City of the Lost (17 page)

I give a soft laugh, and he smiles over.

“Proper tour, then?” he says. He motions at the moon. “We’ve got enough light for it.”

“I would love a tour, but do I still get the story?”

“Of course. Can’t forget the story, since it was so damned important.”

We start walking and he says, “You missed your first chance at a grizzly sighting tonight. Right on the edge of town.”

“What?” I look at him. “Dalton said they don’t—”

“—
usually
come this close. Always note the
usually
, Casey. So someone reported seeing a bear rubbing against a tree, scratching its back and grunting. I grab the rifle and every militia guy I pass on my run across town. I’m creeping up on the spot with Kenny and a couple of the others at my back. And there’s the beast. It looks a little small—maybe six foot. Wide enough for a bear, though. Definitely rubbing up against that tree with plenty of grunting. Then I see it’s got four legs, four arms, and is wearing clothing. Well, some clothing.”

“Ah, the elusive beast with two backs.”

“Not nearly so elusive around here. Yep, so that was our bear. A couple who tried to sneak twenty feet into the woods for a little privacy … and found themselves with an audience who’ll be spreading the story for days. They’ll also be slapped with chopping duty for being outside the boundary.”

“Chopping duty?”

He glances over. “Man, Eric really didn’t tell you anything, did he? It’s the main form of punishment here. We can’t keep anyone in the cell for long and we can’t impose harsh fines—or they won’t be able to buy food. So we do what they did in Dawson City during the gold rush: sentence folks to chopping wood for the municipal buildings.”

“Smart.”

“Especially in winter, when we need a lotta wood. Now, if you look to your left, you’ll see the lumber shed and chopping circle just past those buildings, which are…”

We continue down the street and he carries on with the tour.

The next morning: more searching for Hastings. At noon, Dalton decides it’s time to scale back. The militia will stay on it, led by Anders. The sheriff will return to dealing with the local law enforcement issues that have piled up in the last forty-eight hours. I’ll get to work on the Powys case.

First, I talk to the doctor—Beth, as she insists—and get her full autopsy report. The next step would be to re-interview those connected to his disappearance—who saw him the night he took off, who might have played some role. But I have a different idea I want to pursue first.

I spend most of the afternoon reading through files on other homicides and disappearances. There aren’t many … if I don’t remind myself exactly how small this town is. When I do, that small stack makes Rockton the Bermuda Triangle of the North. Most of it, though, can be chalked up to the situation. We come here because we’ve either done bad shit or we’ve got serious baggage. The fact that almost everyone survives their stay and goes home again is actually remarkable. But every year one or two won’t be going back. Some wander off into the woods. Some die by homicide or misadventure. And some commit suicide.

That’s what Irene Prosser’s death is filed under. I read it three times to make sure I’m not missing anything. Then I wait for Sheriff Dalton to return. At five, he walks straight through, coffee already in hand. I follow him onto the deck.

“Busy,” he grunts.

“Irene Prosser.” I slap the file on the railing. “Suicide? She was found in a water cistern. With both wrists cut to the bone.”

“We don’t have bathtubs.”

“Excuse me?”

He speaks slower. “Most people who cut their wrists do it in a tub because it’s less painful, apparently.”

“Less painful? Her hands were practically cut off.”

“She left a note in her handwriting.”

“Presumably written
before
she nearly amputated her own hands?”

He shrugs and stares into the forest. I walk into his line of sight.

“You’re not stupid, sheriff, and I don’t think you’re corrupt, so what the hell is going on here?”

“I ruled the death a murder.”

I ease back. “Okay.”

“Beth thinks the killer intended to hack off Irene’s hands, but the blade wasn’t sharp enough. The killer then realized it
could
look like a suicide and faked Irene’s handwriting. Any idiot can see it’s not suicide. The council disagreed. So I am not allowed to officially investigate.”

“
Officially
. Meaning you have investigated.”

“If I had, it would be on my own time and any notes would be kept in my home, because if the council found out, they’d give me their usual threat—to stick my ass on a plane down south. One way.”

I want to ask why that’s such a big deal. Then I remember what Anders said—that Dalton was born here and doesn’t intend to leave. I’m guessing that’s how the council keeps him in line. Threatens to kick him out, because he has no right to stay.

