City of the Lost: Part Four

by Kelley Armstrong

  I turn to him.

  He shrugs. "I know you've been getting some distance from her since the bar thing. And I'd say it's about fucking time. Point is that she took dex to get up the nerve to waltz in here, like nothing's happened, and all it did is unleash her ugly side again."

  I say, "I think she's having other problems." I tell him what Diana said about the misunderstanding with Isabel.

  "You talk to Isabel?" he asks.

  "I spoke to Mick yesterday, who doesn't seem convinced it was a misunderstanding. He says that's not the only incidence of ... an exchange of goods, so to speak."

  "Credits?"

  "No, no."

  "So guys give her stuff after sex. But that's customary, right? Down south?"

  I look up sharply and sputter a laugh. "Uh, no. Definitely not."

  "Then what's that?" He points to my necklace.

  I stiffen and my tone cools. "It's called a gift--"

  "--from a guy you were sleeping with. Obviously not payment for sex. That's my point. It's a cultural norm. Historically, guys pay for attention from a woman--dinner, a show, flowers, jewellery ... The problem is that up here, as you've pointed out, guys do pay for sex. So they could be giving Diana stuff in payment, and she's accepting them as gifts."

  "Are you actually defending her?"

  "I'm saying I think it's an honest misunderstanding. However, I also think she's exaggerating the issue to get your attention. Same as coming in here high on dex. Maybe it wasn't just working up courage, like I thought. More attention seeking. She's high, I call her on it, she demands a drug test ... and you spend the day taking care of her as you always do."

  "That seems ... extreme."

  "For a normal person, yeah. Diana?" He shakes his head. Then he walks over to my jacket. "Enough of this. Her stunt failed to screw up your day. She's not going to screw it up by making us fight over her stunt. We're going caving."

  The others have the ATVs. To be honest, as much as I love the thrill of those, the horses are winning me over. It's a quieter ride, one that makes me feel part of the forest rather than an intrusion on it. We can relay instructions more easily. I can gape about more easily. And I can pester Dalton more easily.

  I'm also becoming rather attached to my horse. Yes, mine, because it's rare for anyone besides us and the militia to ride them, and the militia usually leave Cricket behind. I'm not quite the little girl who finally got a pony, but there is a little of that. Now to completely compensate for my frustrated-animal-lover childhood ...

  "I want a dog," I call up to Dalton.

  He shakes his head without turning.

  "Hey, you're all about me wanting things. Maybe I'll just grab one of the ferals and tame it. Is that okay?"

  He doesn't even dignify that with an answer.

  "How about the dog we spotted on patrol a couple days ago? The one you and Brent have been trying to put down? Beth told me it took a chunk out of your leg last spring. Careless, sheriff. Very careless."

  I get a flashed finger for that.

  "But I do admire its attitude," I say. "I think that's the one I want. I can muzzle it, if that makes you feel safer."

  "Speaking of muzzles, you do know we're listening for trouble, right?"

  "You're listening for trouble. I'm pestering you with stupid requests. Because I know how much you love that. I'd also like a hot tub."

  He snorts a laugh. One of the locals had started a petition for a hot tub. Dalton's reaction was a wondrously imaginative line containing six expletives and a single noun. I'd offered to write it up as an official response and pin it over the petition in the town square. Anders dared me to do it. I still might.

  We continue in silence, and I'm considering asking about a bird I saw yesterday, when I catch a glimpse of something in the forest. There's a second when I think it's the dog, because that's the kind of place this is, where I'd tease Dalton about a feral dog ... and it would promptly appear to bite his other leg.

  I peer into the forest, and see a man. He has pale skin, light hair worn slightly long, and an old-style army jacket. That jacket is distinctive, and I'm certain I haven't seen it before.

  "Eric?" I whisper. Yes, it's Eric now. As Diana pointed out, we've moved beyond surnames and titles. I ride up alongside him. "I saw someone. I think ... I think we're being followed."

  I describe our tracker. When I do, he relaxes and his lips twitch in a smile of relief.

  "You know him?" I whisper.

  "Yeah." He looks at me. "I'm going to ask you to stay right here. I won't go far, and I'll stay where I can see you, but I need to speak to him, and he's not good with strangers."

