City of the Lost (24 page)

“Good morning to you, too, boss!” Anders calls. Then he says, to me, “Sometimes I wonder why he doesn’t just walk
around
the building.”

“Not really an inside cat, is he.”

He smiles. “No, he’s definitely not. If he isn’t prowling through town, he’s sunning himself on the back porch.”

“Sunning himself? Or watching for prey?”

“Much better analogy. An outside cat scouring the woods for predators and prey alike.”

I finish my cookie and then say, “About Di, I know she was a bitch last night, and I’m not apologizing for her. That was unforgivable. She obviously likes you and wants to see more of you. I’m guessing you’re not interested.”

He exhales. “Shit. That sounds bad, doesn’t it?”

Actually, no. Given how she’s acting, I don’t want to see him mixed up in that.

He continues. “In my defence, I didn’t say anything to suggest I wanted more than one night. But I still feel shitty.”

“Don’t. It was her mistake.”

“Thanks for not thinking I’m a complete asshole.”

“You aren’t.”

I smile, and he opens his mouth like he’s going to say something. Then the door opens. It’s Beth.

Anders gets up. “I’d better go do my rounds before Eric finds me still chatting. Hey, Doc.” He lifts his hand to high-five her as they pass. The doctor makes a valiant, if awkward, effort to return it. Anders chuckles and keeps going.

“Hey, Beth,” I say. “Thanks for coming by.”

I wave to the chair. She stays standing.

“I’m just popping in to see if you’re free for lunch,” she says.

“Oh.” I push my folder aside. “I thought … Sorry, Eric knew I wanted to speak to you, so I thought he asked you to stop in.”

“That’s a no for lunch, then?” She smiles, but there’s a wariness there, like she’s screwed up the courage to make a friendly overture and it’s being rejected.

“No, no. Lunch is good. Great, in fact.” I check my watch. “I’m off in an hour. I’ll come by then.”

I pick up lunch, and we eat in the clinic backroom that serves as Beth’s office. My sandwich is peanut butter and saskatoon berry jam. The PB is freshly ground, from nuts flown in. The jam is made from berries gathered every summer.

“Did Will ask you to invite me to lunch?” I ask as we eat.

She stops mid-bite and checks my expression. When she sees I’m smiling, she returns it and says, “Maybe.”

“I figured that.” Especially given that he left after hearing me turn down Isabel’s invitation. “Helping me make friends.”

“Both of us, I think. Will’s always trying to get me to mingle more. It’s just not my thing. In college, I was the girl with her nose stuck in her texts from freshman year to graduation.”

“Well, don’t let him make you feel like you have to be nice to the new girl.”

“Oh, I’m fine with socializing. Just not the kind that ends with lampshades on your head, which seems to be the main form of entertainment around here.”

“Except there aren’t lamps. Which makes it even more awkward.”

She smiles. “It does. You don’t seem to be into that, but your friend…”

“Diana wasn’t before she got here, either. But I’m glad she’s enjoying herself while I’m busy with this case.”

“Which segues nicely from the awkward talk of your friend onto safer ground.”

I smile. “Maybe. I wanted to talk to you about Irene Prosser.”

Beth wipes mustard from her lips. “You’re not buying the story she nearly hacked off her own hands?”

“Not exactly.”

“That suicide ruling isn’t Eric’s fault.”

“I know. He’s dealing with politics and angles and doing his best. I can see that.”

“He is. As for Irene, yes, it wasn’t suicide. Do you need my autopsy report?”

“I have it. I’m looking for observations that might not have gone into it. Specifically, proof of past injuries.”

Her lips purse. “Past injuries?”

“Were there signs—in the autopsy or a previous medical examination—that she’d been the victim of abuse?”

“Ah. I see where you’re heading. Let me check her file.” She wipes off her hands and starts to stand.

“Eat first,” I say.

“No, you’ve set me on a mystery. The sandwich can wait. Do you know how to read an X-ray?”

I follow her from the room. “You have X-rays?”

“I take all the equipment as they offer it. One thing I use the X-ray for is autopsies. Not exactly standard procedure, but it’s here, so I put it to use.”

She opens a locked drawer in the next room and takes out a file folder. An X-ray film goes into the viewer. There are five, covering Irene’s full skeleton. I see signs of a previously broken wrist, but nothing more.