“Irene was Harry Powys’s ex-girlfriend,” I say. “She died two weeks before he went missing.”

Dalton takes a gulp of his coffee.

I continue. “You didn’t randomly decide you’d like a detective on staff. Like I said on the way up here, you
already
needed one. This is why I’m here, and you just stood back and let me figure it out for myself.”

“No,” he says. “I had one woman dead, presumably homicide. Another woman went missing seven weeks ago. Then Powys disappeared. I’ve wanted a detective for a while. Your file just hit our desk at the right time.”

“Missing woman?”

“Abbygail Kemp.”

I choke back a growl of frustration. “Were you going to tell me about her? Or just wait until I figured it out? If you want to test my detection skills, amuse yourself by making me figure out which horse is yours.”

He turns cold grey eyes on me. “What you and I are doing right now, Butler? It’s not about proving you’re a detective. It’s about proving I can trust you. Because you came along at a helluva convenient time.”

I pause. “You think I’m, what, a plant? Spying on you?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time. What’s the adage? It’s not paranoia if they really are out to get you?” He puts down his coffee. “The council expects one thing from me, detective: blind obedience. I don’t provide it, so they want me gone. The problem? There are still people around who financed this town in the early days. Permanent stakeholders. They want me here, and unless the council can prove I’m incompetent, I stay. So, yeah, I’m suspicious.”

“I’d like the file on Abbygail Kemp.”

“Inside. Second cabinet. Second drawer.”

“I also want your notes on everyone you think the council smuggled in.”

He looks up at me. “I don’t keep—”

“Bullshit. If you don’t want to show me, okay. We’ll just discuss them.”

“It won’t help.”

“Of course it—”

He gets to his feet. “Abbygail’s file is inside. For the rest? Start from scratch.” He heads for the door.

“I’m not asking for a hand up. I’m asking for the opinion of the person who knows this town better than—”

The door closes behind him, and I’m left alone on the porch.

An hour later, Dalton’s on the deck again, having done … Honestly, I have no goddamn idea what he was doing.

He settles into his chair, and I walk out there, Abbygail’s file in hand.

“Read it?” he grunted.

“Nope.” I dump the file on his lap. “I will, but first you’re going to tell me about the case.”

He snorts.

“Oh, sorry,” I say. “Am I interrupting your whatever-the-hell-you’re-doing out here? The answer is
nothing
, sheriff. You’re doing nothing. You’re sitting on your ass and ordering me to read files when the best person to discuss this town is you. Tell me about Abbygail Kemp. Then I’ll read the file.”

He goes inside and I think he’s refusing. I start to follow, only to see he’s switching his coffee for a beer. He comes back, sits, and takes a long drink from the bottle. Then he sets it down and says, “Abbygail Kemp is my fucking biggest failure as sheriff, detective.”

I think I’ve misheard. Or this is some sarcastic faux confession. One look in his eyes says it’s not.

“She came here at nineteen. Youngest resident we’ve ever had, and I fought tooth and nail to keep her out. Didn’t want that kind of responsibility. Like taking a teenage girl and dropping her off in the middle of Las Vegas at midnight. I said hell no. I’m not a babysitter. It was Beth who talked me down. Said she’d take responsibility. And the girl’s story…” He shook his head. “I wasn’t arguing that she didn’t need help. I just didn’t think she needed Rockton.”

“Her story?”

“Ran away at sixteen. Drugs. Prostitution. The family situation…?” He shifted in his seat. “I won’t pretend to understand the family situation, detective. I know my limitations, living up here, and so I read up on stuff like that. I still don’t understand because, to me, it’s black and white. If your kid runs away and sells her body for money, you must be shitty parents.”

“Not necessarily,” I say. “If she was into drugs before she left, that would explain a lot.”

“I guess so. Anyway, leaving didn’t mean she hated her parents. She got herself into trouble on the streets, though. Big trouble. She ran home. The trouble followed. Some gang guys set her house on fire. Her parents didn’t get out in time.”

“Damn.”