  My gaze must flick toward his gun, because he says, "Nah, nothing like that. He's uncomfortable with outsiders, but absolutely no danger."

  He dismounts and passes me Blaze's reins. He gives the gelding the apple from his pocket and then strides into the forest. I slide off Cricket and pass her my apple as I make a concerted effort not to watch him go. I'm curious, of course, but I want to be respectful.

  "Jacob?" Dalton calls.

  I nod, understanding now.

  Dalton calls Jacob's name a few more times. He adds, "I'm alone. I'd like to talk to you." Finally, "Have it your way. Pain in the ass." He says the last with a mix of exasperation and affection. This isn't just someone he vaguely knows. There's a relationship here, and when he comes out, I say, carefully, "Jacob. That's the guy Brent was talking about."

  "Yeah."

  He climbs on Blaze, and I think the conversation is over, but as we start riding again, he says, "He's a good scout. Grew up out here. Few years younger than me. I've known him ... well, I've known him a long time."

  "And you're worried about him."

  "Nah." He pauses. "I'd just like to tell him about Hastings and Powys. Pass on the news. Ask if he's seen anything. We missed our last meet-up, and I was a little worried. But you saw him, so he's fine. Just being a pain in the ass. He heard us talking, and he was curious enough to see who the new voice is, but he's sure as hell not coming out to say hello." He rides a little farther and then says, "And I'm going to need to ask you to respect that, Casey. If you do catch a glimpse of him, please don't try to introduce yourself. He's not Brent."

  "If you tell me he wouldn't want to meet me, I'd never try."

  His voice dips with his chin, as if in apology. "I know. Thank you."

  Five

  Exploring today's cave is not like walking hunched over through Brent's cavern. It's shimmying on my stomach through passages so narrow I'm sure I'll never get to the other side. It's shivering against a bitter and damp cold that gnaws at my bones. It's filthy, wet jeans that have burst at the knee, and I'm pretty sure I feel blood trickling down my leg. And the smell.God, the smell.Of cold, and of death. When I put my hand down and feel stones crackling under my fingers, I shine my headlamp on them to see they're actually bones from some tiny creature. There's another smell, too. Guano. Better known as bat shit.

  It's cold and it's wet and it stinks and it's absolutely filthy. And I love it. Every time I squeeze through a tight passage, there's a moment of animal panic, where my shoulders or hips catch and I'm sure I'll be trapped in there forever. Then I make it through, and the relief ... God, the relief. A shuddering, shivering relief that amuses the hell out of the others.

  "Uh, you do understand the basic laws of mass, right?" Anders mock-whispers after I breathe that sigh of relief on surviving another chute. "If I go through first, there's no way in hell you can get stuck."

  "Yeah, yeah."

  He grins and then peers at me, tilting his headlamp down into my face. "Hold on. You've got bat shit on your face." He leans in and wipes his thumb across my cheek. "There."

  "Gone?"

  "No, I was just putting a matching streak on the other side."

  I smack his arm. Beside us, Mick gives a soft chuckle before he moves on. Anders keeps grinning down at me, and I look up at him, and I think,Maybe.

  Maybe I'm mi
ssing an opportunity here. I probably am. I look at him, and that grin, and it's not because he's gorgeous or sweet or funny or kind. It's this feeling that there's more to him. Something that resonates with me at gut level.

  "Are we moving or freezing to death?" Dalton says.

  Anders waves for him to lead the way. We squeeze through another tight passage. Then we gather in a cavern. As we start heading out, Anders catches my arm and says, "Hold on."

  "More bat shit on my face?"

  He smiles. "Lots. It's adorable." Then he calls to the others. "I'm taking Casey into the Dark Cavern. I want to show her something."

  "Uh-huh," Petra says. "Given it's the Dark Cavern, I'm pretty sure she's not going to be able to see whatever it might be."

  He shoots her the finger, and she laughs and says, "Go on, kids. Catch up with us in the Cathedral. There's something there that I want to show Casey. And don't worry, I'm sure it's not the same thing."

  A round of chuckles for that. Dalton doesn't join in. He's peering down the dark passage that Anders is tugging me toward.

  "We shouldn't split up," he says. "If you want to take Casey to the cavern, we should all--"

  "It's too small. I've got this, boss. I can't track for shit, but my sense of direction is impeccable. We'll meet you in the Cathedral."