“That’s actually a childhood injury,” Beth says. “I remember she hurt her wrist last winter, falling on the ice. She was concerned it broke again—once you’ve done it, it’s very easy to do again.”

I squint at the X-ray. “I’m not seeing any other signs of old breaks.”

“Neither am I. Is that significant?”

“Just an angle I’m pursuing.”

“In other words, mind my own business.” She fends off my protest. “I’m sure Eric told you to keep me out of the loop for my own safety. He’s very protective.”

“Ah,” I say as I remember Anders saying Beth often brought dinner for Dalton when he worked late.

She laughs. “If that means, ‘Ah, so you two are an item,’ the answer is a resounding no. Eric’s a little young for me. And a little moody. A little difficult. A little demanding. A whole lot of other things, as you may have noticed.” She hesitates before we sit. “You aren’t interested in him, are you?”

“After that glowing recommendation?”

She smiles and shakes her head. “Eric’s a good friend. As a romantic partner, though? I … really wouldn’t go there, Casey.”

“I’m not. Believe me.”

She nods. “Good. Lots of women like the bad boys … then they realize Eric’s not bad—he’s just cranky.”

I laugh.

“He’s a good-looking guy, so he gets more than his share of attention. Rumour has it that when he was young, he took full advantage. These days, though, he’s a lot more discreet. Given his position, it’s difficult to get close to anyone.” She goes quiet, her expression thoughtful, a little sad. Then she gives her head a sharp shake. “If you’re looking for company, I’d turn toward Rockton’s most eligible bachelor: Deputy Anders. Looks, personality, and a sweet, sweet guy. Who has definitely taken notice of you.”

“Thanks, but I’m not looking. I…” I finger my necklace from Kurt.

“Left someone behind?”

“Kind of. But as a friend, Will seems great.”

“He is, and if you’re happy with that, he’ll be, too. That’s the thing about nice guys. Now back to lunch. If you’re five minutes late, you’ll hear it from the boss.”

“W
e’re going for a ride,” Dalton says as I walk into the station.

“ATV?”

“Horse.”

“I’d prefer ATV.”

“Stables, Butler.”

I salute. “Yes, sir.”

We head out. He says nothing until we’re halfway to the stables. Then, “You’re happy today. Found what you wanted, I take it?”

“Maybe.”

He nods. “You can tell me on the ride.”

“Mmm, you said not to trust anyone.”

“I think I like you better when you’re not in a mood.”

“This isn’t
a mood
.”

“Yeah, it is. A good one. Normally, you don’t have a mood at all. You’re just there.”

“I’ll ignore that jab, since I’m in a good mood.”

“It’s not a jab; it’s an observation. And you
are
going to tell me what you found, because I’m your boss. That’s why we’re taking the horses, not the ATVs. So we can talk. Also, so we don’t scare off the ravens.”

“Ravens?”

“Hunting party spotted a flock of ravens.” He pauses. “Which, technically, is an unkindness.”

“What?”

“Murder of crows. Unkindness of ravens. And they can be pretty damned unkind if they’re scavenging something, which they seemed to be doing.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

Our route takes us toward the mountain, and I ask him about a rodent that darts across the increasingly rocky path. He says it’s a pika, also known as a rock rabbit, coney, or whistling hare. He even stops, so I can hear the noise it’s making—more of a loud “meep” than a whistle. Dalton says it’s warning us off its territory. I ask what other rodents are local, and that gets him talking as we ride, about wood rats and flying squirrels and marmots and others.

“We’re in a good spot for wildlife here,” he says. “Fly another hour north and you’re into the Arctic. And you’d better not have been taking an interest to distract me from asking what new information you got from Beth.”

“I wasn’t. I am interested.”

“Good. Did you find any sign Irene’s story wasn’t legit?”

I move aside a branch. “What?”

“That’s what you were looking for, right? Evidence that she’d been abused. Skeletal evidence, I’m guessing, since the soft tissue damage would be long healed.” When I hesitate, he says, “No, Beth didn’t tell me what you talked about. It’s a deduction.”

“Remind me why you needed a detective?”

“Because I’m not the one who thought to check.”

“Did you ‘deduce’ my theory, too?”

“Yeah, but that would be showing off.”

“In other words, you didn’t.”

“Harry Powys was involved in selling illegal organs. Jerry Hastings may have murdered his mother for his inheritance. You were checking on the possibility Irene was also here under false pretences.”

