City of the Lost: Part Two

by Kelley Armstrong

  The core concept is simple: give no one any cause to come after you. We're even supposed to overpay our taxes, as painful at that might be.

  There is some misdirection involved as well, because no matter how careful you are, a friend or family member might try to file a missing person's report. So you leave hints about where you've gone. Calgary, Valerie recommended for us. Don't say that outright, but run computer searches on apartment rentals and jobs in Calgary. Leave an "accidental" trail in case someone decides to hunt us down.

  I tell my sister I'm going. It's a brief conversation. We exchange duty calls at Christmas and birthdays and that's it. She expresses no surprise that I'm moving with Diana again. It's what she expects from her feckless little sister.

  I set up my departure at work by talking to my partner about Kurt's shooting and mention bad memories resurfacing from my own assault. I tell him about the attack on Diana and vent my frustration with the system. I'll quit at the last moment, with an e-mail to my sergeant, cc'ing my union rep. I spend most of those four days at the station, getting my cases in order, so they'll know, looking back, that I'd been preparing for this.

  It's the day before I'm due to leave. Kurt was released this morning, and he's ignored the doctor's orders to go straight to bed. "Had enough of that shit," he said. We're in the bar, early afternoon, the place still closed. He's not due back to work for two days, but he's prowling about, bitching like Martha Stewart come home to find her mansion in disarray.

  "Fucking Larry," he says, yanking near-empty bottles from the bar. "Doesn't replace anything until the last drop's gone, no matter how many times I tell him. You let a bottle run dry, someone's gonna ask for a shot so they can stick their hand in the till while you're in the back getting the replacement. And look at the bar. Idiot hasn't wiped it down since I've been gone." He reaches for a dishrag, then wrinkles his nose. "Is this the same one I left?"

  I take it from him, toss it into the laundry bin under the sink, grab a fresh rag, and tell him to restock the bottles.

  I clean up, though I suspect no one other than Kurt will even notice. The bar has more rings than a Beverly Hills housewife. It's a piece of shit, but when Kurt's here, it's a spotless piece of shit.

  He passes me on his way to the back and catches me around the waist, pulling me into a long, hungry kiss. I haven't told him I'm taking off, but he senses something's up.

  He's replacing the last bottle when I say, "I need to leave."

  He stands there, back to me, hand still on the bottle. "And by leave, you mean ..."

  "Going away. Someplace safe. Someplace"--I inhale--"permanent."

  His hand tightens on the bottle. Still he keeps his back to me, his voice level. "Can I talk you out of it?"

  "No."

  He turns then, eyes meeting mine. "What if I--?"

  "No." I walk to him, and I put my hands around his neck, and I kiss him, and I pour everything I'm feeling into that kiss, everything I can't say. How amazing I think he is. How sorry I am to get him mixed up in this.

  For six months, Kurt has been my hookup. The guy I go to for a little companionship, but mostly for sex. He's been safe. No one I'd ever fall for. But in this last week ...

  Could we have had something? I don't know. I won't think about it. I can't.

  When I pull back, he puts his hand under my chin and searches my gaze.

  "You'll be safe?" he says.

  I nod.

  A pause. A long one. "And there's nothing I can say or do--"

  "No. Please, no."

  "When're you going?"

  "Tomorrow."

  He swears and pulls back, looking around. Then he says, "Can I have tonight?"

  "You can, though I know you're probably not up to--"

  He kisses me, even hungrier now, hands on my ass, pulling me against him. Then he takes my hand and slides it to his crotch.

  "Am I up to it?" he asks.

  I manage a laugh. "Yes, but that's not what I meant. The doctor said--"

  "That I should stay in bed. Which is exactly what I'm going to do. All night. I'm gonna take you someplace nice, too. Not my shitty apartment."

  "You don't need to--"

  "Too bad. I'm gonna." He waves to the door. "Go on, then. Do what you gotta do. Come by at seven. Okay?"

  I agree, and I leave him there, cleaning up his bar.

  Kurt takes me "someplace nice"--a touristy inn outside the city. He's rented the best room, with a Jacuzzi tub, king-size bed, chocolate-covered strawberries, and cheap champagne. Diana would roll her eyes if I told her, so I won't. This is ours--our last night together--and it's damn near perfect.

  We finally start to drift off to sleep around four. I'm curled up against him, and I feel him reach for something on the bed stand. He nudges me, and when I open my eyes, he's holding out a gold chain with a tiny martini glass on the end, an emerald chip for an olive.

  "Couldn't find a shot glass," he says.

  I smile, and he fastens it around my neck.

  "Just something to remember me by," he says.

  "I'm not going to forget."

  "Good."

  He kisses me, then presses something else into my hand. I look down. It's a key to his apartment. He catches my gaze and doesn't say a word, just nods when he knows he's said what he needs to say, that his door's always open. Tears prickle my eyes. I drop my gaze. He pulls me over to him, my head against his chest, and we fall asleep.