  He motions me along before Dalton can argue. We crawl through two passages and end up in a small cavern.

  "It's dark," I say.

  He laughs. "Hence the name. The passages are switchbacks, so any illumination from out there doesn't get in here. Which is what I want to show you. Something you aren't likely to ever see outside a cave. Turn off your light."

  I twist the headlamp on my helmet. He does the same, and when the lights go out ...

  "Wow. That's ..." I begin.

  "Dark?" He chuckles. "Absolute darkness. Not a single pinpoint of light. Now, if the others are far enough away, and I stop talking for once ..."

  He does, and the silence falls, as absolute as the darkness, and suddenly I'm alone. Absolutely alone in the dark. Every outside stimulus vanishes and there's nothing except me in the darkness and the silence.

  I swear I can hear my thoughts. All my thoughts. And it's horribly uncomfortable, and I want to switch on the light and say something and shove that aside. But the feeling passes in a few panicked heartbeats, and then ... and then it's indescribable.

  This is what I've been looking for in all those therapy sessions. Not a chance to tell someone my story. A chance to be alone with it. Utterly alone with it, and maybe that makes no sense, but it's what I feel. Just me and that one defining moment in my past.

  Grief and rage and pain and guilt and clarity. Yes, clarity.

  After a few minutes, Anders's leg brushes mine, and he whispers, "You okay?"

  I nod, only to realize that's pointless and say, "I am."

  "I'll tell you a deep, dark secret," he says, and then chuckles. "In an appropriately deep, dark location. I come here sometimes. Alone. If Eric found out, he'd skin me. But ... It's just ..." He exhales, his breath hissing in the dark. "Sometimes I need a break from being good ol' cheerful Will Anders. This is where I find it."

  I don't know what to say.

  He continues. "I can be that guy. Most times I am that guy. But ... not always. Shit, you know. The past. Mistakes. The stuff that doesn't let you really be what others expect you to be. What they need you to be."

  "Yes." I understand perfectly.

  He squeezes my knee. Nothing flirtatious. Just a squeeze that says, maybe, he knows that I do understand. I don't know why Anders is in Rockton. It's not something most people share, but I say, "The war?"

  "Yeah."

  "If you ever want to talk ..."

  Another squeeze. "Thanks. Maybe. Someday. For now, this works."

  "All right." I understand that, too.

  "If you ever want to come out here with me ..." he says.

  "I'd like that."

  "Good."

  We sit in silence. Then I peel off my glove and find his hand, and it's the same as his squeeze on my knee. Comfort and reassurance and a wordless understanding that there is always darkness. In some part of us, there is absolute darkness, as much as we wish otherwise. As much as we pretend otherwise.

  Anders shifts closer, his jeans whispering against the rock. He's still holding my hand, and I feel him there, beside me, hear his breathing, and I think ...

  I want to be like Diana and throw caution to the wind and embrace this new freedom. But I can't. I'm still me. Logical Casey. Rational Casey. Cautious Casey. A-little-bit-scared Casey. I cannot turn off my brain, close my eyes, and jump.

  A scraping and thumping in the passage breaks the silence. Anders sighs and drops my hand.

  "Hello, Eric. Were we gone five seconds longer than anticipated?"

  "More like five minutes." Dalton's headlamp floods the cavern with light as we flick ours on.

  "God forbid," Anders mutters.

  "I got worried."

  "That what? We'd been devoured by cave bears?"

  "We need to get back before dark, and Petra still wants to show Casey something."

  Another deep sigh, and Anders moves into the lead. As he passes Dalton, he murmurs, "Thanks, boss. I was worried. Those cave bears, you know. Dangerous and unpredictable."

  Dalton grunts and motions for me to follow Anders out.

  What Petra wants to show me is a chute leading off a huge cavern known as the Cathedral.

  "It seems too tight for the guys, so they won't risk it," she says. "I fit, but you know Eric--either we stay within sight or we need a buddy."

  "Cave bears," Anders says.

  "Basic safety," Dalton says. He turns to me. "If you want to try the chute, go ahead. If Petra fits, you definitely will."

  "Thanks," Petra says.

  He ignores her. "But it's up to you. As always."