“Okay, you
did
figure it out.”

He lifts a hand, telling me to stop, and he scans the forest. Then he waves for us to take the left fork on the path.

“That is your theory, then,” he says as we continue.

“It’s a starting point. The problem is not knowing how many people were smuggled in. The fact that three of the four victims fit that profile might be no more significant than three having the same colour hair. That’s presuming there’s a connection between the victims at all.”

He’s nodding. Then he stops and tilts his head, and I catch the croak of a bird.

He motions for me to dismount. We tie the horses to trees. His gelding—Blaze—starts pulling at grass, unperturbed. Cricket looks around, as if to say,
I don’t want to stop
. I rub her neck and pull an apple from my pack and she decides maybe a break isn’t such a bad idea.

I spot a raven then. People from the east often look at big crows and think they’re ravens, but seeing one now, I don’t know how we make that mistake. The raven is the size of a hawk. It’s black from its beak to its feet. That beak is thick and curved. Its neck is different, too—thick with shaggy feathers.

Dalton says, “Yukon raven.” Then, “Technically, it’s still a common raven, but they get bigger up here. Territorial bird.”

“So steer clear.”

He looks over as if confused, and then says, “Nah, I mean it’s the Yukon Territory’s symbolic bird.”

“Duh, right. I knew that.”

Dalton waves for me to fall in behind him. I unzip my jacket and push it back, exposing my holstered gun. He has his in his hand. He takes another step. Then his hand shoots up as a snarl reverberates through the forest.

I see what he does and … and I have no idea what I’m looking at. It’s like a small bear with stunted legs. The beast bares its fangs as it stands its ground, snarling and spitting.

“Do you see a kill?” he whispers.

I look across the clearing. “No.” Then I spot something. “There’s … I don’t know what it is, but something’s hanging from that tree. I think there’s blood. But whatever it is, it’s up high.”

Dalton grunts. Then he shouts, loud enough that I jump. The creature waddles off, throwing snarls over its shoulder.

“What the hell was that?” I ask.

“Wolverine,” he says. “Also known as a skunk bear, carajou, quickhatch…”

“Wolverine? Like the X-Men?”

He frowns at me.

“Sorry,” I say. “Pop culture reference. So that’s what they look like in real life. Not nearly as scary as the comic book version.”

“They’re scary enough if you interrupt them at a kill. Pound for pound, they’re the nastiest bastards out here. They can take on a wolf and win, no contest, because a wolverine doesn’t know when to give up. They keep fighting until someone’s dead.”

“Dangerous to humans, then.”

“Not lethally.” He puts his gun away. “Unless you were wounded and it was really hungry. Course, most times they’re really hungry. Their Latin name is
Gulo gulo
. Gulo means glutton.”

“Ah.”

“You don’t want to mess with them. Chances are, though, that’s the only one you’ll see while you’re here.”

Dalton peers into the clearing, and his gaze returns to that thing in the tree. He strides toward it.

As I scan the clearing, I see the sunlight glimmer in a way it shouldn’t glimmer off anything in a forest. Dalton lifts his foot over a metal bear trap, and I lunge. An eye blink later, he’s on his back and I’m crouched over him.

He says nothing. Just lifts his head to look around, as if being randomly knocked to the ground is perfectly normal. Then he spots what he almost stepped in and whispers, “Fuck.” I ease off him and rise.

Dalton crouches beside the rusty bear trap. As he’s examining it, I ask, “Would that be settlers? Or do other trappers come through here?”

“The odd hunter, trapper, miner,” he says without looking up.

“Miner?”

“There’s still gold. Mostly in the rivers. Our locals pan for fun during fishing trips.”

He glances at me then, as if expecting a response, and I’m thinking it might be fun to pan for gold. But it seems a little silly, so instead I say, “Don’t you worry about these outside miners or trappers stumbling on Rockton?”

He grunts and turns back to the trap, and I think he’s not going to answer, but then he says, “There are almost five hundred thousand square kilometres of wilderness in the Yukon. Rockton is less than one square kilometre. Our patrols sometimes get wind of people passing through, but trappers and miners are like bears. If they hear us, they steer clear. Even if they did find the town, we’d pass it off as a commune. People up here mind their own business.” He gets to his feet. “This trap, though? It’s ours.”