  I don't sleep for long. I can't. I have to leave at six for my flight. So I catnap just enough to let Kurt fall into a deep, exhausted slumber. Then I slip from his grasp and tiptoe to the bathroom, where I stashed my clothing.

  Before I go, I leave something for him. A letter. Saying everything I can't.

  In that note, I tell him he's an amazing guy. That I'll never forget him. That I'm so glad I met him. I don't say I'm sorry for what happened--he knows that, and this is about him, not me. I tell him it's time to stop stashing away his money. Time to quit his job at the docks and go back to college for business, to get a job running a real bar and then someday open his own. That's his dream, and the only thing holding him back is self-doubt.

  Even if six years have passed since he went straight, Kurt still feels like a two-bit convict. He's not. Never was. He screwed up as a kid--we all do. It was time to get past that and make a real life, for him and his son. Yes, his son. It was time for that, too. To fight for visitation rights. To stop listening to his ex tell him how wonderful her husband is, how much better a father he makes, how much better a role model. Kurt is the boy's father. He's supported his child since birth, and he deserves this, too. Time to take what he's owed, as hard as that might be. He'll be better for it. His son will be better for it. I have absolutely no doubt of that.

  I put the letter on my pillow, resist the urge to risk waking him with a goodbye kiss, and then I leave.

  Four

  My journey starts with a rental car in the park where we'd last met, keys under the floor mat with instructions for me to drive not to my local airport but to one six hours away. Then I'm to catch a plane to Vancouver. When I land, I get the confirmation code for my second flight up to Whitehorse. That's Whitehorse in the Yukon Territory.

  Flying out of Vancouver, I saw nothing but city and mountain and sea. When we descended from the clouds? Green. At first, it looks like fields. Then we dip low enough for me to realize it's trees. No fields in sight. No towns, either. Just trees in every direction.

  I see mountain ranges, too. I only hope the snow on top of them is glacial ice and not a hint to expect winter already.

  One thing I don't see? Signs of people, not until we're closer to the airport, where a few roads cut through the forest. They're beige zigzags wandering through the hills, as if going nowhere in particular. There are lakes too, including one with bright green water, almost neon.

  I'm so busy gawking that I barely notice we're landing until we're down. It's a small airport with only a couple of baggage carousels. T
he sheriff meets me at one. He doesn't ask how my flight went. His greeting is: "Got a six-hour drive ahead of us. Get your bags and then we'll hit a drive-thru for dinner."

  "I ate earlier. I'll just grab something at our destination."

  "Nothing will be open when we get there. You want to eat on the way? Your options are pop, chips, and whatever else you can buy at a gas station."

  "Okay, we'll hit a drive-thru." My bag arrives. I grab it and then ask, "How's Diana?"

  "Fine."

  That's all I get. As we're heading out, I say, "Do you have a name?"

  "Most people do."

  We cross the road to the parking lot.

  "I could just call you sheriff for six months."

  "Works for me." He pops the back on a little SUV. "Dalton," he says at last. "Eric Dalton."

  Then he gets into the car. It's going to be a long six hours.

  We hit a drive-thru and head out. The city fades in a blink, giving way to forest and mountain. When something black shambles onto the road, I jolt forward in my seat, saying, "Is that a ... bear?"

  "Yeah."

  Dalton stops the SUV and drums his fingers on the wheel as the bear ambles across, taking its sweet time. When it's halfway over, it turns and snarls.

  "Yeah, yeah," Dalton mutters.

  "Is it safe to be this close?"

  He gives me a look like I'm asking if it's safe to be this close to a dog crossing the street. "It's a black, not a brown."

  "Okay ..."

  "Black bear," he says. "Browns are twice the size. Better known as grizzlies."

  "There are grizzlies here?"

  "About seven thousand of them. They usually stick to the mountains."

  "And the town isn't near a mountain?"

  "No. It's near two."

  After that, it's a silent drive on an empty road. We enter an area where periodic signs mark past fires with dates, and I can still see the damage, twenty years later. I catch a glimpse of what looks like a huge deer at the roadside. Dalton grunts, "Elk," and that's it for the next thirty minutes, until I start seeing brown rodents darting across the road and popping up along the side to watch us pass.

  "Are those prairie dogs?" I ask.

  "You see prairie?" Before I can answer, he says, "Arctic ground squirrels." I think that's all I'm getting, but after a few more kilometres he says, "Won't see them much longer. They'll hibernate soon, sleep for seven months." Another pause, maybe a kilometre in length, then he says, "Body temperature goes down to near freezing."

  "How's that possible?"

  He shrugs. "Bigger question is how their brains survive on stored energy for that long. I've read some articles. It's interesting. Potential applications for human brain degeneration."