  I stick my head into the chute. It's called that because it goes, well, down. Like a laundry chute. I can't even see what's at the bottom.

  "It looks like a small cavern," Petra says. "With branching passages. We won't go far, but it would be nice to map a little more."

  When I put my head in farther, my chest constricts, as if I can feel the walls pressing in. It looks impossible to fit through. But while Dalton may have been a little impolitic in pointing it out, Petra is bigger than me. Bigger bust. Bigger hips. If she can get through, I can.

  "Let's do it," I say.

  She lets out a whoop and taunts the guys. Then she goes through, headfirst. I wait until she calls, "In!" and then it's my turn. Mick crouches and gives me a few tips for the tighter passages. He's barely said a full sentence during the trip--he's not exactly a chatty guy--but he takes the time to be helpful, and I appreciate that.

  The first section is easy. Then the chute angles slightly, and this is the "squeeze"--the part that keeps the guys out. I wriggle my head and shoulders through. Then my hips get stuck and my breathing picks up, as I see that now-familiar image of me trapped forever in a chute. I can hear Mick's voice, as if he's whispering in my ear.

  If Petra got through, so can you. Once your shoulders make it, the rest is fine. Relax and wriggle and be patient. Back out if you have to, but remember that'll be harder than going straight on.

  I'm finally through. It may be a chute, but it has enough of an angle that I don't tumble out headfirst. When I see the end coming, I put out my arms, and it's like sliding into home base. Very, very slowly sliding ... as I propel myself with my knees and feet and hips. Apparently this looks hilarious. Or so Petra's peals of laughter suggest as I finally touch down.

  "You make it look so much tougher than it is, Casey," she says as I get up. "I really wish I had my sketch pad."

  "Yeah, yeah." I brush off my knees. Which is a mistake, because I definitely have sliced one open and I only rub dirt into the cut.

  I look up to see I'm crouched in a small cavern.

  "Check this out," Petra says, waving her headlamp
at an alcove to the side. Inside, there are what I've come to know as soda straws--baby stalactites.

  "Ten minutes," Dalton calls down the chute. "I'm timing it."

  "I forgot my watch," I call back. "If we're late, just come down and get us."

  Petra snickers. Dalton says something I don't catch. I won't give him grief. I check my watch--yes, I'm wearing it--and make a mental note of our deadline.

  "Which way first?" I ask Petra.

  There are three options. She bends to check the narrowest and declares it too narrow. I move to the biggest of the three. It's almost a straight drop, but wide enough to go feet first. When I shine my headlamp down, I can see the bottom, less than ten feet below, and the walls are rough and angled enough to climb back up.

  "Can I go first?" I ask.

  She grins. "Getting into the explorer spirit?"

  "I am. Also, I'm the one with the gun because, you know, cave bears."

  "Of course. The chute is yours. Virgin territory awaits."

  I slide down. The wider passage actually makes it a little tougher, because I can't just leap down the chute or I'd bang myself all to hell. I use my arms and legs as braces and find foot-and handholds and slowly lower myself until I'm in the cavern. Then I drop the last few feet.

  The cavern ceiling is only about three feet off the ground. Which means I have to wriggle down until I'm crouching. My helmet finally comes out of the chute and my light shines on ...

  An arm.

  I'm staring at a human arm.

  There's a moment where my brain says no. Just no. In the past two weeks, I've seen severed legs, a skull, and an intestine nailed to a tree. This just isn't possible. It's too much. I must be seeing a weirdly-shaped stone or a bleached-out branch, and after so many damn body parts, I mistake it for an arm.

  But that's not the answer. I wish it was. God, I really fucking wish it was, because when I see that arm--the light-brown skin, the slim fingers, the nails with chipping purple polish ... I know who it is: the girl who celebrated her twenty-first birthday two months ago. Who went missing a few days later.

  Abbygail Kemp.

  "Casey?" Petra calls.

  "Don't--!" I begin, but she's already coming down, legs through the chute, and I call, "Hold on!" but she doesn't hear me. She bends, and she looks my way and she sees the first thing I did and she screams.

  It's a horror-movie scream. As soon as I hear it, I know there's trauma in Petra's background, something terrible. I grab her shoulders and turn her away and talk to her, calming her down as she presses her hand to her mouth and squeezes her eyes shut.