulity.
"His reports are verbal. I doubt he's capable of writing them down."
"Besides feeling as if Dalton is undereducated--"
"Ignorant, Detective Butler. He is ignorant. A lack of education combined with an innate lack of intelligence. Have you heard his language? I'm sure you know that profanity and ignorance rise in direct proportion, and I've rarely heard it rise as high as Sheriff Dalton's. I don't think he even knows a word over two syllables."
I bite my tongue.
"Eric Dalton is a walking stereotype," she continues, "and he's too ignorant to even realize it. You've seen him sauntering down the street like the tin star in a spaghetti western. He has no desire to change, to better his life. He reminds me of the boys who used to ride past my grandparents' farm. Hooting and hollering at me from their rusted pickups, throwing beer cans out the window."
I open my mouth, but she's on a roll, her face animated.
"I told my grandparents they made me nervous, and do you know what they said? Come down off my high horse and get to know them better. I decided maybe they were right. So the next time those boys catcalled and offered me a ride home, I said yes. They drove me to the woods for a 'party' instead. Laughed when I insisted they take me home. Mocked my diction and told me to stop being so stuck-up and have some fun. I calmed down and pretended to go along with it. Then, the first chance I got, I ran. I told my gra
ndparents, and they said I'd misinterpreted. Because, apparently, kidnapping me was just those boys' way of being neighbourly. That taught me all I need to know about men like Eric Dalton. And about how other people admire them and make allowances for them."
"Has Er--Dalton ever done anything like that?"
"To me?" She laughs. "I'm not exactly a teenager anymore."
"So that's his preference? Young women?"
She stops. "Do you mean Abbygail?"
I nod.
Val goes still. She cups her hands in her lap, and her voice lowers, that strident note vanishing as she says, "God, I hope not. You think he--?"
"No." I'll give her nothing she can take back to the council. Dalton must have the full benefit of my doubt until I find irrefutable proof.
I continue. "I'm investigating all possible romantic links with the victims. There aren't many younger men in town, and Dalton was close to Abbygail, so I can't ignore that avenue."
"She was a good girl," she says, in that same soft voice. "I didn't think that when she first came. This isn't a place for girls like that. Runaways. Addicts. Whores."
I stiffen at the last word. I know she only means prostitutes, but it is a horrible word to use, especially for a teenage girl who turned tricks to survive on the street. What Val means is that Abbygail was not the kind of girl she'd been, and therefore she found her lifestyle distasteful--a sign of ignorance and low intelligence. Which I suspect, to Val, is the worst possible failing.
"Abbygail overcame that, though," she says. "Elizabeth set her on the right track. She promised me she would, and she delivered, and I give her full credit for that. Abbygail was a true success story, entirely due to the mentorship of strong women like Elizabeth and Isabel."
"You don't have a problem with Isabel, then? Her line of work?"
"If women are willing to debase themselves in that way, then it only means other women don't need to worry about men acting on their urges."
There are so many things I could say to that. Not about Isabel or her occupation, but about the idea of championing strong women while tearing down those you view as less strong. Less morally upright, too. I suspect that's a big deal to Valerie. Women are either good girls or bad. Men are animals at the mercy of their "urges." As for the role Dalton and Mick and other men in Rockton played in Abbygail's recovery? Irrelevant.
City of the Lost Page 24