  I try to prod him on that. Or I do after I recover from the shock of it, because he does not strike me as a guy who sits around reading scientific journals for fun. He ignores the prods, and I wonder if it's because of my pause--if he offered something that could start an intelligent conversation, and I was obviously floored by the prospect, so to hell with me.

  Another thirty minutes of silence. Then he does start to talk, and it's not about the regenerative properties of the ground squirrel brain. It's about the town--Rockton. Details on my duties there and so on.

  We've been on the road for about three hours when he stops for gas. When he said that would be the limit of my dining options, I thought he was exaggerating. We have passed two restaurants. One was closed. The other was not the sort of place I'd trust with my digestive health.

  The "towns" we've passed though were no more than hamlets. When I remark on this to the store cashier, she laughs and says there are more moose than people in the Yukon. I think she's joking, but when I ask Dalton the territorial population, he says it's thirty-five thousand, three-quarters of whom live in Whitehorse.

  "How large is the territory?"

  He climbs into the car. "You could put Germany, Belgium, and the Netherlands in it and have room to spare."

  I remember dismissing the idea that you could hide a town in this day and age. I have only to look out the window to imagine how one could lose a town of two hundred in the wilds beyond this lonely highway.

  When we finally reach Dawson City, Dalton says it's too late to fly out to Rockton. We'll stay the night and leave early.

  Outside the town, I see endless piles of gravel covering the landscape--as ugly as scars after hours of forest and hills and lakes.

  "Did something happen here?" I ask.

  "Gold."

  "I know. The Klondike Gold Rush. A couple hundred years ago."

  "Nope, gold's still there. Those are dredge-tailing piles, from mining the river. Stopped in the sixties and restarted a few years back. Floating excavators spit up this shit on the ground and leave it, because hell, it's only empty land. Doesn't matter if you dump a damned riverbed all over it."

  "They don't have to clean it up?"

  "It's not environmentally harmful, and up here no one gives a shit about the rest. Lots of other places to look if you want scenery."

  He might brush it off, but I can tell the blight on the landscape offends him.

  As we continue into town, I feel as if I've time-warped back to those Klondike days. Old-fashioned wooden buildings. Dirt roads. Board sidewalks. When we stop at an inn, Dalton tells me to remove my shoes inside.

  "Is that a custom here?"

  "When the roads are made of dirt, it's common sense."

  "Is there a reason for the dirt roads? Construction issues? Materials? The climate?"

  "Tourism."

  As I leave my sneakers in a "shoe room," Dalton checks in. He's clearly been here before, but he doesn't say much to the proprietor, just tells her we'll be having breakfast and then gives me my key and says we're heading out at eight.

  I'd been a little surprised that "eight" was Dalton's idea of an early departure, but when I rise at seven, it's still dark out. We're far enough north that the days are getting short fast.

  I go down for breakfast and Dalton's there, staring out the front window at the empty street. It's an equally empty room, and I wonder if he'll want to enjoy his meal in peace, but he waves me over.

  I chat with the owner, who's from Switzerland and brings a plate of cold cuts, cheese, yogurt, and amazing freshly baked bread. Dalton continues staring silently out the window at the dark morning. Then, as I'm polishing off another slice of bread, he plunks my cellphone between us.

  "You said you don't have ties. Just a sister, and you aren't close." He gestures at the phone. "You forgot your boyfriend."

  "I said--"

  "You told us the guy who got shot is someone you were hooking up with. That"--he gestures at the phone--"is not a hookup."

  Following instructions, I'd shut my phone off as soon as I left home and removed the SIM card shortly after. Once here, I turned it over to Dalton for safe disposal.

  I turn on the phone. There's a message that must have come in just before I removed the card, and I'd been too distracted to check.

  Got your note. It means a lot. Means a fucking lot, Casey. You're right, and I'm going to stop pissing around and step up. But I want you to do the same. Wherever you go, start over and do it right. Get a life, as the saying goes. Even if you don't think you want one. You deserve it. I know you said I won't see you again, but if I do, I want to see you happy.

  I sit there, holding the phone, staring at that message.

  "I need to send--" I begin.

  "No."

  "But--"

  "No." Dalton leans forward. "Is this a problem, detective?"

  My hands shake a little. I clench the phone to stop them, but he plucks it from my hands. He's right. I've missed my chance to reply, and that's my fault for not checking. Any message I send now could be traced to Dawson City.

  "I'll--I'll get my things," I say.

  I push back my chair and hurry off.

  Five

  When I realize we're heading to the loc
al airport--not a private runway--I ask Dalton how we're going to leave without giving a flight plan. At first, he only says it's been taken care of. Then he relents and says that flying from a private strip would only be more suspicious, and it's better to stick close to the law as much as they can. As far as the airport authorities know, he works for a group of miners, flying people and supplies in and out of the bush. Given their occupation, they're a little cagey about where exactly they're working, so his flight plan is approximate.

  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.