“Yeah. She was a fucking mess when she got here. Strung out and hating herself and hating anyone who tried to help, including Beth. But Beth wouldn’t give up on her. No one did, detective, and that’s what you need to understand about this town. People here pull shit they never would down south. What’s that saying? What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas? Same in Rockton. Except here, you can’t be an asshole and fly home the next day. You need to live here. So, as fucked up as it is, when things go really wrong, most people will pitch in to make it right. Someone like Abbygail shows up and folks do their best. Eventually, she understood we weren’t putting her on a flight home no matter how much shit she pulled. And she understood I wasn’t going to let her pull that shit. She spent nights in the cell. She spent days on logging duty. A year later, she was working for Beth, training as a nurse, making plans to go to college when she got out of here. And then…”

He trails off and takes a long draw on his beer, finishing it. “Mick saw her heading into the forest one night and gave her shit for it, and she turned around … but only long enough to make him walk away. Beth woke the next morning to find she’d never come home.”

“Why would she go into the woods?”

“She liked the peace and quiet of it. Her parents used to take her to the mountains every summer, and I guess those were good memories. I did everything I could— Fuck, no. That’s an excuse. If I’d really done everything to keep her out of those woods, she would never have gone in. I tried to manage the situation. Let her join the militia, come on patrols, gave her time in the forest under supervision.”

He looks at me. “You think I’m an asshole, detective. I am. I’m going to ride you and everyone in this town every chance I get, and I’m going to be very clear who’s in charge. This is why. Because just when I think maybe I’m too hard on people, something like this happens, and I realize I can’t be hard enough.”

I don’t tell him this wasn’t his fault. That no matter how harsh he is, people will find a way around the rules, and with a young woman barely out of her teens, that goes double. He knows that. He doesn’t want absolution.

He continues. “It was the biggest search this town has ever seen. Round-the-clock manhunts for the first week. I don’t think Will or Mick slept the whole time.”

Not Dalton, either, I bet.

“Daytime searches for another week,” he says. “By that time … by that time we knew we weren’t looking for a survivor. We kept at it, though. No one was happy when I finally called it quits. Had to, though. Time to accept that we’d failed.”

“You said this was two months ago?” I say.

“Seven weeks.”

He still counted it in weeks, probably only recently stopped counting it in days. That’s what you do with the cases that haunt you.

“So about four weeks before Irene was murdered,” I said. “Five or so weeks before Powys disappeared.”

“Yep.”

“You think there’s a connection,” I say. “That Abbygail didn’t just wander into the forest. No more than Irene Prosser nearly cut off her own hands.”

He reaches for his beer. Remembers it’s empty and makes a face.

“Could Abbygail have been murdered?” he says. “I am not the person to make that determination. Not me. Not Will or Beth or Mick or anyone else who feels responsible for what happened.”

I take the file. Before I go in, I murmur, “Thank you. For explaining.” If he hears, he gives no sign of it. He’s already staring into the forest again.

Night falls. I’m packing up to leave, and Anders comes in.

“Want to grab a drink?” he asks.

I don’t. I’m in a funk, thinking about Irene and Abbygail, and all I want to do is go home and curl up and maybe have a shot of tequila on my own. But I get the feeling that drinking alone out here is the first step toward darkness. What I really want to do is see Diana. But she’s avoiding me.

I tell myself it’s temporary. Low self-confidence causes her to stay with guys like Graham, and it also means sometimes she decides she’s stuck in my shadow and needs to escape for a while. She’ll back off until her confidence returns.

Tonight, though, the loss of Diana just seems one more weight on the load already dragging me down. I’m in this godforsaken town with cannibals outside and a killer inside, and now the friend I’ve come here to help has abandoned me.

So no, I don’t want to go for a drink. But there isn’t any reason to take out my mood on Anders, so I say, “Okay,” then, “I need to drop a few of these files at my place. I’ll meet you—”

“Those files stay in that cabinet,” Dalton cuts in from across the room.

“All right,” I say, as evenly as I can. “I’ll drop off my notes—”

“Your notes stay here, too.”

I turn on him. “Excuse me?”

He’s sitting at the desk, doing paperwork. He doesn’t even lift his head. “It’s nine o’clock at night. You’re going for a drink. Work will wait.”